The executive producer stared back, although it was into space, not at her.
“Ms. McCutcheon? Did you hear me?”
The other woman’s head snapped toward her. “Of course, I did. I’m not deaf.”
What is with this woman? I’ve just told her someone is stealing her blind, and it’s like I’ve insulted her. “I understand you don’t do a formal inventory before each taping. I thought…”
Green fire nearly burned through her. “Chef or not, you don’t need to think here, Ms. Dunbar. I do that for everybody. You just prepare the food.” To emphasize her point, she picked up a wooden spoon from the counter and handed it to Reese.
She got the picture.
The executive producer added, “Let’s not hear any more talk about disappearing food. It demoralizes the rest of the crew. Do you understand?”
She didn’t answer. No point, since the harridan had already left. Why doesn’t she want to hear about my suspicions? Is she the thief?
Trudy materialized out of nowhere. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I felt she needed to know. I can’t prove it, because I didn’t write anything down last night when I counted.” Which I’ll certainly do from here on.
Trudy gazed toward the door through which the executive producer had exited. “She’s really taken a dislike to you. More than being miffed because she didn’t hire you.”
“She seems to resent my being a chef. Do you think it’s a Queen Bee complex?”
Trudy narrowed her eyes, apparently considering. “Maybe. Other than Nick, of course, we don’t have anyone else with food experience on the crew.”
“Really?” She vaguely recalled Trudy alluding to that before, but until now, she hadn’t paid much attention to that statement.
“No one that I know of.” Pushing her glasses up with her left hand, Trudy noted the time. “Whoa! We gotta get movin’. Maybe if we get caught up, we’ll have a little time before taping gets underway to start my cooking lessons.”
That again. “Sure.”
Reese returned her attention to the cooler. Something was definitely not right here, but there wasn’t time at the moment to dwell on it further. Pointing out the disappearing food probably hadn’t helped her campaign to get on the executive producer’s good side. But she couldn’t just drop the issue. And, despite the woman’s instructions to leave it alone, she wasn’t about to forget the issue.
Since all was ready for the taping except the chili peppers Nick’s interruption had kept her from finishing, it seemed as good a time as any to give Trudy her first lesson on the finer points of cooking. Reese used the remaining peppers as her first subject. “Always keep your eyes focused on the food.”
“Where else would I look? I want to keep my fingers.”
“And those nice rings. I’m glad you followed my suggestion to don disposable gloves.”
Trudy pushed the bridge of her sapphire blue eyeglasses higher up her nose, taking great care not to actually touch them with her latex-covered fingers. “Uh, yeah, well, I usually wear these. I, uh, couldn’t find any the other day when you saw me.”
Right. At least Trudy had taken to the suggestion with little argument. Reese didn’t care if she’d embarrassed her. Chefs made sure their kitchens ran efficiently and safely; they couldn’t afford to apologize every time they stepped on someone’s toes.
“You’d be surprised where some people look while they’re in the midst of chopping. Your eyes have to adopt a sort of rhythm that balances the location of the knife with the condition of the food item so the one doesn’t slip and the other doesn’t move.”
Better keep these sessions short. Not only was Trudy proving to be an impatient student, but it wouldn’t help if any of the crew discovered what they were up to. Everyone was already treating her differently since word of her being a chef had leaked out. That information couldn’t go beyond the studio or her already suffering reputation would suffer even more
While she continued to make small, tentative cuts in the peppers, Trudy said, “I saw Nick in here talking to you earlier. Looks like you’ve piqued his interest.” Though her focus stayed on the chopping block, a coaxing, conspiratorial tone underscored her words.
Reese shook her head. “I doubt that.”
“What did he want?”
It was becoming increasingly clear that Trudy was a mega-sized snoop and wasn’t afraid to ask questions. And she was also persistent. When one question didn’t elicit the information she sought, two or three more followed.
While Trudy tidied up their work area, Reese cleaned the knife and put it away. “I’m not sure what he wanted. At first, I thought he might be going to ask me out, but that didn’t happen.”
“That’s not like Nick. He usually hits on a new woman her first week on the job.”
Reese grabbed a wipe and began swabbing down the counter Trudy had just cleaned. Trudy relieved Reese of the wipe and flung it in a nearby waste container. “He may not actually date them, but he likes to serve as unofficial greeter.”
“Guess I’ll consider myself unofficially greeted then.” Was that what he’d been up to?
Trudy undid her wraparound white apron. “Don’t underestimate Nick. He’s not exactly what they called a cad in the old time movies, but he’s definitely a charmer. Comes naturally to him. Don’t mistake it for interest.”
Reese unbuttoned her jacket. “Not to worry. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Good idea.”
When Reese shot the other PA a perplexed expression, Trudy said, “Leonie has already made you Public Enemy Number One. If she thought her boy was taking a shine to you, there’d be hell to pay.”
Trudy headed back to their office area before the rest of the crew and other staff filtered in after lunch, leaving Reese alone on the set. She had deliberately not mentioned the restaurant review she’d agreed to participate in. Her new student was a gossip and, after what Trudy had told her about Leonie’s possessiveness, Reese didn’t want news of her having dinner with Nick to get back to the woman. It was time to get herself off the Public Enemy list.
Chapter Six
On Saturday night, Reese dashed into Ocho’s, an upscale southwestern restaurant in SoHo. “Sorry. Traffic,” she apologized to Nick. Gone was the white chef’s jacket, replaced with a knee-revealing, cleavage showcase of a red dress sure to stop every fork in the restaurant mid-air.
He gulped, dropping the menu he’d been perusing. His expression melded into a smile he hoped said he’d happily wait for hours if it meant seeing her look like that at the end of his vigil. “Hadn’t noticed. Just got here myself.” He rose, took her hand in his, nodded to the maitre d’, who signaled for the headwaiter to escort them to their table. Heads turned their direction as they made their way to the best seats in the room.
“You look sensational,” he told her after they were seated.
“I hope I didn’t overdress.”
He tried without success to tone down his near-leer. God, when she shed that chef’s jacket, she was cooking with more heat than when she was actually in the kitchen. “No chance of that.”
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“Thanks.” He straightened his tie, a sliver of navy blue silk that set off his stark white dress shirt and gray blazer, a major change from his all-dark camera wardrobe or the old jeans he wore otherwise. “So? What do you think of the place?”
She made a show of inhaling the various aromas wafting about them. “I like how the reflections of the tea lights bounce off the mirrors around the room, although I would have preferred more color to offset the stark white linen.”
Good. She was taking this assignment seriously. And that’s what they were here for, right, not just to sit here and ogle her.
He surveyed the flock of diners surrounding them, nodding to some, gracing others with his trademark smile.
Reese watched him, a fascinated expression on her face. “You’re quite the crowd pleaser.”
“Defense mechanism I learned as a kid. When I wanted my mother to stay home from her fancy parties.”
“You seem to have honed it to a fine art.”
“Yeah?” Was that meant as a slight? Nah, this woman was too direct. If she wanted to put him down, he’d know it. On the other hand, was she flirting? He needed to know. “How’s it working on you?”
“Can’t say,” she said, water glass in hand. “I don’t have any fancy parties to skip.”
Not quite flirting, but she was definitely baiting him. Well, hell. Might as well give her a taste of the old Coltrane appeal. “I’d think an up-and-coming New York chef with your looks would be turning down invites right and left.”
“And I think you’ve kicked your charm switch up a couple notches for my own personal demonstration.”
Saw right through that, did she? “Just speaking the truth.”
“Uh-huh, well, thanks for the compliment. I appreciate the honesty. I’m a pretty upfront kind of person.”
Like that was a surprise? He sat back, folded his arms. She definitely had something going on up front. “No kidding? Like in you cannot tell a lie?”
She smiled enigmatically. “Trick question. If I was lying but said yes, how would you know?”
That was a challenge, if he ever heard one. But he’d save that one for later, when his stomach wasn’t competing with his brain for attention. “Too heavy for me right now. Let’s order.” He glanced up and a waiter appeared out of nowhere. Shortly thereafter, their drinks showed up.
He sipped his mojito, trying to wrap his brain around her statement. Her candor intimidated yet intrigued him. Actually, everything about her this evening intrigued him, starting with the way she looked in that killer dress with the plunging neckline and moving on to the ease with which she’d settled into the repartee. “Isn’t it dangerous for me to know about your thing with honesty?”
She took a swallow of her margarita. “How so?”
“It’s like that Truth or Dare game, minus the Dare part.”
Her eyes fluttered briefly. “Good analogy.”
Her agreeing cut short any fantasies about dares he could have subjected her to, but the honesty thing was too much to resist. “Let’s check it out.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Instead of Truth or Dare, we’ll play Twenty Questions.”
She sat forward. “Wait! I didn’t agree to an interrogation.”
He’d caught her off guard. He liked having the edge on her. “Too late. But, if I’m satisfied you really are telling the truth, I’ll settle for three. For now, anyhow. You’ll owe me the rest.”
She shook her head. “Three. That’s all. I’m not promising more.”
They’d see about that. “Why did you become a chef?”
Her eyes twinkled, reflecting the sparkling candlelight. “Would you believe I liked how I looked in the white jacket?”
He rolled his eyes. “Beep! You do look mighty good in chef’s garb, but I doubt that’s the reason you took up the culinary arts. Doesn’t sound like you.” He leaned forward and pointed an index finger at her. “On the other hand, for someone who’s so big on telling the truth, you’ve already fibbed.”
A vapid expression appeared on her face. “I simply asked ‘would you believe?’”
“Try again.”
She finished nursing her drink, then set it neatly to the side of her water glass. “Short version. I was an awkward teen struggling to deal with my parents’ divorce until I discovered cooking. My dad was a country singer with one big mega-hit. After his death, I used my inheritance from his royalties to pay for cooking school.”
“Would I recognize him?”
“My dad was Jerry Dunbar. He wrote ‘Make My Future.’ And that’s Question Two.”
It just kept getting better. “I love that song.” The irony hit him. “What poetic justice.”
She narrowed her eyes, not following.
“You said his big hit was ‘Make My Future.’ It certainly made yours.”
Releasing what sounded like a sigh, she said, “True, but I wish it had been his future that benefited instead of mine. He came so close.” She looked away, but before she did, he caught sight of the moisture pooling in her eyes.
Well, hell. He hadn’t intended for this conversation to get serious, but now that they were there, he wanted to know more. Since he never knew his own father, this was all new territory for him.”
She turned back to him, any evidence of tears gone. “I saw him three days before he dropped over from an aneurism in the middle of rehearsal. Even if I’d been there, he died immediately, without a chance to say good-bye.”
Fortunately, their dinner arrived at that moment, dispelling the somber tone that had taken over. They ate in silence for a while, each sampling, savoring their meal. At last, having finished over a third of his, Nick licked his lips and said, “Not bad.”
“Mine too. Quite tasty for arroz con pollo. The chicken is moist, the rice done right. But there’s no excitement to it, nothing different that shouts unique, the kind of fare that draws rave reviews.”
Tough lady to please. He sampled more of his entree. “You’re right. No A-plus here either. So much for Ocho’s.”
A puzzled expression came over her face. “Are you ready to leave already?”
“Not yet. I get one more question.”
She blinked. “You’re kidding. I thought you were just playing me.”
Was she playing him with that comment? “No way. You’ll know when I’m playing you.” He raised his brows and dipped his head slightly to emphasize his claim.
She stared back at him, a question in her eyes. Maybe she did get into that dare part.
“Question three: why did you really take this job?”
“Uh—”
A female voice just beyond their table gushed, “Aren’t you Nick Coltrane?”
Damn! He assumed his best celebrity smile and turned toward the questioner. “Guilty.” Autograph seekers. He recognized the look. Plaintive, hopeful. But they were his bread and butter. Couldn’t turn them away. He reached inside his jacket for a pen.
Two fortyish women came up to the table, a taller female friend behind the woman who’d spoken. “I saw you on Broadway a few years ago in that drawing room mystery…”
Damn again. He’d assumed they were fans of the show. The last thing he needed was for Reese to find out he was an actor. Too late now. And he couldn’t afford to offend his audience. “Blood on the Piazza,” he supplied. “But that was at least seven years ago. I’m surprised you remembered.”
“How could I forget?” the woman cooed. She nodded toward her friend. “Della and I saw it together. Isn’t that something that we’d be having dinner together tonight and see you again?”
“Amazing.”
“Where have you been keeping yourself? We’d like to see you on stage again,” Della, the friend, put in.
“I’m afraid I’ve moved on to a new passion. Food. Ever seen And He Cooks Too?”
The women exchanged looks, then shook their heads. “That’s a shame. You made such a wonderful rogue in that play.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as Nick finished signing his name, the women grabbed their treasure and hurried back to their table, calling behind them, “Thanks so much, Mr. Coltrane, uh, Nick,” and “Can’t wait to see your next show.”
“Wonderful rogue? I think your fans have you pegged.”
How did he get out of this? Better work fast on damage control. “My dirty little secret. I was on the stage in a former life.”
Reese set down her fork and studied him. “Not really so secret, thanks to the Internet. I checked you out before I accepted this job.”
“You knew?” he asked, his voice catching.
She gave him a Mona Lisa type smile. “I do my research, Nick.”
The spicy beef dish he’d just consumed seemed to congeal in his stomach. Had she checked out his cook
ing credentials also?
“I can see you on the stage.” She laughed. “Maybe more than behind the stove.”
Lady, you don’t know how right you are. “Ah, well, cooking’s my new love.”
“Where did you do your training? The Internet didn’t mention that.”
Great. She had him. The only way he could think of to deflect this conversation was to play dumb. “Huh?”
She leaned in, revealing more décolletage. “Cooking school. Which one did you attend?”
He struggled to come up with a response, but his mind was elsewhere. Mesmerized, he watched as she played a finger around the rim of her margarita glass, picking up stray salt particles. How was a guy supposed to think up a plausible story to explain his origins when his brain was otherwise engaged?
She touched her fingertip to her lips. Nick couldn’t speak. His eyes locked on her lips as other parts of his anatomy were unlocked. Was she coming on to him?
Somewhere in a far corner of the restaurant, a mariachi troupe began what sounded like a love song. With a flourish of high notes dipping quickly into the lower octaves, the melody of the violins suggested a torrid love affair.
Nick couldn’t take his eyes off her. Breathing had suddenly become a chore.
“Reese?” He said her name in a rasp and reached for her hand. Just as he was about to touch her, his cell phone rang. Now? Who would have the audacity to interrupt this moment? “Sorry,” he gulped, reaching for the offending device. “I thought I’d turned it off.”
She raised a questioning brow.
On the other end of the line, Leonie said, “I need you to come to my apartment right now.”
“I’m, uh, not able to do that at the moment. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“I’m sure once you hear about this, you’ll agree it’s more important than whatever you’re doing.”
What was she up to? Leonie rarely called let alone saw him on weekends after their Saturday morning briefing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Reese shifting away from him so as not to intrude. “I’m having dinner right now with someone.” Back to Reese, he said, “Please, excuse me.” He rose and slammed out to the lobby.
And He Cooks Too Page 6