Secret Ingredient: Love

She laughed. “When you put it like that, it wouldn’t be very smart. But realistically, my goal is quite a way down the road. And it doesn’t matter what my future plans are. You need someone now. And I’m the best person for the job.”

“You certainly are cocky.”

“That implies you don’t think I can do what I say.”

He shook his head. “Let’s just call me skeptical.”

“So give me a chance to prove myself.”

“That’s tempting.”

She frowned. “Let me ask you something now.”

“Okay.”

“Would your reluctance to hire me have anything to do with the fact that I’m a woman?”

Yes, he admitted to himself. But not for the reason she thought. There was something about Fran. She’d made him notice her. And he didn’t want to notice any woman. But he was as dedicated to his career as she was to hers. He wasn’t going to just turn this project over to her. He intended to oversee it. That meant he would see her—a lot. What would it be like to work closely with her?

But, as she’d pointed out, he was out of options. “No,” he lied. “The fact that you’re a woman in no way impacts my decision about whether or not to offer you the job.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You’re inexperienced. I don’t want to say no out of hand. But I’m not sure what my next step should be.”

“I’ll cook for you,” she offered. “Let me put my money where my mouth is.”

He’d like to put his mouth where her mouth was. That thought took him by surprise again. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t surprised. He’d been semi-obsessed with her mouth since he’d met her almost twenty-four hours ago. And that was the main reason he hesitated to hire her.

“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

This 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.”