One More Taste (2 page)

A series of exuberant splashes sounded from farther in the lake. It sounded like two fish were having a wrestling match right up on the water's surface. He turned, but only saw ripples. Setting his mind back on the task at hand, he pulled his foot off the lake bottom, muscles working to overcome the suction, and took a carefully placed step toward shore.

From seemingly out of nowhere, something blunt and slimy smashed into his calf. The surprise of the hit knocked Knox off balance. With a yelp totally unbefitting a thirty-three-year-old Texan and former rodeo star, he danced sideways, fighting for his footing and clutching the clothes in his arms even tighter.

He desperately scanned the water around him, but the swirling silt had reduced the visibility to almost nothing. He held still another moment, listening, watching.

“Holy shit, are you okay?”

The man's voice startled Knox. He looked up and saw a young guy of maybe twenty-two standing on the bank of the lake, dressed in a suit and with a panicked expression on his face. Behind him, a black sedan idled on the shoulder of the road.

“I'm fine. I think. Are you my driver?”

“Yeah, Ralph with the Cab'd driving service app. Shayla at Briscoe Equity Group ordered a premium lift for Knox Briscoe. I'm guessing that's you since your truck's underwater.”

And observant, too. “Yep. You see a cell phone and messenger bag somewhere up there, Ralph?”

“Hold up. Is that an '85 Chevy Silverado? That's a hell of a truck.”

“It is.” Except when said truck was haunted and decided all on its own to take a swim despite its owner's better judgment
.

“You're lucky the tire got snagged on that rock.”

Knox took a look at the front of the truck. Sure enough, the passenger side tire was stopped by a boulder, though he wasn't entirely sure luck had anything to do with it. “About that cell phone and messenger bag, Ralph. Would you mind?”

“Oh. Yeah. On it.”

With Ralph in search of Knox's stuff, Knox chanced another step toward shore, keeping his head on a swivel, looking for whatever the hell it was that had slammed into him. An attack beaver? Did hill country even have beavers?

Despite his vigilance, he still startled at the sight of a massive, charcoal gray-green fish swishing through the water, coming straight at him. It had to be longer than his arm. It turned on a dime and surged at him. Knox's curse echoed off the hills surrounding the lake.

Time to scram.

He made it two more steps before his foot snagged on a rock and pitched him forward. Desperate for balance, he reached out to grab on to his truck, but the fish had other ideas and head-butted his leg again. Knox splashed down, nearly dunking all the way underwater.

The bite of cold stole his breath all over again. He exploded back out of the water and onto his feet, spluttering and gasping.

“Fuck!” he shouted, loud enough that even if his father were in Heaven and not haunting the truck, he would've heard him just fine. He held himself back from adding,
Thanks for nothing, Dad.

Sloughing water from his face and breathing hard through flared nostrils, Knox shifted his attention to the water in search of the piranha on steroids that had put his ability to keep a cool head to the test. The fish was long gone. Though his pants floated around his knees like dark seaweed swishing in waves, and his shoes bobbed like little black boats only a few feet away, his hat had drifted into deeper water. Terrific. Just terrific.

He was sopping wet from head to toe and standing next to his equally waterlogged truck on the most important day of his life.

“What was that thing?” Ralph asked.

“I was hoping you'd gotten a clear view of it.”

“Naw, but I did find your cell phone and bag.”

That was something, at least. Knox fished his soggy pants from the water, removed his wallet and set it on the roof of the truck, then tossed the pants in the truck bed. Next, he grabbed his shoes and tossed them onto the shore. Maybe they wouldn't squish too loudly when he walked.

With that taken care of, it was time to get the inevitable over with. He loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.

“Uh, sir? Are you stripping? I mean, uh, why don't you get out of the water first?”

“Going after my hat.” It wasn't until he'd spoken that he realized his teeth were chattering. The sooner he was out of the frigid water, the better. He added his shirt and tie to his pants in the truck bed, then drew a fortifying breath and pushed into the water for a freestyle swim across the lake.

Technically, the hat was replaceable, but this particular one had been the first he'd bought with his own money, back when he was fifteen and working his first real job outside of the local junior rodeo circuit. Over the years, it'd become a habit to wear it to new jobs or when he needed a little extra boost for a negotiation. He believed in good luck charms like he believed in ghosts—which meant surreptitiously and despite his better judgment—but there was no denying the slight edge that the black Stetson with the cattleman's crease and the rodeo brim provided him.

He was a solid fifty yards into the water when he reached the hat. Grabbing on to it tightly, he ignored the fact that his legs were going numb and made short work of returning to shore. He shook the water off the hat and placed it firmly on his head again, then took his phone from Ralph and dialed his office again.

Shayla answered on the first ring this time. “Hey, Knox. If you're calling about a tow truck, one's already on its way. I forgot to mention that before.”

Ladies and gentlemen, Shayla Briscoe, World's Best Office Manager.
“Thanks. You're awesome, sis.”

“Figured you'd need one for that awful truck. It always was unreliable, even when it was brand new.”

Knox glanced again at the Chevy. It might be a pain in the ass, but some of the best memories of his life involved that truck. “It has its moments.”

“Is the Cab'd driver there yet?” Shayla said. “Should be, any minute.”

“He's here. One more thing. I need you to email me with some information on a property.” He rattled off the address of the lakefront home from memory and thanked her again. When the call ended, Knox turned to Ralph and sized him up. The two of them were roughly the same height and build. “You're, what, six-one? One-eighty?”

Ralph gave him the side-eye, apparently on to Knox's plan. “Six even and one-ninety,” he said hesitantly.

Close enough. Knox took out three, soggy one hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “Ralph, I'm going to need to buy your suit.”

*   *   *

It wasn't the first time Emily Ford had spied on a VIP guest at Briscoe Ranch Resort. In fact, she considered it a mandatory part of her research as the resort's Executive Special Event Chef. Wowing elite guests with personalized, gastronomic marvels was her specialty. As long as the guests never checked her internet search history or spotted her peering at them through binoculars, she was golden.

She didn't usually involve her best friend for life, Carina Decker, in her covert ops, but today was an exception. Because today's resort VIP was Knox Briscoe—a cousin of Carina's whom Emily had never met, and Carina had only seen a handful of times, though they'd grown up a couple hundred miles from each other. He was about to sign on with Carina's dad as the heir apparent of the resort, making him Carina's future landlord and Emily's newest boss.

Since Carina was eight months along in a pregnancy that had supersized her whole body from her ankles to her face, stealthiness in this covert ops mission was not easily achieved. So, once Emily had gotten the call from the security guard manning the resort's cameras that Knox had arrived, Emily and Carina had settled for spying on him from a window in the bridal gown shop Carina operated in the resort's lobby.

A shiny, black sedan matching the description the security guard had given Emily came into view on the long road through the property leading to the circular driveway in front of the resort's main building.

Carina nudged Emily in the ribs. “This is exciting. I'm glad he's here, and I'm proud of my dad for putting the rift behind him. Whatever my dad, Uncle Clint, and Grandpa Tyson fought over that made Uncle Clint leave, it's been more than thirty years. That's ancient history.”

Ancient history that was still shrouded in silence and speculation
, Emily added silently. To the best of her knowledge, no one but Tyson, Ty, and Clint knew the reason for the fight—and Clint and Tyson had already taken that secret to their graves.

Carina wrapped an arm around her belly. “With a new generation of Briscoes coming along soon, it's time for the family to forgive and move on. And I think Knox represents a new era of greatness for our family and for our business.”

Carina was right. Probably. Knox's private equity firm's investment in Briscoe Ranch might just be the monetary boost the resort needed to propel it to the next level in luxury destinations. Including the building of the dream restaurant that Emily had been working toward at the resort for a decade. Only weeks earlier, Ty had finally,
finally,
agreed to give Emily the space to build her restaurant at the resort. All they needed now were investors. Knox's timing couldn't be more perfect—unless it wasn't.

“You don't think this all feels too good to be true?” Emily said. “I mean, I get that Knox is family, but the man's amassed a net worth of millions by buying and flipping failing businesses. How can we trust him not to sell us all out?”

“I was skeptical when my dad first told me his plan, but I trust my dad. And I trust his lawyers. They're too business savvy to make it possible for anyone to sell the resort away from the family.”

When the car rounded the driveway and came to a stop, Carina and Emily crowded together, ducking their heads low in case either Knox or his driver looked their way.

Emily already knew what he looked like from photographs accompanying write-ups and interviews in business magazines, as well as the occasional photograph of him attending a charity ball or museum opening, posted online on Texas society blogs. From what she'd seen, Knox was loaded with money, charm, and ambition. An impeccable business reputation. A scandal-free personal life. By every account, he'd made his fortune the most ruthless way possible—fair and square.

None of that research, however, had prepared her for the sight of him.

Knox Briscoe stepped out of the back seat of the sedan one long leg at a time. He buttoned his black suit jacket and surveyed his surroundings, looking far more intimidating in person than the confident, intellectual spirit that his photographs conveyed. He was younger. Larger. His features were darker and more brooding. His leather shoes were as shiny black as the paint job on the limo, as slick as his black cowboy hat and suit.

“Oh, wow,” Carina said on a breath. “I forgot how much he looks like my dad.”

Emily had been too wrapped up in ogling him to notice, but now that Carina mentioned it, he did look a lot like a young Ty Briscoe back before he'd gone bald. “The Briscoe genes are strong, there's no doubt.”

“What are you feeding him and my dad at their meeting?” Carina asked.

Emily flushed with a sudden, rare case of insecurity as she considered the lunch menu she'd created for the meeting. How could she possibly feed Knox Briscoe pheasant? He looked like he dined on nothing but porterhouse steaks and the tears of his enemies. “Brine-roasted pheasant with an heirloom sweet potato puree and a wild mushroom reduction.”

“Sounds tasty.”

“Everything looks tasty to you these days. You're an eating machine, but look at Knox. I can't pair him with that menu.”

Carina snickered. “He's not a wine.”

Definitely not as decadent and sweet as wine. He had the muscular grace of one of those hard-core Crossfit athletes who bench-pressed semi-truck tires in his spare time and had a single-digit BMI rating. He probably didn't even drink wine. He definitely didn't eat sweet potato purees or mushroom reductions. Though he should. It would probably do him a world of good to indulge his senses like that.

Just like that, inspiration struck. “That man needs peaches.”

Specifically, the late season peaches she'd gotten that morning from her orchard supplier in Fredericksburg.

“Come again?” Carina said.

“Sugar. Butter. Fat.” Inspiration jolted Emily like a zap of electricity. She slid down the wall to the floor, closing her eyes to visualize her new masterpiece. “Charred peaches with a balsamic vinegar reduc—no, not vinegar—a pinch of cayenne lacing a brown sugar brûlée crust. Oh my God, that'll piss him off.” She rubbed her hands together like the evil genius she was. “All that butter and sugar. He'll hate that. Right up until he takes a bite. Then he'll understand.”

Carina poked her with her shoe. “You're doing that weird fantasy food rambling thing again.”

Emily barely heard Carina's teasing; she was too busy perfecting the recipe in her mind. “Huh?”

“I love you. But you're crazy.”

Carina was right; Emily was crazy. All great chefs were. She stood, hung the binoculars around her neck, and smoothed out her chef's jacket. “I've got to go. I have a lot of work to do.”

“I thought the meal was ready.”

“Not anymore. I'm going to share my peaches with Knox Briscoe.”

Carina poked her tongue against her cheek as her forehead crinkled with delight. “Someday, one of my lessons about double entendres is going to sink in.”

Emily wasn't daft or naive. She knew a double entendre when she heard one—or, more accurately, inadvertently said one—but it wasn't her fault that the vast majority of people didn't understand that sex and food were incomparable. The perfect meal trumped sex every time, and anyone who claimed otherwise had obviously never experienced Emily's cooking. Knox Briscoe didn't know it yet, but his tongue was about to have the ride of its life.