Too Darn Hot (7 page)

“Smells...like licorice.”

“That’s right. We’re going to use it in our
bouillabaisse de poulet.
”

“Sounds fancy,” Amy gushed.

“Chicken stew,” he translated, and almost laughed at the way the young woman’s face fell. “Ah, but this is no ordinary chicken stew. The fennel and Pernod will lend a bit of anisette flavor. And the Pernod, tomatoes, and saffron will color the stew a nice yellowish-orange.

“And for dessert—” with a sweep of his hand he indicated a dozen lemons on a cutting board “—lemon tart in sweet pastry.”

Eric tried not to look at Lina as she shifted a little on the tottering stool, causing wondrous things to happen under that pink polo shirt. A persistent memory assailed him...

...of high, firm breasts rising and falling against his chest...of two taut nipples burning him through flimsy gold fabric...of a soft, full mouth yielding to his relentless invasion....

“Eric?” Lina asked.

He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

She crossed her legs and bounced in place, trying to get comfortable.

Dear God.

...of an agile, slippery tongue dueling with his...of two flawlessly manicured hands reaching behind to grab his butt and pull him—

“Will we get to do everything tonight?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” His voice cracked.

She took a deep breath.
Don’t do that,
he wanted to yell. He edged closer to the butcher block in front of him, wishing he were wearing an apron.

“You know,” she said. “Will we get to participate in all the food preparation and cooking tonight?”

He rolled up the sleeves of his white chef’s shirt and tried to steer his mind back to fennel and leeks and chicken stew. “Yes. Absolutely.”

He glanced at the clock. Thirteen minutes down. Only two hours and forty-seven minutes to go.

*

He
had
made her peel potatoes. But it was worth it. Lina brought another spoonful of the rich, hot soup to her mouth.

All the participants were now perched on those rickety steel stools, enjoying the fruit of their labors. Daniel and Adam leaned against the big double sink, soup bowls in hand. Eric was on the other side of the work island, dishing out stew onto plates and sprinkling paprika around the edges before handing them to Amy, his self-designated assistant.

The pretty young woman had stuck to him like a barnacle the entire evening, and now stood at his side, serving the others. Lina’s eyes narrowed as she watched Amy toss back her long, blond hair and flash her dimples at the chef. Eric was chatting and joking with her, just eating up the adoration.

They ate their lemon tart piping hot—not the best way to appreciate it, but they didn’t have time to let it cool. The ever-obliging Amy served the slices Eric cut. By this time she was practically rubbing herself against him, giggling and cooing and sharing little private jokes.

And Eric! Looking so insufferably pleased with himself.

If only Lina hadn’t been so uncomfortably conscious of him during the whole evening. She despised the way her breath had caught when Eric placed his large, warm hands on hers to show her how to slice the leeks...and when his deft fingers had joined hers to press pastry into the tart pan....

Her heart had raced when she suddenly felt him at her back as she browned the chicken, his arms coming around her to shake the pan and adjust the flame. She’d resolutely stared down into the sizzling mass of chicken legs and tomatoes and onions and fennel...

...and absorbed his heat, and filled her lungs with the too fleeting scent of him.

He’d stood behind her too long—and stepped away too soon.

Lina looked back on the evening as a string of such disturbing little interactions. She felt like a coiled spring.

After polishing off her dessert, she excused herself to visit the ladies’ room at the far end of the deserted gallery. As she made her way back to the kitchen, she passed the open door of Eric’s tiny, Spartan office and was surprised to see him standing over his desk, stapling papers.

When she paused in the doorway, he said, “Amy wants an extra copy of the recipes for her mother.”

She quelled a blistering response.
That’s not all Amy wants.
“Can’t say I blame her. Everything we made was terrific. I learned a lot tonight.”

Those irrepressible crinkles fanned into the corners of his dark eyes. Lina’s fingertips itched to reach up and stroke them. She clasped her hands together.

“I’m glad.” He appeared in no hurry to get back to the kitchen—and the adoring Amy. He sat on the edge of the beat-up steel desk and picked up a smooth green stone, about the size of an egg, that he used as a paperweight. She had to drag her gaze away from his long, sensual fingers as they rhythmically rolled and stroked the stone. “Can I assume you’ve reassessed your initial opinion of The Cookhouse?”

She felt her face warm at the reminder of her outburst that first night. “You know I have. In fact, I’m returning Saturday. With my—with a friend of mine.”

“Another married pal?”

“This one happens to be female. I think Joy’s going to join us, too.”

He tossed the stone up and caught it a couple of times, then rolled it between his palms, as if manipulating the smooth, heavy object could somehow facilitate his thought processes. Replacing it on the pile of papers, he pushed off from the desk and came toward her. She sucked in her breath, acutely aware of the tingle that raced down from her scalp to curl her toes.

Eric didn’t touch her or kiss her or do any of the things she swore to herself she didn’t want him to do. He grabbed the doorframe and briefly leaned out into the gallery to ensure privacy. For the barest instant his large, hard body brushed hers, and the tingle rushed inward to the deepest, neediest parts of her. She swallowed hard and pressed back into the doorframe even as every instinct urged her to move forward, into his warmth.

He asked, “Do you like baseball?”

She knew she should lie. She didn’t. “Yes.”

“My produce guy gave me two tickets to the Yankees game Sunday night, to make up for his part in that fiasco a couple of weeks ago.” He wagged his eyebrows, a gesture that was all Eric. “Box seats. Could I interest you?”

Could he interest her? What she felt went way past interest.

“I...I can’t.”

He started to respond, and stopped. Something in his eyes told her her last opportunity had come and gone. After being struck down twice, he wasn’t going to ask her out again.

A kind of panic set in. She blurted, “I’m busy Sunday, but...maybe some other time.”

What was she doing?

After a moment he murmured, “Fair enough,” and leaned closer. If she let him kiss her, not only would she say yes to the Yankees game, she’d probably jump him right there in his office. Deciding to git while the gittin’ was good, she spun on her heel and hustled back to the safety of the kitchen.

Chapter Six

“Give it up, Etsuko. I’m not selling you my car.” Lina eased into traffic on Queens Boulevard.

Etsuko Flanagan,
Bon Vivant
’s executive food editor, had met Lina and Joy at their Forest Hills apartment, and now the three of them were headed out to Rocky Bay and The Cookhouse in Lina’s mint 1966 candy-apple red Mustang with a black vinyl roof. It was eight P.M. and not yet fully dark on this, one of the longest days of the year.

The middle-aged Japanese woman snorted at Lina’s mulishness. “I’ll up it a grand, but that’s my final offer. Mind if I smoke?” She’d already slipped a pack of Virginia Slims and a gold lighter out of her sleek designer handbag.

Lina said, “Put those coffin nails back, Etsuko. As I’ve already explained, this vehicle’s a virgin—it’s never been sullied by smoke, since the day my uncle Andy drove it out of the lot over forty years ago.”

“Virginity’s overrated,” Etsuko grumbled, but she stuffed the butts back in her bag. “Twelve hundred more, and that’s final.”

Joy spoke up from the backseat. “Is she always this irascible, Lina?”

“Only when she’s awake.”

“Only when I’m hungry,” Etsuko griped. “So. This Chuck Wagon place is a happening thing?”

“Cookhouse,” Lina corrected. “And yes, it’s a happening thing.”

Joy concurred that the eatery was well worth reviewing.

“Good. We’ll put it in the October issue. Along with that Italian place in the Village...?”

“Marcello’s,” Lina supplied.

“Right. And what about Honeysuckle? Those three’d make a nice mix.”

“I told you, Honeysuckle’s a lost cause. Too much tofu and not enough taste.”

“Hey, don’t knock tofu,” Etsuko said in a rare display of Japanese pride.

“I’ve got a cute little Greek place in mind. Brooklyn. Practically under the bridge. Trust me.”

“Don’t I always?” Etsuko opened her purse. “Can I smoke?”

Lina was merging with traffic on the parkway. “Yes, you can smoke, Etsuko, and no, you may not.” She reached over and snapped her friend’s purse shut.

Joy said, “The Cookhouse is a striking place, Etsuko. Visually, I mean. It’s not just the art on the walls. It’s in all the little details. Like the funky salt and pepper shakers. The chef’s late wife collected them wherever she went.”

Lina asked, “Is she responsible for the art, too?”

“Well, yeah, she and Eric developed the whole idea of the place together, but she never got to see it—she died a few months before The Cookhouse opened.”

“Crappy luck,” Etsuko said.

Lina found herself asking, “How did she die?”

“It was really tragic. Ruth interrupted a robbery in a convenience store. From what I understand, she went in for a carton of milk and a loaf of bread. The creep who was holding the place up panicked and shot her. They never caught him.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” Lina said. “He must’ve been devastated. And the boys...” How much strength it must have taken for Eric to pick up the pieces of his life and pursue the dream he and his late wife had started.

“The scuttlebutt is...” Joy leaned forward and grabbed the back of Lina’s seat. “Not long before she died, Eric caught Ruth in bed with an old boyfriend.”

Lina gasped. “She was unfaithful? To Eric? What would make a woman cheat on a man like that?”

Her passengers looked at each other.

“I mean...” she stammered. “Not that I would...not that I care...”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Etsuko cackled, obviously enjoying her friend’s embarrassment.

Joy slapped Lina’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you had a thing for Eric.”

“See, this surprises me,” Etsuko said. “I thought roommates had regular girl-talk sessions for that sort of thing. You know—sitting around in your jammies, painting each other’s toenails and talking about boys?”

Joy said, “She never even asked me about him.”

“Hell no, I didn’t ask you about him,” Lina fumed. “I didn’t want it to end up on the six-o’clock news.”

“Oh! That’s not fair.”

“Is, too. A busybody like you? I’d have never heard the end of it if I’d said word one about Eric, and you know it.”

Etsuko sobered. “Listen, Lina, I know I don’t have to remind you to keep your hands off the hot chef. When it comes to the owner of a restaurant you’re evaluating, even the merest hint of involvement could blow up in your face.”

As it had for Mercy Litton. Not that Mercy ever dated a restaurateur, as far as Lina knew. But bribe taking was even worse. And both were violations of the same basic canon, after all: impartiality.

Keeping a professional distance had never been a problem for Lina before she met Chef Reid.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly. “You’re right, Etsuko. You don’t have to remind me.”

Joy asked, “Is he interested in you?”

“Joy...”

“Did he ask you out?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Jeepers!” Joy sat back. “What a shame. The first guy to spin your wheels in two years, and it’s ‘look, don’t touch.’”

Etsuko drawled, “Can’t wait to meet this guy. According to Bob, he’s a—now, how did he put it?—an insolent boor.”

Lina jerked toward Etsuko, nearly careening into the next lane of traffic. “Talk about a busybody. What possessed you to fill your nephew’s head with all that crap about how horny I am?”

Etsuko grinned like a Cheshire cat. “My nephew? I prefer to think of Bob Flanagan as my sister-in-law’s evil spawn. Was it really awful?” She cackled again, with malicious glee.

“I’ll get you for that one, Etsuko.”

“Ooh...I’m shaking.” She opened her purse. “Mind if I smoke?”

*

Lina couldn’t remember when she’d been more uptight.

Eric was politely attentive to the three of them during their brief interactions that evening, while it was all Lina could do to maintain her composure. She felt like a twelve-year-old with her first crush, not a comfortable feeling for someone accustomed to calling the shots in most every situation she found herself in.

Her dining companions didn’t help her jangled nerves. Joy and Etsuko hung on every word that passed between Lina and Eric, like mastiffs leaping at meat scraps, storing up juicy tidbits for the long ride home.

Eric stopped by the table one last time while they were finishing dessert. “How do you like the bourbon pecan tart, Lina?”

She groaned rapturously, scraping the last flecks off her plate. “I have never tasted anything like this. You’re a master with desserts, Eric, but this one is not to be believed.” She licked her fork clean.

Etsuko’s tone was arid. “I think she likes it.”

Lina felt his warm hand on her back, just for an instant, just long enough to make her nerves run a relay race. “We aim to please,” he said, and headed for the next table.

As they left The Cookhouse, Lina turned back from the door and caught Eric’s eye across the gallery. He held her gaze for one long, sizzling heartbeat, before disappearing through the door to the kitchen.

*

Lina awoke at three A.M., breathless and disoriented. She’d had an erotic dream, fading fast, in which Chef Reid devised imaginative uses for his sinfully luscious bourbon pecan tart.

Perhaps it was just as well she couldn’t recall the details.