“Not right now.” Marian smiled. “I’ll show Zoë where everything is and be down in a minute. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Dominic.” Zoë’s smile showed a few too many teeth, almost as if she were daring him to respond.
He didn’t.
Instead, Nick tipped his chin in a short nod and headed back downstairs. He’d never been much of a smooth talker and couldn’t afford to mix it up with the new chef right now, no matter how sexy her legs were. It was more important to come up with a plausible reason to stick close to Lyman for the rest of the morning. When he’d accepted the job as the Prescotts’ chauffeur, he hadn’t considered how much downtime it would entail and how much more difficult that would make his primary task. It might have been easier if Marian had wanted him to play the part of the butler, but at least Nick knew how to drive. He didn’t have a clue how to butle—if that was even a thing.
A few minutes later, the old stairs creaked as Marian descended, carefully gripping the banister with her left hand. “Zoë will be down for a tour of the kitchen as soon as she unpacks.”
Lyman pushed past Nick and bounded up the steps in a loose-limbed gallop.
When he reached for his wife’s elbow, she shooed him away. “Will you quit fussing? I’m fine.”
He persisted. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
“I’m perfectly healthy, and the exercise is good for me. I can’t sit around like a brood hen for the next few weeks.”
Her husband frowned and shook his head. “I should have fixed the elevator ages ago. Don’t know why I didn’t.”
Marian smiled and patted his arm. “You were busy with GRAMPA, dear.”
Lyman turned to Nick. “Dominic, you don’t, by any chance, know how to repair an elevator, do you?”
Nick had never seen any sign of an elevator at Strathmoor and didn’t know if he could fix one. He wasn’t a mechanic, but he was good with his hands, and a motor was a motor. Besides, it would give him the excuse he was looking for to stay in the house. “I’d be happy to try if you show me where it is.”
Lyman nodded. “I would appreciate that. I should have repaired it myself, but as Marian pointed out, I’ve been busy.” He tilted his head and regarded Nick with a hopeful look. “I still don’t believe I need a driver, but you might turn out to be useful after all. The elevator is over here.”
He led Nick to a door in the wall behind the staircase. “It runs between my workshop in the cellar and the second floor hallway. If you can get it working again, it would be a great help to Marian.”
Nick opened the door to what he’d assumed was a closet and found the folding metal doors of an antique elevator, probably installed when the house was built. The interior was fitted with carved and polished panels that matched the woodwork in the foyer. It was a work of art, but function was another matter. “I’ll give it a try. When was the last time this thing ran?”
Lyman pursed his lips. “About twenty years ago, I think. Or it may have been longer. I can’t remember for certain.”
“I’ll get the tool box from the garage and see what I can do.”
He retrieved the tools and after a twenty minute search, located a cobweb-encrusted wooden step ladder in the basement and lugged it to the main floor. He grabbed a flashlight from the toolbox, climbed the ladder, and poked his head through the hatch in the car’s ceiling.
No wonder the motor didn’t work. It was filthy. Blackened oil and dust coated the entire thing. He’d have to disassemble it and clean each part before he could begin to diagnose the problem. This was going to be a long, messy project. He climbed down and eased the polished wooden hatch back into place.
The control panel was next. After a few turns of the screwdriver, he peered into the wall at a tangle of outdated wiring. Replacing the wiring would be the first order of business. He didn’t want to burn the house down before he got the elevator running.
Lyman popped his head into the car. “So, do you think you can fix it?”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Nick replaced the screwdriver in the toolbox.
Lyman nodded. “Excellent.” He stepped back and called out, “Marian, dear, Dominic is going to fix the elevator for you.”
Nick couldn’t make out her muffled reply, and Lyman’s voice receded as he continued his conversation.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the wall. It must be Zoë, coming down to start lunch. He latched the tool box and stepped out of the elevator into the foyer to find her standing at the bottom of the stairs. He felt a brief pang of disappointment that she’d exchanged her snug little gray suit for a raspberry-colored sweater and slim black slacks and her stilettos for a pair of matching flats.
Her smile taunted him when she held out her hand. “Let’s try this again. Hello, Dominic, wasn’t it?”
“Nick.”
“And I’m Zoë.”
The strength of her grasp surprised him, and he scanned her with a quick, assessing glance. Her sweater and slacks weren’t skin tight, but they hugged her body closely enough to caress the firm curve of muscle here and there. She was clearly in top shape—a shape you didn’t get from standing around peeling potatoes. And the way she moved—fluid and purposeful—spoke of training. The question was what kind of training? Maybe she ran or played tennis in her free time, but he sensed it was more than that.
Her smile faded, and she released his hand. “Fine. Nick. Can you direct me to the kitchen?”
He met the challenge in her clear, green gaze with a challenge of his own. “Sure. Follow me.”
****
Zoë chewed her lip as she contemplated Nick Rosetti’s long legs and broad, black gabardine-clothed back. A couple of hours on the job, and she’d already entered into a battle of wills with the chauffeur. She should probably try to do something about that. Unnecessary friction in the household could be dangerous. If she wasn’t careful, she’d blow her cover and her assignment before she even started.
Her grandmother’s frequent admonition about drawing more flies with honey than vinegar rang in her head. She could try being nicer to Nick, but it ran against her grain. He might be attractive in a burly, surly, he-man sort of way, but his whole demeanor spelled arrogance and aggression. Having grown up with five older brothers, she’d learned early that if she didn’t stand up for herself, she’d end up mucking out the stalls alone.
Zoë pondered her options as she followed him to a roomy kitchen with solid white cabinets, red linoleum countertops banded in chrome, and a checkerboard floor that matched the foyer. The room looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the forties. In the center of the room, Marian stood face-to-face with a robot that was nearly as tall as she was. The robot was silent and still—no lights flashing or gears humming—but her wary expression suggested she expected it to attack her at any moment.
Zoë stepped forward. “I take it this is GRAMPA.”
The other woman wrinkled her nose. “Yes, but I wish Lyman would leave him in the workshop. I hate running into him here. He creeps me out.”
Zoë had to agree. The robot was clunky and homemade looking, like something out of an old sci-fi movie. It was hard to believe a modern Japanese company would be interested in buying it. Maybe there was something in the internal electronics or software that was worth buying—or stealing.
She leaned down to examine a panel of red buttons on GRAMPA’s chest. “How does he work?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He works by voice command. You talk to him, like your phone, only he doesn’t talk back.” Lyman entered the kitchen with a battered notebook in his hand and flipped through the pages. “As the name suggests, he’s a meal preparation assistant, like a personal sous chef. At this point, he’s programmed to measure and chop ingredients. I plan to add additional features as soon as I’ve perfected the basic functions.”
Zoë recalled her most recent attempt to mince garlic. Sticky bits had ended up everywhere. “I bet there’ll be a huge demand. GR
AMPA could take most of the grunt work out of cooking.”
Lyman beamed. “Exactly! The home cook can have all his or her ingredients prepared in the correct amounts just like chefs on television.”
“He got the idea while I was watching a cooking show one afternoon.” Marian’s pretty lips turned downward in disgust. “I can barely make toast, and those TV cooks make everything look so easy.”
Her husband slid an arm around her shoulders. “I thought it would be more efficient if everything she needed was sitting on the counter in a row of neat little glass bowls.”
Zoë had to agree with Marian. She’d never had much success trying to duplicate a recipe from a cooking show. She invariably forgot some ingredient or added something at the wrong time. Lyman might be on to something with GRAMPA. “I know I’d appreciate that.”
“Good.” His head bobbed enthusiastically. “Shall we try him out now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Excellent.” He pulled a compact remote electronic controller from his jacket pocket, flipped a switch, and manipulated the tiny joy stick. The robot came to life, rolled across the room, and stopped in front of the counter. “Okay, we’re ready to go.”
Zoë held back a couple of steps. She half-expected the contraption to come at her with blades flailing. “Did you have a particular recipe in mind?”
“I thought we’d start with something simple, like vegetable soup, to test his chopping skills.”
“That sounds good.”
She shifted her gaze to the robot. Better you than me, Bub.
Marian bent over to open the door of a large lower cabinet. “I think there’s a big pot in here somewhere.”
Zoë jumped when Nick appeared beside her. She’d forgotten he was still in the room. Why was he hanging around the kitchen? Didn’t he have something automotive to do, like change the oil or wash the car?
He laid a hand on Marian’s arm. “I’ll get it. Why don’t you sit down?” She headed to a white-spindled chair at the farmhouse-style kitchen table while he retrieved a tall pot from the cabinet.
Lyman peered into GRAMPA’s innards through an open panel in the back. “The vegetables are in the refrigerator.”
Assuming his statement was directed at her, Zoë pulled open the door of the old-fashioned white Frigidaire and found a large yellow onion, a couple of potatoes sprouting eyes, a half bag of carrots, and a bunch of celery with browning leaves. She grimaced. The robot would have to be a miracle worker to beat her in the cuisine department with these ingredients.
“I’m sorry there’s not much in the fridge,” Marian said. “I don’t really cook, but I think there’s a bag of corn in the freezer and maybe some canned tomatoes in the pantry.”
Zoë found the corn amid stacks of frozen dinners and two cans of tomatoes in the walk-in pantry. She set them on the counter, where Lyman had lined up a series of glass bowls.
His eyes gleamed. “GRAMPA, one cup of onion, chopped.”
A panel on the robot’s chest slid open, revealing a ten inch square stainless steel chamber. Then a second panel opened below the first. Zoë stared in fascination when the robot raised one mechanical arm, picked up the onion with a claw-like hand, and set it in the top opening. Next, it selected a bowl, placed it in the bottom chamber, and both doors slid shut.
“That’s amazing,” she said. “How did it know what to pick up?”
“Do you see these sensors?” Lyman pointed to a pair of discs where the robot’s eyes would have been, if it had had eyes. “GRAMPA is programmed to recognize a large range of ingredients and utensils, so when I instructed him which ingredient to choose and the amount needed, the sensors scanned the counter, and he retrieved the correct items.”
“Wow. Every home cook in America is going to want one of these.”
He beamed. “I hope so.”
She leaned closer to inspect the control panel. “So what happens next?”
“We wait.”
Loud metallic noises emanated from machine’s insides like a bad case of robot indigestion.
“When it’s finished, the door will open.” Lyman raised his voice to be heard above the whirring and chopping. “The skin will come out here.” He pointed to the panel on the robot’s lower back.
When the noise stopped and the lower door in the robot’s chest slid open, Lyman reached for the bowl. Eager anticipation sagged into a disappointed frown. “The separation sequence needs more work.” He handed the bowl to Zoë. “Maybe you can do something with this.”
She frowned at the bits of papery brown skin mingled with pale yellow chunks of onion.
Like what? Toss it in the garbage?
“Let’s try the carrots. It’s a different process.”
He requested four carrots, diced. Zoë watched in amazement as the robot used its rubber-padded pincers to pick up the correct number of carrots and another bowl. After a minute or so of whirring and clanging, the door opened again.
The carrots had been pulverized to a soft mash.
Lyman held the bowl up and squinted at it. “Hmm. That might have been my fault. Not sure I got the setting right.” He handed her the second bowl. “I’m going back to my workshop to make some adjustments to the software. Call me when lunch is ready.”
She stared at his back as he headed down the basement stairs. Even Julia Child couldn’t turn this mess into something edible.
“I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with that.” Nick raised one brow and shot a pointed glance at the carrot puree.
She balanced the bowl in her hand like a softball and narrowed her eyes.
His lips twitched, but he remained silent.
Marian reached for the bowl. “I think we can dump this.” She wrinkled her nose at the orange glop. “It might be useful once the baby arrives, but I like food with a little more texture.”
Zoë checked her watch. It was eleven-thirty. Time to take charge of this circus before they all starved. “How about pizza?”
Marian’s face brightened. “That sounds wonderful. I haven’t had pizza in ages—maybe not since Lyman and I were married three years ago. He’s not much for going out.”
Zoë couldn’t imagine her new employer in a noisy, dimly lit pizza joint, but her heart went out to his young wife. Three years without pizza? That was a major sacrifice to ask of any woman in the name of love.
Then Marian’s smile faded. “I’m pretty sure we don’t have what you need to make pizza.”
“Maybe not, but Giordano’s does. I’ll give them a call. What do you want on yours?”
Marian hesitated for a second. “Peppers, mushrooms, and black olives. I’ll share with Lyman. He’ll eat anything.”
Zoë nodded. That was reassuring. If he wasn’t much of a foodie, maybe he wouldn’t notice her lack of culinary skills.
Nick’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll take pepperoni and Italian sausage.”
Why was he still here? Maybe it was her imagination, but he always seemed to be watching her. Cooking was enough of a challenge without a critical audience.
She dismissed the provocation in his dark gaze with a half-shrug. She had a job to do, and she refused to let Dominic Rosetti’s presence affect her. Now where was her phone? Oh, yes, upstairs in her purse. She glanced around the kitchen and spotted a white, vintage-style princess phone on the wall next to the fridge.
“I think there’s a phone book in this drawer.” Marian produced a fat volume and handed it to Zoë.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen an actual phone book, but took it and flipped the pages until she found the number she needed. After she placed the order, she turned to Marian. “Lunch should be here before too long. Why don’t you put your feet up and rest?”
Marian sighed. “It seems like all I do these days is rest, but I’m afraid my ankles agree with you.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll be in the living room, reading. There’s money for the delivery man in the top left drawer of Lyman�
��s desk.”
After she left, Nick leaned his hips against the counter, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and cocked his head, as if expecting an answer to some unasked question.
Zoë pressed her lips together. “You can go back to doing whatever it is you do. I can handle things from here.”
He didn’t move. “What kind of personal chef orders take-out pizza?”
She crossed her arms to mirror his. “One with an empty refrigerator and pantry.”
He eased away from the counter, opened the fridge, and perused the shelves. “There must be something in here a creative cook could use to put together a meal.”
She clenched her teeth at the emphasis he put on the word creative. Was he naturally a donkey’s behind, or was he purposefully trying to antagonize her?
“You want creative?” She marched to the pantry, grabbed a nearly empty box of corn flakes, and thrust it into his hand. “See what you can do with these.”
Only a monumental application of self-control kept her from making a suggestion out loud. Instead, she turned her back and began searching for plates and glassware.
When the doorbell rang a half hour later, she headed for Lyman’s office to get change for the delivery driver, but Nick was ahead of her. He paid the delivery man and carried the armful of cardboard boxes and Styrofoam containers to the kitchen.
He set the pile on the counter with a questioning glance. “How many people did you plan to feed?”
She plucked the receipt from his fingers and lifted the lid of each container, checking the contents against her order. “There are two pizzas for lunch, chicken parmesan for dinner, plenty of salad, and a box of brownies.”
His lips parted in a genuine smile—the first she’d seen. It softened his rugged features in a disturbingly attractive way. “That sounds great. I don’t know what the Prescotts used to eat before Marian broke her arm, but since I arrived, we’ve relied on the contents of that freezer.”
“A lot of Skinny Suppers, then, I take it.”
Pretty much like the freezer in my apartment.
“Yeah. Not enough to keep a hamster going.” He opened the lid on the brownies and peered inside with a look of pure food lust.
Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 3