Some Like It Hot

by Louisa Edwards

  “Now, that’s good television,” the producer muttered, rocking back on his heels.

  Eva pressed her lips together for a moment, then said, “Look. I know it’s your job to wring as much drama out of this situation as you can, and that’s how you get audiences and ratings and publicity—I know all of that.” She paused, not even sure what she wanted to say, but knowing that it had to be said or she’d go nuts.

  “I just … is it necessary to focus so much on the personal lives of the chefs? I’d think the food would be enough.”

  Cheney snorted. Disgusting man. “You’d be dead wrong. The food’s just a prop. It’s stage business. The real meat of the show—ha ha—is always going to be the personal shit. The laughter, the tears, the fights, the jealousy, the sex. That’s what sells.”

  “Sex sells? How original.”

  Cheney turned one squinted eye on her, bushy brows lowered. “It’s a cliché because it’s true. And without the extra juice from a good scandal or a fierce rivalry, there ain’t no way my bosses are going to be interested in airing your little cooking contest.”

  Eva’s gut clenched, her breath choking in her lungs.

  She’d sworn she could bring the RSC into the public eye and capture the imaginations of the Cooking Channel generation. Filming the competition—and the competitors—was key. Her father had made that very clear.

  So maybe she didn’t like the idea of delving into the contestants’ backgrounds … maybe it was cheap and crass.

  Okay, there was no maybe about it. But she didn’t have any choice.

  “Film what you need to,” she ordered Cheney, ignoring his satisfied grunt.

  Desperate for a distraction from the sinking sensation in her chest—so this is what selling out feels like? Ugh—Eva scanned the kitchen for her other major gambit in the battle for the hearts and minds of the masses.

  Kane Slater, Eva’s glittering supernova of a celebrity judge, waltzed into the kitchen looking disheveled and tired and very pleased about it.

  Claire was close behind him. She was slightly better put together—at least her hair had been brushed and her buttons were all done up correctly—but a similar aura of satiation haloed her head. Interesting.

  “Are we late?” she asked, her heels clicking quickly across the floor. “No, I see Devon has yet to arrive. Bon.”

  The judges were scheduled to film a quick tour of the kitchen before the contestants finished for the night. Eva couldn’t remember whose idea that had been. Whoever came up with it hadn’t taken into account that acute ratcheting up of tension that occurred whenever the judges were in the same room as the contestants.

  As if this kitchen needed any more tension.

  The clanging of pots slamming down on the stovetop and whirring buzz of food processors seemed deafening, suddenly, the chefs shouting back and forth to one another with instructions and status reports, frantically trying to reach the end of their prep lists before Eva called time.

  Ryan Larousse was at the grill station stoking up the fire to fantastic heights in preparation for searing off some meat. Even he’d reached the point of desperation, finally, focusing more on the task at hand than on his gamesmanship. Relief at being able to stop watching out for the guy made Danny light-headed.

  Pastry chefs didn’t usually spend a lot of time in the thick of dinner service. Most professional restaurants called their pastry guy in early, like seven in the morning, and had him or her out of there by five.

  But with his family owning the restaurant where he worked, and his father counting on him more every year, Danny’s hours had never been quite that cut and dried. He was used to working through the rush, keeping tabs on everyone in the kitchen with one corner of his mind while the rest concentrated on executing meticulously perfect crème brûlées.

  No dinner service at Lunden’s Tavern could have prepared him for this balls-to-the-wall insanity.

  If he trusted every cook here, that would be one thing. He was used to cooking with guys who had his back, who respected the hell out of each other and worked hard not to let each other down. And even in those circumstances, putting out a perfect menu in this compressed amount of time would’ve been a bitch. Add in the fact that they were competing against a whole slew of talented fuckers who were also sharing their kitchen space, and Danny’s orderly, control-loving mind spun off into orbit.

  There were too many things to keep track of. The consistency of the plum compote, Win racing around, Max and Jules playing off each other as if they were humming a duet in perfect harmony, while Beck seethed like a storm about to break every time that assmunch Larousse looked sideways at the chick from the West Coast team.

  And, of course, Eva.

  In short, Danny’s focus was shot, and time was almost up. A quick glance at the timer clock showed fifteen minutes left and counting, and they had to have their stuff finished off or at a good stopping place, and packed away for the night, when the clock ticked down to zero.

  Just as Danny was getting ready to let the whole problem of Ryan Larousse go fuck itself, he noticed the strawberry-blond hippie chick, Skye Gladwell, rounding the corner of the back tables with a huge, obviously heavy pot of something emitting billows of steam clutched in her hands.

  The space behind the grills was one of the prime pathways for getting from one end of the kitchen to the other, but it was ridiculously narrow. And made narrower by the ebbing and flowing tide of bodies in perpetual motion as chefs moved between their stations, the pantry, and the walk-in coolers.

  “Behind, hot,” she yelled, the standard warning to the guys hunched over the grills that they should refrain from stepping back for a few seconds to give her time to pass.

  Ryan Larousse was still at the grills, Danny noticed with a leaden sensation tugging hard at his stomach.

  It was like watching one of those crazy Japanese TV shows where they made people run up inflatable rubber staircases and avoid giant swinging hammers and leap onto rotating platforms for a prize, only without the entertainment value of watching nutballs get swiped off the obstacle course and into a pool of water.

  Although what happened next in the Gold Coast hotel kitchen somehow felt every bit as inevitable as the cold dunking of those reality show contestants.

  Skye dodged an arm holding a knife and heaved her smoking stockpot out of the way of a chef bending down to grab a bottle of olive oil from the shelf below his station. She moved fast, one eye on the ticking clock and a look of intense determination firming her soft mouth.

  She was halfway down the line when Ryan Larousse made his move.

  Chapter 12

  An instant before it happened, Danny caught the twitch of a sneer on Larousse’s mouth, the hint of anger putting red flags on his cheeks. Before he’d even consciously registered the intent, Danny was moving to intercept.

  His shoes squeaked on the rubber matting as he whirled and threw himself toward Larousse, who smoothly, deliberately, stepped into Skye Gladwell’s path, forcing her to swerve and bobble the heavy pot.

  “Oh, behind you,” she cried, knuckles white on the handles, but it was slipping, and Danny was still a few feet away.

  An enraged roar from behind him told Danny that Beck had become aware of the situation, and in the next breath the big chef barreled past him and into Ryan Larousse like a rampaging bull.

  Beck knocked Ryan to the floor and out of the way just as Skye’s fingers slipped on the pot handles. Danny had only a brief instant to take in her round face, white with panic, before he dove for the pot.

  Pain seared into Danny’s fingertips as they made contact with the scorching-hot sides of the pot. It slipped between his palms, which felt as if he’d stuck his hands in the blue flames of a gas stovetop, but Danny ground his teeth and clamped down hard.

  Boiling chicken stock sloshed over the edges, spattering down onto his wrists. “Fuck me,” he gritted out, bending his knees to lower the pot gently to the floor.

  “I’m so, so, so sorry,
” Skye said in a rush, kneeling down beside the pot and reaching for one of his red, burned hands. “Your poor fingers! Oh my gosh, if you hadn’t caught that, it would’ve splashed all over me. Third-degree burns from head to toe! Thank you.”

  Before Danny could respond to her gratitude, he heard the distinctive sound of a fist smacking into flesh and bone behind him.

  Clambering to his feet, he saw Skye’s face go from grateful to horrified in the blink of an eye.

  “Stop it! Oh stop that, please. Henry, don’t!”

  Bangle bracelets jingling, she rushed past Danny before he could catch her, arms outstretched entreatingly toward the two men wrestling on the floor.

  Beck the Berserker was back, Danny saw. An eerie calm had blanked Beck’s face; he didn’t appear to hear a word Skye said. His entire focus was on the man he had pinned to the rubber floor mats.

  Shit, there was a camera rolling, catching all of this, Danny remembered with a sickening surge of panic. “Beck, man, come on,” he said urgently, reaching for the guy’s broad, rock-solid shoulder. “Let him up.”

  “She could’ve been hurt,” Beck said, his tone oddly detached. “He tried to hurt her, Danny.”

  “But I’m fine, Henry. So it’s time to let him up, now,” Skye said. Her voice was gentle, but there was an edge of steel running through it that made Danny look at her sharply. This sweet-faced woman wasn’t as soft as she looked.

  Beck hadn’t yielded to Danny’s hand on his arm, no matter how strongly Danny tugged at him. He was about to put his back into it, really haul the guy to his feet whether he was willing to stand or not, and no matter how much it hurt his own scorched palms, but then Skye reached past him and laid her hand on Beck’s back.

  A shudder rocked the big man’s frame. Beck’s voice came out sounding like boulders rolling down a mountain. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. “But even if I wasn’t, you shouldn’t have done that, Henry.” Then there was that knife-edge of hardness in her voice again as she said, “I will not be your excuse for violence. Don’t put that on me.”

  Beck looked up at her, and the mute misery on his face tied a knot in Danny’s throat. But he loosened his hold on Ryan, and Danny felt his own shoulders sag in relief, the sudden draining of adrenaline from his body making him aware of just how fucking much his hands hurt.

  “All right, get them up from there.” Eva’s clipped instructions jolted Danny, and he blinked at her stupidly, almost swaying on his feet.

  Max and Win were there, suddenly, pulling Beck off the floor and hustling him out of the kitchen, presumably to dunk his head in an ice bath and shock some sense into him. Skye watched them go, a strange, pained expression on her face, one hand covering her bloodless lips.

  She turned back to Danny, looking ready to start spouting thanks again, but before she could open her mouth, Eva was there.

  “Hugo? Take Ryan back to your hotel suite, and for God’s sake, stay out of trouble for one damn night.”

  “Me?” Ryan protested, a grimace twisting his boyish features. “It was just an accident. A stupid mistake.”

  He actually looked as if he regretted it, and for a moment, Danny almost felt sorry for the guy, who was, after all, pretty immature and reckless, and maybe just hadn’t thought his actions through.

  But then, of course, Ryan had to ruin it. “Talk about breaking the rules! I’m the one who got attacked. Again! That guy is like a rabid dog, he oughta be locked up or put down.”

  Anger roiled through Danny’s belly, but he didn’t have a chance to blast the guy because he blinked once, and Skye Gladwell was all up in Larousse’s face.

  “You shut your mouth,” she hissed. “Henry Beck is ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

  Ignoring the little shit’s sputtering, Skye turned her back on him and leaned up to kiss Danny’s cheek. He raised his eyebrows, and she smiled, saying, “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I appreciate it. These are starting to sting like a bitch.”

  Concern and remorse clouded over Skye’s face. “Here, let me see—”

  But abruptly, Eva had angled her body between them, gray eyes flashing dark as iron. “I’ll take care of him. You should get your team together and head up to your rooms. I’m calling time early for today; we’ll give you all an extra ten minutes tomorrow.”

  There was some grumbling from the other teams while they moved to pack their prepped food away and clear down their stations, but Eva didn’t appear to notice or care as she held out one imperious hand. “Palms up,” she said briskly, lips tight. “Let’s see the damage.”

  “It’s fine,” Danny protested, curling his fists to hide the worst of the redness. Which, of course, pulled at the skin just starting to blister. He couldn’t help his wince, and Eva pounced.

  “There’s no need to keep playing hero,” she said, grabbing for his wrists. The tartness of her words contrasted dizzily with the gentleness of her touch. “I had the cameraman stop filming when it looked like Beck might strangle that idiot, Larousse.”

  “I’m not a hero,” Danny said, annoyed. “But thanks for turning the camera off. Video evidence would’ve made it hard for Beck to plead not guilty on a murder charge.”

  “That might have made for scintillating B-reel footage on our Cooking Channel Special Event program, but I’m not quite ready to sign over every scrap of integrity to the television producers.” Eva traced over his hypersensitive, flinching skin with delicate fingertips.

  “Your concern for my teammate is heartwarming,” Danny said, trying not to stumble. He was crashing hard, head spinning like the dough hook on his stand mixer, set to knead. He blinked and shook his head, trying to jar himself back into clarity.

  “Hey. I’m concerned. I’m planning a celebrity sing-along, a telethon, and a charity ball in his honor, right after you guys pull your shit together and get through the rest of this competition. But in the meantime, let’s get you checked out by the paramedics.”

  Whipping out her high-tech phone, she touch-typed something into it at lightning speed, too quickly for Danny to follow. But he didn’t really need to know exactly what she was saying. He knew where he needed to be.

  “No, thanks,” he told her. “I’ll be fine. I just need to go check on my guys, make sure they’re all right.”

  “Not so fast, buster!” Eva tucked her phone away, eyes wide and determined. “You’re not going anywhere. Your guys will survive without you—Beck didn’t have a scratch on him, and he’s got your brother and two other chefs to help calm him down. They don’t need you.”

  A spike of panic punctured Danny’s pain haze. “Yeah, they fucking well do,” he gritted out.

  Her eyes softened. “That’s not what I meant,” she said, her voice going low and regretful. “But they need you whole and with all your bits in good working order. Think you can hold a whisk with those fingers?”

  Danny’s hands clenched spasmodically, sending shards of fire streaking through his palms and up into his wrists and forearms. The pain was a blur now, hard to tell where it ended and he began.

  Burns sucked.

  “I guess a little aloe or something couldn’t hurt,” Danny admitted, trying to keep his hands still.

  “That’s my boy.” Eva tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow and steered him out into the cool chill of the hotel hallway where a short, scruffy man in scrubs stood waiting.

  Danny shivered in the aggressive air-conditioning, the contrast of temperatures from the inferno of a busy, crowded kitchen to this empty hall making his head spin.

  “Oops, better sit down,” Scrubs said, pushing Danny over to the bench between the elevators. Embarrassed at how easily his knees folded and plopped him into a sitting position, Danny resisted the hand trying to get him to bend over and stick his head between his knees.

  “You’re a little shocky,” the paramedic explained, relentlessly urging him over. “A bad burn stresses the whole b
ody.”

  Blood rushed to Danny’s head and sloshed around like his skull had turned into a giant snow globe. It distracted him from the questions the paramedic asked, Eva’s answers, and the paramedic’s gentle but efficient probing.

  When they finally helped him sit back up and the blood drained back down where it was supposed to go, his hands were wrapped in white gauze and the searing pain had settled to a low throb that kept time with his heartbeat.

  Danny blinked. “I look like I’m about to go ten rounds in the boxing ring.”

  “Or a kid about to get into a snowball fight,” Eva suggested, accepting a clipboard from the paramedic guy and signing some papers.

  “You couldn’t have wrapped my fingers individually?” Danny had never been a big fan of mittens.

  “For tonight, keep them wrapped like that. Don’t get the bandages wet. Tomorrow, we’ll check and see how the burns are doing, and maybe we can see about cutting down on the padding.”

  “Sure thing, Doc,” Danny agreed easily, leaning his head back against the wall. No matter how the burns were doing, these mittens were coming off tomorrow. He needed his hands.

  Eva gave him a look like she knew what he was thinking, all arched eyebrow and smirking mouth, but she didn’t rat him out to the paramedic. Danny smiled at her, and when the guy handed her a miniature bottle of pain pills and took off, Eva smiled back.

  Shaking the bottle to make the pills rattle, she said, “Want one of these?”

  Danny cracked his neck from side to side, taking stock. His hands ached, but it was surprisingly manageable. “Nah, I’m good for now. Whatever that gel was that he smeared all over my hands seems to be doing its job.”

  “Well, the pills are here if you need them later.” He watched her slip the bottle into her purse.

  “Um. Not to be a wimp or anything, but I might take one before I pass out tonight.”

  “Good,” she said calmly, slipping the purse strap onto her shoulder and putting a hand under his elbow to steady him as he stood. “I think you should. Rest is important to recovery, and getting decent sleep will keep you sharp in the competition tomorrow.”