Cowboy In The Kitchen

Hunt folded his arms, the negative body language stretching a snug-fitting T-shirt tighter across the chest and shoulders of a former athlete. His mouth clamped as if pinching in an argument. She hurried on.

“And regarding your comments about hiring locals, I’m sure I’ll have opportunities for hourly employees, but I had handpicked my management staff before I ever started researching the right property. They’re experienced people I trust, men and women I’ve worked with over the years who are prepared to relocate.”

“Was McCarthy notified about this, as well?”

“There’s no reason why he should have been,” Gillian countered. “Mr. Temple, people are not fixtures that come with real estate just because they happen to live in the same zip code.”

“Will you look around, for cryin’ out loud?” He held both arms out, and then turned his head from side to side, giving Gillian a chance to appreciate his handsome profile.

“This place is huge! No matter how much you trust your handpicked buddies, they won’t figure out in a year what an old-timer in these parts forgot last week. Alma and her husband, Felix, have had their whole lives to become experts on this place, and they’ve taught my brothers and me everything there is to know about Temple Territory.”

“Moore House.” The correction slipped out.

“I beg your pardon?” There was disbelief and an angry edge to the way he asked the question.

She hadn’t meant to bring it up in this conversation. But she couldn’t unring the bell so she might as well get it over with.

“The name for the estate will be Moore House. And that’s just the first of many changes I’ll be making. This old place has to be modernized so it will appeal to my guests.”

Hunt pushed to his feet. He shoved both hands through his tidy crop of dark hair, and then drew in and expelled several deep breaths as he glowered down at her.

“Since you have so many objections to Temple Territory in its historic condition, what is it that actually appeals to you about this place, Ms. Moore?”

Gillian mirrored his action, stood and stretched her spine, determined to deal with Hunt Temple eyeball to eyeball. She’d done her homework, certain this moment would come. She desperately needed his help, but it would be financially fatal if she tipped her hand or let him intimidate her.

“Mr. Temple, these are tough times, and this is strictly business. If you understood anything about running one, maybe you wouldn’t be taking this so personally.”

“And by what right do you assume I don’t understand how to run a business?”

She smiled, armed and dangerous.

“It’s not about assumptions. It’s about the facts.” She began to recite his résumé. “You passed up a full ride to the University of Texas on a baseball scholarship to work your way around the U.K. and Europe as a line cook. You eventually earned your cuisine diploma from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris—though it took longer than usual because you struggled with classic French techniques. You shifted continents, became a pretty hot sous-chef in Costa Rica and finally settled into an executive chef position at the Four Seasons in Cancun. But that doesn’t appear to have worked out since you’re in Kilgore again.” She tilted her head. “And unemployed.”

The gleam in his eyes said she’d made an impression.

“Did I get the facts straight, Chef?”

“Except for that wisecrack about techniques. I didn’t struggle. I just didn’t practice. The French preoccupation with peeling vegetables is moot compared to the perfect searing on a tender strip of flank steak.”

“I happen to disagree. You can get a hunk of grilled meat on any corner in Texas, but fine continental cuisine is not so easy to come by around here.”

“And that’s what you plan to serve in your restaurant, of course.” He lowered his eyes, shook his head.

“Of course,” she answered, convinced she was absolutely on the right track. “Being unique and a cut above the rest is precisely why our dining experience will be appealing. We’ll offer our customers a menu with exquisite choices. In less time than it takes to sing ‘The Eyes of Texas,’ the private celebrations at Moore House will be the talk of the state.”

“Is that a fact?” He was working at being unimpressed.

“It is, indeed. I’ve employed an extremely high-profile event planner who has guaranteed fabulous bookings and media coverage if Moore House is operative by the holidays.”

“Since you have this rush job all figured out, I’m sure this experienced staff of yours includes a classically trained chef, correct?”

Aha! The opportunity she’d hoped for. She raised her chin and smiled to cover the quivering in her stomach.

I have to appear and sound more confident than I feel. I need this man’s help in a big way, and he has no reason to cooperate and every reason to refuse.

She took a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

“No. Not at the moment, anyway. My first choice hasn’t worked out, but I’m still hoping he’ll reconsider,” she lied.

Once Gillian had discovered the connection between the property and culinary celebrity Hunt Temple, she’d realized she was on to something big. Having the TV-acclaimed Cowboy Chef in her kitchen would guarantee the success of her restaurant, even if she could only afford him temporarily.

“Alma’s quite an amazing cook, and she’s friendly with all the local produce suppliers.” Hunt’s mouth curved with the suggestion Gillian could sense was coming. “If you should change your opinion about a hunk of grilled meat, I’m sure she’d consider running your kitchen.”

Gillian shook her head.

“I have no doubt your friend Alma would make an excellent addition to the kitchen staff. But until my first choice becomes available, I have a substitute in mind. An executive chef with a name and reputation that will draw clients to Moore House like flies to honey. A chef who inherited the ability to do things in a big way. An attractive man who can charm a female diner’s eye as well as her palate.”

Hunt checked his watch. “So, what time does Jamie Oliver get here?”

Gillian grinned at the idea of the English cooking superstar ordering the staff about in what would soon be her state-of-the-art kitchen.

“I had somebody closer to home in mind.” She tipped her head in Hunt’s direction.

His gray eyes widened. A shaft of sunshine shot highlights across his hair as the notion lit his brain. He lifted his right hand, touched his index finger to his chest.

“Me?” Hunt’s one-word question was incredulous. She couldn’t tell whether he was shocked, flattered or offended.

“What do you say, Chef?” Gillian tried to sound self-assured. “How about hanging around Kilgore for a while to help me get Moore House up and running?”

CHAPTER TWO

THE WOMAN STOOD there grinning, obviously pleased with her insulting suggestion. Hunt wondered how on earth she could believe he’d even consider jumping at the bone she’d tossed in the air like a treat for a desperate dog.

Gillian Moore was giving him the opportunity to cook in what should rightfully be his own kitchen, bless her heart.

And as second choice, for crying out loud! But even then it was only until the chef she really wanted was available.

Hunt’s head began to throb as if a plunger had just pushed the Columbian espresso he’d been drinking straight into his brain. He had to shake the caffeine buzz, clear his mind and concentrate. Somehow he had to turn this situation to his advantage, but that wouldn’t happen if he reacted by giving words to the bitter taste in his mouth.

When his family had first learned of the sale, his brother Mac had said it was time to accept what was over and done with because they couldn’t change it. The facts were that their grandfather’s shady deals had cost him fifteen years of freedom in a Texas prison, his wildcatter’s fortune, his home and his relationship with his only son, Hunt’s father.

Hunt couldn’t change the shame that had been left to them as a family legacy, but he could still make a difference in the present and salvage his own name. That is, if he kept a cool head, not exactly the strong suit of the men in the Temple family.

Gillian continued to smile, waiting on his answer.

“Well?” She had the nerve to sound perky.

How was it that rich folks seemed to have a knack for morphing somebody else’s pain into their gain?