A Cookbook Conspiracy (6 page)

Peter apparently remembered, too, and glowered. “You should’ve let me kill him, Brooks.”

“I know. Silly of me.”

“And now you’ve gone and found yourself another Brit. Just to make me jealous, no
doubt.” He tsked, then winked to make sure Derek understood it was all in fun. “Where
do you hail from, mate?”

I smiled. Just as Kevin had done a few minutes ago, Peter was playing the British
guessing game. His approach was more direct, though.

“A bit northwest of London,” Derek said cryptically. “And you?”

“Gipping-on-Plym, one of the tiniest villages in Devon.” Peter’s expression softened.
“Smaller than your elbow but pretty as a picture. Forty miles northwest of Exeter,
if you know the area.
Middle of nowhere, but we boast a film festival, a rather interesting church museum,
and a champion tar barrel racing team.”

“Both Kevin and Baxter grew up there, too,” I explained to Derek.

“And all three of you became chefs?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “Odd, isn’t it? But Kevin and I were always talking about food
and cooking, so we finally decided to give it a go. Baxter just…well, he’s not exactly
known for his original ideas.”

“You must have been good chums,” Derek remarked, ignoring the note of bitterness in
Peter’s voice.

His eyes clouded reflectively. “At one time we were.”

Just then, I noticed yet another chef, a gorgeous blond woman whose chef jacket was
still pristine white, greeting acquaintances at a nearby table. “Peter, who is that?”

Peter whipped around. “Ah. That’s Colette. Didn’t you meet her in Paris?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember her.”

“She’s married to Raoul. He’s here, too.”

“Ah, Raoul.” I definitely remembered Raoul. At the time, I thought Raoul Luna was
one of the most stunning men I’d ever seen. Picture a cross between Jimmy Smits and
Antonio Banderas, with Paul Newman’s blue eyes. Tall, dark, and dreamy. Or as the
French would say,
Tout simplement magnifique
. (That was years before I met Derek, of course, who is far and away the most handsome—and
dangerous—man in the world.)

“Lucky Colette,” I said, still watching her. She was glancing around the room now
as though she wasn’t sure what to do next. She reached for the necklace she wore around
her neck and twiddled with whatever stone was hanging on it for a minute. Not seeing
anyone else to talk to, she turned and walked back to the kitchen.

“I suppose,” Peter said. “They own their own restaurant in
Florida and have a couple of kids.” With a hint of disdain he added, “Raoul is Colette’s
pastry chef.”

“Nothing wrong with pastry,” I mused, envisioning Raoul doing…something…with a bowl
of whipped cream frosting. I quickly shook away the image.

“No,” Peter said, “but there’s something wrong when a chef with his talent gives it
all up to play with sugar and dough. Raoul was a true master chef, while Colette barely
graduated.” He wiggled his eyebrows and added, “I’m guessing she made him an offer
he couldn’t refuse.”

“Maybe,” I said. Peter clearly considered Raoul’s current position as pastry chef
a subservient one, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Desserts were a vital
part of a restaurant’s menu. To me, at least.

“I’m afraid I must return to the kitchen before Baxter beats me with an egg whisk.”
Peter gave a quick nod to Derek. “But we’ll visit later.”

“Sounds good.”

He gave me a resounding kiss on the lips, then moved on to greet friends at another
table. I was about to slide back into the booth when I heard a high-pitched “Yoo-hooo!”

I turned in time to see Montgomery Larue dashing toward me. Another chef I’d met in
Paris. This place was crawling with them.

“My sweet petunia blossom!” he cried, then wrapped his big arms around me and lifted
me off the floor in a powerful hug. When he put me down, I was weaving a little. The
man had strong arms.

“It’s been forever,” he said. “And don’t you look fabulous!”

“Thanks, Monty,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

It was true. Monty had been one of Savannah’s dearest friends from the first day they
met at Le Cordon Bleu, and he still visited her at least once a year. Monty had been
born and raised in the wilds of Louisiana and couldn’t escape from there fast enough.
As he had once explained in that sweet-as-syrup Southern accent of
his, “Honey, a large gay man with a penchant for drama and a taste for haute cuisine
will not survive for long in the bayou.”

Monty had relocated to Boston and owned two popular restaurants there. I introduced
him to Derek and they shook hands firmly. Then Monty patted his chest to get his heart
pumping again. “Dear lord, girl, it’s a good thing I didn’t see him first.”

Derek looked mildly alarmed and I giggled. Montgomery always could bring out the giggles
in me.

“Now, I would love to stay and chitter-chat with y’all.” He glanced warily over his
shoulder. “But I’ve gotta run before Cromwell comes after me with a switch.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I asked.

“You have no idea,” he said darkly, as he wiped his slightly damp forehead with a
handkerchief. “I’m telling you, he is on a reign of terror.” He turned and stuck out
his tongue in the general direction of the kitchen.

“I’ll protect you,” I said in a teasing tone.

“Sweet girl,” he said, and shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket. “We’ll catch
up later, won’t we?”

“I can’t wait.”

He blew me a kiss, then walked off rapidly toward the kitchen.

I slid back into the booth, almost exhausted by the exchange. “That was Montgomery.
He’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” Derek said, and took my hand. “But, darling, you must’ve left out a few key
bits of history when you recounted your summer in Paris.”

“Oh, you mean about Peter?” Apparently, Montgomery hadn’t been wonderful enough to
distract Derek from my tête-à-tête with Peter a moment ago.

“Yes. Peter.”

I bit my lip and stared at the ceiling. “Did I leave something out?”

“I believe so.” He squeezed my hand. “You can fill me in on the rest of the sordid
details over dinner.”

Our waiter arrived and both of us chose Savannah’s prix fixe selections. Five courses,
each with wine pairings. I was tingling with excitement. I did love a good wine pairing.

While I dined on a salad of lightly grilled asparagus with lemon pistachio
gremolata
and fresh goat cheese (paired with a crisp Central Coast Viognier), Derek savored
his Bengali potato croquettes with coconut, chiles, and cilantro served with some
sort of spicy dipping sauce and mint chutney. They were accompanied by a manly Spanish
Rioja that managed to perfectly complement the multitude of strong flavors on the
plate.

As we dined, I told Derek the whole silly story of my Paris adventure. He’d already
heard about Baxter trying to invade my sleeping bag, so I continued from there. At
first, Savannah had blamed me for luring Baxter to my bed. I was appalled! We had
a big fight and I was so mad at her and her beastly boyfriend that I almost left Paris.

Derek and I were interrupted by the waiter, who brought us tender cannellini beans
in a mild tomato stew, served with orecchiette pasta, sautéed spinach, and garlic.

My main course was wild mushroom raviolis in an amazing green garlic butter sauce
and dusted with
Grana Padano
. Our thoughtful waiter, whom I had begun to refer to as the Enabler, brought me an
extra serving of the aged cheese and explained that it was less salty and more delicate
than Parmigiano-Reggiano. Good to know when one was bulking up on cheese, right?

My new best friend, the Enabler, also snuck me a second glass of the Russian River
Valley Pinot Noir that had been paired with the ravioli. A good thing, because besides
its well-known medicinal qualities, the wine helped soak up all that extra cheese.

In between bites, I related how Kevin and Peter had convinced me to stay in Paris.
Baxter had made himself scarce, so I finally agreed. Peter and Kevin took me under
their wing and gave me their own private chefs’ tour. It was a whirlwind of tastes
and sensations and flavors. When we weren’t dining in some hole-in-the-wall bistro
in the Marais or stopping to try the French version of a hot dog and French fries
at an outdoor counter in the Latin Quarter, we would eat at home with one of the fledgling
chefs whipping up their latest creation. They were my new best friends forever.

By the end of that first week, Savannah had come out of her snit and admitted that
her now ex-boyfriend was a loathsome bloodsucker. The four of us celebrated her return
to sanity by hopping a train to the Champagne region for a weekend of overindulgent
fun. I was in heaven. While playing tourist, staring up at the dazzling Chagall windows
in the cathedral in Reims, I fell a little bit in love with Peter.

After watching me moon over Peter all weekend, Kevin was sweet enough to pull me aside
and quietly inform me that she and Peter were a couple. They’d been so discreet that
I hadn’t even realized it! Of course, I’d been too self-involved in my own problems
to notice. Kevin was so kind to me despite my lame attempt to steal her boyfriend.
Honestly, I was so utterly dim-witted; it still made me cringe to think of it.

After relishing my last bite of buttery ravioli, I shook my head. “The consensus after
that was that the Wainwright women weren’t exactly reliable when it came to picking
appropriate men.”

“But then you met me,” Derek said easily.

“And you accused me of murder.”

He smiled wolfishly. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”

“Oh, definitely,” I said, laughing.

For dessert, Derek and I had both chosen the
bignolès
, an Italian version of the French profiterole, those small round pastry puffs that
were deep fried and usually stuffed with ice cream and dipped in chocolate sauce.
But Savannah had filled her
bignolès
with an ultra-fluffy custard, then drizzled them liberally with warm, salted caramel
sauce.

I almost passed out. “Oh, my God. I love my sister.” Maybe it was the caramel sauce
talking, but damn, this stuff was orgasmic. I wondered if it would be too tacky to
lick the bowl.

It was after eleven o’clock when the kitchen finally stopped production. Baxter and
Savannah came out to take their bows to our enthusiastic applause.

“Isn’t she marvelous?” Baxter gushed. He grabbed Savannah’s hand and thrust it into
the air as though they were two politicians onstage. I saw Savannah’s eyes widen as
he pulled her arm up higher than she could comfortably reach.

The six other chefs stood behind the two of them and all of them applauded politely.
Since several of them had complained to me earlier about Baxter, I knew their approval
was forced.

Baxter introduced them all with a brief but animated explanation of their cuisine
styles and which night of the week they would be cooking. There were Peter and Kevin,
of course, and Raoul (looking as dashing as I remembered), Colette, Margot, and Montgomery.

Margot maneuvered her way past the cluster of chefs and slipped her arm through Baxter’s,
and I suddenly remembered my first impression of her in Paris. We’d all gone to a
party and she was there. You couldn’t miss her. She was tall, thin, redheaded and
wild. She wore a bright pink minidress, with boots that stretched halfway up her thighs.
She had seemed fun and snarky at first, but as I got to know her, I found her to be
calculating and manipulative. I noticed she would look around the room and find the
person or group who could do her the most good, then migrate over to them. She always
said the most clever things, but they didn’t seem natural. It was as though she’d
been practicing her lines for days in anticipation of the moment.

Baxter didn’t seem to mind her attentions and pulled her closer. Were they involved
with each other? I couldn’t help but speculate.

“I’d advise you all to make reservations every single night for the next two weeks,”
Baxter said jovially. “You won’t want to miss any of these stellar evenings.”

I wondered how Derek would feel if I made those reservations.

“Tonight I expect you’ve all become vegetarian,” Baxter continued. “I know I have,
thanks to Savannah. She is a gift from the gods.”

There was more applause, even though he sounded completely phony to me. Because of
it, I clapped louder than anyone. I was proud of Savannah and I couldn’t have cared
less what Baxter thought of her cooking.

“Thank you all so much,” Savannah said, rubbing her shoulder. It was probably sore
from Baxter’s yanking her arm up, but she looked happy anyway. Exhausted but happy.
The bright red beret she always wore when cooking was perched jauntily on her bald
head and her white jacket was pristine. I had a feeling she might have slipped on
a clean one before entering the dining room to take her bows.

Savannah turned to Baxter. “And thank you for this lovely opportunity, Baxter. It
was great to be back in the kitchen with you.”

He winked at the crowd. “I can think of another room I’d rather be in with you.”

Ugh, what a toad. Savannah was a professional chef and Baxter was a chauvinist jackass.
But the crowd laughed and hooted nevertheless. Meanwhile, Baxter was still as big
a jerk as he’d been in Paris. Still keeping it classy.
Not
.

Savannah held up her hand to silence the crowd. “I’d like to take a moment to present
Baxter with a little something as a way of saying thank you.”

“Something for me?” he said, his smirk turning lascivious. “Listen, sweetheart, if
you really want to thank me…”

Savannah smacked his arm lightly, then signaled me to bring her the package.

As I grabbed the gift and slid from the booth, I thought of the hours I’d spent on
the book box, creating a tasteful outer design with a spare line of gold tooling and
raised bands on the spine to resemble the book within. I mourned the care I took to
fashion the plush inner cushion that fit the restored cookbook like a soft glove.
I’d used the endpapers Derek brought back from Brussels to line the box’s interior,
and the swirls of dark red and gold gave it a luxurious, masculine feel along with
the slightest touch of whimsy I thought Obedience would enjoy.