Some Like It Hot (2 page)

She didn’t flinch from his assessing gaze. “Everything on the frickin’ menu is Cajun or Creole.”

His eyes traveled a deliberate journey from her disheveled hair down her face to her lips, along her throat to the gentle swell of her breasts. “Hello, this is New Orleans, not Boston.”

“But why does everything have to be so predictable?” she complained. “Same old gumbo and étouffée. I have rémoulade coming out of my pores.”

“There’s nothing wrong with tradition,” he said. “People find it soothing.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind stagnating. What are the more adventuresome souls supposed to eat?”

“Few people are as adventuresome as you.” Was that a hint of admiration in his voice? Perhaps he did appreciate her love of innovation more than he let on. “And for what it’s worth, I have introduced more grilled dishes since I’ve been here.”

Melanie snorted. “Grilled grouper, whoop-dee-doo. That’ll get you on the cover of
Gourmand
.”

“This isn’t about making the cover of some slick foodie magazine. It’s about pleasing our customers. Besides, roast turkey is not exactly cutting edge.”

“It is when you baste it with chocolate and cayenne, then top it with a goat cheese and caper sauce.” She gestured expressively. “Don’t make that face, it tastes really good.”

“You’ve made it before?”

“It came to me in a dream. I have very vivid dreams.”

“We can’t be switching the menu around to suit your midnight culinary inventions. The dish sounds dysfunctional. No one will order it.”

“Trust me—it’s wonderful.” Melanie turned resolutely back to the turkey. She grasped the bird under both wings and lugged it back to the rotisserie to try again.

Robert moved to block her way. “Sorry, but no. It’ll fry in less than half the time.”

The kitchen had gone completely silent. The trio of prep cooks were no longer slicing and dicing, but staring open-mouthed, waiting with knives poised to see what was going to happen next.

Melanie couldn’t say why getting her way on this issue was so important, but the need was an aching heaviness in her heart. Maybe because the anniversary of her father’s death was just around the corner. Maybe because her own family didn’t have enough faith in her to give her the executive chef position. Not that she even wanted the job, but it would have been nice of them to have asked. It would have made her feel wanted, at least.

Or maybe it was because no matter how much she disliked Robert, she was powerfully attracted to him and feared she would end up sleeping with the guy and making a huge mess of her life again if she didn’t watch her step.

Melanie dodged around him and manipulated the turkey’s shoulders into the rotisserie. If she just pushed hard enough, she could make it happen.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Robert said, and reached for one of the legs.

“Back off,” she barked, surprised by the anxiety knotting her stomach.

“You’re upset about something more than the turkey. Let’s go into my office and talk this through.”

The last place she wanted to be was confined in his tiny office. She didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. How pathetic was that?

“No.”

Robert tried to wrench the turkey from her grasp, but
Melanie clung to it as if her life depended on it being roasted in chocolate and hot peppers instead of injected with Cajun seasoning and fried in peanut oil. In the process, her elbow hit the jar of olive oil, tipping it over. Apparently, she hadn’t replaced the lid tightly enough. Oil drizzled down the counter and trickled across the floor.

“Let go,” she said.

“Not until you tell me what’s really upsetting you.”

Melanie glared. She wasn’t about to tell him that what was really bothering her was this infernal attraction to him. She pulled away sharply, but still he held on to the turkey.

Her kitchen clogs skidded in the slippery oil. Her legs shot out from under her and she landed hard on her bottom, the turkey flying from her hands and Robert’s.

It smacked against something in the distance with a solid, wet thunk.

Robert let out a curse as momentum shot him forward and he, too, slipped in the olive oil, lost his balance and came crashing down.

Just in the nick of time he thrust out his arms and caught himself before crushing Melanie beneath him.

He ended up positioned directly above her as if he were doing push-ups, her legs pinned beneath his.

She froze.

He gazed down at her with those deep, ocean-colored eyes. Her chest heaved beneath the thin cotton material of her turquoise tank top.

She was trapped.

And totally not hating it.

In fact, Melanie was holding her breath, waiting for him to kiss her.

His hands rested on either side of her body, his forearms almost grazing the swell of her breasts, his pelvis poised just inches above hers.

She realized that somehow his fingers had gotten tangled in her ponytail, and he was looking at her as if she were a Mardi Gras feast.

She gulped and commanded herself not to blush.

Her body tingled, sparking off the hot expression in his eyes. Her stomach tumbled in a free fall. The way he looked at her was foreplay of the most provocative kind.

Hot and lingering. Anticipatory and edgy.

Her heart raced like a high-performance Ferrari engine. She tipped her hips forward.

They breathed deeply together, watching, waiting.

For the first time, she noticed he had a faint scar that started just above his right ear and disappeared into his hairline. It was straight and clean, as if it had been made by a razor or a knife in one long slicing motion.

Something shifted inside her. Something brilliant and bright and inexplicable.

She had a scar of her own.

It seemed portentous somehow, his scar. A harbinger of things to come. A warning. And she knew it held a secret to which she wasn’t privy.

She had no conscious intention of touching it, but touch it she did, reaching up to feather one finger along the outer border.

He’d suffered.

Just as she had.

Quick as a kid who’d poked a lit match, Melanie jerked her fingers back, afraid of the intimacy. Wanting the connection, but terrified of it.

His lips parted, and for one crazy, glorious moment she thought he
was
going to kiss her. But instead, he simply asked, “Are you all right?”

“Get off me.”

Rattled by an inexplicable need to bond with this man, she pushed against his chest with the flat of one palm, when what she really wanted to do was snatch the front of his T-shirt in her fist and pull his body down flush against hers.

One of the prep cooks snickered.

Robert scrambled to his feet, shot a quelling glance at the curious trio and then reached down a hand to help her up.

But Melanie would be damned if she would take any help from him. Ignoring his outstretched palm, she sprang effortlessly to a standing position. She didn’t run four miles a day and do strength training exercises twice a week for nothing.

She looked around for the turkey. Robert’s gaze followed hers. The bird had landed with freaky precision on a hook where the staff hung their aprons when they went outside for a break.

It dangled there, a testament to her failure.

Melanie’s eyes met Robert’s. He pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin.

It
was
funny, but she refused to laugh, refused to encourage him.

“I was going to offer to let you design the stuffing,” Robert said, his eyes dancing, “but looks like it’s a moot point, since the turkey’s been hung out to dry.”

“You know what you can do with your stuffing,” she said sweetly, taking off her apron and tossing it at him.

Then without another word, she pivoted on her heel and
marched out the employee entrance, trying not to let him see how much he disturbed her equilibrium.

Clearly, it wasn’t the turkey that didn’t fit at Chez Remy.

It was her.

T
OUCHING
M
ELANIE HAD BEEN
a grave mistake, and Robert knew he shouldn’t have done it. Not only was it unprofessional, but it shot his desire for her right out of firing range.

What in the hell had he been thinking?

You weren’t thinking. That’s the problem.

He was holding the apron she’d tossed at him, caught in midair and clutched tight in his fist. It smelled of food and Melanie, two of his favorite scents.

Suppressing a guttural sound of animal appreciation, Robert pressed his lips together as he watched her storm from the kitchen.

What a woman.

The kind of woman who could get a man into deep trouble without even trying.

You don’t need the hassle.

Melanie put him in mind of rich French truffles—precious and musky, heavy with the fragrance of a rumpled mattress after a night of torrid love. Robert would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that she was the source of the buzzy tingling at the base of his brain. He had an overwhelming desire to yank her into his bed and make slow, hot love to her all night long.

The sunlight streaming through the back door as she
jerked it open gave a golden glow to her skin. She possessed nicely defined muscles—developed from years of lifting forty-pound turkeys—over slender bones. Her ebony hair swung in a thick ponytail, and her perfectly shaped tush twitched enticingly in those skin-hugging blue jeans.

No one, but no one, had a caboose like Melanie Marchand’s. The image of her cute little butt was branded into his brain.

Stop it! You’ve got no business lusting after her. She’s far too good for the likes of you.

The door slammed, putting an end to the delightful view, but not his wicked thoughts. The very essence of her—zesty, tangy, rebellious—lingered in the resulting backdraft of air.

“Back to work.” He frowned and clapped his hands at the prep cooks, not wanting them to guess exactly how much he’d been affected by his close encounter of the dangerous kind with the sexy Ms. Marchand.

In movements so simultaneous they appeared choreographed, the three men picked up their knives and attacked the vegetables on the chopping block with renewed fervor.

Robert removed the bedraggled turkey from the apron hook and cleaned up the mess. After he finished, he left the kitchen for his office, on the other side of the supply pantry, trying to decide the best way to handle Melanie.

You’re not going to handle her at all. She’s strictly hands-off.

She would be back to finish her shift. He had no worries on that score. Melanie was a professional. She just needed some cooling-off time, and he would give her as wide a berth as possible. He realized she begrudged him for being in charge of the kitchen that had once been the domain of her
beloved father. Robert knew he sparked her cantankerous side because several Marchand employees and family members had already told him so.

But he also realized that Melanie secretly lusted after him as much as he lusted after her. He’d watched her nipples stiffen beneath her cotton tank top when his hand had accidentally grazed her breast. He’d seen the expression in her eyes, had felt that magical tug of their sexual push-pull, and it scared her as much as it scared him.

Melanie was a spicy one, and that was precisely the danger of her. Robert shook his head. He knew better than to indulge his fantasies. He’d learned the hard way that too much passion invariably led to disaster.

Just thinking about her lips—as full and pinky-orange as fresh summer peaches—stirred him. He loved her spunk and respected the way she didn’t let anyone push her around.

Including him.

Yet the vivacious woman seemed to have no clue about the hunger he held tightly harnessed, the yearning that challenged his self-control long after she’d left the building. He closed his eyes tight against a sudden image of her sprawled out naked across his bed while he skimmed his tongue over her bare breasts and she moaned softly for more.

He opened his eyes, shocked by the sheer force of his desire, disturbed by how much she unbalanced him. He was in way over his head.

Robert was far too familiar with the perils of uncontrollable appetites. That’s why he held back. He would not screw this up. He’d worked hard to repair his damaged reputation.

Anne and Charlotte Marchand had given him his big break, offering him the kitchen to run as he saw fit, giving
him a chance at a new beginning, a new chapter in his life. He wasn’t about to let them down.

And he wasn’t about to start something he couldn’t finish with Melanie.

Robert dropped down into the rolling swivel chair behind the ornate mahogany desk and did the one and only thing he knew would tame the long-buried needs demanding to be recognized. He unlocked the top drawer of his desk, removed his leather-bound journal and began to write, draining his feelings from his body, channeling them through his pen, detailing his red-hot attraction to Melanie on the page.

If there was one thing he’d learned, it was to stay away from uncontrollable passion. Melanie Marchand was strictly off-limits.

H
OW WAS SHE EVER GOING
to convince Robert to give her creative reign in the kitchen? Melanie paced the courtyard outside the restaurant, her mind in hyperdrive. It was the only way she could carve her own niche. The only way she could measure up.

Face it. He’s in charge and he’s convinced he knows best.

She sighed.

If you can’t convince him, maybe you can find a way to get rid of him,
whispered her darker side.

But how?

Her mother and sisters adored the guy, as did the rest of the staff. He was a fair boss; Melanie couldn’t fault him on that score. Days off were decided by lottery, and scullery duty was rotated among the junior staff members. But overall, he was simply too rigid and duty bound.

Robert held part of himself in reserve, never fully giving in to his creativity. He was a great administrator, but Chez Remy was never going to regain its legendary status under his rule if he didn’t learn to let go and take some risks.

If she could find out more about him, maybe then she could understand him. And if she understood what made him tick, maybe she could convince him to trust her culinary instincts. Together they could skyrocket Chez Remy—and the Hotel Marchand—to a whole new level.

Then, finally, her mother and sisters would have to recognize that she
was
an integral part of this family.

Restlessly, she toyed with her watch. It had been a present from her father for her eighteenth birthday.

Melanie released the clasp and flipped it over to read the inscription she knew by heart. To my little rebel. Love, Papa.

Her fingertips lightly traced the words and her heart pinched. Being a rebel might have served her in her youth, when she was trying to stand out among her three older sisters, but now, as she neared thirty, she no longer relished the role of outcast. How did a prodigal daughter go about proving that she could indeed go home again?

By restoring her papa’s kitchen to its former glory days, that was how.

But how could she do that when Robert was standing in her way?

Melanie slipped her watch back on and then unclipped her cell phone from the waistband of her blue jeans. Taking a deep breath, she flipped the phone open and punched in the number of an old friend who worked at one of the top restaurants in Seattle, Robert’s hometown.

If anyone could dig up scuttlebutt, it was Coby Harring
ton. Coby was the biggest gossip on the Pacific Rim, plus he owed her a huge favor.

Five years ago, when they’d both been working for her ex-husband, David, in Boston, Melanie had saved his bacon. Coby mistakenly put peanuts in a Thai dish for one of their regulars, a member of a well-known political clan, who was highly allergic to the nuts. When Melanie realized Coby’s mistake, she’d rushed out into the dining area, knocking the plate from the waiter’s hand just as he was about to serve it to the customer.

She’d taken the brunt of her ex-husband’s wrath over the incident, and never mentioned Coby’s error. She’d known David would have fired him on the spot.

“Coby? This is Melanie Marchand.”

“Toots, is it really you? Long time, no hear. How have you been?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Delicious as always.”

Melanie chuckled at her flamboyant friend. “Good to hear.”

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s recovering just fine, thanks for asking. Listen, Coby, I need a really big favor.”

“What’s up?”

“Could you put your ear to the ground and see what you can find out about a Robert LeSoeur? He used to be an assistant executive chef at the Stratosphere.”

“Hmm, is he a new love interest?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“That’s a shame. When are you going to get over that brute David and move on?”

“Please, I’m so over David.”

“Then how come you haven’t had a boyfriend since the divorce? It’s been more than four years.”

It was a legitimate question, but she hadn’t found anyone who piqued her interest enough to try again.

What about Robert?
whispered that infernal voice in the back of her brain.

“Once burned, twice shy,” she said. “I don’t exactly have the world’s best track record when it comes to picking men.”

“You’re too passionate to be alone,” Coby commented. “You can’t let old war wounds stop you from trying again.”

“I’ll try again when the right guy comes along. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m taking it slow this time.”

“Fair enough. So you want me to dig up deep dirt on this LeSoeur character?”

“Well, yes, if there’s any deep dirt to be dug.”

“Honey,” he said, “everyone has a bone or two in their closet, if not an entire skeleton. If he’s done it, I’ll find it. But first, you wanna tell me what this is really all about?”

“He’s a new employee at the restaurant and we don’t know much about him.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me. Quid pro quo, Mel. You dish, I snoop.”

“Hey, you owe me. Remember what happened at Culligan’s in Boston?”

“I already repaid you for that one, toots. I kept your dark secret.”

He had at that, and keeping secrets was not Coby’s forte. Reflexively, Melanie’s hand went to her left side, her fingers skating over the uneven ridge of the burn scar that lay underneath the thin material of her tank top.

Closing her eyes, she bit her lip, refusing to relive the
memory of how David, in a cocaine-induced rage, had shoved her against a gas stove that had been turned on at the time. Coby was the only one in the whole world who knew about it. Melanie had been too ashamed to tell her family, because she’d married a man she’d known less than a month. A man they’d disapproved of. The very day after the stove incident, Melanie had moved out and filed for divorce, but she still hadn’t shaken the shame.

“Talk to me,” Coby prodded.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at the kitchen entrance and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think someone on the inside might be trying to damage the Hotel Marchand’s reputation, and it all started about the same time Robert came to work for us.”

“I’m listening.”

“Keep this just between you and me.”

“You got it.”

“There’ve been several strange happenings around here,” she said.

“Happenings?”

“Someone put granulated sugar in the feed line to the hotel generator so we were without power during a city-wide blackout and guest rooms were vandalized. Then someone tipped off the paparazzi about a movie star guest, and that was followed by a hit-and-run.”

She winced, remembering the car accident she’d been in two weeks earlier involving her three-year-old niece, Daisy Rose, and director Pete Traynor’s four-year-old nephew, Adam. Luc Carter, the hotel concierge, had been driving them in her grandmother Celeste’s cadillac. A black sedan with tinted windows had come out of nowhere, smacking
their vehicle before speeding off without stopping. They’d been shaken up, but everyone was okay. Both Melanie and Luc were convinced the crash had been intentional, but there was no way to prove it.

The police suspected paparazzi on the hunt were behind the accident. Pete Traynor was in town to scout out a location for his next flick, and had brought his nephew along. His art director, Evan, was also with him, plus Evan’s fiancée, a famous Australian actress named Ella Emerson. It was news of their secret wedding that was leaked to the press.

The family was still on edge over the accident and Melanie couldn’t dispel the feeling that the hit-and-run was somehow connected to the other attacks on the hotel. But even if Robert was behind any of those, she knew in her heart that he couldn’t be involved in the hit-and-run. In spite of his faults, he adored Daisy Rose and would never do anything to harm her.

“Okay, you got my attention. I’ll get on it and call you back as soon as I find out something,” Coby said.

Melanie thanked her friend and hung up, telling herself she’d done the sensible thing, even as her stomach took a nosedive into her shoes.

No matter how prudent it seemed, she couldn’t help feeling that having Robert investigated, however secretly, was a very underhanded thing to do.

D
AWN RODE THE
Saturday morning sky, gray and edgy. Robert ambled down the aisles of the open-air market, looking for the freshest ingredients for Chez Remy’s evening menu.

He hadn’t slept much the night before. He kept thinking of Melanie and how to improve their working relationship
without giving in to sexual temptation. Yesterday, she’d come back inside a few minutes after their argument, going about her job as if nothing had happened. Robert stayed out of her way, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew he was going to have to sit her down for a serious heart-to-heart.

Something had to be done about the escalating tension between them, because Robert had no intention of leaving the best job he’d ever had or the city of New Orleans, which he’d come to love as much as his hometown of Seattle. Even in the midst of its reconstruction from Hurricane Katrina, it had a spirit and energy he found engaging.