On the Steamy Side (10 page)

“Hello there, lovely,” the cute guy said, giving her a friendly smile and big, callused hand to shake.

“Guess I wasn’t around yesterday when Grant introduced you to the crew. I’m Wes Murphy.”

“And what do you do here at Market?” Lilah inquired politely. She’d already learned that every cook was assigned to a particular station, from grilled meats to fish to the cold appetizers like salads.

Wes rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the general laugh that went up at Lilah’s question.

“Did I ask something wrong?” she said, bewildered.

“Not a thing,” Wes assured her. “They’re just being assholes about the fact that I don’t have a station of my own because I’m a lowly ACA extern. Otherwise known as galley slave.”

“Or kitchen bitch,” Frankie, the devil-horned sous chef, put in. Violet shrieked with laughter.

“Shut the fuck up, Vi,” Wes protested, red staining the tips of his ears.

“What’s the ACA?” Lilah asked, more to defuse the rising tension than anything else, although she was definitely curious.

“Academy of Culinary Arts,” Grant explained. “ACA students are required to spend time in a professional kitchen as part of their graduation requirements.”

“That sounds interesting,” Lilah said, struggling not to look around for a bar of soap to clean all their mouths out with.

Wes made a face. “Sure. If you enjoy spending your days dicing onions, shucking oysters, making stock—all the kitchen shit work.”

“Surely once you put in your time learning the basics, the chef will promote you and let you learn the different stations,” Lilah said. It was only reasonable. “After all, you’re here for your education.”

“Hear that, everybody?” Wes crowed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! This woman is my goddess.” He pulled Lilah up onto the stool next to his.

Grant shook his head. “I don’t know why you ever worry about a thing, Lilah, when you have the gift of making people fall in love with you at first sight.”

“Hush your mouth,” Lilah said, feeling heat surge back up her neck and into her face. “Now you’re trying to embarrass me so I’ll forget to be nervous.”

“Right,” drawled a voice from directly behind Lilah. “From what I saw before, it would take an act of God to embarrass you.”

Lilah stiffened, recognizing the lazy tones of Devon Sparks. She could practically hear his smug smile in the way he drew out the word “Right.”

Spinning on the stool, Lilah titled her chin up and looked him square in the eye. “A true gentleman would gloss over . . . the way we met and allow us to start fresh.” She’d been right about the smile, although as she stared into his TV-perfect face—cheekbones like knife blades, and that barely-there cleft in his chin, Lord have mercy—the smile slipped from smug into something darker. Hotter. Lilah shivered without meaning to, and Devon’s eyes sharpened at the visible tremor.

He leaned in, too close for propriety, too close for comfort, too close for Lilah to draw a deep breath without smelling the faint traces of his no-doubt pricey cologne—and under that, something else, something real and tantalizing. Lilah struggled to breathe normally, minutely aware that every person in the room was watching, but it was impossible to remain completely unaffected.

This man was inside me last night, she thought, and felt her heart kick over the traces and head into a full gallop.

And then his warm breath caressed her cheek and she couldn’t help it. Her eyelashes fluttered closed.

“You’ve never seen my show, have you?” Devon asked, his voice soft and almost gloating. “If you had, you’d know better than to expect gentlemanly behavior from me.” Lilah’s eyes popped open. She sat up straight, craning her neck back to catch Devon’s eye.

“Is that supposed to be a come-on? That Oh, watch out for me, ’cause I’m so bad thing? Because I have to tell you, you’re barking up the wrong busgirl. I used to teach high school, sugar, I know all about bad boys. And I’ve had enough of them to last me a lifetime.”

Frankie whistled under his breath, the loud sound in the sudden silence reminding Lilah of their avid audience.

Devon stepped back smoothly. He did everything smoothly, Lilah noticed. As if he were perpetually aware of being watched. She couldn’t help but contrast today’s slick act with last night’s more genuine-seeming responses. Which one was the real Devon Sparks?

She caught something, a tension around his mouth that told her she’d surprised him. The thought warmed her all the way through.

“It wasn’t a come-on,” Devon clarified. “It was more of a . . . friendly warning. I don’t date employees—

which you’ll be, if Adam ever actually leaves and lets me get to work!”

“Family meal first, Dev,” Adam said, sauntering over. “My last supper with the crew before Miranda and I hit the road.”

Lilah smiled at the obvious satisfaction in Adam’s voice when he referred to his girlfriend. Devon, she noticed, rolled his eyes.

Before Devon could make the snotty comment she was sure was on the tip of his tongue, a young man hurried from the kitchen with a tray full of food.

“You need help, hon?” Lilah asked, ready to jump up.

“No, thank you,” the guy said. He was handsome in that brooding Latino way, Lilah noticed, although his bright gray eyes spoke of a varied heritage. His quiet voice as he asked the other cooks to clear space on the bar was only lightly accented.

Adam clapped his hands together and tugged Devon up to the bar. “Billy! My man. What have you got for us today? Billy Perez,” he said to Devon. “He started as a dishwasher, moved up to line cook a few months ago.”

Devon nodded, saying nothing, but Lilah noted the curl of his lip as he stared down at the plates heaped with colorful vegetables and spicy-looking chicken.

“The protein is a shredded adobo chicken; there’s corn tortillas and sliced avocado to go with it.”

“And this other mess?” Devon asked, pointing at a smaller bowl.

Billy’s cheeks reddened, but he drew himself straight and said, calmly enough, “I wanted to try a play on one of my favorite things to eat from when I was a kid in Mexico. Grilled corn with crema and spices is a common street food. I pulled the cornsilk out and flash-grilled the ears in their wrappers, cut the kernels off the cob and mixed them with some homemade chile-lime mayonnaise. The topping is grated parmesan, because it’s what we had in the walk-in, and a little fresh cilantro.”

“And the flecks of red?” Devon demanded.

“Diced sweet pepper.”

The ex-dishwasher was stoic under Devon’s interrogation, but Lilah still didn’t like to watch it. Where did Devon get off being so dismissive?

Unable, or unwilling, to keep her mouth shut, Lilah said, “Well! Are we gonna talk about it all night or are we gonna eat it?”

Billy shot her a quick, grateful look out of the corner of his eyes and Lilah winked.

“Right! Dig in, guys!” Billy produced a couple of serving spoons and they all passed the plates around.

Wow.

“I’ve never had Mexican street corn, Billy, but this is pretty darned delicious,” she told him. It was an effort to stop eating long enough to talk without her mouth full.

The corn had a caramelized flavor from the grill, and the tender, firm kernels popped in her mouth.

Swathed in tangy, spicy mayo with a good citrus kick, one of Lilah’s most familiar flavors of summer, sweet corn, turned into her newest addiction.

Murmurs of appreciation followed by complete silence as everyone got down to the serious business of eating attested to the fact that Lilah wasn’t alone in feeling transported by Billy’s simple family meal.

Lilah watched the others, then inexpertly rolled her first soft taco. It was messy but scrumptious.

She closed her eyes, the better to savor the way the cool, buttery avocado cut the smoky spice of the moist chicken, and when she opened them, Devon was gazing directly at her, a heat that had nothing to do with the spicy food in his stare.

Swallowing was hard when her mind was suddenly filled with images of the night before, but she managed it.

Lilah fell into the deep blue of his intent gaze, breath quickening, blood pounding in her ears.

Adam startled them out of the moment with a heartfelt, “Hot damn, Billy. Best fucking thing I ever did, putting you in charge of family meal.”

Billy flushed again, this time from obvious pleasure in the compliment.

An infinitesimal sneer tugged at Devon’s mouth. “When you’re finished enjoying your street food, Adam, there are a few things I’d like to go over with you.” His voice was silky smooth, but Lilah heard the derision in it. Devon, she saw, hadn’t taken a plate. He wasn’t even going to try the food?

Evidently not. Without a glance in Lilah’s direction, not that she cared, Devon turned on his heel and stalked back to the kitchen.

Lilah caught the frown Adam sent after him, but she couldn’t tell if it was anger or concern. For herself, Lilah felt zero ambiguity.

Devon Sparks might be the sexiest man this side of the Mississippi, and he sure enough had a line of charm on him, but all that pretty packaging couldn’t hide the arrogance inside.

Lilah told herself it was a darn good thing he wasn’t interested in pursuing their attraction . . . thing . . .

whatever. She couldn’t afford to be seen as getting special treatment or attention from the man who was evidently going to be calling the shots around here. It was her first night doing this job, and everyone at the family meal table knew she was only there because she was friends with Grant. Lilah had to focus on proving herself, prove that she could make it on her own—she couldn’t be fretting over Devon Sparks, analyzing his every move for flirtatious intent.

Last night was an aberration, never to be repeated. He’d all but said so.

Now all she had to do was forget it ever happened.

Devon stood in the Market kitchen and surveyed his new domain. Like an annoying song on endless mental repeat, the shock announcer voice that ended every episode of One-Night Stand popped into his head.

One-Night Stand with Devon Sparks—the best chef in the world. Join us next week as Devon proves his prowess once again, taking a kitchen by storm to cook a menu he’s never seen, with tools he’s never touched, and a staff of chefs he’s never worked with. From four-star French cuisine to humble Indian takeout . . .

And Devon’s image would flash on the screen, cocky half-smile in place. And he’d say, “Anything they can do, I can do better. Watch and see.”

Spoken with utter confidence. Devon had learned how to do that; he could give every outer indication of total and complete self-assurance in any situation. The trouble was that when the cameras were switched off, he didn’t always feel it.

Which occasionally got him into trouble.

Today, for instance. Market’s doors would open to the public in exactly one hour, and Devon would be expected to competently and calmly execute dinner service. Which shouldn’t be a big deal, right? He’d done it, and done it well, at his own restaurant across town for years before he built an international reputation as a chef able to whip any kitchen, however dysfunctional, into shape in the space of an hour-long show.

Sure, the show was staged. But that was the deal with so-called “reality” TV. In general, it bore very little resemblance to reality. Not that One-Night Stand was scripted, exactly, but were the situations manipulated to get good pacing and action, the results the producers wanted? Devon knew they were.

Maybe that’s why this felt so different, Devon mused. There were no cameras here, no production crew to step in and call “Cut!” if things went sour. It was just Devon. On his own. And despite the fact that nothing that happened in the Market kitchen would be televised, Devon felt more exposed and alone than he had in years.

He buttoned his signature white chef’s jacket with the rolled short sleeves, imagining it as armor. His name was embroidered in royal blue silk on the breast, but there was no restaurant logo beneath it. In spite of the fact that it was his name, money, and star power that kept a small empire of restaurants afloat, he was no longer the acting executive chef at any of them. For the past four years he’d been a wanderer, a tramp, bumming from restaurant to diner to banquet hall for that damned show.

Market was just another stop on the railroad for Devon—this kitchen, as vibrant and warm as it felt when Adam showed him around this afternoon, would never be Devon’s home. It was Adam’s show, from opening credits to final shot, and as Devon watched the choreographed hustle the line cooks performed as they finished prep, it ticked him right off that yet again, he was leasing, not buying.

Confident that none of that showed in his expression or body language, Devon was startled out of his reverie by Frankie’s annoying Cockney accent.

“Feeling a mite nervous, are we, mate?” Frankie asked, showing that unsettling ability to read people that Devon remembered from Appetite, back when Devon ran his own kitchen and Frankie was a lowly line cook. Thinking about it now, Devon wasn’t surprised the man had risen to sous chef—that pinpoint accuracy in judging situations made him a huge asset to any busy kitchen.

Devon didn’t bother to resist rising to the bait. “Of course. Of all the kinds of food I’ve tried my hand at over the years, Adam’s particular brand of crunchy-munchy eco-friendly emo-cuisine might be the toughest to master.”

Devon awarded himself a point when he saw Frankie stiffen. Honing in on the weakness, Devon continued, “Sure, it’s not poaching perfect duck breast en sous vide or working with exotic ingredients like tamarind or pacu fish ribs—but with that ridiculous restriction of his, no food from further away than a one-hundred-mile radius around the restaurant?” Devon shook his head in mock awe. “Well, the winter months must be a bitch. How many ways are there to cook a turnip, anyway?”

“Plenty, if you’ve got half the talent Adam has.”

“Hmm.” Devon let his lips twist in a way that he knew projected cool amusement. “And who was it that discovered Adam and gave him his start, I wonder?”

Frankie opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Devon waved it away with a languid hand.