The Perfect Ingredient (Dare Valley) (12 page)

“Oh, it’s the clothes part that’s the problem, eh? Brian forgot to use that one on me. Well, feel free to strip down to whatever you feel is necessary. Everyone knows I’m a happily married woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good show.”

He growled at her.

“Good! Now tuck in your tummy like I showed you and curl your hips up. It’s like a pelvic tilt. You learn it in pre-natal Pilates. Maybe we should sign you up.”

Her pregnancy and breast feeding allusions were making him nauseous. “Sign up yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Had her eyes turned red?

“Nothing.”

“Okay, let’s try it again. Watch me.”

She thrust her hips out and then curled them back in, and just to show off, executed another move that could have won her first prize at the World Pole Dancing competition.

He started to sweat. All of the moves Elizabeth had in the class were like that. And the class was an
hour
long. He would have to dance like he was in some porn version of
Flashdance
if he wasn’t going to look like a fool.

“Men aren’t supposed to dance like this,” he finally admitted, ready to throw in the towel.

“Oh, no. Remember your promise. If you quit, I’m going to tell the world about our sessions.”

He put his hands on his hips, trying to intimidate her like she was a new line cook in his kitchen. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Right. Dr. Evil didn’t intimidate.

“Okay, let’s try something different,” she said. “I was trying to show you the easy parts before moving on to the dance steps.”

The easy parts?

He was screwed.

“What do you know about salsa?”

“It’s a Latin condiment of tomatoes, peppers, and spices best served with tortilla chips.”

“Funny.”

He thought so.

Dr. Evil came and stood beside him. “Salsa is all about rhythm. Here’s the basic move. Start on the right foot. Back. Together. Forward. Together.”

He tried to match her movements, and after they did it ten times, he was feeling a little lighter. “Hey, I got it.”

“Not so fast, Pit Bull,” she told him. “Now you have to add the hips.”

The hips? Crap. He might as well try and dance with his feet tied together.

“Come on. Like this,” she said, shaking her booty.

“I’m never going to get this.”

She popped him in the arm, something she wasn’t the slightest bit shy about doing whenever the mood struck. “Stop with the whining. I expect more from you. Tell me. What’s the hardest dish you ever learned to make?”

He chose the first one that came to mind. “St. Honoré cake. I went through dozens of batches before I learned to make the puff pastry and cream puffs like a French baker…and then you have to dip the cream puffs in caramelized sugar without getting the pastry wet. It’s a b—. And then attaching them to the puff pastry base without ruining the pâte à choux… You can see why the dessert is named after a saint. You have to have the patience of one to get it right.”

“And how long did it take you to master it?” she asked.

“Three weeks.” He’d thrown one ruined batch at the wall.

“If you can do that, you can dance for an hour. Remember, all you have to do is show up and struggle through an hour-long dance class to make Elizabeth go out with you. Isn’t that worthwhile?” She flung a hand at his arm, and for a second he thought she was going to sock him again. “Don’t answer me right now. It’s like asking a woman giving birth if she’s willing to get pregnant again.”

A knock sounded on the door, and it opened before either of them could react.

“Jill?” his boss and good friend asked, standing in the doorway in a navy suit. “
Terrance.
Are you two having a party? Without inviting me?”

Right. Cher wasn’t exactly normal background music for a professional meeting.

“I’m teaching him how to dance,” Dr. Evil proudly announced, her eyes like twin saucers of doom. His doom.

“
Really…
”

“You weren’t supposed to say anything,” he hissed for her ears only.

She shrugged.

Was it possible for the ground to open up and swallow you when you were on the second floor? “What Jill means is that she’s showing me the music she likes to dance to.”

Mac’s mouth twitched. “I see. And you have a new fascination with Cher? Funny, somehow I missed that, knowing you all these years.”

Oh, the curses he wanted to unleash. His wallet couldn’t handle it.

“It’s a dare of sorts,” Jill told their boss, who was enjoying this moment way too much.

Terrance gave her a withering look, which only made her smile wider. She locked her arm through his. “Want to see some of his moves?”

“Another time perhaps. I’ll just…leave these papers for you to go over and sign.” He crossed over to her desk, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Enjoy your lesson, Terrance.”

Great. Now his boss and friend knew his secret. Pretty soon Rhett would know too, and while Mac might refrain from teasing, Rhett wouldn’t.

“What possessed you?” he asked when the door closed.

“It’s going to be all over town that you showed up at Elizabeth’s dance class. Might as well start getting used to the attention. Plus, maybe your guy friends can help you in your off time.”

Sometimes Jill made him want to hurl himself out of a window.

“But no one is supposed to know I’m practicing.”

She leveled him a glance. “You’re whining again.” Glancing at her watch, she tapped the hideous purple, rhinestone face. Where did she find those things anyway? “Our time has come to a close for today, and since you’re not coming along as fast as I’d hoped, I’m going to give you homework. I brought in some of my favorite dancing movies. I want you to watch them.”

Homework? What was he? Some kid in middle school?

When she presented him with
Dirty Dancing
like it was the Queen Mother’s favorite crown, he groaned.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You need some inspiration. Trust me. This movie is going to help.”

He was working on the new menu at the Grand and Mac's other hotels now. And she expected him to watch this chick flick?

“Then there’s
Step Up
and
Footloose.”
She shoved them at his chest.

Shoot him. Right now.

The door burst open again, and in swaggered Rhett Butler Blaylock, a grin as mile-wide as the Mile High stadium on his face. “Heard somebody’s getting dance lessons.”

Well, that had been quick. The glee in Rhett’s voice was unmistakable. Dr. Evil had just met Mr. Evil.

“Somebody was supposed to keep her mouth shut, and I’m so outta here.”

Rhett snagged him with a meaty hand and clucked under his tongue. “Mac told me your taste in music had changed, and I just had to pull myself away from the poker tables to see for myself. Cher,
mon ami?”

“Shit.”

That hundred was the best money he’d spent all day.

“And now I see your taste in movies has changed too,” his friend drawled. “Jill, since you’re being more forthcoming than my friend here, tell your old pal what’s going on.”

Dr. Evil would never rule the world with that mouth. She spilled the whole sordid story to his friend in under a minute. Rhett settled back against Jill’s desk, crossing his cowboy boots at the ankle.

“Looks like a pretty nice dance movie marathon you have there, bubba.”

“You can laugh all you want, but I’m not doing it.” He threw the movies down on Jill’s desk. “No woman is worth this shit, and no man is supposed to parade around in front of a bunch of women wiggling his hips like some jackass while they laugh at him.”

“That’s two hundred dollars, T,” Rhett said, stroking his chin.

“I damn well know how much it is.” He was losing his cool, and he knew it. Taking out three hundred, he took a deep breath.

“Our friend, Rye, has made a career out of taking his shirt off and wiggling his hips in front of the ladies, if you recall.”

“I’m not Rye.”

“No, but I’ve never seen you back down from a challenge.”

Rhett re-stacked the movies and handed them back to Dr. Evil, who was trying her best not to laugh out loud.

“You’re not thinking straight,” Rhett finally told him. “No one is going to expect you to know all the moves. Right, Jill?”

Dr. Evil sat on her desk. “Nope. Most of the women don’t, even the regulars, and certainly not the new routines.”

“See! When I used to play against players better than me, what did I do?” He pointed to his massive chest.

“I don’t know. You brayed like a jackass.”

Dr. Evil laughed, and Rhett patted her thigh.

“Sort of. I turned the tables on them. Threw them off their game. Did something outlandish, something guaranteed to upset their rhythm.”

Jill started to hum. “I see where you’re going with this.”

Terrance slashed his hand through the air. “Well, I don’t. I have to get back to the kitchen.”

“And who’s coming to town this weekend for his bachelor party who knows how to strut his stuff in front of a whole bunch of women?”

“Oh, shit,” he said, “Rye.” And out came another hundred for his Cuss Fund.

“That man sure knows how to move,” Dr. Evil commented, bouncing up and down now. “You could learn from him, Terrance.”

Pointers from one of country music’s biggest stars? For a second he was intrigued, and then he said, “No way. I don’t want this disaster leaving this room. I’ll go to Elizabeth’s class on Monday night and hole up in the corner. Do my best to get through.”

Rhett stood up and crossed the short distance between them, towering over him. “You need to man up. One rooster in a flock full of hens never goes unnoticed.”

Terrance slapped a hand to his forehead. “Where do you get such lines? Is Popular Hick Sayings for the Day a daily email blast I’m not signed up for?”

“Be nice, bubba,” Rhett said. “We’re only trying to help.”

Deep down, Terrance knew that. But he still wanted to get the hell out of Dr. Evil’s office. The next song in the routine had come on. How was he supposed to hold up his head after gyrating to “Man! I Feel Like a Woman?”

“Okay, I’ll keep practicing with my lovely choreographer at lunch and see how it goes.” But he wasn’t doing the movie homework. No freaking way. “As for Rye, all he wants to do this weekend is hang with his boys, eat, and play poker. I know. He’s already sent me a list of things he wants to eat.”

No one appreciated food like Rye Crenshaw.

“You might be surprised by what Rye wants to do once he knows all the options. And if you feed him, of course.”

“I’ll kill you if you tell him.”

Rhett’s laugh was like a movie villain’s. “Then prepare yourself to be charged for first degree, since I have a witness right here.” He slung an arm around Dr. Evil herself.

Rhett was so going to tell their friends.

Chapter 14

Instead of playing poker at Rye’s bachelor party, what were they doing? Talking about Terrance’s upcoming dance class.

Clustered together in the large salon in The Grand’s penthouse, the guys were reclining on a massive sectional, beers in their hands. Rye had arrived with his friends from Dare River: Clayton Chandler, who helped manage his career, and John Parker McGuiness, who served as his lawyer and sometimes songwriter. The trio had known each other since college, and Terrance had met them through Rhett and Mac over a game of poker.

Rhett had sold him out to the guys without pity. Clayton laughed so hard, he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

“You’re dancing for a date?” he wheezed out. “I know Vixen is—was—hot, but seriously, T, have you gone plumb crazy?”

Their Southernisms never failed to amuse him. He knew the term was different than the plums that grew on trees, but Terrance had no idea how anyone had come up with such a phrase. Still, he wasn’t about to crack a smile anytime soon.

“I think it’s romantic,” John Parker said, the only one who wasn’t laughing uproariously.

“You would, preacher kid,” Clayton said.

“Now you all can see why I insisted Terrance turn the kitchens over to his sous chef for lunch so he could join us,” Mac said with a knowing glance at Rhett.

“Exactly! Rye is the perfect man to help you, T,” Rhett said, his lips twitching. “He’s made a fortune wiggling and shaking on the stage.”

“Good God, Rhett, you make me sound like a jellyfish. What you’re referring to are professional moves.” With that, he stood and rolled his hips from right to left with a wink.

This only brought on another wave of laughter.

“Rhett,” Terrance said, “I swear I might not murder you—who wants to rot in prison?—but I will slip a diuretic into one of your drinks at the hotel while you’re playing poker. You’ll have to leave the table and forfeit the game to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s just plain evil.”

Apparently he’d learned something other than dance moves from Dr. Evil.

Clayton lifted his glass. “I love it. Even Mac’s laughing, and it’s his hotel.”

Mac settled back against his Italian leather sofa. “When you do slip Rhett a mickey, I want you to let me know. We might have to close the men’s room for cleaning.”

“Now that’s just mean,” Rhett drawled.

Rye was being oddly quiet, stroking his chin and staring at Terrance in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

“What do your female fans love about you the most?” Rye asked. “Besides your ability to cook?”

“My wicked sense of humor,” he responded dryly.

“Try again. Your
body,
my friend. Don’t women ask to see your tattoos when they run into you in real life?”

He so didn’t like the way this was going.

“I’ll bet some of them have even gotten griffin tattoos just like yours, right?”

When Terrance got the tats in high school, he’d chosen the griffin—a mythical creature that was half eagle, half lion—for two reasons. The lion had kick-ass courage, and the eagle could soar. They represented his plan to fly out of his bad neighborhood and land in a better place.

“Yes, some have,” he said, “but it embarrasses the shit out of me.”