Secret Ingredient: Love

by Teresa Southwick

“Still? You mean he saw through me?” she asked, dark eyes twinkling.

  “Like clear-paned glass. He told me so the first night he came to my apartment, using the flimsy excuse of returning the baby food jars.”

  “He’s smarter than I thought.”

  Fran could have told her that. But she wanted to know more about the “schedule.” “What did you mean about Alex and me being right on schedule?”

  “You wanted to brain him. Passionately,” she added, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively.

  Fran shook her head so hard that her hair loosened and fell, tumbling around her shoulders. She pulled out the clip. “That’s not funny, Rosie. There is nothing of a personal nature between Alex and me. For goodness’ sake, you saw me talking to myself when you walked in. About him,” she added.

  “I know,” Rosie said, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s a sure sign that things are progressing nicely. You always want to clobber them before you kiss them.”

  “The thought of kissing your brother has never entered my mind,” she said, crossing her fingers behind her back to nullify the lie.

  “Methinks she doth protest too much.” Rosie held up her hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. It’s enough that I know the seed is planted and starting to sprout. Time will tell if my efforts bear fruit.”

  Fran feigned a sympathetic look as she patted the other woman’s hand. “I’m glad you came to see me, Mother Earth. You need to get out of the bookstore more often. In fact, you need to branch out from the romance section to mysteries. I can tell from this nonsense about Alex and me that you’ve already been dabbling in science fiction.”

  “Very funny, Fran.”

  “I hate to say you’re wrong, but when the shoe fits…” She shrugged. “I’m not the perfect woman, not for any man. And especially not for Alex. He told me about Beth.” She couldn’t help asking, “What was she like?”

  Rosie hesitated several moments before saying, “She was a good person and very solicitous of Alex.”

  Fran nodded knowingly. “So he had his shot at love. He’ll never feel that way again.”

  “Time will tell,” Rosie said as she walked to the doorway. She grinned wickedly. “I still believe I’m right. And when you and Alex wind up together, I can say I told you so. Only I won’t. Not only am I above that, I’ll be too overjoyed to finally see my brother happy.”

  Before she could retort, Rosie was gone. Fran had to admit Alex was tempting. She’d worked with him a month now, and instead of waning, her attraction was more acute. She smiled, recalling the first time they’d talked. She had to admit Alex looked twice as cute as when she had first laid eyes on him. And the glow he’d put in her heart then now threatened to erupt into a full-blown fire. The only thing that had saved her from herself was his disinterest. He’d made no move, given her no indication that he found her the least bit attractive.

  And she was relieved, she told herself. With time, effort, several cold showers a day and a stroll into the walk-in freezer, she might even convince herself of that. But it was for the best that he wasn’t interested in her. Not only was she philosophically opposed to being anyone’s wife, she didn’t believe the man existed who could change her mind about marriage. Even if she found a man she could trust to tell her the truth. A man she could believe loved her for herself. Even then, a walk down the aisle was not for her.

  She just hoped Rosie wasn’t disappointed two months from now when her contract expired and the matchmaking was a dismal failure.

  Alex walked into the corporate kitchen to make sure everything was ready for Operation Third Son. He smiled at the thought, remembering Fran’s analysis of his motivation. It was fish or cut bait time. The family was due any minute. He didn’t see Fran, but the freezer door was open.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” he called out.

  Fran walked out, followed by a cold mist. She was all in white—pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, topped off with a spotless apron. She smiled a welcome, and he couldn’t help thinking that she exuded enough warmth to melt everything in the deep freeze. Including his heart. He shook his head, banishing that thought and the guilt that followed.

  “Hi,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Is everything ready?”

  She nodded. “The entrées are frozen. When your family gets here, I’ll microwave them for everyone to taste.” She let out a long, steadying breath.

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” he asked.

  “Me?” she said brightly. “Only about everything.”

  “Define ‘everything.”’

  “The entrées. Not letting you down. Spending time with the royal Marchetti hierarchy.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Piece of cake.”

  “You already know Nick, Joe and Luke. Ma and Dad are going to love you.”

  “Rosie said the same thing when she stopped by last week.”

  “What else did she say?” he asked.

  “Idle chitchat,” Fran answered vaguely, not meeting his gaze.

  Translation: matchmaking. He knew Rosie. When she got an idea in her head, especially about romance, she didn’t let it go without a fight. She took after their mother. But he didn’t want to go there any more than Fran did.

  “Okay,” he said briskly. “Do you mind if I take a look? At our babies? The entrées,” he clarified at her startled expression.

  “You’re the boss,” she said. But her mouth pulled into a straight line. Her body tensed.

  Problem? How he hated that word. He knew the stuffed shells were giving her fits, but he crossed his fingers as he walked into the freezer. To his right on the shelf were the frozen main dishes, all lined up. He saw pizza, spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, and a good-looking arrangement of stuffed shells and marinara sauce. Then he noticed another dish. It was angel hair pasta with some kind of white sauce. Someone, namely his sexy-as-hell chef, was cooking up rebellion in the ranks.

  He walked out and shut the door behind him. “What’s with the fifth entrée?” he asked casually.

  She squared her shoulders, standing as tall as her five-foot-two status allowed. Then she looked him dead in the eye. “I thought it prudent to have another choice in the wings, just in case.”

  “I don’t know what you’re worried about. The shells dish looks great,” he protested.

  “I agree. But it’s still in one solid, appealing piece. Wait till it’s nuked.”

  “You’re borrowing trouble.”

  “You’ve seen it yourself, Alex,” she protested.

  He nodded. “I didn’t think it was that bad.” But he was nervous about it, too. “Let’s hold off on the last one until we see how the first four go.”

  “I’d like to unveil it along with the others. It’s a new recipe of mine,” she said. “I need the objective feedback. The ingredients are minimal and it’s not labor intensive, which would maximize profit. And I think it tastes pretty good. If I do say so myself.”

  He shook his head, reluctant to present too many choices and confuse the issue. “I still want to hold off.”

  Her chin rose slightly in the way he was beginning to recognize as defiance. She didn’t give up easily. Unlike Beth. The idea popped into his mind. He recalled the way his fiancée had always catered to his wishes. Like waiting on the wedding, he thought. He looked at the obstinate expression in Fran’s brown eyes, turning them dark as coals, and couldn’t picture her knuckling under if she wanted to get married. Which she’d made it clear she didn’t.

  He shook his head slightly. No, Fran was nothing like Beth. And that wasn’t altogether a bad thing.

  “I still want to bring it out tonight.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him, the walking, talking, breathing definition of stubborn.

  They stood there, waiting for the other to blink. “I’m the boss, Fran. And I say we hold off.”

  “I’m the chef. And I want the feedback.”

  “Are you going to make me pull rank?”

  “Not
unless you dismiss my solution to the stalemate.”

  He put his hands on his hips and stared down at her. “And that would be?”

  “We arm wrestle.” She met his gaze with a mutinous one of her own. “If you win, I’ll put my epicurean triumph aside, albeit reluctantly. If I win, we serve it tonight along with the others, as if we’d planned it that way.”

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I’m practically twice your size. I outweigh you by eighty pounds.”

  “Ninety-five easy,” she snapped.

  “Whatever. It wouldn’t be fair,” he objected.

  “I thought you were different,” she said, shaking her head. “But you’re as autocratic as every man I’ve ever met. More,” she added with spirit.

  “I’m just trying to be fair. But if you really want to lose, far be it from me to be just and impartial.”

  She put her elbow on the corner of the island with her hand raised and fire in her eyes. “Let’s do it.”

  “You’re on. But I want to go on record that I feel a little guilty taking advantage of you.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it,” she said, her expression glowing with mischief.

  He rested his elbow beside hers. His arm was longer and he had to adjust his position so that he could grasp her small, delicate hand. This went against everything his father had ever taught him about being a gentleman, about looking after a woman, about respecting the weaker sex. Although he had doubts about that last part when he was a bit distracted by her closeness, her feminine scent, the warmth of her small hand in his larger one, the delicacy of her fingers. He shook his head to clear it. There was no possible way he could lose. He had her on size and strength.

  “Go,” she said, tensing her arm as she tried to push his hand to the counter, without success.

  Exhilaration coursed through him and heated his blood. Damn, but his job had spiced up since he’d hired Fran.

  “You can use both hands if you’d like,” he offered graciously.

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “Okay. But I don’t want to hurt you.” He grinned. “Anytime you want to give, just say the word.”

  “I’d rather eat glass,” she said, slightly breathless from her exertion.

  “It’s your call.”

  One minute Alex was enjoying himself immensely. He was looking into her snapping brown eyes and thinking how beautiful she was. Her lips were full and soft and so close he would hardly have to move to…The next instant, she leaned closer and put her mouth on his.

  His first thought was that she tasted better—felt softer—than he’d ever imagined. His next was that he wanted to stay there forever and explore the depths of her sweetness. Heat raced through his body as his heart rate doubled. Blood pounded in his ears. His breathing quickened when he heard Fran’s soft, eminently feminine moan of pleasure.

  Unsatisfied by the stiff seam of her lips, he traced it with his tongue, and she instantly opened to him. He explored the moist, honeyed sweetness, enjoying the seductive intimacy. Not to mention the fact that her breathing was fast and furious.

  He lifted his free hand and slid his fingers into her hair, releasing the upswept silkiness from the single clip. The strands cascaded around her face, and he cupped his palm to the back of her head, making the contact of their mouths more firm, more secure.

  Still it wasn’t enough. He tried to pull her into his arms and realized the counter was in the way. Moving back slightly, he saw the flush on her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He wanted her. What a feeling! Until that moment he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed holding a woman, kissing her. Or maybe it was just kissing Fran.

  He was about to step around the counter and tug her against him when she shook her head slightly, then pinned his arm to the countertop.

  Breathlessly she said, “I win. We’re showing my entrée.”

  Instantly he straightened. “You cheated.”

  She took a big breath, then grinned. “I did what I had to do. Growing up with four brothers taught me how to handle bullies. Brains win out over brawn any day of the week.”

  “Okay,” he said, bracing his elbow for another go-around. “Best two out of three.”

  And he didn’t mean arm wrestling. Two could play this game. If she wanted to cheat with a kiss, he would show her how it was done.

  Before she could answer, he heard a burst of applause from the doorway. When he whirled around, he saw Nick, Joe and Luke, with his mother and father standing just in front of their sons. All of them were grinning at him as if he’d won first prize at the state fair.

  Flo Marchetti walked over to the island and kissed his cheek. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, dear.”

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Six

  H eat? Kitchen? Out?

  Sounded good to Fran. In fact, out had been her first choice the moment her sensual haze cleared. Her intention had been to surprise him in order to win. But she’d been the one surprised—at the powerful passionate punch she’d received from the touch of her mouth to his. Wow didn’t do her feelings justice, but it was the first word that came to mind.

  Then she’d realized that Alex’s family had seen her kiss him. Correction, not the whole family, just the ones who got a vote. It was the first time since culinary school that she’d been grateful for the tough, character building experience. She’d developed a spine that had kept her rooted to the spot when Alex had introduced her to his parents, Flo and Tom Marchetti.

  Since starting at the company five weeks before, she couldn’t remember seeing all four of the Marchetti brothers together. Until now. And there should be a law against the phenomenon, because so much mas culinity and testosterone in one room could generate a rapturous feminine whimper heard around the world. Even she couldn’t quite suppress an appreciative sigh. All the brothers had the same dark, wavy hair and eyes. Correction, Luke’s eyes were blue. But the olive skin tone was the same. All were tall and muscular and good-looking enough to tempt a convention of card-carrying, man-hating spinsters.

  But Alex was by far the best looking.

  The fact that Fran could form that thought through her profound embarrassment in front of his family was a testament to her character. Although it was her own fault. She had cheated. But damn his male arrogance. Number one, for putting her original recipe on a back burner. Number two, for underestimating her arm wrestling skills, just because she was a woman.

  But her self-righteous anger, adrenaline and sensuous daze had evaporated with the sound of applause from his family.

  Now she watched anxiously as his parents and brothers sampled the five entrées she’d heated and lined up on the counter. Steam wafted from each as the aromas mingled in the air.

  Nobody said anything, and her tension mounted, along with her uncontrollable urge to fill the strained silence. Don’t start babbling, she warned herself, just before the words started pouring out of her mouth.

  “I’ve tried to create the average consumer environment. This is the way the food will taste straight from the microwave,” she explained. “Although every oven is different and that qualifier needs to be included in heating instructions on the packaging.”

  They all nodded. Anxiously, she watched them taste, and again her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Don’t open your mouth, came the caution. But again the message drained through the colander of her brain.

  “Consumers are health conscious and knowledgeable about reading labels. I used additives that are safe. Canthaxanthin makes food red and is not harmful as opposed to cochineal, which needs more testing to determine risk factors.”

  She was rambling and couldn’t seem to stop. But no one was saying anything. Oh, where was a muzzle, or a sturdy roll of duct tape when she really needed it? Would she be this keyed up if she could control her need to impress Alex? A moot point, until she found the secret ingredient to a recipe for suppressing anything around him.
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  “Ammonium alginate stabilizes and thickens. And it’s extracted from seaweed.”

  Flo scooped up a forkful of the stuffed shells. After chewing thoughtfully, she said, “Then this one needs more seaweed. It’s too watery.”

  The comment was directed at Alex, and Fran jumped to his defense. “I put too much of the chemical in and it threw the taste off. By the way, don’t let the word chemical worry you. It tends to put people off, but technically all foods are made up of chemicals.” She paused for breath and twisted her fingers together. “They’re a normal product of human metabolism. For instance, lactic acid controls pH and is a preservative.”

  Joe slapped Alex on the back. “Bet that’s a chemical near and dear to your heart,” he teased.

  “A small case of food poisoning might just teach you some respect.” Alex smiled at his brother.

  The rest of the Marchettis were intent on the food. After her first taste of the shells, Flo went down the line, nodding approvingly at each other entrée. Then she took a bite of the new recipe. She glanced at her son, then met Fran’s gaze. “Mmm. Wonderful light flavor. Very tasty.”

  The rest of the family tested it and raved. After trying each of the entrées, they compared notes and all were in agreement. Pizza, lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs were a go. The last dish was dynamite and they demanded to know what it was.

  Fran almost didn’t hear the question. Her gaze was glued to Alex, trying to gauge his reaction. Did he share the family’s approval? Did he approve of her?

  Finally it registered that they were waiting for an answer. “It’s angel hair with walnut sauce,” Fran explained.

  Flo nodded. “I wondered what that flavor was, and the powdered flecks in the sauce. It’s marvelous.”

  “Thank you,” Fran said.

  “But I give the shells a thumbs-down,” she said.

  Nick set his fork on the plate in the center of the island. “The dish is substandard,” he agreed. “Fran, you’ve got to improve the texture or it won’t go in the launch.”

  Luke nodded. “No doubt about that.”

  “How many versions have you done?” Joe asked.