Secret Ingredient: Love (6 page)

She stood also and followed him to the door. “So when do you want me to start?”

“When are you available?”

“Now. My contract is up. The loose ends are essen
tially tied up. I can give two weeks’ notice. That will make it politically correct.”

“How about two weeks, then? Which will be the middle of December. Do you mind starting before Christmas? We could push back the starting date to the first of the year if—”

She shook her head. “The sooner we get going on your project the better. I’m committed to helping you overcome second-son syndrome. Together we can show the rest of the Marchettis that third son does more than twiddle his thumbs in that corner office.” She smiled as she opened the door.

For several moments, they stared at each other. Alex realized he was strangely reluctant to leave. Partly because he’d enjoyed her company, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to say goodbye.

Oh, he knew the word. Goodbye. Two syllables. But should he shake her hand? After all, this was business. But it felt cold. So wrong for a woman with Fran’s verve, animation and friendliness. Kiss her on the cheek? Warmer. But not his first choice. On the mouth? Bingo. Hot. Boiling, in fact. But inappropriate, not to mention unprofessional. Unfortunately, it was very much what he wanted to do. This was the damnedest job interview he’d ever conducted.

He decided it would be best not to touch her at all.

“Good night, Alex,” she prompted.

“Good night. I’ll see you in two weeks, Frannie.”

He was out the door before she could say “Smile when you call me that.” But he couldn’t help smiling with anticipation.

It just seemed a long time until he would see her again.

Waiting to start her new job had been the longest two weeks of Fran’s life. Although not nearly enough time to forget the timbre of Alex’s voice when he’d called her “Frannie.” The hated nickname wrapped in seduction had rendered her speechless. And then she couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind. Ever since accepting the job, she’d agonized over whether or not she’d made the right decision.

Now it was her first day of work at Marchetti’s. Alex had introduced her to his three brothers and given her the tour of the corporate offices. Not once had he used the husky tone that sent shivers through her. But he had saved the best for last: the first-floor kitchen used for research and development.

It was large, probably as big as her apartment, with an island work center in the middle. There was a stainless steel refrigerator and a matching freezer, both walk-ins, no less. She glanced inside a well-stocked pantry that would hold her queen-size bed with enough space left to walk around it. The rest of the room had cupboards, lots and lots, covered with countertops tough enough to chop and dice on. There were several ovens and microwaves.

“This is terrific,” she said. “And that adjective doesn’t do it justice. It’s really awesome.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He pointed to a door on one side. “Through there is the employee lounge.”

“Handy.”

“We try to think of everything. Even guinea pigs—I mean loyal, committed employees eager to test our latest concoctions.”

He grinned and her world tilted until she wanted to grab on to something—preferably him—to steady her
self. Alex stood beside her, hands on hips. His red tie was loosened and the long sleeves of his powder blue shirt were rolled up. In navy slacks and black leather loafers, he appeared the successful executive he was.

Her culinary training had taught her to use all her senses—taste, touch, sight, sound and smell. Unfortunately, that training spilled over into the rest of her life, including sensory data regarding Alex. He was good-looking, with a wonderfully rich, deep voice that burrowed inside her and made her stomach quiver. And he smelled so good, a combination of some masculine, spicy aftershave and soap that made her want to snuggle against him. She hadn’t touched or tasted him. But with little or no effort she could imagine how it could be akin to a religious experience. Her susceptible heart went pitter-pat.

She didn’t know what to say next, and with luck her self-consciousness didn’t show. She hoped he would assume that she was impressed, and just looking around the corporate kitchen had rendered her speechless.

“Feel free to explore the cupboards,” he offered. “They’re loaded with all kinds of gadgets. But you should take inventory and let me know if there’s something else you need.”

“I’d love to snoop,” she agreed. That would give her an excuse to move away from his side without looking like an army in full retreat.

Fran spent the next few minutes opening drawers and cupboard doors, investigating all the nooks and crannies. There was an impressive array of knives in all sizes, a food processor, blender, two graters—hand and electric—peelers, choppers, dicers and slicers. This kitchen had all the bells and whistles she could imagine.

After a hands-on exploration of everything in the
room, with the exception of her boss, she took a deep breath and leaned against the white countertop. “If there’s anything missing, I don’t see it.”

“Good.” He pointed to the far side of the room and a built-in desk that matched the birch cabinets. “There’s a computer set up. You can keep recipes, records, notes on it if you’d like. I’m not sure how you work and track results. But I would be happy to give you an orientation on the programs if you’d like.”

“Great.” She nodded with satisfaction. “I take hard copy notes about everything I work on—ingredients, prep time, cook time, level of success based on certain criteria. Nutrients, food value, that sort of thing. Entering the results into the computer is the last thing I do. It keeps me organized. But I like to maintain the scrap paper, too.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Whatever works.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “It’s time to talk turkey. Or should I say linguine.”

“Translation?” he asked, lifting one dark eyebrow.

“We need to discuss what entrées you want in the launch campaign.”

“Right. Let’s go back up to my office.”

“I’m right behind you, fearless leader.”

He shook his head as he led the way to the elevator. “Is it too much to ask that for the duration of our professional collaboration you could give me some respect?”

Fran knew he was kidding. “I thought that’s what I just did. Is there another form of address that would work better for you? Like Emperor or Pharaoh, or your exalted highness?”

“Just Alex,” he said, shaking his head with a resigned sigh.

“What, no reprimand? If this is the extent of your temperamental ways, I think I can bear up.”

They entered the elevator. Just the two of them, alone. It was very private, intimate even, though it was essentially a business setting. No one could hear or see them if they shared a stolen kiss. The thought cranked up Fran’s heart rate, and her cheeks felt the heat. He might be able to bear up because he wasn’t interested in her. But could she?

Memories of cooking school washed over her. Colin coaxing her into dark corners for stolen kisses, places where they could have been discovered. The excitement of it all. Followed by the worst humiliation, betrayal and pain she’d ever known. An experience she’d vowed never to repeat. She could chalk up her unfortunate error in judgment to youth and inexperience. But she was older and wiser now. She would be a fool to let this attraction for Alex continue. He was her boss, for goodness’ sake.

Say something, she ordered herself. Anything to distract her from her far too hunky employer.

“Okay, just Alex, tell me about your ideas for the entrées,” she said. “The sooner I know what you want, the sooner I can start the ingredients percolating in my mind. You’ve heard the expression ‘look before you leap’?”

“I believe I have heard that somewhere,” he said, his mouth turning up at the corners.

“I can’t just step into that state-of-the-art kitchen and start throwing stuff together,” she informed him. “If I think about it ahead of time, the process goes much faster.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed. “I’ve actually done my own version of ‘look before you leap’. I want to compete in the food service market on several levels. The harried working woman, the single guy who wants to impress the woman in his life.”

“What about the single gal looking to snag her bachelor and drag him back to her cave?” she asked, trying to look serious and failing miserably when he grinned. “I’m sure you’ve heard of a little thing called women’s liberation?”

“That works, too,” he said. “Either way, I want to overlap the market as much as possible.”

“So what have you come up with?”

The elevator doors opened, and he held out his hand for her to precede him. “After you,” he said.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she left the car. Never again would she be able to think of an elevator in quite the same utilitarian way. She had chattered like a moronic magpie to keep her mind off how exciting it would be to kiss Alex there. She hoped that, for the duration of this assignment, she never again would have to share such a small space, or even a large space, with him unchaperoned.

They walked side by side down the carpeted hall to his office. His secretary was seated at her post, with every hair of her cap of gray curls in place.

She smiled in a friendly, maternal way. “Nice to see you again, Miss Carlino.”

“You remember me,” Fran answered.

“I do indeed. Alex made it impossible to forget you,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Really?” Fran stared at him. “How?”

“She’s exaggerating.” Alex looked decidedly uncomfortable. “This is Joyce Barnes.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joyce,” Fran said, shaking the other woman’s hand.

“Same here.” Then she said to Alex, “Nick called. I left the message on your desk.”

“Thank you, Joyce. Please hold my calls. I have business to discuss with Fran and I don’t want to be interrupted unless someone’s bleeding or on fire.”

“Yes, sir,” his secretary said.

They went into his office and he closed the door. Then he sat down behind his desk while Fran took one of the chairs facing it.

“Okay. Now.” He took a folder and opened it. “I’ve done some research into consumption trends. Pizza is the one entrée that far and away consistently charts as the top seller.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” She couldn’t help thinking how cute he looked when he put on his intense and earnest expression. Or how appealing his discomfort when his secretary had let slip that he’d made it impossible to forget her. “Go on,” she encouraged.

“Frozen pizza currently accounts for approximately seven point two percent of the twenty-five-billion-dollar-market of total pizza sales. Since 1989, the volume of frozen pizza purchased per household has shown consistent gains.”

“Fascinating,” she said, looking at his mouth. There was a sensuality about his lips, and the idea made her tingle all over. “Tell me more.”

“I want kids.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The kids market,” he clarified, looking up from his notes to meet her gaze. “It’s heating up the pizza arena. A study shows that more than half the kids under thirteen surveyed said that pizza is their favorite food. And
close to sixty-five percent of American kids today are preparing at least one meal a week by themselves.”

“And you want it to be a Marchetti’s pizza.”

“Yes.” He rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward intensely. “It’s got to be microwavable and oven friendly.”

“Since when are culinary and computer terminology interchangeable?” she asked, her mouth twitching.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I do. Sorry. And not a problem. I can adapt the pizza recipe for nuking. What else is on your list?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs. That’s a restaurant favorite and easy to freeze.”

Fran met his gaze. “So when did you graduate from culinary school?” she asked sweetly.

“It was the school of hard knocks, and my father was headmaster. My brothers and I all worked in various capacities, including cook, in the restaurant while we were in high school and college.”

“I see. And you’re right. Adjusting that is a piece of cake. Please go on.”

“Lasagna’s a given.”

“Agreed.”

He handed her a sheet of paper. “And I’d like you to incorporate this recipe.”

She took the sheet and carefully looked it over, her stomach knotting. “Now we’ve got a problem.”

Chapter Five

“I don’t want to hear the words problem or trouble,” he said, only half kidding.

Up until a second ago, Alex had been enjoying his job more than he ever had. He’d anticipated Fran’s first day from the moment she’d signed the contract the legal department had messengered over to her. He’d taken enormous satisfaction from her pleasure in the corporate kitchen, as if he’d given her a particularly expensive piece of jewelry to impress her. Life was good. Until he heard the word problem.

“Okay. What?” he asked, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his desk.

“This recipe calls for fresh ricotta.”

He nodded. “I’m aware of that.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It doesn’t freeze well.”

“You mean in freezing temperatures it won’t harden?”

She sighed. “I mean after that, when it thaws out.
Nine times out of ten it’s too grainy and watery to use in uncooked recipes, like cannoli filling.”

“But this is stuffed shells,” he pointed out. “They get cooked.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, repeating his words.

“There’s ricotta in lasagna. It gets baked. You gave that one the go-ahead.”

“In lasagna, where you’ve got mozzarella and sauce to camouflage its unpleasant texture, it’s not a problem. But shells are right out there. I think you should look for something else.”

“This is a signature dish at all the Marchetti’s Restaurants.” And one of his personal favorites.

“Surely there’s another one you could substitute. I thought you wanted the launch campaign to be a success.”

“I do. And this is one of our most popular entrées.”

“I’m not sure I can make it work,” she said, shaking her head as she looked over the recipe again.

“It’s your job to make it work,” he pointed out.

Her chin lifted in a subtly defiant, defensive movement. “And what if I can’t?”

“I have faith in your expertise.”

“I’m good, but even the best chef is limited by the characteristics of her ingredients. I’ll attempt this if you insist, but I think it’s a losing proposition. If failure is not an option, maybe it would be best if we terminate our contract now. I know the project means a lot to you and I don’t want to waste your time.”

That would mean not seeing her—at work, he amended. Or having the benefit of her experience and imagination involved in the project. And that was not an option. Again, he couldn’t help thinking that something had happened to make her defensive. He wished
he knew what it was. He couldn’t let her get away. Her absence would put a crimp in his heart—or rather, the project that was dear to his heart.

His jaw tightened as he shook his head. “If I’m wrong, I’ll accept responsibility.”

She murmured something that sounded a lot like “I’ll believe that when a pregnant ape swings across the room.” But he decided to let it pass.

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” she agreed. “And if I’m wrong, you can have my resignation instead.”

A month later, Fran was still stewing about her conversation with Alex. He had never said he wouldn’t accept her resignation. Anger and frustration sifted through her as she looked at the watery, unattractive mess she’d made of the recipe he’d given her. She’d tried everything she could think of to adapt it and make it a winner. But if the cook gave it two thumbs down, what would Alex’s family say? The Carlino boys were pretty vocal when it came to food. Since it was their livelihood, she expected the Marchettis would be even more outspoken.

“Two more months on my blasted contract,” she muttered, tossing a wooden spoon into the sink. Marinara sauce splattered the white countertop. “This is just a means to an end, a restaurant of my own. Then I call the shots. After that, I don’t have to put up with him. He’s just like all the rest.”

“Who’s just like all the rest?” a female voice asked from behind her.

She whirled to see Rosie Schafer leaning her elbows on the center island work area. “You startled me,” Fran blurted out, resting a palm against her pounding heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were too busy talking to yourself.”

Fran grabbed a dish rag and mopped up the red streaks. “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

“Who did you really want to wallop with that wooden spoon?”

“I’m not sure it would be politically correct to confide that information,” Fran said cautiously.

Rosie nodded knowingly. “What did Alex do?”

“What makes you think he did something?” she hedged, meeting the other woman’s gaze with the island between them.

“I figured it had to be one of my brothers. You don’t have to answer directly to Nick, Joe or Luke. By process of elimination it has to be Alex. So what did he do?”

“Since my present employment is precarious anyway, I suppose there’s no harm in telling my boss’s sister.” She leaned her elbows on the countertop and rested her chin in her hands, then let out a long, discouraged breath. “He insisted a certain recipe be included in the frozen food campaign. I’m having trouble with it.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Fran straightened. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve been notified of a family tasting to try out the new frozen entrées.”

Fran groaned. “Yeah, it’s coming up a week from today. I’ve got everything ready for the other dishes. But this one…” She shook her head. “I’m afraid my days with Marchetti’s are numbered. I’m prepared to bow out gracefully.”

“Why would you think Alex would let you go over this?” Rosie asked. “By definition, research and de
velopment means trial and error. If it doesn’t work, you go to plan B.”

“He said if it doesn’t work he would take responsibility.”

“Silly me. You’re right, of course. Them’s fightin’ words. That sounds like a man who plans to fire you if you burn the food. He might even lop off your head for good measure.”

Fran realized that Rosie had no basis for understanding. She didn’t work in the restaurant business with her brothers. In fact, she’d opted to open her own bookstore instead. She couldn’t possibly comprehend the pressure and prejudice Fran constantly faced.

“Go ahead. Joke about it. But the food service industry doesn’t look kindly on women. It’s every man for himself. And I do mean man. Maybe I should have listened to my father and become a housewife. My career path doesn’t pander to the faint of heart. This industry is survival of the fittest.”

“And that’s different from being a wife and mother how?” Rosie asked good-naturedly.

“Sorry. I meant no disrespect for the important job you do, in addition to running your own bookstore. It’s just… I learned early on that men in charge are only too willing to believe the worst about a woman in this business. I had a bad experience and it showed me how cutthroat this life is. Alex lulled me into a false sense of security. I guess I’m lucky that he showed his true colors right away. He’s just like every other man.”

“What man took a bite out of you?” Rosie asked sympathetically.

Fran laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Trust me. You don’t want to know the long, sad, but essentially boring story. And I’m not anxious to share the
memories of my young and foolish days. Suffice it to say I’m sadder, but wiser now.”

“Okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But you can trust me on this. Alex is different. He won’t hang you out to dry at the tasting just to cover his own behind.”

“I have a hard time believing he’s different.”

“Just wait. He’ll prove it to you. At least let him mess up before you get mad.” Her face took on an “aha” expression. “I get the feeling you want him to fire you.”

“That’s silly,” Fran answered with a tad too much bluster.

“What are you really afraid of, Fran?”

“I’m terrified that these shells are going to crash and burn. Or should I say capsize and sink?”

“I don’t really need to know, but don’t lie to yourself.” Rosie gazed at her sympathetically. “Here’s food for thought…”

“Nice pun,” Fran said grinning.

“Thanks. I love it when that happens. But seriously, there’s something you and Alex have in common. You’ve both been hurt.”

Maybe. But it was incredibly unprofessional of Fran to discuss him with his sister. “I’m really nervous about unveiling the entrées,” she admitted, changing the subject.

“Don’t be. It’s just the family. You’ll love them.”

“I’ve already met upper management—Nick, Joe and Luke. They seem nice.”

“They are. But don’t ever tell them I said that.” Rosie grinned as she tucked a wayward strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. “Besides, I don’t think the whole family will be able to make it.”

“Oh? Who’s not coming?” Fran asked.

“Me and Steve. Abby. Liz.”

“So who is going to be there?”

“Nick, Joe, and Alex, of course. Luke and Mom and Dad.”

“Ah,” Fran said. “Just everyone who gets a vote.”

“Stop worrying, Fran.” Rosie sniffed. “There’s something divinely aromatic in the air. If it tastes as good as my sniffer says, you’ve got it made in the shade. The Marchetti brothers will make you their queen. The family is going to love you.”

“I just want them to love my cooking,” she countered.

But she wondered if that was entirely true. Even though she was annoyed with Alex, she wanted to impress him. And it bugged her no end that she didn’t just mean here at work, in the frozen food department. What fried her most was that she couldn’t seem to shake the need for his approval of her as a woman.

In addition to shaking her professional image, had the jerk from school destroyed her confidence in her femininity? Fran tried to tell herself no, but what other explanation could there be? Because come hell or high water, she would not let herself succumb to any real or imagined temptation for a man in the food service business who also happened to be her employer.

Fran looked at the other woman and sighed. “I’m pretty sure the concoction you smell is going to melt in one’s proverbial mouth. There’s only one major problem.”

“And that is?”

“It’s my recipe, not one of the ones that Alex gave me to adapt.”

Rosie frowned. “I don’t know what prejudice
you’ve experienced in the business, Fran. And no one knows better than me that the Marchetti men have their faults. But no one can accuse them of being stupid.”

“And by that you mean?”

“If your recipe is as good as you say, and as good as I think, you’ll get to showcase it.”

“Time will tell.” Fran shook her head to clear it, then looked at her friend. “It just occurred to me to wonder what you’re doing here. Don’t you have a business to run?”

Rosie nodded. “I left Jackie in charge for a little while.”

“Did you come by to check up on one of your brothers?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Rosie shrugged. “I was just wondering how you and Alex are getting along.”

“I guess my tirade answered that question loud and clear. ’Nuff said.”

“Yes.” Rosie nodded, smiling enthusiastically. “You two are right on schedule.”

“Actually, we’re ahead of schedule. The test tasting wasn’t supposed to happen for another four to six weeks,” Fran clarified.

“That’s not what I meant. I knew you were the perfect woman for him. And I was referring to the romantic agenda.”

“You’re not still matchmaking!” Fran accused. She put her hands on her hips and glared at Alex’s sister.

“Still? You mean he saw through me?” she asked, dark eyes twinkling.

“Like clear-paned glass. He told me so the first night he came to my apartment, using the flimsy excuse of returning the baby food jars.”

“He’s smarter than I thought.”

Fran could have told her that. But she wanted to know more about the “schedule.” “What did you mean about Alex and me being right on schedule?”

“You wanted to brain him. Passionately,” she added, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively.

Fran shook her head so hard that her hair loosened and fell, tumbling around her shoulders. She pulled out the clip. “That’s not funny, Rosie. There is nothing of a personal nature between Alex and me. For goodness’ sake, you saw me talking to myself when you walked in. About him,” she added.

“I know,” Rosie said, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s a sure sign that things are progressing nicely. You always want to clobber them before you kiss them.”

“The thought of kissing your brother has never entered my mind,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back to nullify the lie.

“Methinks she doth protest too much.” Rosie held up her hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. It’s enough that I know the seed is planted and starting to sprout. Time will tell if my efforts bear fruit.”

Fran feigned a sympathetic look as she patted the other woman’s hand. “I’m glad you came to see me, Mother Earth. You need to get out of the bookstore more often. In fact, you need to branch out from the romance section to mysteries. I can tell from this nonsense about Alex and me that you’ve already been dabbling in science fiction.”