Hot Under Pressure (2 page)

On his way back to the stove, he snatched the tarragon from the prep table. Adding it to the sauce, Beck tasted and corrected for flavor, thinning with the salty fish broth as he went, until he had a delicate, savory sauce, rich with fatty egg yolks and redolent of summery tarragon.

It was still missing something, though—and with the brine at the top of his brain, Beck got a flash of inspiration. Darting to the walk-in cooler, he searched the shelves for the bottle he was sure he’d seen earlier.

Ah ha! There it was, the green glass beaded with condensation. Beck grabbed it and hustled back to the stove where he popped the cork with a satisfying, festive burst of bubbles.

Champagne would add a light tang to the sauce, especially if he tamed the yeasty, acidic flavors by quickly reducing it to a thin syrup. Pouring a small amount of the sparkling wine into another saucepan, he cranked the dial and let it foam up and then back down again before stirring it into his sauce.

Another taste … Beck grabbed a clean spoon and dipped, then had to remind himself not to double dip.

Damn, that was tasty. Clean and bright, but with a creamy fattiness that would contrast beautifully with the simple crab.

Then it was quick, back to the blast chiller to rescue his pickles, which he drained on paper towels before portioning them out between three appetizer plates, carefully cross-hatching the cold, crispy cucumbers into squares dotted with the dusky purple-pink of the shallots, which hadn’t spent enough time in the hot brine to lose their color, just the right amount of time to soak up enough sweet-sour flavor to offset their sharp, oniony tang.

He hoped.

Each plate got a mound of snowy white crab meat on top of the pickled cucumber and shallots, and Beck flicked his eyes up to check the wall clock.

Thirty seconds left. He became aware of the chef contestants who’d already had their turn cooking standing on the kitchen sidelines, chanting along with the dwindling numbers on the timer, counting down the seconds in a frenzy of encouragement.

Adrenaline pumped into Beck’s blood, and he felt the same odd reaction he always got. His heart slowed, every beat like the tick of the second hand in his ear. The hot air of the kitchen felt cool against his temples as the sweat there cooled.

When he lifted careful spoonfuls of his champagne sauce and swirled it into artful semi-circles around the edges of his plates, his hand was rock steady.

“Five … four … three … two … one!”

Beck dusted the chopped tarragon from his fingertips onto the last of the judges’ plates just as Eva Jansen said, in her official announcer voice, “Time! Step away from your plates.”

The physical act of backing up a pace seemed to cut the cord that had bound him to his work, and Beck felt the rest of the world come back online, background noise and awareness of the other two chefs who’d finished their teams’ dishes flooding his head in a rush.

Skye Gladwell was right next to him, her heady, earthy scent of nutmeg and cream hitting him like an open-handed slap to the face. Beck had to close his eyes for a long moment to thank his combat training for giving him single-minded focus and drive.

Because this particular challenge was perfectly calibrated to tap into Beck’s primal fight-or-fuck instincts.

Skye? He’d had ten years to get over her, but apparently that wasn’t long enough to blunt the edges of his desire.

He didn’t love her anymore, obviously, but damned if he didn’t still want her as badly as he had at the age of twenty. It had been a surprise to him in Chicago, that unexpected surge of physical need, but he was over the shock of it now, and working to kill the desire as dead as his softer feelings.

Until he managed it, though, he had to acknowledge he was pretty messed up in the head when it came to Skye Gladwell.

The third contestant in this final challenge, however … Beck’s feelings on that guy were a whole lot less complicated.

On Beck’s left stood Ryan Larousse, the cocky, smarmy head of the Midwest team. They’d already gotten into it once or twice during the competition, to the point where Beck had humiliatingly and completely lost his cool and actually knocked the skinny little weasel on his ass.

Drawing serene blankness around himself was like strapping on body armor, and it helped as Beck worked to slow his breathing and return his heart rate to normal. Eyes straight ahead, waiting for the judges to come over and pronounce a winner.

Feel nothing. Feelings are for people who have the luxury of acting on them. You do your best and accept the rest.

It was a decent mantra, as far as survival went, but Beck couldn’t help but feel a mirroring tingle of the excitement in Skye’s eyes as she shot him a sideways look.

“This is amazing. I can’t believe we’re both here,” she breathed, her wide, cornflower eyes tracking the progress of the judges, who’d started with the Midwest team’s plate.

All the work Beck had done to slow his pulse and regulate his body temperature went up in smoke. “I can’t believe you still look at the world that way,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The sudden ramrod tension of her body said more than her stiff words.

Beck shook his head. He’d always loved the innocent pleasure she took from life—but it drove him crazy, too, the way she refused to see the world as it really was, in all its harsh, ugly reality. Especially considering what she’d gone through while their relationship was imploding.

Let it go
, he told himself, gritting his teeth.
You’re over this, remember?

“Nothing. Forget it. Congratulations on making it to the finals.” Beck thought that was safe. Polite, distant.

“You too,” Skye muttered as the judges exclaimed over Larousse’s handmade gnocchi with pea shoots and shiitake foam. “And hey, congrats on finally finding your balls again.”

Beck felt his head snap back on his neck as if he’d taken a clip to the chin.

“What?”

Skye turned to get a better look at his face, brushing the flyaway softness of her red-gold curls against his arm. Beck fought not to flinch, not to grab her and shake her, not to betray his agitation by moving a single muscle.

“Your balls,” she said clearly, eyes flashing darker than he’d ever seen them, even that last, awful night. “You must’ve found them, if you finally got up the guts to show your face in this city again.”

The bitterness in her voice stung like lemon juice in an open cut, and Beck had to fight with everything in him not to react.

“Nice talk,” he said, unable to help the hoarse thickness of his voice. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

She looked away, back to the judges, who were finishing up with Larousse. “I’m not the sweet kid you left ten years ago, Henry. Don’t think for even a second that I’m going to go down easy. I’m here to win, not to make new friends or relive ancient history.”

“Don’t worry,” Beck snarled under his breath. “Once this is all over and my team has won, I’ll be ditching San Francisco and heading back to the East Coast.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Except my team’s going to be taking home the prize money and the Rising Star Chef title. And before you run back to New York, there is one little thing I’m going to want from you.”

The judges were thanking Larousse and sauntering down the table toward Skye as Beck said, “What’s that?”

He didn’t know what he expected—money, maybe, or a demand that he go to hell. In the farthest, undisciplined depths of his mind, there might’ve even been a hint of a thought that maybe she’d ask him for one last night together, for old time’s sake.

Instead, what she whispered out of the corner of her mouth just before smiling brilliantly and greeting the judges knocked Beck off balance and stopped his heart.

“I want a divorce.”

Chapter 2

How in the hell did we get here?

Skye closed her eyes; but that just made it worse—the heat of Beck beside her, the wild, masculine scent of his skin, like pine needles and the wind off the water—and suddenly, without warning, vivid memories rose up and enveloped her.

*   *   *

The sign said
DAY USE ONLY
. Skye squinted up at the amber-orange clouds over Kirby Cove.

It was sort of daytime. Okay, maybe the sun wasn’t technically still up, but the moon and stars weren’t really out yet, either.

Staring at the metal gate blocking the steep trail down to the cove, Skye tried to imagine what Annika Valanova would say if a Golden Gate National Park ranger called her to come bail her daughter out of park prison.

She could practically hear her mother’s throaty, dramatic voice pronouncing all rules petty and unimportant in the face of Art.

Annika always said the word
Art
like that, with the kind of emphasis that let you know she meant it with a capital
A,
as serious as breathing.

For sure, more serious than a piddling little park regulation or two.

And then there was her father. Peter Gladwell had made a career out of breaking the rules and defying expectations. If he could see Skye now, waffling around and wringing her hands over going against posted signage, he’d probably disown her.

Promising herself she’d get the images she needed and get out of the park before dark, Skye ducked under the metal bar and hurried down the path.

When it came right down to it, she’d rather get a slap on the wrist from a park ranger than face her parents’ disappointment when she proved, for the zillionth time, that she hadn’t inherited their dedication to Art and civil disobedience.

An hour later, she was still perched on the flat rock she’d found near the edge of the water, sketchpad abandoned beside her as she gazed out over the bay. The lights blazed up along the Golden Gate Bridge, a bright, straight line leading to the city of Skye’s dreams.

San Francisco.

She sighed, curling tighter over her knees as a crisp breeze swept the rocky beach. The skyline beckoned her, so close and yet so far, promising freedom. Anonymity.

Man, what she wouldn’t give to walk down the street and be just one of the crowd, instead of the love child of a scandalous artist and a famous playwright.

A sharp, shocking rustle in the bushes behind her startled Skye out of her daydreams. The city might be nearly close enough to touch, but the park was still home to a surprising array of wildlife. On walks with her mom, Skye had seen raccoons and skunks, and she’d heard of campers running into bigger stuff like bobcats, coyotes, mountain lions …

Heart drumming in her chest, Skye scrambled to her feet, eyes on the dark tangle of tall grass and thick brush up the side of the hill. Why hadn’t she stayed on the trail?

The bushes shook again, the crackle of twigs snapping and leaves crushed underfoot reminding Skye of the hiker who’d told everyone in town she’d seen a bear last summer.

As Skye skipped backward, the heel of one of her flat sandals slipped against the rock and she toppled off, arms pinwheeling in a desperate bid for balance. She hit the ground below the rock, air rushing out of her with a woof as her back slammed into the gravelly sand.

“Hey! Are you okay?”

Skye blinked up at the moon and wondered if she was having an auditory hallucination. Bears didn’t talk, right?

“God damn,” the voice swore. “Hello?”

Although if they did, they’d probably sound a lot like that voice,
Skye thought, lifting a heavy hand to probe at the spot of warm pain radiating out from the back of her skull. The voice was deep and a little rough, with a velvety earthiness that made Skye think of thick, luxuriant fur rubbing against her skin.

Enough with the bear stuff, already.

“I’m okay,” she called, sitting up and putting a tentative hand to her throbbing head. “Ouch.”

She squeezed her dazzled eyes shut and wished she dared shake her head to scatter the strange cobwebs from her brain, but she had a feeling that would hurt.

“Ouch doesn’t sound good. Here, give me your hand.”

Skye tipped her head back and opened her eves as the world swirled around her in a dizzy rush of stars and clouds and moon, all blocked by the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette looming over her on the rock.

She blinked, dazzled again, but this time in a much less cerebral, more low-down-in-the-body kind of way. Skye sucked in a breath, feeling everything inside her tighten up and throb a heated pulse of excitement through her jarred system.

The man, because he was certainly a man and not a bear, leaned over one knee and held out a long-fingered hand. Everything about him was in shadow, with the moonlight behind him, outlining him in black, but Skye could see that he was big. And dark. Not all of the darkness came from the gathering night, either—his hair made wild, black waves around his face. Even his clothes were black.

He was like something out of a novel, Heathcliff on the moors, and that thought had Skye scrambling to her feet without taking his hand, because she’d never really understood the attraction of a surly, bad-tempered, violently aggressive thug—even if he was smokin’ hot.

And what kind of guy wandered around off-limits parks after hours, dressed all in black?

Conveniently ignoring the fact that she, herself, was wandering around the park after hours, Skye dusted off her jeans-clad rump, unusually grateful for her extra padding back there. Packing a lot of junk in the trunk meant she’d have nothing worse than a bruised behind. That skinny bitch from school, Laura Hayden, would probably have broken her tailbone taking a tumble like that.

Not that anyone other than Skye would ever be such a gigantic klutz as to fall off a perfectly flat rock.

“I guess you’re okay, then,” the guy said, straightening up. Skye narrowed her eyes, trying to make out some details of his face. She was supposed to be an artist. She was supposed to be good at this kind of thing.