Loe raamatut: «Falling for Her Rival»
Even though she’d already made it pretty clear what she wanted he was leaving her an out, giving her a chance to change her mind.
She could pull back and put on the brakes. No harm. No foul. Or she could plough full steam ahead.
Lara didn’t feel reckless when she chose the latter. Rather, she felt right.
“Your shirt. I’ve been wondering what you would look like without it.”
Deep laughter rumbled again. With his body still pressed against hers, she felt his mirth as much as she heard it. The sensation was oddly erotic, but what had the breath backing up in her lungs was his reply.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. What do you say we both satisfy our curiosity?”
Dear Reader
I’m no gourmet chef, but I’m a pretty decent cook—especially when I’m not on a deadline for a book. My husband and kids will tell you the closer I get to turning in a manuscript, the more pizza and cereal they wind up eating for supper!
Even though my culinary skills may be mediocre, I love watching cooking programmes. I am especially addicted to competitions such as The Food Network’s Iron Chef and Chopped! So when I decided to write a book that featured a couple of talented chefs who have the hots for each other, I figured what better way to ratchet up the heat than to pit them against each other on a televised cooking contest?
Lara Durham and Finn Westbrook both have compelling reasons for wanting to win the show and the executive chef position at a New York landmark restaurant that goes with it. Those reasons become major obstacles, of course, when they start to fall in love.
Bon appétit!
Jackie Braun
Falling for
Her Rival
Jackie Braun
JACKIE BRAUN is the author of more than two dozen romance novels. She is a three-times RITA® Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist, the winner of a Rising Star Award in traditional romantic fiction and was nominated for Series Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews in 2008. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
Other Modern Tempted™ titles by Jackie Braun:
AFTER THE PARTY
This and other titles by Jackie Braun are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk
With much love to my husband and boys for their support.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Extract
ONE
Gather ingredients
Lara Dunham moved the sprig of basil a fraction of an inch to the left on a sautéed chicken breast that sat atop a bed of risotto and asparagus tips. Afterward, she took a step back. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the food editor of Home Chef magazine, she eyed the table.
“I don’t know,” the other woman murmured. “It still doesn’t look right.”
Nor did it taste right, but Lara kept the thought to herself. She’d filched a nibble during the setup. It wasn’t merely a trick of the trade that had left her palate dissatisfied. Food used in photo shoots was often undercooked to help retain moisture. No, in this case, the rice needed more seasoning. In fact, it needed a lot more seasoning. But she bit her tongue because doctoring up the recipes wasn’t her call.
She did say, “The square plate isn’t working for me.”
Just as she’d suspected, it was giving off a decidedly Asian vibe that didn’t lend itself to the Italian-inspired dish.
The plate had been the editor’s suggestion; one Lara had taken out of expediency rather than agreement. She knew from past experience with the prickly older woman that it was easier and ultimately less time-consuming to show her that something didn’t work than to insist on something else up front.
Sure enough, the editor made a humming sound before agreeing. Lara held back a triumphant smile and turned to the college intern who was assisting her.
“Bring me the large round one with the wide rim. And let’s swap out the candles and napkin rings.” Again, they had been the older woman’s suggestion. “The silver is too formal.”
Forty-five minutes later, with the food carefully replated and the tablescape tweaked to represent Lara’s vision, the photographer got his shot. It would grace the October cover of the national publication and be seen by millions of people.
“Another fabulous shoot,” the editor gushed as the photographer gathered up his equipment and Lara prepared to leave the magazine’s offices. “I should know better than to give you suggestions. What you come up with always looks better. No one makes food look more appetizing than you do.”
Lara accepted the compliment with a nod. As a food stylist, that was her job and she was good at it. She was much sought after because of her attention to detail, a reputation that she’d earned over the course of nearly a decade.
Perhaps that was why it stung so badly that to her father, Lara remained a colossal disappointment.
Those who can, cook. Those who can’t, style food.
So sayeth the legendary restaurateur Clifton Chesterfield.
He’d paid her tuition to the top-rated culinary school in the country, after which he’d sent her abroad for two years to study cooking techniques in both Tuscany and the south of France. From the time Lara had been old enough to make a simple roux, his plan had been that she would follow in his footsteps and someday run the kitchen at the New York landmark that bore his name. The landmark where he’d spent practically every waking hour of Lara’s childhood.
Was it any wonder that she’d resented the restaurant? Was it any wonder that she’d resented him for choosing it over his family?
So, as a full-of-herself young twentysomething, she’d rebelled. And she’d done so spectacularly.
At thirty-three, Lara could look back and admit that she’d taken her revolt too far. She’d publicly dissed both her father and his beloved restaurant, and then married the only food critic in Manhattan who’d ever dared to give the Chesterfield a subpar rating.
Her marriage to Jeffrey Dunham had lasted only slightly longer than the rise on a first-year culinary student’s soufflé before she’d come to her senses. By then, however, the damage was done. Her father refused to speak to her.
Six years later, Lara was old enough and wise enough to admit that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. Irony of ironies, she now wanted to hang up her stylist credentials and pursue a career as a chef. She also wanted her dad’s respect, if not his affection. She wanted to hear him say, “Well-done.”
But when she’d approached him a year earlier about a job, he’d broken his silence only long enough to refuse to hire her—not even to do prep work. And since he wouldn’t hire her, no credible kitchen in the city would either. Such was Clifton Chesterfield’s reach and reputation.
Well, finally, she had an opportunity to make her father see her as a serious chef, and Lara wasn’t about to blow it.
With the shoot wrapped, she stepped outside to catch a cab. Barring a traffic tie-up, she had just enough time to make it to Midtown before one o’clock. Of course, she wouldn’t have a chance to grab lunch, but since nerves had tied her stomach in knots, she wasn’t complaining.
Overhead, fat clouds the color of ripe eggplants were huddled together. Any moment, the sky was going to open up and it was going to pour, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She tried not to think of the weather as a bad omen, but she couldn’t deny its effect on her hair, which had a hard enough time holding a curl when there was no humidity. It was stick straight now, a glossy auburn curtain that fell even with her shoulders. Before raising her arm to hail a cab, she fussed with the fringe of bangs she already regretted getting at her last salon visit.
When a taxi pulled to a stop a moment later, she dashed for it. She reached for the door handle at the same time a man did. Their fingers brushed and they both stepped back.
“Oh!” Lara gasped, not only because she had competition for the ride, but because the competition in question was drop-dead gorgeous.
While most of the men on the street at this time of the day wore decked-out business attire, carrying briefcases and barking orders into cell phones, this one was wearing faded jeans and a lightweight windbreaker. He looked as if he should have a surfboard tucked under his arm and be heading out to Long Beach to catch a wave. His face was tanned. His hair was a sandy-brown with streaks of sun-bleached blond thrown in. A quarter-inch worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and framed an easygoing smile that seemed at odds with his intense gray eyes.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied, hoping the rain would continue to hold off while they played.
“On the count of three, then.”
She hiked the strap of her purse onto her shoulder to free up her hands and nodded.
“One. Two. Three,” they said in unison as they each pounded a fist into the opposite palm.
Afterward he was holding his right hand out flat. Lara, meanwhile, was mimicking a cutting motion with her index and middle fingers.
“Scissors cut paper,” she said unnecessarily.
With a shake of his head, the man said, “I had you figured for a rock.”
Hmm. How to take that?
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed.”
He held open the cab’s door for her. Before closing it, however, he leaned inside. Something in his expression had changed so that it now matched the intensity in his eyes.
“Hey, since you’re costing me my ride, can I...can I ask you for a favor?”
“I guess so,” she said slowly. It wasn’t wariness she felt exactly. More like anticipation. Like a kid on Christmas, getting ready to unwrap the last gift from beneath the tree.
But then he shook his head. “Nah. Forget it. Crazy,” she thought he muttered as he started to straighten.
She tugged him back by saying, “No. Really. Ask. It’s the least I can do.”
He hesitated only a moment. “I’m on my way to something important. It’s kind of a big deal for me. A game changer.”
“A job interview?”
“Yeah. In a manner of speaking.”
She nodded, understanding. So was she. In a manner of speaking. “So, what’s the favor?”
“Can I...?” His gaze lowered to her lips. “Can I have a kiss for luck?”
Lara’s breath whooshed out on a laugh even as parts of her body started to tingle. “I’ll give you props for creativity. That’s a line I’ve never heard before.”
The man pinched his eyes closed, looking both self-conscious and alarmingly delicious. “Yeah. Pathetic. Forget it.”
He started to straighten a second time. In another moment he would be closing the door, beyond her reach, and she would be on her way. Luck? What the heck? Lara figured she could use a little of it herself. And what would a kiss from a total stranger hurt, really? In a city that boasted more than eight million people, it wasn’t as if she would run into him again. So, before he could retreat or she could entertain second thoughts, she grabbed the front of his jacket and hauled him to her.
Their lips bumped clumsily before settling in place. His were firm, the pressure sweet. She expected him to pull back afterward. Mission accomplished. That would be that. She would be on her way. But one of his hands came up. His palm cradled her jaw. The pad of his thumb stroked her cheek. Long fingers tangled in the hair over her ear. A pair of smoky eyes closed as a sigh escaped. His breath was a feather-soft caress on her face. When his mouth dived back in for seconds, she was grateful to be seated since her world tilted on its axis.
“Hey, buddy. You gettin’ in or what?” the cabbie asked in a voice edged with impatience.
It served as a wet blanket to the unexpected bonfire that had flared inside Lara. The man eased away, his smile crooked and slightly self-conscious.
She felt the same way. Public displays of affection really weren’t her thing.
“Nah. The lady won the cab fair and square,” he said as he straightened.
“Good luck,” Lara told him, reaching out to give his fingers a squeeze.
“Thanks.” He studied their linked hands a moment. “You know, I don’t think I’m going to need it after all.”
Afterward, he closed the door and gave the cab’s roof a thump with the same hand that had slid along her jaw. He was no longer smiling when the car pulled away. In fact, he was shaking his head, his gaze on the pavement. But he looked more bemused than annoyed, even as the heavens opened up and Mother Nature wrung out her wash.
It was with an effort that Lara regrouped. It wouldn’t do to be distracted by hot lip-locks with even hotter strangers. She needed to be focused, fearless. She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. What she looked was frazzled, flushed and a bit dazed. Her hair was mussed, her lip gloss long gone. Still, she considered the pleasure that had the corners of her mouth curving to be a pretty fair exchange for her disheveled state.
She pulled out her compact and used the drive time to touch up her makeup. Aside from lip gloss, she didn’t wear very much, but given the long hours she spent indoors, a little blush on her pale cheeks was a must. The second swipe of mascara she added to her lashes helped keep her eyes from looking tired, even though she had slept poorly the night before.
Nerves.
Today was a big day. Today she would get her first glimpse of the people who stood between her and her rightful place in the Chesterfield’s kitchen.
* * *
Luck.
The only kind Finn Westbrook had experienced since his divorce two years earlier was the bad variety. In spades. Now here he was, running late for the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d lost his ride in a stupid game of chance. Still, as he watched the cab pull away with the pretty young woman tucked inside, he couldn’t complain.
She wasn’t the sort of female who would have turned most men’s heads, especially at a mere glance. Her looks were too understated for that: small, freckle-dusted nose; arched brows that all but disappeared beneath a fringe of bangs; lips that were not quite as full as was the current fashion; wide-set green eyes that, up close, revealed flecks of gold.
But the moment their hands touched, she’d had Finn’s attention trussed up like a holiday turkey. In that moment, he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt for a woman in a very long time: attraction. The real, punch-in-the-gut kind that knocked the wind out of a guy for a split second before his breathing resumed in a white-hot rush.
Damn, if it didn’t feel good. He’d been dead inside for so long. And that kiss? Heat was still licking through his veins, threatening to consume him. He settled his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement.
Fate, bitch that she was, chose that moment to offer a swift kick where it counted. The rain that had held off during their game of Rock, Paper, Scissors gushed from the sky like water sprayed from the business end of a fire hose. Still, Finn could only smile. Maybe he should be grateful for a dousing of cold water.
TWO
Peel and chop
By the time Lara reached her destination, she’d managed to push thoughts of the sexy man to the back burner. But those nerves had her feeling as if she’d eaten bad shellfish. She paid the cabbie and, holding her purse over her head, made a dash for the building, dodging raindrops and umbrella-wielding pedestrians as she went.
At the reception desk in the lobby, she checked in, donned a visitor’s badge that bore the name Lara Smith and headed for the nearest elevator with a sigh of relief. She’d cleared the first hurdle. She’d half expected someone to recognize her, new bangs notwithstanding, and call her out on the alias.
On the fifteenth floor, the waiting room for Sylvan Studios was crowded with people. The best of the best in the industry sat in the tastefully upholstered chairs. They were an eclectic-looking bunch, but that was to be expected. Chefs came in all varieties, from the artsy and avant-garde to the down-home and downright dowdy. She knew better than to discount any of them based on appearance alone. All of them had won their preliminary round and were after the same thing as Lara: a job.
Not just any job, but one that would have been hers if she hadn’t taken her rebellion to the extreme. Leave it to her father to rub salt in the wound by publicly proclaiming the need for a “successor,” and then agreeing to let Cuisine Cable Network fill the head-chef position at his restaurant via its highly rated Executive Chef Challenge show. By the time the last of the weekly installments aired in the fall, Lara or one of eleven other über-qualified chefs from around the country would be deciding the Chesterfield’s dinner specials.
Lara had entered the competition without her father’s knowledge. Indeed, no one at the network knew about her ties to Clifton and the Chesterfield. She could only count on anonymity because the program was taped in advance. If it aired live, she would have been found out right away. If she made it to the final round, which her father would judge personally, she would be forced to come clean. Between now and then, however, she had to do some of the best and most creative cooking of her life.
She scanned the faces of the six men and four women in the waiting room. Add her and that made eleven. She frowned. Someone was missing.
She was still standing just inside the door, surreptitiously checking email on her cell phone, when she heard it open. Contestant number twelve had arrived. She turned, ready to size up the competition, and came face-to-face with...
“Paper,” she murmured in surprise and resisted the urge to touch her lips.
The gray eyes regarding her widened fractionally before his mouth softened with a grin.
“Actually, I go by Finn. Finn Westbrook.” He peeled off his drenched jacket and hung it on the coatrack just to Lara’s left. “Enjoy your ride?”
“I did. Thank you.” Even though the answer seemed obvious, she inquired, “Did you have to wait long for another taxi?”
“I gave up on waiting there. I hauled ass for three blocks before I was able to flag one down at Columbus Circle.”
A drop of water spilled down his temple. Lara resisted the temptation to wipe it away. Instead, she reached into her purse and handed him a plastic-wrapped package of tissues.
“Thanks.”
“Least I can do. I didn’t realize we both were headed to the same place or we could have shared the taxi.”
He pulled out a couple of the tissues, gave her back the packet and blotted his temple before rubbing them over his head. His short hair looked both messy and perfect afterward.
“So, you’re a chef,” he said.
“That’s right.” And although she was pretty sure she knew the answer, she said, “You?”
“One of the best.” The smile that accompanied the boast was charming enough to keep his words from sounding too cocky.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this room can make the same claim,” she replied drily.
His smile widened as he balled up the tissues and, after little more than a cursory glance, tossed them in the direction of a wastebasket that was tucked in the corner. The soggy wad made it in. Of course. More points for him...if she were keeping score.
“I guess this means we’re adversaries,” he said.
Indeed. They both were after the same thing. The very thing for which he’d sought out a good-luck kiss. Keep your eyes on the prize, Lara, she silently admonished, since she was finding keeping her eyes on Finn a far-too-pleasing diversion.
“I guess it does.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered for a couple of heartbeats. “That’s too bad.”
Before Lara could think of a fitting response, a man stepped out from one of the offices. He was in his late thirties, suit-clad and bespectacled with a receding hairline. But what made him seem older and headmasterish was the way he clapped his hands together to gain their attention.
She recognized him from the preliminary round that she’d won a couple of weeks earlier. His name was Tristan Wembley, and he worked for the network in some sort of production capacity. She couldn’t remember his official title, but he’d made it clear in their previous dealings that if Lara had any questions or concerns, she was to contact him first.
“Welcome, everyone, to Sylvan Studios, the home of the Cuisine Cable Network and its highest-rated program, Executive Chef Challenge, which, as you know, is featuring the famed Chesterfield restaurant this season.
“Congratulations on making it this far in the competition. It’s a testament to your skill as chefs that you are standing here right now. One hundred and eighty-two other hopefuls didn’t make the cut.
“Today, you will get your first look at the kitchen studio. Tomorrow and Friday, we will spend the day taping promo spots that will be televised and also air on our website. Filming of the first round starts Monday morning. You are to report to the studio no later than 7:00 a.m. Plan on spending at least ten hours here.”
Someone gasped. “Ten hours!”
“It may be closer to twelve,” Tristan replied, unfazed.
Even though the segments would air weekly on the network, the chefs would be competing three days a week for nearly four weeks. She was in for some long days.
Tristan’s upbeat tone took an ominous turn when he said, “Take a good look around, chefs, because by this time next week, one of you already will have been sent packing and another one will be on his or her way out the door.”
Lara scanned the waiting room’s occupants, wondering whom it would be. No way was she leaving after the first round or the second. When she got to Finn, he snorted softly and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t look at me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the duration.”
Under other circumstances, she might have welcomed those words from a gorgeous man whose mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon. In this case...
A tremor swept up her spine. “God, I hope not.”
The corners of Finn’s mouth turned down even as his brows shot up. His tone held a slight edge when he replied, “At least you’re honest.”
If he only knew...
Tristan clapped his hands together again.
“Okay, chefs, if you’ll follow me, we can get started.”
Finn fell in step beside Lara.
“I guess you regret that kiss for luck now,” he said conversationally.
She glanced around, thankful that none of the other chefs appeared to have overheard them. Lip-locks with strangers for good luck wasn’t exactly a topic she wanted broadcasted.
“Probably as much as you’re regretting letting me have that cab,” she replied, keeping her voice so low that he leaned closer to hear her. She swore she could feel the heat wafting from his hot, moist skin.
“You won the cab.” Broad shoulders lifted and his gaze lowered to her lips again. “As for anything else, I’m not beating myself up over it. It was...nice.”
“Nice?” She replied too quickly to edit the incredulity from her tone.
“You have a better adjective for it?” His tone held a dare.
She shook her head and he went on.
“It’s a little inconvenient, though.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently.
He smiled, looking as satisfied as Lara had felt after that amazing kiss. “I think you do.”
Oh, yeah. She did, all right.
He went on. “I want you to know in advance that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“Taking you down.”
The grin that stole over his face now was worthy of a plundering pirate.
“Damn, you’re arrogant.” But she said it without any heat. In fact, she couldn’t hold back her own smile.
Ahead of them, Tristan was saying, “Each of you has been randomly assigned a workstation. All of the stations are identical with identical supplies. Today, you will have one hour—no more, no less—to acquaint yourself with the space and set it up as you see fit.
“If something is missing or an appliance doesn’t work properly, it’s your responsibility to tell one of the staff before you leave today. Once filming starts on Monday, no adjustments will be made. None,” he stated firmly with a steely glance around. “You will just have to make do.”
Tristan had walked while he talked. The group now stood outside the studio. Over the double doors a red light was encased in a metal cage. It was off now, indicating that no taping was going on. Soon enough the set would be hot and filming would be under way.
As a food stylist, Lara had spent a great deal of time under bright lights and around cameras. She’d considered that good training for this competition. She’d even figured it might give her a leg up on her opponents—until Tristan pushed open the doors and they all filed inside.
The overhead lights glared off the appliances as well as the stainless-steel-topped prep stations.
Someone yelled, “Sweet!”
And she heard a few oaths, some uttered in awe, others laced with foreboding. Hers fell into the latter category.
“It looks different on television,” Finn said.
It certainly did. On TV it seemed smaller, almost intimate. It looked like a real restaurant kitchen rather than a massive set riddled with cables and camera equipment.
Ovens and prep stations lined two of the walls. The third wall boasted a pantry, an impressively stocked wine rack and a double-door refrigerator, as well as an ice-cream machine, blast chiller, anti-griddle and other specialized appliances.
The setup allowed for the contestants as well as the camera operators to move around freely. And, of course, come Monday, the show’s on-air host, Garrett St. John, would be there as well, roaming the set while he narrated the competitors’ actions and performed spontaneous on-air interviews as they worked.
On-air interviews.
Bile threatened to creep up the back of her throat at the thought. She’d scored a C-minus in public speaking in high school. Too much lip-smacking and too many ums, according to her teacher. Oh, and she talked too fast and failed to make enough eye contact with the audience.
“If anyone suffers stage fright, I suggest you get over it now,” Tristan said. “In addition to the twelve of you, this set will be crowded with several dozen other people next week. A number of them will be operating cameras trained not only on what you are making, but on your faces. You may have as many as a dozen focused on you at any given time. Every grin, every grimace, every little dot of perspiration on your forehead will be recorded.”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” Lara murmured thickly.
Next to her, Finn grunted out what passed for a laugh.
Tristan was saying, “When the show airs, the fans will be rooting for their favorites. We want to give them as much of you as possible. That’s why a lot of what doesn’t make it into each week’s televised episode will wind up on the show’s website.”
Tristan’s cell rang. He glanced at the display.
“Sorry. I need to take this. And while I do, I need for all of you to wait here. No searching for your workstations until I return,” he added before walking out in the hallway to talk on his phone.
“Nervous?” Finn asked.
Heck, yeah, she was nervous. But she shook her head and tried to look unconcerned.
Her denial was met with one raised eyebrow. “And I thought you were honest,” he chided softly.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” she allowed. “Not about cooking for the judges or having to do it while facing down a clock, but—”
“Liar.”
She ignored him and continued. “But about the entertainment component. I’m a chef, not an actor.” She gestured around her. “I think we’re all nervous about working in front of the cameras.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Are you telling me you’re not the least bit anxious?”
“I can’t afford to be if I want to win. And I want to win.”
“Wanting isn’t the same as doing.”
The smile her word elicited was illicit. He leaned closer, and his tone was matter-of-fact when he clarified, “I’m going to win.”
Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”
Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.
She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.
Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.
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