Some Like It Hot (3 page)

Maybe it was because New Orleans was a town that embraced its passionate side, something Robert himself had trouble doing. Or perhaps the town’s let-the-good-times-roll philosophy held a promise he wanted to believe in.

He felt it then. The old bump of despair and the familiar sadness that had driven him from Seattle, feelings that he thought he’d conquered. They’d almost disappeared here in the Crescent City, but today in the crowded market, loneliness suddenly crashed down on him without warning.

One minute he was assessing crawfish and thinking about Melanie Marchand, and the next, the heavy weight was upon him.

It had caught him like that before, a thick fist squeezing the air from his lungs.

A flash of images tripped across his brain. Nine years old, he saw his mother walking out the door. She had a suitcase in one hand and a man he didn’t know in the other. Tears streaked her face. Her goodbye kiss left a lipstick imprint on Robert’s cheek.

“Don’t!” he growled aloud.
Push through it. You know how. It’ll pass
.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” He forced himself to take a deep breath and shake off the gloom. He met the fishmonger’s eyes and ordered fifty pounds of crawfish to be delivered to the hotel.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Robert LeSoeur?”

Robert turned his head to find a petite young blonde smiling at him. He was accustomed to women flirting with him on the street. It happened a lot. While he didn’t consider himself a particularly handsome man—his chin was too prominent and his nose crooked, and he was just a tad bowlegged—women seemed to hold a different opinion. He’d been told he had a strong jaw and a rugged nose and the sexiest walk they’d ever seen. In addition, they went gaga over his dimples and were intrigued by his scar. Would they be so intrigued, he often wondered, if they knew how he’d gotten it?

He didn’t recognize the woman. Not at first. But she was very easy on the eyes, and since he was trying hard to stop thinking sexual thoughts about Melanie, he smiled back at her. “Do we know each other?”

“You don’t remember me.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“We used to take the same ferry into Seattle from Whidbey Island.”

“Yes.” He did remember her now. “Your hair was longer back then.”

“And I was a bit thinner.” She laughed and patted her stomach. “The food in New Orleans definitely agrees with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Robert murmured. “I don’t recall your name.”

She extended a hand. “Jeri Kay Loving. I’m a reporter for the
Times-Picayune
.”

Robert groaned, then immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

Jeri Kay grinned ruefully. “Please, don’t be embarrassed, I get that reaction a lot. Comes with the territory.”

“This wasn’t an accidental meeting.”

“No,” she admitted. “So tell me, Robert, as one old friend to another, what’s behind the rumors about the Hotel Marchand?”

M
ELANIE JOGGED ALONG
the path of the Mississippi River, feeling cranky from not getting enough sleep. She’d spent the night tossing and turning and mentally cursing Robert. It was bad enough she had to deal with his sexiness at work, but now the guy had the audacity to show up in her dreams, cocking that dimpled grin of his and ordering her around.

Except that in her X-rated midnight fantasy she hadn’t minded his bossiness.

A shiver flashed through her as she remembered the dream.

She hadn’t been asleep long, maybe an hour, when Robert came swaggering into her bedroom looking absolutely gorgeous. His grin said,
I know I turn your insides into instant pudding.

Even in her slumber, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel both breathless and brainless.

A deadly combo.

Melanie shook her head to get rid of the memory. She veered to her left, sprinting past the open-air market, bustling with more activity than usual now that the Mardi Gras season had begun.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see Robert—this was where the city’s chefs came to shop after all. But for some reason, when she spotted him in the milling crowd, her stomach lurched.

And then she realized why.

He was talking to a petite, yet voluptuous, blond woman. His head was down and he was nodding intently, hanging on her every word.

Jealousy, ugly and bile-green, ripped through Melanie.

She didn’t like feeling this way. But there it was. She hated seeing him standing so close to another woman.

Idiot,
she chided herself.
You don’t even like the guy. Why are you getting jealous over him?

The woman turned in her direction. Melanie recognized her, and her jealousy morphed into suspicion.

It was one of those nosy reporters who had been snooping around for the past couple of weeks, ever since someone had tipped off a celebrity tabloid magazine that Ella Emerson was staying at the Hotel Marchand. Melanie’s mother and Charlotte hadn’t wanted to think that someone on staff was the source of the leak.

Could Robert be the culprit who’d tipped off the press about Ella? But what on earth was his motive? Why would he want to harm the hotel?

Keeping her back turned, Melanie inched down the produce aisle toward them.

Robert and the reporter were deep in conversation. They probably wouldn’t even notice her, and if Robert did see her, she would simply pretend she was shopping and hadn’t spied him.

She picked up a plump cantaloupe from a stand on the
opposite side of the aisle where he and the woman stood, heads together, murmuring in low, conspiratorial tones. Melanie raised the melon to her nose and inhaled its sweet scent.

What if Robert wasn’t leaking anything, and she was interrupting his romance? The two of them did seem quite cozy.

Jealousy took another stab at her.

Did she really want to hear them coo sweet nothings to each other? No, she didn’t, but she was eavesdropping anyway.

Melanie tilted her head, straining to hear their conversation. And then she heard Robert speak her name.

What was that?

Tentatively, she edged closer. He possessed a deep, richly resonant voice that matched his controlled demeanor damn near perfectly. It made it easier for Melanie to distinguish his speech from the babble around her.

“The press leak was dealt with and we’re all gearing up for a great Mardi Gras at the hotel,” Robert said.

Hmm, he sounded like he was a PR rep for the hotel not its executive chef. Her feelings were conflicted, part pride and relief, part suspicion and surprise.

Maybe he knew she was eavesdropping and he was faking it for her sake.

The reporter said something that Melanie couldn’t hear. Customers flowed around her, and the buzz of voices speaking with different accents made her lose Robert’s. She took another step closer and then another, all the while keeping her back to Robert and his companion.

“You want to know what I think is going on at the Hotel Marchand?” Robert asked the woman.

Maybe she’d given him too much credit too soon. Melanie
decided. She peered over her shoulder, waiting to hear what he would say next.

“What?” the reporter asked breathlessly, gazing up at him with obvious sexual interest.

He murmured something, took the reporter’s elbow and guided her through the crowd, away from Melanie.

Damn it. She started after them, but someone clamped a tight fist on her wrist.

Startled, Melanie looked up to find a disgruntled vendor frowning at her.

“You gonna buy the cantaloupe, lady? Or do I have to call the cops?”

“I’
LL PAY FOR HER MELON
.”

Robert’s voice, deep and downright delicious, came from directly behind her. Melanie closed her eyes and stifled a groan.

Busted.

She opened her eyes to see him pass a couple of dollars to the fruit vendor for her cantaloupe. Her gaze trailed up the sleeve of his blue plaid shirt to his broad shoulders and then on to his eyes.

In the early morning light those eyes glistened almost navy-blue. Normally, they were the intriguing color of an Indian summer sky, although, occasionally, when he wore a pale-colored shirt, they lightened to sweet cerulean.

Chameleon eyes. Intense, powerful. They fascinated her.

Amusement was in them now and she knew that he had caught her eavesdropping.

“I was just out jogging,” she said, indicating her running attire with the wave of a hand.

He took his time looking, cocking his head and trailing his gaze over the tight fit of her Lycra workout pants. “And you decided to stop off and steal a cantaloupe for breakfast?”

“I wasn’t stealing.”

“No?” He arched an eyebrow. Why did he have to look so damn good?

“Of course not.”

He was teasing her and she knew it, but Melanie couldn’t help fretting that he would think her capable of stealing. She was disconcerted to realize she valued his opinion of her. When had that happened?

Passersby jostled them. Robert took her arm and drew her out of the way of the foot traffic.

Her pulse quickened at his touch.

Calm down,
she scolded herself.

“What
were
you doing?” he drawled, and half lowered his eyelids in a sultry, just-rolled-out-of-bed look. Oh, he knew all right. He was just toying with her.

She shrugged. She wasn’t good at lying.

“You were trying to listen in on my conversation with Jeri Kay Loving,” he said. “Confess.”

“Who?” She feigned ignorance.

“The reporter from the
Times-Picayune
?”

“Oh, was that who she was?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that. Were you spying on me?” His tone was totally seductive.

Flustered, Melanie felt the flush of embarrassment push hotly up her neck, but then she realized she didn’t have to explain herself to him. He was the one who’d been talking to a reporter.

Robert took a step closer, crowding her space, marking his territory. His heated gaze seared her to the spot and one corner of his mouth quirked up, taunting her to admit she’d been snooping. Melanie did not shrink back. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her with his overt masculinity.

“Or perhaps you were stalking me?”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Spying it is, then.”

“Why would you assume I was spying? Do you have something to hide?” She answered his question with some of her own.

“Why would you even ask that?”

“You’re pretty secretive, LeSoeur. You don’t talk about yourself much. Why is that?”

“I’m a quiet guy.”

“You weren’t too quiet just now, talking to that reporter.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Are you the reason the paparazzi found out about Ella Emerson?” Melanie narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you our leak?”

“No,” he said, lowering both his voice and his head until he was close enough to brush his lips against her ear if he chose to do so. “I’m not.”

Her knees liquefied. In spite of the cool morning air and a strong desire to shiver, she felt blazingly hot. “I don’t believe you.”

His chin lightly grazed her cheek. The man had a jaw like a rock ledge. A very steep, very slippery, very dangerous ledge. Melanie tried not to notice how his warm breath fanned the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, sending a dangerous jolt of heat flashing through her.

“Well,” Robert said, “I guess you’re going to have to trust me then.”

“I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, buddy. Trusting strangers isn’t my long suit.”

“We’re not strangers,” he argued. “We’ve been working together for four months.”

“And yet I don’t know a single personal thing about you.”

“What would you like to know?” He leaned against a support pillar and flashed his dimples at her.

She thought about it a moment. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Wow, you hop right to the really intimate stuff.”

She could tell by the look on his face that her question had caught him off guard. That had been her intention. “Just answer the question.”

“Why don’t we start with something easier, like what’s my favorite color?”

“You favorite color wouldn’t tell me anything important about you. Besides, I can guess. It’s blue. Or black, maybe.”

“How did you know?”

“Those are the colors you wear most.”

“So by that reasoning your favorite color is purple.”

“Answer the question,” she insisted.

“It’s the virginity story or nothing?”

She shrugged. “If you want me to trust you, then you’re going to have to share.”

“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me,” he teased.

“I’m not the secretive one.”

“Tit for tat.”

“Okay, fine. I’m not embarrassed. I was one month shy of seventeen,” she said glibly. “It happened on a riverboat with a twenty-two-year-old trumpet player named Johnny Maxx, during Sylvie’s college graduation party. The band was playing “My Prerogative.” While my parents and sisters were dancing in the ballroom, Johnny and I were on the upper deck underneath a scratchy woolen blanket. He was a thoroughly bad boy, that Johnny. He blabbed about it later to all his Bourbon Street buddies.”

“I’m feeling the urge to hunt down Johnny Maxx and punch him in the mouth.”

“That’s so sweet of you.” She fluttered her eyelids. “But don’t worry. I wasn’t that vulnerable. I wasn’t in love with him. I knew what I was getting myself into with Johnny. I just wanted a little fun.”

Robert reached up to finger a strand of her hair that had escaped from her ponytail. “You always have to play the tough girl, huh? Come on, you can admit it to me. Johnny Maxx might not have broken your heart, but he hurt your pride.”

Robert was right. Johnny had hurt her badly.

“Have you always done that?” he asked.

“Done what?”

“Said and done things strictly for shock value?”

His insight surprised her, but she didn’t answer the question. “So what’s
your
lost virginity story?”

“Nothing special.”

“I need details, man.”

He gave her a wry smile and shook his head. “You won’t let go of this.”

“Nope. What was her name?”

“Amber Jenson. Her father owned a string of dry cleaners.”

“Did you do it in the back of one of those hot, steamy rooms where they press the clothes?”

“No. I told you it was nothing special. We were on her parents’ living room sofa. Like you, I was barely seventeen. And just to gain your trust, I’m going to admit to the truly embarrassing part.” He paused.

“What’s that?”

“Um, let’s just say things went off a bit prematurely.”

Melanie laughed, delighted that he’d revealed his youthful vulnerability to her. “Was Amber disappointed?”

“Terribly.”

“I hope you’ve corrected that problem since then.”

“Absolutely.”

The suggestive look he gave her made Melanie regret starting this little game.

“All right. No guy would cop to that if it wasn’t true. I believe you. So what did you tell the reporter?”

“She’d heard rumors of the hotel’s recent problems so I gave her an explanation that seemed to satisfy her.”

“Such as?” Melanie asked, fixating on the blunt, fascinating shape of his mouth.

“I told her the Hotel Marchand is haunted.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” He looked inordinately proud of himself.

“What’d you say?”

“That there was a restless poltergeist. The ghost of a long-dead Creole Queen who’d hanged herself after being spurned by her married lover.”

“Pretty good, but personally, I would have gone with the ghost of the spurned married lover, who died a horrible death after the Creole Queen put a voodoo hex on him. But then that’s just me. I will have to give you brownie points for creativity, however.”

“I have more imagination than you give me credit for.” He tilted his head and sent her an assessing glance. “You’re not the only one who has vivid dreams.”

The way he said it suggested his midnight fantasies had been as erotic as her own. Melanie’s stomach tightened at the
idea. Was she in his dreams the way he’d been in hers? The thought was both thrilling and unsettling.

“Too bad you don’t show as much creativity when it comes to designing your menus,” she said saucily, anxious to hide her discomfort.

“Ah,” he said. “So it’s back to that.”

“We’re always going to be back to that. Cooking is not only my career, it’s my passion. It’s the way I express myself.”

“Contrary to your opinion, Chez Remy doesn’t exist solely so you can express yourself.”

She shifted the melon from one hand to the other, then tucked it under her arm. “If we worked together instead of against each other, with your management expertise and my cooking skills, Chez Remy could be one of the top restaurants in the country.”

“I agree.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“I agree that working together would make things go a lot smoother in the kitchen, and we wouldn’t have turkeys hanging from apron hooks.”

“So you’ll let me try out some of my recipes?” Hope sprang up in her.

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“For crying out loud, would it kill you to just say yes?”

He tapped his chin with a forefinger. “While you are an excellent chef, Melanie, I’m not convinced that letting you go wild with innovative preparations will bring in the business like you think it will. I believe the way to raise Chez Remy to the next level is to consistently serve top-notch, traditional meals.”

“Traditional meals won’t bring in hip and trendy clientele—the kind of clientele you need to make a splash.”

“It’s not about making a splash. It’s about creating con
sistently superior food and service that people can rely on. A reputation is gained and maintained over time.”

“What’s wrong with making things happen now?”

“You’re too impatient,” he said.

“You’re too cautious,” she countered.

“Impulsiveness leads to disaster.”

“Too much deliberation leads to missed opportunity.”

“This city is rebuilding. People need something they can count on to stay the same. That’s what Chez Remy is all about.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t change direction.”

“There’s nothing wrong with staying the course.”

“You’re just afraid,” she challenged.

“Of what?”

“Of what we might stir up together.”

“Are we talking about Chez Remy here? Or something else entirely?” His eyes locked with hers and she almost stopped breathing.

Melanie was vividly aware of everything. The feel of the concrete beneath her running shoes, the brilliant colors and intriguing smells of the market, the hungry taste of desire filling her mouth.

The same desire that was reflected in Robert’s eyes.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he was too prudent to act on those feelings.

“I’ll tell you what I’m really afraid of when it comes to you and me partnering up,” he murmured. “It’s not your off-the-wall recipes or your passionate nature.”

“What is it then?”

“You jump into things with enthusiasm, but I’m afraid you don’t have the staying power for the long haul.”

“Huh?”

“Frankly, Melanie, how can I go out on a limb with someone I can’t trust to watch my back?”

T
HE WOUNDED EXPRESSION
in Melanie’s eyes told Robert he’d hurt her feelings.

Damn. That hadn’t been his intention. He had no idea how to keep her both happy and at arm’s length.

“Melanie…I—” He tried to apologize, but she wasn’t listening.

She clamped her lips shut, blinked rapidly, then spun on her heel and disappeared into the crowd without another word.

See? That’s what he was talking about. Whenever things got heated, Melanie walked away rather than hanging around to slog it out. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

He hadn’t been totally honest with her. Yes, he was afraid that if they teamed up to transform the restaurant, at some point she would leave him high and dry. But there was a lot more to his hesitation than that. He wasn’t really worried about Chez Remy’s. The restaurant had a solid reputation. What worried him was the way he felt whenever he was near her. Melanie made him want to do stupid, impulsive things. Like take her to bed.

Damn, but he wanted her.

And that did worry him.

He headed to his office at the hotel and tried to work on the upcoming menus for the celebration Chez Remy had planned for Mardi Gras, but he couldn’t get Melanie out of his mind. She might appear to be tough and sassy, but he knew it was all an act designed to protect her heart. He had a few tricks like that of his own, and one of them was his journal.

He had just started writing her out of his system and onto the pages of his journal when the phone rang.

Caller ID told him the call was coming from the Stratosphere, his old place of employment in Seattle. He lifted the receiver with some trepidation. “Hello?”

“Robert, it’s Joe Harding.” Joe had taken over Robert’s former job.

“Hey, Joe. What’s up?” He tried to sound light and casual, but his grip on the phone tightened.

“Just thought you’d like to know someone’s been calling around, asking questions about you.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Personal questions.”

“By someone, do you mean like the cops or a P.I.?”

“Don’t know who he was, but he said he was asking for a friend down in New Orleans.”

What was this all about? Were the Marchands checking his background? But why now, four months after they’d hired him? Robert’s stomach tensed. Why couldn’t the past stay buried, damn it? He’d paid for his mistakes.

“What did you tell the guy?” he asked Joe.