Some Like It Hot

by Louisa Edwards

  Muscles tensing as if he were about to run—or fight—Kane had to consciously work to relax each finger out of the fists he’d instinctively clenched. “I don’t want to be rude, or anything, but you’re way out of line. And maybe you and Claire go way back, but she’s with me now. You blew it with her a long time ago.”

  “Very true,” Theo said, holding up his hands in a palm-to-palm, supplicating manner. “Claire made it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that she’d chosen you.”

  Kane’s heart thawed and flopped around in his chest like a happy fish. “Then I guess this conversation is over.”

  “Not so fast, son.”

  Gritting his teeth, Kane said, “I’m not your son.”

  Theo’s stern face softened slightly. “Of course not. My apologies. It’s just that you and my daughter are the same age. I’ve made a lot of mistakes with her—mistakes I’m hoping to begin to rectify.”

  “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.” Kane’s restless fingers found a stray thread at the hem of his T-shirt and worried it.

  “It doesn’t,” Theo agreed. “But it does have to do with Claire. I want her back in my life. Back in Eva’s life. I can give Claire the future she deserves. Don’t you want her to have that?”

  Chapter 29

  Kane’s happy, flopping-fish heart had just been gutted and scaled. He had to reach for his scattered thoughts, and it took all his vocal training to push them out through his tight, scratchy throat.

  “What makes you think…” Kane swallowed, worked for it. “That you can give her a better future than the one she chose for herself?”

  Reluctant respect flashed across Theo’s face for a bare instant. “Claire’s a smart cookie. Always has been. And driven! When I first met her fifteen years ago, she was a freelance food writer, doing restaurant reviews for local newspapers and copy editing on the side to pay the bills. She pulled herself up from that to editor in chief of the most important food and lifestyle magazine in the world—and do you know how?”

  By being awesome? Somehow Kane didn’t think that answer would impress. He shook his head, wanting to see where Theo was going with all of this.

  “Claire never let anything get in her way. A lot of women get distracted by things like getting married, having kids.” He shrugged. “I’m not making a value judgment about it. It’s just the way things are. But Claire was never like that. She knew what she wanted, and she went after it with a laser focus that cut everything else out of her path. She earned a lot of respect that way—not something that’s easy for a woman in what’s essentially still a male-dominated field.”

  “You know, I already admired her. You’re not telling me anything startling and new,” Kane said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s your point?”

  Theo clasped his hands behind his back. “The point is, young man, she got where she is through hard work, determination, and self-denial. The top of the heap—and it’s lonely up there. I think we both know a little something about that.”

  “I don’t think you and I have much in common, Mr. Jansen.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. We both care for Claire, and for Eva, too. And we both know that not only is it lonely at the top, it’s also precarious up there. A balancing act. There’s always someone scaling the hill just below you, looking to topple you from your perch. And in Claire’s case, losing the respect of the serious food community, the restaurateurs, chefs, and advertisers who are the lifeblood of Délicieux—that wouldn’t just lose her that spot on top of the mountain. I really think it would kill her.”

  “Mr. Jansen.” Kane went to some effort to shake his head in thin, brittle amusement. “The fact that I’m a musician doesn’t make me more susceptible to dramatic pronouncements than other people.”

  It sort of did, though. Was Jansen right? Would being with Kane mess things up for Claire, in ways she didn’t want to think about right now?

  “By contrast,” Theo said, barreling past Kane’s retort, “I can give Claire invaluable support, professionally speaking—no one will think less of her for being with me.”

  Left unsaid was the fact that the same wasn’t necessarily true of Kane. He thought of how Claire had objected to their relationship, the things she’d said to talk herself out of it. Was this what she’d been thinking of?

  Fear pushed so hard down the back of Kane’s throat, he thought for a second he might gag.

  “If she’s with me, people will talk,” he said, feeling suffocated. Kane knew how the paparazzi worked. He was a veteran of the gossip rag wars. They’d say she was robbing the cradle, they’d speculate about her age, their sex life, her weight, and anything else they could think of to drive sales and create a scandal.

  “Hardly the image she wants to project as a highly placed, valued member of the professional culinary community.”

  “No,” Kane said. “I can see that.”

  “And then there’s the personal side,” Theo went on, gentle and soft and relentless as a pillow pressing down on Kane’s face, cutting off his oxygen. “Claire and Eva have always had a wonderful relationship. I want, more than anything, to give Eva what she’s lacked for so long—the kind of family her mother’s death, and my own dysfunctional grief, robbed her of.”

  Welcome anger sparked through Kane’s blood. “You think playing house with Claire and Eva is going to erase years of being a shitty father to her? Your baby’s all grown up, now, Jansen.”

  Theo actually winced, as if Kane had scored a direct hit. He wished it felt more satisfying. “I know my daughter is no longer a child. But she’s still my child, and your friend. And one of the most important people in Claire’s life. I’d like to give them an even closer connection—but you need to do the right thing here.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Step aside. Let Claire go. It’s for the best.” Theo paused, what looked like genuine regret etching lines in his weathered, dignified face. “For everyone, including Eva. I know she’s your friend. If you won’t think of us, at least think of Eva.”

  The warm, regretful, hideously sincere tones of Theo’s voice rang oddly flat in Kane’s ears, a clashing, dissonant chord that jarred him out of his momentary weakness. He felt a frown lowering his brow until he could barely see Theo through the fog of righteous anger.

  This asshole was manipulating him. Working on Kane’s guilt, his sympathy, whatever vulnerabilities Theo could find, and shredding them like a killer guitar riff.

  But he’d gone too far. Theo had woken up Kane’s competitive streak—the streak that had pushed him to practice like a fiend even though he could pick out a tune on any instrument within seconds of trying it out, the streak that had gotten him to leave home at eighteen for the bright lights of the Austin music scene, the streak that kept him working, recording, writing, and touring until he was one of the biggest names in the music industry.

  Nobody played Kane Slater.

  “You want me to step aside? Make me.”

  Theo blinked. “What?”

  “I didn’t stutter.” Kane dropped his defensively crossed arms to his sides, hooking his thumbs in his empty belt loops. He was a performer, after all. He knew the power of body language.

  “Mr. Slater.” Theo gave a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t be difficult. You’re only drawing out the inevitable.”

  Kane laughed, fighting spirit surging up into his chest. “I don’t believe in inevitability. The game’s not over until it’s over. And I’m in it to win it, Jansen. Claire is mine, and she’s going to stay that way.”

  Theo finally dropped the sympathetic-mentor act. A spasm of true annoyance crossed his handsome, weathered face. “You idiot. She’s only toying with you. Have a little self-respect. I’m trying to help you, keep you from embarrassing yourself.”

  “Fuck you, and your help.” Kane could feel his face going red with anger, or maybe with the shock of hearing his darkest secret fears voiced aloud.

  “Fine.�
�� Theo didn’t throw his hands into the air in a dramatic gesture, but Kane could tell by the twitch of his shoulders that he wanted to. “On your head be it. But when Claire comes to her senses and realizes there’s no possible place in her life for someone like you, I’ll be right there, on the spot, waiting to scoop her up.”

  Kane, who wasn’t afraid of dramatic gestures, arched a brow and leaned in close enough to whisper his parting shot into Theo’s closed, angry face.

  “May the best man win.”

  Danny blinked, stepping back from the kitchen doors.

  He felt like he’d just been buried under an avalanche of new information, and his brain was scrambling to process it all.

  Trying to move silently, because he didn’t want to find out how epically disastrous it’d be if Theo and Kane realized he’d overheard that whole convo, Danny took another step away from the doors—and had to bite back a yell when his foot landed on something warm and malleable.

  He jumped maybe a mile in the air, and came down face-to-face with Claire Durand.

  Stupidly, he dropped his gaze to see what he’d stepped on. Oh. Claire Durand’s foot.

  Claire Durand. The head judge of the RSC. And the subject of the conversation he’d just eavesdropped on.

  Raising panicked eyes to her face, Danny relaxed almost instantly. He could’ve run over her foot with a cross-town bus, he realized, and she wouldn’t have registered his presence.

  All her attention was focused on the cracked kitchen door and the men beyond it, her face frozen in an eerily blank expression.

  A moment later, Kane Slater pushed out of the kitchen, his cheeks red beneath his golden-boy tan.

  Wincing, Danny wanted nothing more than to leap out of the way of the oncoming train wreck—unless it was to avoid drawing any attention to himself. Either way, it was moot; he couldn’t get his feet to work in the time it took for Kane to barrel to a stop in front of Claire, surprise warring with the militant determination that had fired his whole body into a taut, tense live wire.

  “Claire! How long have you been out here?”

  When she replied, her colorless lips hardly moved. “Long enough to hear you and Theo fighting over me like two small boys with a toy.”

  Kane grimaced, but he was still clearly riled, not ready to do what Danny was trying to telepathically convince him to do.

  Apologize. Say you’re sorry, and mean it. Grovel. Come on!

  But instead, Kane shook his head. “Yeah, that got ugly. I wish you hadn’t heard it.”

  Ooh, misstep. Danny squeezed his eyes shut, fading into the background of this debacle as much as possible, but he had to crack one eye to see how Claire was taking it.

  About like he’d expected—she was pissed. But in that icy, intense way where she spoke so quietly, he had to strain to hear her.

  “Oh, I’m certain you never wished for me to hear you laying claim to me, exposing our private affairs and gloating…”

  She broke off, something wild and anguished breaking through her frozen mask, and Kane seemed to finally understand that something was really wrong here.

  “No! Claire, that’s not what I—”

  But it was too late. Holding up a hand, she wrestled herself back under such rigid control, Danny wouldn’t have been shocked if her bones had shattered.

  “Stop.” Finally, as Danny had dreaded all along, Claire’s eyes shifted to take in their embarrassed audience of one.

  “Come on, just let me explain,” Kane tried.

  “Oh, I think you have brought quite enough outside people into our private relationship.” Claire’s voice never rose above a whisper, but it was sharp enough to slash right through Kane’s justifications.

  Unable to pretend he hadn’t just witnessed everything that went down, Danny tried on a smile and waded into the fray. “Hey, don’t mind me. I was just looking for Eva, but she’s obviously not here, so I’m going to go. Away. And let you two talk this out.”

  Kane shot him a grateful glance, but Claire said, “There is no need. The chefs will be arriving momentarily, and we have judging matters to discuss. Mr. Slater?”

  Stalking forward, she pushed open the kitchen door and held it for Kane, head high and face white with suppressed emotion.

  There was a long, tense pause in which Kane did nothing, merely looked at her, while Danny held his breath.

  Finally, Kane moved. He walked back toward the kitchen, but as he drew level with Claire, he leaned in and said, “Fine. Have it your way—but this isn’t over, Claire. You heard me tell Theo I wouldn’t give you up without a fight, yeah? I meant every word. Even if the one I’m fighting is you.”

  Something flickered in Claire’s dark eyes, something that made Danny suddenly let out the breath he’d been holding, but before she could respond, a discreet, melodic tone behind them signaled the arrival of the elevator.

  Without a backward glance, Kane marched into the kitchen, and Claire followed him. She gave Danny a quick look, lips pursed as if she wanted to say something.

  Danny nodded immediately, hoping to show that he understood, that she could trust him to keep his mouth shut about what he’d heard. She nodded back and let the door swing shut behind her just as Ike Bryar and the rest of the Southern Team bounded off the elevator.

  Danny rocked on his heels and cracked his knuckles, mind reeling with everything he’d heard.

  Bryar, a big guy with a shaved head, wrapped this morning in a Karate-Kid-style bandanna, jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “What’s up with our head judge?”

  Danny shrugged, looked away. “They’re having a judges’ meeting before the challenge; Jansen and Rock Star Boy are in the kitchen, too. It’s not quite seven yet, I thought I’d give them a few more minutes.”

  Ike blew a loud, irreverent raspberry and propped his considerable weight against the door, cracking it open even farther. “Hey, it’s seven on the dot, by my watch. Oh! What’s this? The kitchen’s open! Guess we might as well go on in and get this shitshow on the road.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Danny said, laughing. “I’m going to wait for my guys. We’ll see you in there.”

  He shook his head as the rowdy southern crew packed into the kitchen, all catcalls and cheerful good mornings.

  The elevator doors pinged again, and another gaggle of chefs spilled out, raising the noise level in the quiet hotel hallway from peaceful to raucous in seconds, and Danny was swept up in the current of people rushing into the kitchen.

  Everyone hurried to their team tables, unfolding nylon knife rolls and setting utensils out across their stations in the places where their hands would know to reach for them, automatically, no thought required.

  Eva walked in a few minutes later, gorgeous in a short dress that looked like it used to be tight enough to skim her curves distractingly.

  Today the shimmery soft purple fabric hung on her sharp shoulders, bunching a little when she put her arm around her assistant’s shoulders and leaned over to whisper in his ear.

  The assistant, Drew, grinned and moved smoothly to intercept Theo Jansen, leading him off to the side while Eva went to confer with the camera guys.

  “Hmm. She’s not giving you the death glare. That’s a good sign.”

  Giving Winslow an irritated look, Danny admitted, “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her.”

  “Good,” Win said. “Look at her! She looks great.”

  Cheney, the guy she’d met with at The Blind Tiger, seemed to be asking her for something, and he looked annoyed when she shook her head apologetically.

  Danny scowled. “She’s lost weight over the last week. She was perfect already!”

  “I’d say you worry too much, but you’ve heard that before and never paid any damn attention,” Winslow said. “So why bother? Hey, at least you know she’ll be sitting down and eating something today at the judges’ table.”

  Eva finished up her quiet discussion with Cheney, who turned back to the three new cameramen and had
them huddle around while Eva put on her biggest smile.

  “Good morning, Chefs!”

  Everyone chorused the greeting back to her, with varying degrees of positivity. The West Coast Team looked sleepy, as if they hadn’t managed to acclimate themselves to the time difference yet.

  Ryan Larousse and his gang looked, as usual, like they’d rather be wielding guns than knives, primed and ready for action.

  Danny struggled to get his head back in the game after the morning’s drama. This was the moment they’d been waiting for—the last challenge before the finals. Nothing was more important than coming through today and being chosen as one of the three teams to continue in the competition.

  His pep talk high lasted him until Eva started to describe what they were about to face.

  “Maybe you’ve noticed, we’ve got a few extra cameras for the challenge today!” She dimpled at them, pleased as punch. “And with the heightened involvement of the Cooking Channel, we’re taking on a couple of other changes. The structure of the judging will be a little different—I’ll explain that in a minute. For now, all you need to do is ignore the cameras. Just forget they’re there, and cook your best! This is the big one, guys. Good luck to each of you.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Are we set, Mr. Cheney?”

  “Rolling,” he replied, aiming his camera at her.

  Flashing the chefs another brilliant, almost manic smile, Eva walked over to the table Danny had seen last night, the long one covered in a white tablecloth.

  “Remember what I said at the start of the competition about the importance of teamwork? Well, today, I’m going to divide you up into two teams.”

  Tension shot through the contestants like a bullet. Danny stared at her, stunned. Team challenges were the worst—being forced to work with your competition added a layer of stress and strategy to an already fraught situation.

  Ignoring the murmurs from the chefs, Eva said, “Midwest, you’ll be teaming up with the South.” Danny had only a second to breathe a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t have to deal with that ticking time bomb, Ryan Larousse, on their team before Eva continued, “That means, West Coast? You’ll be cooking with the East Coast.”