Kentucky Heat

by Fern Michaels

  “Hatch, is that you?” a man every bit as tall and muscled as Hatch said as he clapped him on the back. “What are you doing here, buddy? Why didn’t you call ahead? Listen, the penthouse suite is yours. How long are you staying?”

  “A day and a half at the most. This was a last-minute business thing. Figured I’d come myself and save the firm a lot of hours. I was going to shower and give you a call. How about a drink, in say, thirty minutes. I’ll meet you at the Tiki Bar.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Yokim said. “Do you have dinner plans? We have a five-star chef.”

  Bingo! A familiar rush of excitement coursed through Hatch’s veins. “You’re kidding me! How did that happen? What’s his name? Anyone I know?”

  “He’s a she, and her name is Willow Ryan. She was cooking at the Ritz Carlton and I snagged her away on orders from two of the owners of this fine establishment. I had to pay her some big bucks, but it was the best move we ever made. We have reservations months in advance. So, are you free for dinner?”

  “I am now. See you in thirty minutes.”

  Yokim snapped his fingers. A bellhop appeared out of nowhere. “Take Mr. Littletree and his baggage to the penthouse.” The minute Hatch stepped into the elevator Yokim motioned to the concierge. “In thirty minutes I want you to send up our biggest fruit basket, a case of Foster’s beer on ice, and a dozen yellow roses.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll be in the bar if anyone needs me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Instead of heading for the bar, Yokim detoured and made his way to the kitchen. “Willow, I’m having a guest for dinner. I’ve been bragging about you to him. I want him to leave here eating his heart out. Tell me, what can you create that will make him drool and blow his socks off at the same time?”

  “Can you give me fifteen minutes to plan something, Claude?”

  “Take all the time you need. I’ll be in the bar with my friend. Just have one of the cooks bring me out a menu when you have it ready. By the way, how’s that playboy husband of yours?”

  “Just as indulgent as he was the day I married him two and a half years ago, and I wish you would stop calling him a playboy. He’s on my case, Claude. He wants to sail around the world and wants me to go with him.”

  “I’ll double your salary. I’ll kill myself if you leave. Anything you want, a Porsche, diamonds, a tiara. Name it.”

  The chef smiled. “Now look what you did. You didn’t wait for the rest of what I was going to say. I get seasick. That means I’m not sailing around the world, Claude. I like that double my salary business, though, and a new Porsche sounds lovely. A girl can never have enough diamonds. However, my husband gives me those, so you’re off the hook on that one.”

  Claude stared at the young woman standing in front of him. He forced a sickly smile to his face. “Done. Shall we add ten more months to your contract to safeguard my investment?”

  “Whatever you want, Claude. Drop the contract by the kitchen before I leave this evening and I’ll sign it. You have to get out of here now so I can think and plan a menu for you. This friend must be pretty special.”

  For the first time, Claude noticed how cold and calculating his chef’s eyes were. They became more so as he expounded on his and Hatch’s friendship. His stomach turned into a giant knot when she asked, “Just how rich is rich? Richer than my husband?”

  A devil perched itself on Claude’s shoulders. “Ten times over, Willow. And he’s a widower.”

  “How interesting. You’ll have to bring him back to the kitchen after dinner. I’ll look forward to meeting him.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. Work on that menu, Willow.”

  The chef made shooing motions with her hands. Claude retreated from the kitchen to make his way to the bar, where he ordered a double scotch on the rocks. How in the hell was he going to explain the salary increase and the Porsche to the owners?

  “Hey, buddy, you look like you’re at a wake. Did something happen in the last half hour?” Hatch asked, sitting down at the table across from Claude. “C’mon, we have some serious drinking and catching up to do here. Foster’s,” he said to the bartender.

  “In a way, I suppose. I think I just caught my dick in the wringer. The owners aren’t going to be too happy with me, but they’re the ones that insisted she be hired in the first place.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “The chef. I screwed up. She’s a money-grubbing bitch, but I can’t afford to lose her. You know this is a dog-eat-dog business. This is what happened . . .”

  “You’re not kidding you got your dick in the wringer,” Hatch said, signaling for a second beer. “Where in hell did the Ritz Carlton get a five-star chef anyway?”

  “Hell, I don’t know for sure if she’s a five-star chef or not. The owners said she was. She said she was. She cooks like she’s one.”

  “Don’t you have to have certificates, diplomas, and attend those fancy cooking schools in Europe? Aren’t they supposed to hang all that stuff in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, they are. When I asked about them, she said she kept forgetting to bring them in. When I brought it to the owners’ attention they told me to leave it alone. Everything is the bottom line, you know that. I know when not to rock the boat, and I know who signs my checks and hers, too. The woman brings in customers by the drove. I told you, our dining room is booked six months in advance because of her. Because of her this resort is the best on the island. If she goes, we become just like the rest. It’s amazing how important good food and wine are to some people. That’s another thing, she’s an expert on wine. Listen, you’ll judge for yourself tonight at dinner.”

  “She’s married, huh?”

  “Yeah, some land developer. He’s well-off but not as well off as you. I’m not even sure he’s rich. She says he is. She married him here at the resort. Didn’t know him long at all. He was coming here every night to eat and finally asked to meet her and wallah, three weeks later they got married. She says he doesn’t want her to work but that’s bullshit in my opinion. She’s got a story, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “What was her name before she got married?” Hatch asked, draining his second bottle of beer.

  Claude shrugged. “Some long Polish-sounding name. Willow Wojoloskey or something like that. Why?”

  Hatch reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph Nick had given him. “Is this your chef?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s Willow. Where did you get that picture?”

  Hatch told him.

  “Oh, Christ, does that mean you’re taking her back to Santa Fe? If you do that, I might as well start looking for another job.”

  Hatch shook his head. “No, that’s not what it means: I just want to be able to tell the kid where his wife is. What he does with that information is up to him. You said she got married here. Was the minister real?”

  “Hell, yes, he was real. Man, we went all out, compliments of the house.”

  “That makes her a bigamist then. The kid doesn’t know this, but his mother told me when Willow went to see her she told her she was cutting off Nick’s trust fund. Willow worked at that farm, knew and heard what was going on. She probably set her sights on Nick and thought she’d hit the mother lode. When she found out his ma was cutting him off, she split. The kid has a right to know, Claude. He needs to get on with his life.”

  “You’re right about that. Jesus, I hate the thought of updating my résumé. I’m too old for this shit,” Claude said, ordering another round of drinks.

  “I can steer you onto something if you’re interested, Claude. A friend of mine, Metaxas Parish, owns among other things, six restaurants. Real high-end. I told you about him. He’s one of the richest men in the world. I know for a fact he’s looking for someone to take over and manage the restaurants. If you’re interested, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “I’m definitely interested. Thanks, Hatch.”


  “Do you by any chance have any of the pictures from your chef ’s wedding? You guys must have taken pictures.”

  “We have a whole album. Now that you mention it, she didn’t like the idea, but the owners insisted. It’s in the office. Do you want to see it?”

  “Not right now. Have someone take it up to my room. I’d like to borrow it if you don’t mind. I will return it to you.”

  “Sure. Wait here a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  Hatch leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach. What was this going to do to Nick? The kid was tough. He’d been a real trouper these past few years. He never once complained, even when he was dead on his feet. The big question was, how tough was his heart? Willow was his first real love. He’d be wounded to the quick. How astute of Nealy to see through the girl. It was that woman thing. His wife had had it, too. She’d seen through her rich childhood friend Callie, but none of her other friends had. Sela was always on the money. Just like Nealy. Damn, they were alike in so many ways and yet unlike in others.

  Claude returned to the bar at the same time as one of the chefs bearing a single sheet of white paper.

  “Ah, our menu. Let’s see what culinary delight our little witch is going to prepare for you. By the way, this might be a stupid question, but does she know about you? On the off chance she does, shouldn’t we come up with another name when I introduce you?”

  “I don’t know if Nick ever mentioned my name to her. We’ve never met face-to-face. Introduce me as Hank Mitchum. Hank is one of my partners. On the other hand, Nick might have talked about the firm and the partners to her. Introduce me as Steve Alexander to be on the safe side. So, what’s for dinner?”

  “She’s giving us choices. We check off what we want. How does this sound? Salat pilpelim. That’s a sweet pepper salad. Kallaloo. It’s a green soup made with young green leaves of plants like tannia and taro. Basically a seafood and pork dish as a main course or boiled fish with onion sauce and fungi. It’s a Caribbean dish and real popular here. Fried plantains, pigeon peas with rice served with little meat pies. Another Caribbean dish. Persimmon pudding with fresh whipped cream for dessert or Charlotte à la Framboise. It’s a raspberry Charlotte. Oh, here at the bottom she added saumon aux poireaux. Filet of salmon with stewed leeks. Does anything appeal to you?”

  If he hadn’t been sitting in exactly the position he was sitting in, half-turned to the doorway of the Tiki Bar, he wouldn’t have seen the kitchen door crack open just enough for someone to peer through the narrow opening. Willow?

  “Not really, Claude. I’m not into all that fancy-dancy cooking. What are our chances of getting a good T-bone steak with a twice-loaded baked potato and a green salad?”

  “I’d say they’re pretty good.” Claude scribbled their choices underneath the chef ’s menu before he drew a large X through the rich dinner choices. He added the words “FOR TWO” at the very bottom of the page, then signaled the bartender to take the menu to the kitchen. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait for dinner,” Hatch said, holding up his empty beer bottle for the waiter’s inspection.

  In the kitchen, the chef looked at her watch. “I have an errand to run. You all have your assignments. Even if I’m late, you know what to do until I get back. How many times do I have to tell you, John, do not cut the ends off the string beans. If I have to tell you again, you’ll regret it.”

  Her heart beating trip-hammer fast, Willow removed her white chef ’s coat, hung it on a hanger, and walked out the kitchen door, where she took great gasping breaths of fresh air. She walked around the building to the entrance, walked into the lobby and over to the registration desk. “Henry, I need some help here. I think there’s a guest who might have just registered, a big man, sort of Indian-looking, high cheekbones. I think I know him. If I do, I’d like to surprise him at dinner with something special.”

  “Oh, you must mean Mr. Littletree. He’s a personal friend of Mr. Yokim. They’re in the bar right now.”

  “Yes, that’s him. Don’t let on I asked, okay?”

  “Sure, Willow. No problem.”

  No problem my ass, Willow thought as she made her way across the lobby and out into the bright sunshine. She was going to miss this place. Hundreds of times, at the end of the day when all activity on the island paused for a few moments, she had taken the time to look over her balcony, to view the desert-type sunset when the sky was awash with fiery reds and yellows giving way to deep purple, which in turn became pastel pink glowing on the horizon, until the sun finally plunged into the water. Which just proved it didn’t pay to get too comfortable, for you never know when it will come to an end.

  She climbed into her open-air Jeep. She loved the nightlife here. Loved the surge of energy that rivered through the resorts. She loved to watch the people milling about, shopping, ducking into the funky bars, or sampling the local foods from the great restaurants. She would miss the rhythm that kicked in each and every time she hit the casinos with the live bands and the beat of the discos and nightclubs that were always jammed with dancers until the wee hours of the morning. Most of all, she would miss the divi-divi trees.

  She thought about Jack Ryan. She wouldn’t miss him at all. Time to move on. On the drive to the house she shared with Jack, she thought about Hatch Littletree, Nick Clay’s idol. How had he found her? Well, she wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out. It would take her twenty minutes to pack her jewelry, throw some of her favorite things into a suitcase, clean out Jack’s safe, and do a wire transfer out of the local bank to a bank on the mainland. Thirty minutes and she would be on her way to the airport, a far richer woman than when she arrived. Her only regret was this time she would be leaving her pots and pans behind. She had to hurry, or she would miss the last flight of the day.

  This was the part of her life that she liked the best. Flight, with its adrenaline-pumping excitement.

  12

  For the first time in his life, Hatch Littletree was nervous. His shoulders felt heavy with the information he’d gleaned on his trip to Aruba. To compound the problem, when he returned from Aruba and called the office, he was told Nick and Emmie had left for Kentucky. Did Nealy know? Did they go to the farm, or were they just going to show up at Churchill Downs? He wished he knew. He hoped it wasn’t the latter; Nealy didn’t need any last-minute surprises. She needed to focus all her attention on the race. Now, after a bumpy flight to Kentucky, he was driving to Emmie’s old house, hoping against hope that he was right and both young people would be there.

  Maybe all this was none of his business. Maybe he needed to keep his snoot out of Nealy’s and the kids’ private lives. He argued with himself. How could he stay out of it when he loved Nealy? He’d come to love her children as well. Would seeing the kids bring anxiety to Nealy? Would it throw her off her stride and cause problems with the race? He choked up at the thought of her having an accident on the track. God, how he loved her. He wiped at the sweat forming on his forehead. This was not something he could control, and he knew it. Hell, he couldn’t even control his emotions when he was around Nealy. All he wanted to do was sweep her up into his arms and carry her off.

  How was he going to tell Nick about Willow? Just pretend you’re in the courtroom and you’re stating facts, an inner voice suggested.

  No, no, that won’t work. The kid has a heart. He would have to soft-pedal the whole thing somehow. The kid might just decide to take a poke at him. He fingered his jaw, thought about all the pricey dental work he’d had done over the years. I’ll put some distance between us when I tell him, he thought.

  Hatch squared his shoulders as he ran his hand through his hair. It still rankled that Willow had disappeared before he’d had a chance to talk to her. He must be slipping. He’d give anything to know what had tipped her off. The way his luck was running, he’d probably never know.

  Hatch parked in front of Emmie’s house and made his way up the flower-bordered walkway to the small front porch
and pressed his finger to the bell. Inside, Gabby’s little dog Cookie yipped. Emmie opened the door, a huge smile on her face. “Hatch! Shhh,” she said, putting her finger to her lips. “Gabby’s napping. What are you doing here? Is something wrong?

  “Nick, come quick, Hatch is here!” she called over her shoulder in a controlled whisper.

  “I’m not sure, Emmie. I need to talk to Nick.” Hatch bent down to pick up the little white dog to cover his nervousness.

  “He’s out on the patio studying the racing form. Go on out, and I’ll bring you some coffee when it’s ready.”

  “What’s up?” Nick jumped to his feet, his hand extended. “I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear you answer Emmie’s question. You said you weren’t sure if something was wrong. What does that mean? Did something happen to Mom or the horses? What? What are you doing here?” His voice was so anxious-sounding, Hatch cringed.

  “I’ve been coming to Kentucky a lot this past year. Your mother and I have become very good friends. Although, I have to admit, we got off to a rocky start. I wasn’t sure in the beginning if I should tell you and Emmie about those visits. I didn’t want to stir something up for both of you. I went the first time for Emmie’s sake, to show Nealy pictures of Gabby. I could have mailed them I suppose. I wanted to see for myself, to understand, why she booted both of you off the farm. Your mother, as I found out, was nothing like what I expected her to be. I have to tell you, kid, no one was more surprised than I that we actually hit it off. Your mother and I both had preconceived notions about each other that proved to be unfounded. It’s time for me to tell you a few things. Some things you might like, and other things you aren’t going to like. It’s time.”

  Nick slouched down on a chaise longue. “You’ve been keeping Mom up to speed on me and Emmie. I’m okay with that, Hatch. Emmie will be okay with it, too. I guess I have to wonder why you didn’t keep us up to speed on her.”