Secret Ingredient: Love

“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 attach 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.