Secret Ingredient: Love (4 page)

“I thought your father didn’t want you cooking for strange men,” he said.

“Strangers,” she clarified. “Besides, he doesn’t get a vote. And I really want this job.”

“Something to prove to your family?”

“Maybe. As I said, it would look great on my résumé. And the bottom line is you haven’t found anyone yet. Time’s awasting. I’m good at my job and I’d like the opportunity to prove it to you.”

“Fair enough. When and where?”

“Tomorrow night. My apartment.”

“I’ll be there.”

Chapter Three

T his time Fran was ready for him. And getting ready for a man like Alex Marchetti was no small feat.

She didn’t just mean ready as in food preparation and presentation, either. Although she had to admit she’d done herself proud. Surveying her modest circular oak table with the four surrounding ladder-back chairs, she nodded with satisfaction. A white linen cloth covered the small round surface. Her grandmother’s flatware was arranged to leave space for her supermarket-special dishes. In her dollar-store water goblet, the cloth napkin fanned out, exotically folded the way she’d so painstakingly learned. And there was extra glassware on the table just to show that she knew how it should look.

In the center of everything was a vase filled with flowers from the grocery store hothouse. Rust-colored mums, yellow carnations, baby’s breath and greens mingled their perfume with the aroma of her two favorite entrées. Presentation was as important as taste,
and she’d done the very best she could with what she had for maximum visual appeal. Now her culinary skills had to stand on their own. For reasons she could neither understand nor explain, she wanted to impress Alex Marchetti. And, unfortunately, getting hired for the job wasn’t her only motivation.

But dazzling Alex Marchetti with food and atmosphere wasn’t the only thing she was ready for. Resisting his electric effect on her senses was going to be touchier than getting a soufflé to stand at attention. If she was right, and she was sure she was, he’d wowed her with the element of surprise.

She had told herself repeatedly that good looks and a physique that made her palms tingle to touch him were just his presentation. She had no intention of digging deeper to find out if his ingredients—looks, charm and temptation—blended into a dish with substance. He was dishy, all right, but she was on a restricted diet. Once burned, twice shy. So bring on his sex appeal, animal magnetism and magazine-cover backside. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even tempted. She wasn’t going to let anything, especially a good-looking man, come between her and the job she wanted.

She glanced at the clock on the stove. He was due at seven. It was six fifty-five. Her palms started to sweat and her stomach dropped as if she were in the first car on a roller coaster headed down the world’s longest drop.

The doorbell sounded, making her jump. She took a deep breath and let it out as she surveyed her table one last time. She was grateful that he was punctual; she didn’t think she could handle clock watching. Her nerves were already stretched as tight as the skin on a stuffed and trussed Thanksgiving turkey.

I am so ready, she said to herself as she walked through her living room toward the door, where she called, “Who is it?”

“Alex. Remember me? Your friendly, neighborhood serial killer.”

She couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the fact that his deep voice raised tingles that chased each other up and down her back. She took the chain off and opened the door. One look at Alex’s worn, button-fly jeans and white shirt, sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, told her she was not ready.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Come in.”

“Hi,” he answered, walking through the door with a bottle cradled in each arm. “I brought some wine. One white, one red. I wasn’t sure what you’d be serving.”

“Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that. This is a job interview.” She grabbed the doorknob to steady herself when he grinned.

“I know. But it isn’t like any interview I’ve ever conducted,” he said.

“Preparing food isn’t like any other job. You get results on the spot. Or not,” she added.

“True.” He sniffed. “Your results smell pretty good.”

“I hope so. Let me show you to your table.” She took the lead, then glanced over her shoulder. “This way, please.”

They walked the short distance into her kitchen. She took the two bottles of wine from him and set them on the bar while he surveyed her efforts. Then he looked down at her, a slight frown marring his forehead just above the rims of his glasses.

“There’s only one place setting. You’re not joining me?”

“Every chef strives to imprint his or her own style,” she said. “I’m going for the mystique. Joining the diner would shatter the atmosphere.”

And component number one in her recipe for success in working for Alex was to keep her distance. Pretend she was head chef of her own restaurant, where she could make policy. In this case: stay as far from Alex Marchetti as she could. And she had to admit it was a good rule, because already this felt too much like an awkward first date.

“When I was growing up, there was an unspoken law—never let anyone eat alone.” He rested his hands on lean, jean-clad hips as he met her gaze. “Or maybe you have another strategy. You’re going to poison me and put me out of my second-son syndrome misery.”

“Right. And I could kiss my cooking career goodbye.”

“Or me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You could kiss me.” He looked as if he would like to take the words back. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad joke. But I’m serious about this. I think we should eat together.”

“Haven’t got time,” she said. “You have to be judge, jury and executioner. While I’m hostess, wait staff and chef. Please take a seat. Course number one is coming up. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starved.”

As Alex uttered the single word, she caught a glimpse of the dark intensity in his eyes. She swore he was looking at her mouth like a famished man. Flutters started in her stomach and spread to her knees. As if
she wasn’t nervous enough! This was the best opportunity she’d ever had. It would be a real feather in her high, white chef’s hat. All she had to do was not mess up. And that was a tall order, because her hands were shaking like a power line in a hurricane. She’d like to know which of the gods she’d inadvertently offended and give him a penance raincheck. This business was hard enough without the extra challenge of serving a flawless meal while under the influence of Alex Marchetti.

She smiled brightly. “A healthy appetite is a chef’s best friend. I can show you to a table now, sir.”

He rested his hand on one of the chairs and smiled wryly. “I think I can find it.”

“You’re not just another pretty face.”

Before he could see how much she liked his face, she turned away, wishing he was a balding fifty-year-old who didn’t know what hair color to put on his driver’s license. But she’d seen his picture, not to mention the living, breathing man. His dark brown hair was wavy and thick, just begging to be touched. Focus! she ordered herself. In her professional capacity, she’d never had trouble doing that. Except for her one misstep in culinary school. Unfortunately, it was also a stumble of the heart. One she would never repeat.

Darn it, she wanted this job; she was a good chef. She needed to get Alex’s attention. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she’d have it nailed. The job, not the man, she amended.

“I prepared a variety of dishes, so you could see the range of my skills,” she said, opening her refrigerator.

She pulled out a bowl of antipasto salad lavish with greens, cheese and black olives, and a more artsy arrangement of fresh spinach, asparagus and artichoke
topped with alfalfa sprouts. Over the first she ladled a combination of spiced aromatic oil and estragon vinegar. She vigorously tossed the mixture, venting some of her nervous energy on the poor, innocent vegetables before placing a portion on a salad plate. On the other she spooned a delicate blend of light olive oil, garlic vinegar and her favorite combination of salad seasonings.

She set the two choices in front of him, along with a basket of fresh baked rolls wrapped in white linen to keep them warm.

“Enjoy,” she said in her best professional voice. It would have been more businesslike without the husky quality, which made her sound like a call girl showcasing her attributes.

“This looks wonderful,” he said, taking the salad fork and testing first one, then the other. He chewed thoughtfully. “It tastes as good as it looks. Both of them.”

“Good.” She went back into her work space. “I’ve got more courses, so save some room.”

“Are you sure you can’t sit down and eat some of this?”

“I’m not hungry. I’ve been tasting everything. A good chef does, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Bald-faced lies, except statement number three. A good chef was supposed to taste as she went along. Unfortunately, Fran had a knot in her stomach the size of Los Angeles and couldn’t get anything down. If she aced this interview, it would be because her instincts were in tip-top shape and she really and truly was an outstanding chef.

From the oven she removed a baking sheet and
placed the contents on a serving platter. Then she put the next course in the oven for heating. Rounding the bar, she set the platter on the table, then put one of the appetizers it held on his plate.

“Portobello mushrooms,” she announced.

He sniffed, then tasted. “Excellent,” he commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever had better.” He finished the whole thing.

“I’m glad you like it. Entrées will be ready in about ten minutes. I’ll open some wine,” she said, starting to turn away.

He stood up. “I’ll do it. If you’ll show me the way to the corkscrew.”

Uh-oh. Red alert. He was changing the rules already. This was her kitchen and he was making himself at home. Familiarity breeds contempt. Down with friendly. Fie on familiar. Cool and distant. Up with professional and businesslike, and what had happened to that, anyway?

She looked up at him—way up. Clearing her throat, she said, “Do you always open the wine in a competitor’s restaurant, Mr. Marchetti?”

“Since when are you a competitor? I thought we were on the same team.”

“I’m trying out for a spot on the team. Remember?”

“Yeah. And I seem to recall you calling me Alex. What happened to that?”

“I’m being formal, putting my best professional foot forward. I just need a chance to show you what I can do.”

There it was again. That breathless quality to her voice. Along with her call girl tone she was tossing double entendres like an antipasto salad. As her cheeks burned with embarrassment, she hoped he wouldn’t at
tach a personal meaning to what she’d said. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” had never rung more true. And she’d been face-to-face with the saying more than once since she’d decided on a male-dominated career.

“Okay. You open the wine,” he said. But he didn’t sit down.

From one of her kitchen drawers, she removed a foil cutter and corkscrew. The first worked like a charm. Unfortunately, the second was inexpensive, antiquated, and only penetrated the cork. It didn’t have handles on the sides to propel the stopper upward. She tried to pull it out, but didn’t have the strength. Then she attempted to wiggle it loose, without luck.

Finally, Alex gently took the bottle from her. With only enough effort to cause a slight tightening in the tendons of his wide forearm, he removed the cork. “Voilà.”

“I feel like a gymnast waiting to see how much the judges will deduct for a fall off the balance beam.”

“Strength and manual dexterity are not the benchmarks of a good chef. I only deduct points for an entrée that triggers the gag reflex or food poisoning.”

“You’re joking, but this is very serious to me.”

“In a restaurant setting the waiter or wine steward would wrestle with this bottle. Any muscle-bound moron can do it. It’s not a failure.”

“It’s not a win, either.”

“Lighten up. If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, you’ve hooked me.”

“Whatever you say.” How she wished she could believe him. She took the opened bottle from him and poured some into the wineglass already on the table.

Before he could respond to her remark, the timer
sounded. “The entrées are ready,” she said. “If you’ll resume your seat, I’ll continue to serve.”

“Deal.”

Fran took the food from the oven. She arranged it on two plates resting on a warming tray. Then she slipped on pot holders before she went back around the bar and set the servings on the table in front of him.

With one gloved hand she indicated the first plate. “This is veal parmigiana.” Pointing to the other, she said, “Stuffed chicken breast with mushrooms and vegetables. Enjoy your meal.”

Anxiously, she stood over him and watched while he picked up the fork and sampled everything on each plate. He took a sip of wine, and continued to eat. After finishing the veal, he tasted the chicken again and nodded. Hesitantly, he cut through the green vegetable with his fork and scooped up a small taste. The serious expression on his face told her nothing useful. Curiosity killed the cat and it was about to snuff her, too. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Well?” she asked, struggling for nonchalance. “What do you think? How do you like it?”

“Are you fishing for a compliment?” His mouth twitched slightly.

“I want your honest opinion. An objective, yet sincere critique of my work.”

“I have to make sure.” He took several more bites. “If I’m going to be honest, fair, yet sincere, I need to sample enough product.” He scooped up another mouthful.