Fearless Love (11 page)

“Right.” Clemencia narrowed her eyes. “I guess we’ll see about that at the Wine and Food Festival.”

His smile dimmed slightly. He’d managed not to think about the contest for the past few days. Now it looked like that had been a mistake. “Don’t tell me they roped you into that too?”

Her smile had turned slightly feral. “Me and Lee Contreras from Brenner’s and Tolly Berenger from the Silver Spur. I guess they asked Allie Maldonado from Sweet Thing, but she said she didn’t want to cook dinner for a contest. Besides she’s still a newlywed. She doesn’t feel like spending her nights coming up with new recipes.”

MG looked at him curiously. “What’s this about a contest? With cooking?”

Joe sighed. “Yeah, it’s a cooking contest. For the Wine and Food Festival. Two hours for us to cook a dinner on site and serve it to a bunch of judges. Then we get judged on each course. Plus I guess there’s an overall prize too.”

Clemencia rubbed her hands together. “And may the best stove jockey win.”

Joe shook his head as Clem’s words finally registered. “Tolly Berenger isn’t a chef. I doubt he’s ever been in a kitchen in his life except to chew out his staff. He’s a restaurant owner, not a cook. How’s he going to represent the Silver Spur?”

Clemencia shrugged. “From what I hear, he’s looking for somebody to take over his kitchen. He just fired the guy he had doing steaks. Right now he’s got some short order cook filling in, but he’s trying to find somebody who can do something besides burgers and fries.”

MG gave him a tentative smile. “This sounds like great publicity for the restaurant.”

“Assuming we win,” Joe growled. He was beginning to lose that warm glow he’d felt in his chest ever since he’d seen MG standing in her doorway.
Damn contest.

“Doubts so soon?” Clemencia’s eyes sparkled. He half expected her to start rubbing her hands in glee. “Well, you should have doubts, buddy. I plan on sweeping the whole thing.”

The corners of his mouth edged up. He could never stay mad at Clemencia, no matter how hard he tried. “Okay, Ms. Rodriguez, go for it. I’ll be snapping at your heels all the way.”

Clemencia glanced back between him and MG again. “So you want dinner or what?”

“Yeah, we want dinner.” He shrugged. “What’s good?”

Clemencia narrowed her eyes, but Joe gave her a guileless smile. “Besides everything, that is. Maybe I should have said, what’s best?”

“Yeah, that’s definitely what you should have said. I’ve got some spinach enchiladas that will knock your socks off.” She ticked off on her fingers. “
Queso Fresco
from a new place in San Antonio and fresh spinach from Les Corrigan’s farm. And some chilies from a supplier I’m not sharing.” She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

Joe raised his hands, palms out. “Sounds great, darlin’.” He turned toward MG. “Okay by you?”

She nodded. “Sure. Sounds great to me too.”

He put his hand on her elbow, steering her gently to a table at the side as Clemencia headed back for her kitchen. “Don’t worry. She does fantastic stuff. It’s not what we do at the Rose, but it’s still fantastic.”

“I’m not worried. I love enchiladas.”

“Believe me, you haven’t had any enchiladas until you’ve had Clem’s.” He pulled back a chair for her, then dropped into a seat on the other side of the table.

MG glanced around the room again, then stopped, staring. “Good grief,” she blurted. “That’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Joe glanced in the direction where she’d been staring, then grinned again. “That’s Deirdre Brandenburg. I mean, Deirdre Ames. Sorry. She and Tom got married a few weeks ago, and I haven’t gotten used to the change yet. That’s Tom behind the bar. He owns the place.”

MG peered around the people standing between them and the bar. “So you know all these people? Do they come to the Rose?”

He shook his head. “I come here usually. It’s a good place to kick back after work—they’re open late.”

As if she knew her bar was the subject of conversation, the world’s most glamorous bar maid appeared at their table. “Hey, Joe.” Deidre Ames broke into a grin. “Good to see you. You here for dinner tonight?” She smiled at the two of them, running her fingers through her short black hair. Today she was more Audrey Hepburn than Elizabeth Taylor.

“Hey, Deirdre.” He nodded toward the rapidly filling bar area. “Good crowd for a Sunday.”

“Yeah. Having music on Sundays was a great idea, although it sort of cuts down on our time off.” She shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than not having enough people.”

“It is.” He turned toward MG. “MG Carmody, Deirdre Ames.”

Deirdre gave MG the kind of smile that probably caused heart palpitations in most of the men in the room. “Glad to meet you, MG. Any relation to Nedda Carmody?”

MG smiled back. Her smile probably wouldn’t cause heart palpitations in the male population, but it did some interesting things to Joe’s lower body. MG Carmody had one great smile.

“She’s my great aunt, although we always called her Aunt Nedda instead. She’s not too happy about the
great
part.”

Deirdre nodded. “Sounds like Nedda. Are you visiting her?”

MG shook her head. “I’m living on my grandpa’s farm outside town. Although I guess it’s actually my farm now since he left it to me.” Her expression turned slightly somber.

“Oh.” Deirdre’s smile dimmed a little in sympathy. “I’m sorry. How long have you been here?”

“A few months. I was taking care of Grandpa before he died.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you. Can I get y’all something from the bar?” Deirdre straightened, bringing her tray to her hip.

“Dos Equis for me. What about you?” Joe dipped his head in MG’s direction.

“Lone Star’s fine.”

“Coming right up.” Deirdre threaded her way back through the tables toward the bar again.

Leaving him to carry on a conversation with MG. There was a moment of silence while he did a quick inventory of possible topics, but she beat him to the punch. “So what’s with you and Clemencia?”

Joe stared at her for a stunned moment. Was it even remotely possible she was jealous of Clem? And him? The thought was oddly appealing. He gave her his best reassuring smile. “You do get to the point, don’t you, darlin’?” He glanced back toward the kitchen. “Clem and I worked together in the same hotel in New Orleans. I was a sous chef and she was doing pretty much what you’re doing now, learning the business from the ground up.”

“And you just both ended up here at the same time?”

He shrugged. “More or less. We both left New Orleans at the same time. She was homesick. I was New Orleans sick.”

MG narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

He gave her the easy grin that normally signaled bullshit. “Ah, darlin’, chefs are all crazy. It’s part of the business. Sometimes the craziness takes over, though. When that happens you’re likely to either burn out or burn up. I just got out of the way.” Which was a blatant attempt to deflect the conversation. He wasn’t about to get into all the sordid details of his crash at this point. In fact, he might not go into them for a long while. Not until he was sure she wouldn’t run as hard as she could in the other direction when he did.

MG looked like she was readying a new round of questions, but fortunately for him, Deirdre returned just then with the beers, followed immediately by Clem with the enchiladas. And then they did nothing but eat and enjoy for a half hour or so.

He had to admit it—Clem was good. In fact, Clem was really good. He tasted cheese and chicken stock in her sauce with a hint of garlic and an herb he was still trying to identify, maybe
epazote
. The spinach was bright green and mild, blending with the
queso fresco
into something mineral, herbal and creamy all at the same time. Even the rice on the side was superlative, each grain separate, bathed in a faint hint of tomato and cumin. He warmed himself in the glow of first-rate food in his stomach.

“Wow,” MG muttered after a few bites.

Joe gave her an approving grin. “Clemencia’s the real deal. Hell, I’m more worried about her in that cooking competition than I am about Lee Contreras. He does what I do and I do it better. But if Clem uncorks something, the judges might just decide down home beats uptown.”

“Are you really worried about this contest?” She sliced through her remaining enchilada, then divided it into smaller bits to make it last.

He shrugged. “I need to work on it. Fairley’s supposed to be coming up with some suggestions for the menu. And I’ve got a few of my own. Then we have to test it. It’s going to take a while.”

The door to the beer garden swung open, sending a blast of roots rock across the room. He watched her gaze longingly in the general direction of the band.

Interesting.
He hadn’t really thought about her interests outside chickens and the kitchen at the Rose. “You like music?”

She nodded. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“You want to go outside and dance?”

“Love to,” she said a little too quickly, then looked slightly embarrassed. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to rush you or anything. It’s nice in here too.”

“You’re not rushing me. And believe me, it’s nicer outside.” Around this time of night, the air conditioning in the Faro was more a promise than a reality. He laid a few bills on top of the check Deirdre had discreetly dropped on the table, then put his hand on MG’s back to guide her outside.

The beer garden was packed with people. A choked space in the center was full of couples trying to dance without caroming off of each other like pool balls. The band was small but very, very loud, which, considering the din of the crowd, was probably a good thing
.

“I’d ask you to dance,” Joe yelled, “but I don’t think we’d be able to fight our way out there right now.”

MG nodded, but he had a feeling she didn’t really hear him. She was staring at the bandstand with something like longing. For a moment, he wondered if she knew somebody in the band, and his chest clenched at the thought. Then she turned toward him, smiling. “That’s okay,” she yelled, “we can grab the next one.”

He put his arm around her waist, telling himself he was protecting her from the crowd.
And who protects her from you?
Nobody, of course.

They shuffled to the side of the garden, Joe keeping her close as he shouldered bodies out of their way. “Here.” He gestured toward a couple of empty spots on a bench at an otherwise occupied picnic table, then pulled her down beside him.

MG leaned close. “Is it always this crowded?”

He nodded. “Pretty much whenever they have a band. They’ve got a good reputation in the area. Plus they’re set up for crowds.” He nodded toward the bar at the end of the garden where a bartender was handing out longnecks to a couple of waitresses.

“Who’s that?” MG’s voice sounded in his ear.

He looked where she was pointing. The man at the other side of the garden was the size of a foothill—massive shoulders, arms like hams, hands like ping-pong paddles. His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. He wore a drooping moustache and a sleepy expression that probably didn’t fool anybody who wasn’t already blind drunk.

“That’s Chico Burnside,” he explained. “He’s the bouncer.”

MG gave him a doubtful look. “He’s huge.”

“Goes with the job.” Joe shrugged. “He’s a decent guy. I wouldn’t call him nice, but he’s not a bully. He does what he needs to do.”

Chico glanced in their direction. For a moment, his eyes seemed to narrow as he looked at MG. Then he glanced away.

The band began to play something he only vaguely recognized, but at least it was a slow one. “Want to dance?”

“Sure.” She stood beside him, then seemed to slide into his arms.

It took him a moment to identify the song, but when he did he felt a quick tightening in his gut. “Help Me Make It Through the Night”
. Terrific.
One of the songs he’d played over and over during his recovery days. Now associated forever more with those raggedy months when he was putting himself back together again.

Except he’d never really listened to the lyrics before, just the idea.
Help me, somebody, help me through this long night.
But now that he took the time to hear it, the words were, well, hot.

MG moved in his arms slightly. He felt the warmth of her skin against his palms, the slight scent of rosemary in her hair. He had a sudden impulse to pull her tight against him, but he held her lightly still.
Gently, gently.

“Yesterday is dead and gone.” The lyrics floated around them. He moved closer almost without thinking about it, his hand sliding across the small of her back. The music swelled again.

He leaned closer, then paused. MG was singing.

Softly, very softly, her voice barely above a whisper, low and sweet, almost like a radio playing a long way away. She looked up at him and stopped, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For singing. I didn’t mean to. I just…I do it without thinking sometimes.”

He gave her a cautious smile. “Don’t be sorry. I liked it. You sing nice.”