Danny knew he was lying to himself the instant his heart lifted into his throat when she stepped through the doors. She was immaculate as always in a pair of soft, tight-fitting pants the color of a perfectly ripe Italian eggplant and a creamy confection of a shirt that wrapped around her slender form, revealing nothing, but somehow leaving nothing to the imagination.
He’d never known any woman as effortlessly sensual and seductive as Eva Jansen. A rush of desire and he was hard in his jeans, aching with the need to touch her.
So he was nothing but a convenient sex toy to her. Maybe he could live with that.
The guy who walked into the kitchen after her, however, put a very effective dampener on Danny’s libido.
“Shit, what is he doing here,” Danny muttered.
“Who?” Win wanted to know.
“The old guy,” Danny said, jerking his head toward the new arrivals. “That’s Theo Jansen.”
“And where’s Devon Sparks?” Winslow’s sharp eyes had noted the one absence from the normal crew of judges as Claire Durand and Kane Slater marched in, followed by no one.
Danny shrugged, watching from the corner of his eye as Eva finished her consultation with the TV producer and stepped forward, hand raised. “Looks like we’re about to find out.”
“Chefs! Can you gather around for a second, please? We’ll stop the wall clock, so you won’t lose any time.”
Danny followed the gaggle of sweaty, red-faced, food-stained men and women up to the front of the kitchen.
It was stupid—these were his people. He was just one of the crowd, and he blended in with them perfectly in his chef’s jacket smeared with ruby-red plum juice and with a drying patch of batter crusting down one sleeve.
Still, he stood in front of Eva and her distinguished father, and felt like digging his toes in the ground and brushing at his dirty clothes like some urchin off the street.
“As some of you may already know, the man to my left is my father, Theo Jansen. He ran this competition for twenty years, and he’s here to lend us his expertise, so please welcome him!”
There was a polite round of applause, but looking around the room at the other competitors’ faces, Danny was pretty sure the prevailing reaction was impatience to get back to cooking.
Theo Jansen stepped forward, smiling like a benevolent uncle. “This is the first year I’ve stepped back and let someone else take control—my daughter, Eva. And from what I can see, she’s doing a fantastic job!”
The false heartiness of his voice grated in Danny’s ears, and he thought he saw a quickly suppressed wince from Eva. But her face stayed smooth and pleasant, camera-ready, even when Theo continued, “But I have to say, I’m glad to be here, so I can keep an eye on things.”
Plastering on a smile that Danny knew was fake the same way he could tell imitation vanilla from pure vanilla extract, Eva moved up to stand next to her father and took a deep breath. “Chefs, I also have some upsetting news, which is that Devon Sparks has had to leave us.”
Interest rustled through the room as chefs glanced at one another, eyebrows raised. “He and his wife are expecting their first child together,” Eva explained, “and there have been some complications. Nothing life threatening, but Devon feels that he needs to be there for his family at this time, and of course, we understand.”
“So who’s going to be the new third judge?” Jules muttered, just loudly enough for Danny to hear. “Crap, we did all that research on Sparks, his likes and dislikes, and now it’s for shit.”
“I know you’re wondering who will take Devon’s place,” Eva said, still wearing that imitation vanilla smile. “In the interests of moving forward, not losing any time or momentum with the competition, we need to get someone in that third judges’ chair quickly, so … my father will be stepping in as a judge.”
A shiver of dread worked its way down Danny’s spine. Somehow, this didn’t feel like good news.
“I’ll still be running the competition, and of course I’m the panel moderator, so I’ll be tasting your food right alongside my father and the other judges.” She glanced over at Danny as if she couldn’t help it. He stared back, unsure how he was even supposed to react.
“Okay. Playtime’s over,” Eva concluded, swallowing hard, and Danny had to work to contain his flinch. Flexing his fingers, he concentrated on the pain of his burned hands, using that focus to keep his face blank and emotionless.
Theo Jansen stepped forward, his hearty voice booming out over the assembled chefs. “So get back to cooking—you’ve got less than an hour left on the timer!”
Everyone scattered, grumbling about sauces that had been left on the stove too long, but Danny lingered for a moment, his guts clenched into a knot at the way Eva’s throat moved convulsively as she swallowed, her eyes shadowed dark gray with what looked an awful lot like regret.
Her hand grasped the sleeve of his chef’s jacket, a quick, glancing brush of the fingers that was enough to stop Danny in his tracks.
“Danny,” she said softly, flicking a glance at the television camera against the wall, filming the action by the ovens.
No one gave a shit what they were doing, Danny was sure—all anyone cared about was the relentless ticking of the timer as they rushed to get their dishes finished. Still, he jerked his head in the direction of the walk-in cooler.
Once they were out of the line of camera sight, Eva seemed to relax a little, her shoulders sloping down as she let out a breath.
“I know you don’t have any time to spare,” she said quickly, not meeting his eyes. “But I had to make sure we were on the same page—”
“Don’t sweat it.” Danny was proud of how even his tone was. “I know exactly where I stand, and what last night was about. And if the page you’re on says it can’t ever happen again, then we’re definitely reading from the same book.”
She stiffened. “Good.”
“Great.”
Her gaze flashed to his for a second, and Danny had to flex his fingers again, clenching them down tight and aching to keep himself from asking her if this was really the way she wanted to play it.
But it was. Of course it was. Eva knew exactly what she wanted—it was pretty much her defining characteristic. And she never let anything stand in the way of getting it.
Clearly, she didn’t want Danny.
Not the way he wanted her.
Nodding decisively, Eva lifted her chin, took a deep breath that did interesting things to that shirt she was wearing, and marched over to consult with the cameraman, heels clicking a staccato beat against the tiled floor.
Danny watched her go, every muscle locked in the desire to grab her, shake her, make her admit that the fire they’d started was too hot to burn itself out after one night—but Eva had already put him out of her mind.
She had a job to do, and in her own way, Eva was every bit as hardcore as any chef Danny had ever known. Admiration glimmered through him, and a kind of bone-deep recognition.
This was probably a no-brainer for her. Ditch the chef contestant, avoid complications with the competition. Or maybe not—maybe she felt the same serrated edge of unfulfilled hope and wasted potential slashing at her insides that Danny did.
But both of them knew it didn’t matter.
Eva would keep going. She wasn’t a quitter. She wouldn’t walk off the line and leave her staff fumbling around, trying to play catch-up without her. She’d stick it out, nut up, and get it done.
In that moment, Danny knew he was a goner.
Chapter 18
Cheney waggled his bushy eyebrows at her, pen stuck in the gristly hair behind his ear. Waving his clipboard at her, he said, “Hey, if I’d known we were going to get this kind of drama on a daily basis, I’d have pushed for more cameras.”
Eva felt a burst of frustration that threatened to bloom into a full-on rage. It was as if the entire universe were conspiring to make this the crappiest day possible.
“Look, Mr. Cheney,” she gritted out
, her jaw so tight it hurt. “I told those visionless pricks at the Cooking Channel months ago that this competition had the potential to be their hottest new show, or at least a special-event program that could pull in millions of viewers.”
“That’s right,” Cheney nodded. “And they sent me to check it out, get some B reel, and assess whether there’s enough here to bother bringing in a full crew. Which is expensive, as I think I don’t have to probably remind you.”
Eva put her hands on her hips, digging her fingernails in until she could feel tiny crescent moons of pain stinging through the clingy wool of her trousers. “So if you’ve already assessed us as ‘worth the bother,’ where the hell is the rest of my camera crew?”
Cheney made a clicking noise with his tongue and the inside of his jowly cheek. “Well, that’s where it gets dicey. Things were going great, with that fight and everything, and that lady chef from San Fran making eyes at the big, scary dude from Manhattan. There was some story there. And that other New York chef, the one who tackled the soup and saved the girl? That was pure gold! Until you made me shut off the camera. And now this thing with Devon Sparks leaving … I don’t know.”
“What, exactly, is it that you don’t know, Mr. Cheney?” Eva tried not to sound too homicidally annoyed, but it was tough, because the primary alternative was to let him see how desperate she was. “Because the competition is going forward, with or without Chef Sparks as a judge, and I can assure you the drama is only just beginning.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s true enough.” Cheney cast a jaundiced eye over the rush and bustle of chefs in the last hour of the challenge’s countdown. “I’ve been shooting for the Cooking Channel a long time, and let me tell you, there ain’t nobody got more drama than a big group of chefs. The gossip and backbiting and sleeping around and egos clashing all over the place—I tell you what, it’s a dream for an honest TV producer, looking to make a few bucks.”
“Again, I have to ask, Mr. Cheney. What is the problem?” She gestured out at the frantic kitchen, hotter than the steam room at her fitness club, and twice as sweaty, full of shouts and near-collisions, and at least fifty enticing smells competing for her attention.
He stuck his clipboard under his arm and rummaged around in his pocket, coming up with a pack of gum. After Eva refused a piece with a quick shake of her head, he shrugged and popped one in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “The problem is, you don’t seem to be on board with the kind of program this wants to be. You got to get the viewers to turn on their TVs or set their TiVos, or whatever it is. You got to get the butts in the recliners, is what I’m saying. And the quickest way to do that is star power.”
“But we have Kane Slater,” Eva protested. “He’s a multi-platinum recording artist! He’s on every magazine’s list of hottest guys out there!”
“Yeah, he was a good get,” Cheney acknowledged, sucking on his gum. “But he’s not a chef. Cooking Channel viewers? They tend to get their panties wet mainly over hot chefs. That’s sort of the whole point.”
Eva gave him her best unimpressed look. “If you’re trying to disgust me, you should know, I’m fairly unshockable. And I don’t grant your premise, at all. Kane has universal appeal!”
“To music nerds, maybe.” Cheney snorted, but Eva thought she saw a spark of respect in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Look, I’m not saying there’s zero crossover potential. But I can tell you right now, my bosses aren’t going to think it’s enough. You can’t argue with demographics, at least not to TV execs.”
“Mr. Cheney. We are, of course, in talks with several major Cooking Channel stars, trying to work it out with their schedules so they’ll be able to come on as judges. My father is only stepping in temporarily. Can’t you give us a few more days to make that happen?”
The naked plea in her voice must have penetrated his thick, crusty exterior, because Cheney softened minutely. “Look, I’d like to help you out, but every day I’m here, filming stuff I won’t be able to use, it’s costing the studio money. Here’s an idea—If you can’t give ’em a hot chef at the forefront of the action, here, you’re going to have to go for the other big audience draw—reality show staples like catfights, secret affairs, that kind of thing. You got any of that to offer?”
Eva felt like pulling her hair out. Except then she’d be bald, on top of everything else, and her life was shitty enough already.
“No! That’s not the kind of show I want to do. That’s not what this competition is about.”
Before Cheney could do more than roll his eyes, her father’s smooth voice cut into the conversation.
“Mr. Cheney, give me a moment with my daughter. I’m sure we’ll be able to put our heads together and come up with several ideas that will interest your superiors at the Cooking Channel.”
Chewing hard, Cheney squinted back and forth between Eva and her father. She stood as tall as she could, refusing to show any emotion.
She wanted Cheney to stay—but was she desperate enough to give in to his demands? Eva didn’t know.
She’d have to figure it out, though, and fast, because the obnoxious little man turned back to his equipment with a terse, “Fine. I’m kind of curious what they’re making, anyway. But after that, if you can’t offer me another hot chef judge or something juicy, and I’m talking front page of US Weekly, I’m out of here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cheney.” Eva gripped her father’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen doors. “You won’t regret it.”
“Eva, please,” Theo said with a glance at the timer on the wall. “The challenge is almost over. We don’t have time for this right now. Cheney has agreed to stay, there’s nothing more we can do for now.”
Battling back tears of frustration she would not allow to fall, Eva tried to get her breathing under control. “Really, Dad? We don’t have time for you to explain why you’re trying to sabotage me?”
Theo got that pained look on his face, the one that told Eva she’d reminded him of her mother, somehow. She’d stopped asking for specifics when she was around eleven, but the expression never failed to clutch at her heart.
“So dramatic,” Theo murmured, letting her pull him out into the hallway. “I’m not trying to sabotage you, honey. I’d never do anything to hurt you. But you swore you could get the RSC onto the Cooking Channel, and so far, it seems like you’re just not willing to do what it takes to make it happen.”
Eva’s throat felt scratchy and tight, as if she’d swallowed shards of broken glass. “Dad. I’m trying…”
“Not hard enough. As the head of Jansen Hospitality, I’m like an army general. I need to know that when I tell my lieutenant to take that hill, that damn hill is as good as taken. No excuses. No waffling. The fact that you can’t seem to close this deal with the Cooking Channel, well…”
He pressed his lips together so tightly, they disappeared in his trim salt-and-pepper beard. “It makes me wonder how ready you are to take over Jansen Hospitality. Honestly, it makes me wonder if you’ll ever be ready.”
The words hit her like a slap in the face. Her knees almost crumpled, but Eva dug for the strength to stand up straight.
“You were right,” she said through numb lips. “This isn’t the right time to discuss this. Come on, let’s go back inside.”
Remorse glimmered through Theo’s dark gray eyes. He put a large, warm hand on her shoulder—the same hand that had clumsily braided her hair, and tenderly dabbed antibiotic ointment on a scraped knee, and pulled her close for a hug after she graduated from college.
Throat aching, eyes burning, she stepped away to open the doors. Theo let his hand fall back to his side, and Eva tried to pretend she didn’t hear his sigh of disappointment.
So dramatic, she heard in her head, her father’s voice equal parts nostalgia, pain, and irritation.
Dramatic like her mother, she guessed, although Eva didn’t really know. Her main memories of her mother were of soft arms, and kisses that smelled waxy and left bright
red imprints of smiling lips against her cheeks.
Eva didn’t feel dramatic. She felt brittle, like sugar spread thin and burnt to a crisp, as if all it would take was one sharp tap and she’d shatter across the kitchen floor.
Okay, maybe she was a little dramatic. But damn it! Could this day get any worse?
Danny had to push hard to get his dish finished, but once he’d gotten his brainwave, it was downhill work from there.
He’d watched Theo take Eva out of the kitchen for a confab, and when they came back in, Eva had that look. The too-perfect, put-together face that hid everything vibrant and real about her behind a facade of serene professionalism.
It was Eva’s game face.
Danny felt an unwilling tug of sympathy. He knew from personal experience, nobody could tear into you, make you bleed and cry, like family. And he had what he considered a really good relationship with his parents.
From what he could tell, Eva would say the same. She obviously loved her father. As much as he held her position in the family company over her head or hurt her feelings or fucked around with a lot of women, she adored him. And it made sense. Theo was all she’d had, ever since she was little.
It made Danny remember the story she’d told him, about her dad cooking French pancakes for her when she was a kid. The memory had been a happy one, he knew, a moment in time when she and her father had been in perfect harmony, the sweet and bitter of life balanced and blended, rolled up in a crisp-tender, golden crêpe and dusted with confectioner’s sugar.
French pancakes, he thought, a grin tugging at his mouth. He loved that she still called them that, even after a lifetime of five-star French meals and trips to Paris.
And then, as if Eva had waltzed over and whispered it in his ear, Danny knew exactly what he was going to make.
It was risky—crêpe batter was supposed to sit in the fridge for at least an hour after you mixed it up, to let all the tiny air bubbles pop and settle so the crêpes were easier to handle, less likely to tear. But there was less than an hour left, no time to lose, and Danny would just have to execute his crêpes perfectly. There was no other option.
Some Like It Hot Page 16