Too Darn Hot (4 page)

Isn’t like you.
She’d said the same thing last night after Lina’s outburst at Eric. What was there about that man that made Lina do what wasn’t like her? She slammed a drawer shut.

“If you’d just tried the duck, you’d be a believer. And the desserts. Jeepers!”

If there was one thing Lina always prided herself on, it was her impartiality in the reviewing process. She knew that the fact that she didn’t particularly want to face Eric again shouldn’t be the deciding factor in whether she gave his restaurant another chance to earn a review.

She fell backward onto her bed, her mind a jumble of burnt lamb chops and sizzling fruit and bouncing rolls and the cool sea air and wilted salad and those sexy crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

Joy appeared in the doorway. “So?” She parked herself on the bed next to Lina and crossed her arms imperiously.

“So I’ll give it one more chance,” she muttered.
What am I doing?

“Yes!” Joy shot her fist.

“A chance, Joy. That does not automatically mean a review.”

“You’ll review it,” she said confidently. “You’ve just got to hit the place on a normal night. You’ll see.”

One more chance, Lina told herself. Then she could say adiós to The Cookhouse and Mr. Married Kahlua Eyes with a clear conscience.

*

“This is nothing new for me—I’m used to dating older women.” Bob Flanagan reached up to smooth his neatly trimmed blond hair. “Girls my own age lack maturity. Once they find out my income, I begin to wonder if they’re more interested in me or in my money, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. You said that.”

Lina cursed herself anew for letting
Bon Vivant
’s executive food editor, Etsuko Flanagan, choose her dining companion: Etsuko’s nephew. At the time, Lina had had no problem with the decision. As ambivalent as she’d been about returning here and facing Eric, she couldn’t have cared less about who shared her table. Little had she known this self-important twit would view the excursion as a Date.

Bob leaned back and straightened his red paisley power tie. His smile was a bit lopsided and more than a bit suggestive. “In my experience, older women have very definite ideas about what they want—ideas that don’t include wheezing, potbellied, middle-aged guys with receding hairlines.” He chuckled and smoothed his flaxen tresses once more.

She drummed her fingernails on the white tablecloth and looked for the waitress. That made six times so far this insolent pup had used the term “older women.”

He gave her the once-over. “Nowadays, older women are so—”

God help him if he says...

“—well preserved.”

Lina briefly closed her eyes. It was going to be a long evening.

She and Bob had just been seated in the largest of The Cookhouse’s three dining rooms, a long, airy space called the “gallery.” This was the room one entered from the street, and at the moment all the tables were filled. Last week she and Joy had sat in the smaller “dining room.” The cozy “library” next door featured floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and only one large table, and was reserved for parties of six to eight. Utilizing all three rooms, The Cookhouse could accommodate close to forty patrons at a time on a Saturday night. Lina had chosen a late seating and made the reservation in Bob’s name.

“I still can’t believe I had to bring my own booze,” Bob grumbled, one manicured hand caressing the bottle of cabernet sauvignon he had brought—a vintage of dubious distinction. “I hope the waitress comes soon. This should be opened a half hour before it’s served, to let it breathe.” He scanned the paintings and bright decor, his handsome, tanned features twisted into a smug sneer. “Cute place, but if they can’t even manage to get a liquor license...”

She tried to summon patience. “The Cookhouse is less than a year old, Bob. It takes time to get a liquor license, and besides, many fine restaurants choose not to serve alcohol.”

His jaw dropped. “That’s crazy! You know what the markup is on booze? That’s what keeps a lot of places afloat. I know what I’m talking about. My law firm has a few restaurants as clients. If fact, we were discussing one of them, La Colombe, at the last partners’ meeting. You ever review La Colombe?”

How many times was this guy going to bring up the fact that he’d made partner at age twenty-seven? Of course, it didn’t hurt that his daddy was a founding partner.

“Yes, I reviewed it about six years ago.”

La Colombe was an elegant, well-known French eatery in Manhattan. As she recalled, its public relations man had tried to bribe her with free meals and several cases of expensive French wine. As always, she’d rebuffed the offer and evaluated the place on its merits. The irony was that La Colombe was an exquisite restaurant, more than deserving of a
Bon Vivant
review. She’d never gotten used to the fact that many restaurateurs offered bribes as a matter of course, on the assumption that all reviewers were on the take.

As always when she allowed this train of thought free rein, Mercy Litton’s jovial, leathery face filled her mind’s eye. At one time Lina had had only the greatest warmth and respect for her onetime mentor. Now she tried not to think of her at all.

“Six years ago, you say?” Bob rubbed his square jaw. “Let’s see...I was still an undergraduate six years ago. While you were already a grizzled veteran, holding the fate of every New York restaurant in the palm of your pretty little hand.”

Grizzled? Did he say
grizzled
?

He reached over and entwined his fingers with hers. She pulled her hand away and smoothed her red linen skirt. At that moment she heartily wished she could order a martini.

He leaned across the table and spoke sotto voce, his pale eyes glittering. “You know, Lina, there’s no need to play coy with me. Aunt Etsuko told me all about you.”

She frowned. What had Aunt Etsuko run on about now? “I’m afraid I have no idea what you—”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, his palms raised in mock surrender. “She never said a thing. I can play it that way.”

Lina had to restrain herself from lunging across the table and choking it out of him. “Enlighten me, Bob,” she snarled.

He leaned back again and played with his spoon. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, Lina. I’m with you. God knows, if I’d been tied down to the same person for—what did she say?—eleven years, I’d be jumping at every opportunity to get it on, too.”

The two couples at the next table looked at her.

She thought of her friend and colleague Etsuko Flanagan, she of the inscrutable countenance and the big, big, big mouth. She was going to kill her. Slowly.

She knew better than to try to explain that she’d never acted on her onetime urge to play the field. Bob had clearly made up his mind how this evening was going to end.

Her expression must have reflected her state of mind. He smiled indulgently and patted her arm. “All right, I get it. There’s a generational difference here.”

A generational difference? The little twerp was seven years younger than she! Lina was thankful there were no sharp knives on the table. Etsuko would have been out one insufferable nephew.

He leaned across the table again and purred, “You don’t want to be up front about it, fine. I guess I’ll have to get it the old-fashioned way, then. I’ll have to earn it.”

Before she could discharge the scathing setdown that sat poised on the tip of her tongue, ready to leap, he directed his arrogant gaze to a point behind her and said, “Here’s the chef. Don’t worry, Ms. Reviewer. Mum’s the word.” He winked.

The chef.

Bob’s words yanked her back to the here and now. Her breath caught. Sure enough, that one-of-a-kind voice floated to her over the chatter of the other diners. Eric greeted several people by name. Apparently The Cookhouse enjoyed a steady stream of regulars. That was a good sign. She sat a little straighter and pasted a polite smile on her face. She turned just as Eric began to approach her table.

His welcoming smile faltered for a split second when he recognized her, but he swiftly recovered. “Hello, Lina.”

Now that she’d actually set eyes on him, actually heard that deep, sensuous voice again, she realized how much she’d been thinking about him all week. A current seemed to flow between the two of them, like an unanswered challenge.

A faint scent clung to Eric, the oddly comforting aromas of cooking—an indescribable amalgam of herb and spice and oil, redolent of the kitchen and his craft. And somewhere under it all, she sensed the unmistakable essence of the man himself: primal...male...compelling.

She commenced introductions. “Eric, this is Bob Flanagan.”

The chef offered his hand. “Eric Reid. Welcome to The Cookhouse, Bob.”

Bob thrust the wine bottle into Eric’s hand. “Open this and let it rest undisturbed for thirty minutes.”

Eric smoothly accepted the bottle and glanced at the label. “No problem. I’ll unscrew the cap and let it gasp awhile.”

Lina buried her face in the menu, coughing delicately. She dared a glance at Bob over the top of it. He appeared to be in the eye-bulging, vein-throbbing, face-flushing stage of speechless indignation.

She wished the speechless part could last.

She smiled to herself. Eric had an imposing presence that the younger man could never hope to achieve, in or out of the courtroom. It was in the restaurateur’s carriage, in his voice, and yes, in the decade or so that he had on Bob. He’d earned those laugh lines and the sprinkling of gray hairs at his temple.

“Lina, I’m glad you decided to give us another chance,” Eric said. “Surprised but glad.”

While outwardly he was the essence of courteous charm, she detected more than a hint of derision in the cool glance that encompassed both her and Bob. He obviously thought this snotty, supercilious weasel was her date. As did the weasel himself.

She seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on here. And if that was the case, then why didn’t she know what was going on here? Why did she even care what Eric thought?

She offered the chef a cool smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Bob finally found his voice. “That bottle has a cork, dammit!”

Eric looked a little too pleased with himself. “Enjoy your meal.” Bottle in hand, he disappeared into the kitchen.

She sighed heavily and slapped the menu back down on the table.

“That’s French wine!” Bob sputtered. “`Chteau’ something or other. It has a cork!” He was positively vibrating.

A basket of fragrant rolls appeared on their table. Lina looked up and smiled at the blond youth. “Hi, Daniel.”

“I’m Adam.”

“Oh. Then you were the one washing dishes last week.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I’m Lina. Is Joe back?” Lina tore off a small piece of a whole-grain roll and buttered it.

“No way. Dad hired a new guy. And a new waitress, too.”

“Sounds like he’s had a busy week.” She tasted the bread. It was perfect—warm, savory, redolent of sourdough.

“Yeah, I guess. Had to get new vendors and repair some equipment. You know.”

Did she ever. “Things are pretty much back to normal then?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged and smiled shyly. “`Bye.” He moved on.

“I hope you roast this place, Lina!” Bob hissed in a stage whisper that had heads turning all around them. “I want you to put this joint out of business!” Veins protruded in his scarlet neck.

Lina put down her butter knife. She skewered her dining companion with The Look. “Bob, do you read my column?”

A telling pause, then, “Sure.” He gave a short little laugh. “My aunt’s the executive food editor of that rag. Of course I read your column.”

“What’s the last restaurant I `roasted’?”

“Uh...I don’t remember the name.” He ripped a roll in two and thickly buttered one half. A canny look came into his eyes. “But I do remember the place sucked—you gave it only one star.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “One star.”

He took a huge bite and paused in midchew. “Uh...one little fork or whatever it is you give them. You know.” When this was met with frigid silence, he said, “One and a half forks?”

“Bob, I don’t use stars, little forks, or any other qualifying symbols in my reviews.”

“Then how do you rate the place?”

“I don’t. I’m a reviewer, Bob, not a critic. There’s a difference. Restaurants should be described in detail, not rated on a scale of one to five.”

“Hey, you could try little chef’s hats or, lemme see, water glasses. How about salt shakers?”

Lina caught Betsy’s eye and waved the waitress over. The sooner they ate, the sooner she could lose Bob Flanagan, Esquire.

Chapter Four

Eric blinked. She was back again. The third Saturday night in a row.

He shook his head in amazement. With another boyfriend. No wonder he hadn’t been able to get anywhere with this woman. She had them lined up in the wings, waiting their turn.

From the entrance to the cozy dining room, he surreptitiously observed Lina as she chatted animatedly with Mr. Flavor of the Week, a pleasant-looking guy about her age but prematurely gray. She must have said something particularly witty, because the two of them abruptly cracked up. Lina clutched the fellow’s arm and turned an attractive shade of pink as she gave in to her merriment.

Eric scowled. So glad her ladyship was enjoying her visit. She was probably regaling her date with hilarious stories of her first ill-fated visit to The Cookhouse.

She looked good, though. Thank heaven for high hemlines. This week it was a wine-colored leather skirt and a stretchy gold halter top that exposed part of her back and all of her shoulders. All of her creamy, exceptionally well shaped shoulders. The kind of shoulders that begged to be tasted.

He wondered what little noises she’d make as he lightly nipped—

Just then she looked up and noticed him standing in the doorway, staring at her. A change came over her face, something suspiciously close to...nervousness? interest?...before she schooled her features.

Wishful thinking, he told himself.

He scowled. It wasn’t wishful thinking, it was lunacy. This was the woman who’d not only rubbed his nose in the debacle of two weeks earlier, in front of a roomful of people, but had then gone on to reject him in the coldest, snottiest way possible.