Tom slapped his hand over his mouth as he waggled his ginger-red brows. “My bad.” He stopped a moment, his face schooled into as much solemnity as he could manage. “We are saddened by the sudden passing of our colleague, Maxwell Ethridge. He was a noted traveler who introduced the public to a world of new foods. As a critic, he set the standard high.” He walked back and forth on the stage, head down, his eyes averted from the cameras. “Let’s take a moment of silence for one of our own.”
The room was quiet for twenty seconds, that being as much dead space Hirschberg would allow on The Culinary Channel, even for a show of respect.
“Now, here are Tilly Danes and Jordan Kelly, my fellow judges.”
Jordan led her to her seat at the red-draped judges’ table and pulled out the middle chair. She smiled and waved as she sat down. “Hi, y’all.” The simple greeting elicited another burst of applause.
Not to be outdone, he gave the convention goers a big smile. “Hello, Kansas City. It’s great to be here.” His fans didn’t let him down. A cheer went up to rival hers. Maybe it was childish to be jealous of her fans, but he felt good to know she hadn’t left him eating her dust.
The scent of onions and peppers, as well as spices from all around the world, filled the room. Sous chefs busily hurried to get the last minute preparations done, while the camera crew walked around, getting the best live shots of the audience, as well as behind the scenes.
Tom paced the stage. “As you know, there’s a lot at stake here. Personal chefs, you’re men and women who go to people’s homes and businesses to serve the finest cuisine. Have chef knives, will travel.”
He pointed to a large overhead screen. “First, a short tribute to Maxwell Ethridge, then we’ll see the highlights of last night’s competition.”
The room darkened. Jordan leaned over to whisper in her ear. “This ought to be good.”
“Oh, be quiet,” she hissed, turning to watch the video presentation. Luckily their mics didn’t go hot until it was time to judge the entries or the whole world might have heard Tilly chide him like a kindergartner. It should rankle, but instead, Jordan found it charming, as well as fun, to do the grown-up version of pulling her pigtails.
Ethridge’s picture filled the screen. His artificially white teeth gleamed in a tan face, the hint of gray at the temples of his sun-streaked hair giving him a look of authority. His smile belied the fact that he was a bastard.
Jordan knew Ethridge’s only joys were food and power. It didn’t matter who he hurt in his rise to fame and celebrity status. They had knocked heads more than once, but Ethridge’s snarky, vitriolic tongue had never bothered Jordan until the critic had written about Tilly.
Those things sent a wave of guilt through Jordan that settled in his gut. He’d been free and easy with his own insults about her food, too. Maybe he was wrong. Still, the idea of anything smothered in milk gravy made his skin crawl.
“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow chefs.” Tom went into his excited patter once the house lights came up. “Let’s meet the remaining contestants. As you know, Olivia Vargas lost last night’s contest, leaving three men to fight it out for the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The camera panned to where she sat in the front row of the audience. The overhead screen captured the fire in her eyes, the dark, spiked hair, and red chef’s coat that echoed the flush of anger on her face. A flesh colored bandage held the middle finger of her left hand firm and upright as if flipping everyone off.
He couldn’t blame her for being pissed about last night’s elimination, but she had missed the mark as far as he was concerned. Her mango salsa’s flavor of hot to sweet was unbalanced. The pork…well…dry didn’t begin to cover the disaster on his plate. On top of everything, she had managed to cut herself while making the third dish. She wrapped her finger, slipped on a latex glove, and went on with the competition. Once done, The Culinary Channel’s doctor hustled her backstage for stitches.
Ethridge had eviscerated her in front of the crowd. Jordan could still see the vicious smile on the food critic’s face as he launched into his diatribe.
I don’t know who taught you to cook, unless it was Jack the Ripper. Your knife work is execrable. He had half stood to lean against the judge’s table with a satisfied smirk on his face. Fellow chefs, don’t let this woman anywhere near your knives. He sank back into his chair and made a show of drinking a glass of water. In case you didn’t know, I’m a supertaster. I could sue you for endangering a national treasure.
Her eyes had smoldered with anger, but she’d kept her temper under check. Thank you, Chef. She’d given him a quick nod and stepped back in line with the other contestants.
Tilly had turned to Ethridge. Maybe National Geographic can do a special on your tongue, if it is indeed a national treasure.
She was the only one who voted to keep Vargas in the competition.
He suspected the critic had savaged Tilly in his blog this morning because of her audacity, the sheer nerve to contradict his opinion. No one who did that to Ethridge came away unscathed.
Now there was no Ethridge to contend with, but her presence, along with the light herbal scent of her perfume, made it difficult to concentrate. An underlying scent of peaches tickled his senses. The exotic blend enticed him to bury his nose in her neck, to just breathe her in. The notion drew him up short. “You should tone down your perfume a bit. It’s rude to wear a scent that might interfere with another chef’s ability to taste.”
She looked straight ahead, but a little smile touched the corner of her mouth. “I’m not wearin’ any perfume. Just plain ol’ soap and water.”
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. What could he say that didn’t sound stupid or sexist? Better to keep his mouth shut and his libido in check.
Tom’s arrival on center stage with his microphone in hand saved his bacon.
“It’s time to introduce our final contestants.” Tom’s energetic patter jerked him out of his musings.
Tom pointed to the wings of the stage. “Here we have Anthony Barrows, owner of Barrows Bites.”
The chef came out, fists pumping the air and his dreadlocks, caught up in a purple tie-dye bandana, bouncing. The stage lights burned hot against his ebony skin, making his face glisten even before he got to the kitchen area of the stage.
“Next we have Brad Gilmore, owner of Thyme Enough.”
Gilmore strolled in at a dignified pace, his thin body and face set for battle. One eye shone through the slash of red chunked, black hair that swept across his face. The short sleeved black coat framed the tattoos covering his arms. His boyfriend sat in the front row, whistling between his teeth. The loud, raucous display was a sharp contrast to his partner’s buttoned-up, conservative suit.
“Our final contestant is Cesare Bolzano. He runs the Cucina di Amore Personal Chef Service.”
The man nodded, his black eyes fierce. His bald head and scruffy facial hair made him look like he’d be more at home on a Harley than in the kitchen. His lips curled into a sneer as he took in his competitors. He’d barely made it into the finals, and his attitude said he had an ax to grind with the judges as well as his fellow chefs.
A familiar figure slipped into the back of the room. The detective caught Jordan’s eyes and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Beside him, Tilly tugged at one of her spritely red locks and wet her already glossed lips.
His heart tumbled. He tamped down the acid burn of irritation and leaned back in his chair. “I wonder if Detective Iron Jaw thinks any of these three could’ve taken our favorite critic out. He’s got all the exits covered in case someone wants to make a break for it. Who knows, maybe he still has doubts about us.”
“Shush.” She gave the detective a small wave. “He’s doin’ his job.”
The contest started in earnest as each chef pulled a knife out of the knife block. A large black number on the blade indicated which area of the kitchen the chefs would use and their place in the judging lineup. Bolzano came in first. G
ilmore took second, while Barrows ended up at the tail end.
“I know I didn’t kill anyone.” She glanced over at him. “I think Tom’s got a point. Your friend had to come up for air sometime. Everyone has to pee. Maybe you raced down the hall when she went into the bathroom to freshen up?” Her eyes never left Jericho’s face. The vibes coming off her came close to microwaving Jordan.
“Her name is Gemma.” He meant his words to hold command, instead they sounded defensive. “And I didn’t kill anyone, either.”
She cocked her head, her attention still focused on the back of the room. “You know, I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Should I be afraid?”
She blinked and faced him, her cute face puckered into a frown. Oh, yes, it made the juices flow just to watch her take the bait. He’d tug at the line to see if she’d go for the whole hook. Her eyes sparked. He sat back to wait for the fireworks that should follow. All his rejoinders were in place and ready to fire the instant she opened her mouth.
Instead, her demeanor changed in a space of a heartbeat. She leaned just close enough to invade his personal space. “Oh yes. Very afraid.” She smiled, with a slight upturn at the edges of her full lips. Her very moist, inviting full lips.
His heartbeat sped up. “Is that so?”
She gazed up at him from lowered lids, pulled in a soft breath. “Jordan?” Her voice lowered, softened to a smooth whiskey warm. She raised lightly mascaraed lashes to reveal a blue as soft and languid as any waters he’d swam in the Caribbean.
“Hmmm?” He lost himself, leaned closer until her warm breath whispered against his cheeks. “What, Tilly?”
“You’re comin’ awful close to soundin’ like Ethridge. I’m seriously rethinkin’ my plans to let you live.”
Her silken threat jerked him out of his wild fantasy of tasting her peach lips. “Huh?” Surely she hadn’t meant that she’d killed…
“Gotcha!”
He flopped back in his chair. A bee of annoyance stung away at his ego. “That was low, really low.”
“Serves you right for tryin’ to jerk me around. Don’t mess with a Southern gal who plays with knives for a livin’.” She tugged at the cuff of her denim chef’s jacket with Tilly’s Table printed across her full breasts. “Do you want to hear my idea or what?”
“Okay, tell me your great revelation.” The bee still buzzed around his brain, and his body hadn’t gotten the message to cool his jets.
“You are such a sore loser,” she teased.
“Duly noted.” He shifted in his chair to make himself comfortable. “Fire away.”
“Okay, here it is. The police probably don’t know much about the culinary world.” She scooted around in her chair to face him, her face alive with anticipation. “Maybe we could help them figure out who killed Ethridge. It had to be one of the chefs.”
“You don’t know that. It could’ve been anyone at the convention. We’re not detectives. Let the detective do his job.” Jordan crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes locked with Jericho’s. “He’s dealt with homicide a lot longer than you.”
There it was, that look that said Detective Iron Jaw had her in his sights, and it wasn’t as a murder suspect. Just for shits and grins, Jordan decided to stir the waters to get her reaction. “Besides, I think the Long Arm of the Law has a thing for you.” He glanced down at her. In spite of the way she’d been checking out the detective a few minutes ago, he waited for the sweet, Southern pooh-pooh of denial.
“Really?” Her face brightened and her lopsided smile blasted him with the power of a nuclear bomb. “You think so?”
Kaboom!
She fried him, inside and out, until it was all he could do to keep from kissing her on national television. Too bad that grin wasn’t intended for him. For the first time he, Jordan Kelly, international celebrity, couldn’t come up with a pithy comeback.
“Yes.” He was more confused than ever by this sudden surge of jealousy. How could he say, I know when another guy’s sniffing too close.
Tom’s entrance into the kitchen area of the stage saved him from making more of an ass of himself than he already had.
“As you all know, each contestant has been given the same mystery ingredient. Not even the judges know what to expect until the containers have been opened. They will be free to use any of the condiments and staples from the Personal Chef Showdown pantry. You have one hour to make at least three dishes. Gentlemen, start your burners.”
The three erupted into a flurry of action, jerking open their refrigerators to pull out the mystery ingredient.
Jordan knew the pressure of cooking in a competition. Tilly had beat the pants off him in the Fire with Fire Battle, winning by a big margin. Who knew she could deconstruct a chicken pot pie and turn it into a fine gourmet dish? That one still smarted.
He sat back, focusing his attention on the contestants as they slammed the sealed containers on the counters and tore away the tops. Gilmore and Barrows pulled out large slabs of plastic wrapped brisket. Bolzano ripped off the top of his container.
“Shit!” He thrust it across the counter until it tipped onto the floor and landed next to Gilmore. The younger chef let out a shriek and did a slow spiral faint onto the floor.
As Jordan tried to understand what had happened, The Culinary Channel’s cameraman zoomed in on the container to get a better shot. The awful truth became evident on the overhead screens. An ear piercing scream came from somewhere in the audience. A commotion exploded with the media rushing forward while the chefs scrambled for the entrances, and the police tried to keep everyone in the room. Several people had their phones raised to catch videos of the bedlam. Detective Jericho charged through the crowd like the superhero flavor of the month.
“Holy crap!” The mike dropped from Tom’s hand with a loud electronic screech. “It’s a dude’s dick.”
A yelp of hysterical laughter rang out over the mayhem. “So much for your big, bad bratwurst, Max.” Olivia wiped her streaming eyes. She dropped back onto one of the chairs to catch her breath and held on to her sides between gasps. “At least someone’s knife work was up to par.”
Gilmore’s partner raced to his side and knelt. “Brad, Brad.” He lightly slapped at the unconscious man’s face until he moaned, opened his eyes, and promptly passed out again. The distraught man fumbled inside his jacket pocket with one hand, presumably for his phone, while he smoothed back the red and black hair over the young man’s forehead. “Damn it, someone call 911.”
The cameraman relentlessly captured the drama as it unfolded.
“Don’t do this to me, Brad.” The chef’s head lolled back and forth. His partner’s hand came away covered in blood. “Oh, my god, he’s dying.”
Jordan swallowed hard to keep down the chocolate chip cookies he’d snarfed up in the greenroom.
The murderer had slated the deceased’s AWOL member for tonight’s blue plate special.
Chapter Three
Tilly averted her eyes. She hadn’t been up close and personal with one in a long time, but she recognized the pathetic lump of flesh all the same. The missing piece of the Ethridge puzzle lay there in gruesome detail on top of the wrapped brisket. Her stomach gave a slow, nasty roll. The coffee burned in her throat like three kinds of hell as she watched everything unfold in fast forward and slow motion at the same time. Gray shadows edged her vision.
“Come on, Matilda. Don’t you dare faint on me.” Jordan’s hissed command pulled her back to the insanity in the hotel ballroom.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She pressed her fingers against her lips. The idea of vomiting in front of him held back the urge to hurl. He thrust a glass of water in front of her. Tilly shook her head at the idea of anything going into her stomach. “No really.”
“You don’t look fine.” The concern in his voice caught her off guard. Sarcasm she could deal with, but compassion from him rang little alarm bells. She refused to be sucked into the worried depths of his dark eyes. Her heart t
rip-hammered. Heat built from her core and worked upward until her cheeks grew hot.
“Thanks. I always look this way when, when…” She pointed to the screen and looked away. “I’ll be okay in just a moment.”
“Everyone—sit—down.” The detective’s voice boomed over the pandemonium. “You, over there.” He pointed at Nick, who still manfully filmed away. “Turn that thing off.”
The burly cameraman ignored the detective’s command with a shake of his head and kept his camera focused on the contents of the container. “Can’t, dude. I’ve got a job to do. Freedom of information, and all that.”
The set of the detective’s mouth should’ve warned him to comply, but he was too intent on getting the perfect shot to notice. Detective Jericho jerked the camera out of his hand. “I said turn it off.”
“Hey, man, you can’t do that.” Nick’s face turned as red as his “Eat Me” T-shirt. He reached out to wrestle the “point and shoot” camera back. “This is an expensive piece of equipment. Give me that!”
He might have had size on his side, but Detective Jericho had experience. In a matter of seconds he lost the struggle.
“I’m confiscating the camera.” Jericho turned the camera over, frowning. “Where’s the tape?”
The cameraman rolled his eyes and sniggered. “Yeah, like that’s going to do you any good.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “Don’t you guys keep on the latest technology? There’s no tape in here—it’s wireless, digital, dude. Everything goes directly to the van out back.”
Jericho smiled. “Is that so? Well, how about this, dude? Any video you shot is now evidence in a murder investigation. I’ll send an officer to get the tapes, discs, memory sticks, or whatever the hell it has. CSI can deal with it.”
“There’s more than my stuff to worry about.” Nick groused. “You’ve got a roomful of amateurs taking pictures.”
Already moving, Jericho motioned one of the uniformed officers over and handed him the camera. “Adams, collect all of the phones, cameras, and SIM cards for evidence.” Then he moved to the counter and squatted next to the container holding the grisly contents. He grimaced.
Recipe for Love (Entangled Select Suspense) Page 3