“Mr. President,” Amanda Peterson had the audacity to reach out, straighten his tie, and tuck it back into his jacket. “It may interest you to know that we’ve been talking with a good friend of yours. An old pal from your college days.”
He could feel his skin run cold.
“Mr. Stephen Richards and his staff have been cooperating fully with the Attorney General ever since my daughter was kind enough to, shall we say, convince him to land his plane.”
He tried to move as they walked around him. He really did. The girl in red and his wife, the traitorous bitch, had their hands tucked in the crook of the damn chef’s elbows.
The woman’s voice came from behind him, but he couldn’t turn to see her. Couldn’t see anything at all beyond the election results just forty-one days away. The only clear thing in a room suddenly blurred as if he’d just been tackled by a hulking linebacker, smashed to a standstill while sprinting downfield.
“Did you know, Mr. Prime Minister, that Mr. Richards recorded everything? In beautiful digital quality? Apparently the President routed all secure calls through his equipment, even when Mr. Richards was not directly involved. We haven’t yet found a single gap in his cross-indexed records either. The man is absolutely meticulous.”
Her voice left the room. He could hear her from the hall in the vast silence of the room.
“And Mr. Prime Minister. I was wondering if you could give Mr. Davis a little of your time tomorrow. He’d like to talk to you about Britain managing the worldwide distribution of some very interesting crop seed.”
Their voices faded. Others edged silently past him without speaking. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of State, even Jennine Cutsworth, his chosen VP for the next election.
He blinked, it took forever for his eyes to close and reopen. When they did, he faced an empty room. Empty except for a young man standing between two Service agents, a college kid compulsively swallowing.
The twerp moved his mouth.
Tom couldn’t hear a sound.
The punk handed him a folded piece of paper.
In another blink he was alone again. The paper in his hand told him his marriage wasn’t going to last much longer than his presidency.
He knew this feeling. Tommy Grant knew this feeling. Not President Tom Grant. Not even Senator Tom Grant. Not even English and Psych master’s candidate of Notre Dame.
Tommy Grant of the Tufts University Jumbos knew it though. That sick feeling. That final instant when you knew there was no one to receive the pass. No one to take the handoff.
Nowhere to run.
Quarterback Tommy Grant had been sidelined from pro sports in his final college game, the last game of a perfect no-loss season. A five-man blitz from the Bates Bobcats had crashed into him from all sides at once. The ball springing free. A Bobcat making a touchdown from which Tufts would never recover.
The feeling of his thigh bone as it blew out of the socket and shattered his Pro Bowl career.
The feeling of being sacked.
CHAPTER 113
Jeff faced the camera and smiled. He wanted to dance a jig. Perhaps he would. Right up on the counter.
Save it for the commercial break. Podcast and Internet audience would go through the roof. Not that they wouldn’t already.
The word was out, but Mandy had insisted on staying in the background.
Her big play had been for two dozen in the Oval Office.
His would be for several dozen million on national television.
Today he was bigger than Oprah. Of course tomorrow he’d be on her show and she’d be back on top of the ratings, but he could live with that.
The headlines had been astonishingly lurid, around the world.
“US President Murders TV Chefs !”
“Jeff the Chef Cooks Grant’s Goose!”
“First Lady Filed for Divorce Day before the Fall!”
His favorite headline of all didn’t appear until page three, and that was only in the London Times as a mere four column-inches of text. Still, it was the best. “Dead man to feed world with drought-resistant plants.” The official credit had gone to Phillip as it should.
The Washington Post and the New York Times had nearly fought each other to the death over who would print the transcripts of the suddenly infamous “Richard’s Recordings.” When the actual volume of them was finally understood, the two papers had split them in half and still each had filled a Sunday-sized special edition.
“President Ordered Overthrow of Six African Governments!”
“President Backed by Billions in Corporate Funding!”
“President Resigns!”
“Tommy Grant behind Bars!”
“Ex-Pres May Face the Chair!”
The country was in a news feeding frenzy, and he was about to give it some food.
Real food.
But first…
The floor director held up three fingers, two, one, and closed his fist. Pumped downward while he mouthed, “Oh yeah!” The studio was humming with energy. The place was standing room only.
“Hi! Thanks for tuning in to Jeff the Chef. Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t here last week. You may have heard it was a little exciting for me.” A big round of laughter which rolled neatly into applause. His story had been in the headlines for seven straight days.
“And,” he paused to let the audience settle, “let me tell you, that’ll burn up some calories.” More laughter. Sweet!
“So, I’m going to introduce you to some fast food that’s far better than half bad and give you a few tips to improve it.”
He couldn’t help it. He let his mostly healed feet do a little jig behind the counter.
“First, I’d like to introduce you to my guests.” The Steadicam pulled back and swung right.
“I’m thrilled to introduce First Lady Lindsey Grant, who has agreed, at her party’s behest, to accept her husband’s nomination to run for office. And let me tell you, she’s a great lady. A golden apple that has nothing to do with a rotten tree.” That got a good smile from the First Lady and a huge round of applause from the studio audience. It turned into a standing ovation that ran well over a minute of air time. Let it. No one would be channel-surfing away from this show.
“And second, to Mrs. Jennine Cutsworth, former ambassador to the UN and Governor of Texas, her party’s chosen Vice Presidential nominee.” Another storm of applause.
Once it had quieted down enough that he could be heard, he turned to them.
“So, ladies, when everything is really frantic, and there just isn’t time for a meal, what do you grab?”
“A sandwich,” the First Lady answered right away. “Turkey on rye. I have a mini-fridge in my office they keep stocked with spinach, Dijon mustard, and sliced tomatoes. And I always have a Coke. Diet, no caffeine. The gold can.”
“Good. Good. And you, Jennine?” First name basis with the Presidential and Vice Presidential nominees. Hey, Mr. Camera, just look at how chummy we are. Come on, America, slide your chair up close and cozy with the next President of the United States. His ratings were going stratospheric even as they chatted.
As were Lindsey Grant’s. At Amanda’s and his suggestion, the papers had run a series of exposé-styled stories about the First Lady’s true role in national and international politics. That the greatest foreign and domestic programs of the last four years were her doing, had won her a tidal wave of support and shrunk her husband’s image even further. That the British Prime Minister became but the first of several world leaders chiming in on her side certainly hadn’t hurt matters.
“Lemonade,” the future VP answered. “I can go forever on a cup of minestrone soup and a glass of real lemonade.”
“Wonderful! I’m partial to garlic chicken breast with a demi-glacé of lime and basil over angel hair pasta, a side of wilted spinach and toa
sted walnut salad with crumbled Fourme d’Ambert blue cheese, and a dessert of Brie, preferably the de Meaux with braised Bosc pears in a Grand Marnier reduction.”
He waited the two beats.
“Of course I have nothing to do with my days but cook.” That brought the roar of laughter he’d been hoping for, followed by another long round of applause.
As far as the news was concerned, he was the man who had single-handedly uncovered and toppled a corrupt leader. Now he was sanctioning the new leaders of the future.
There was a hell of a swap out for you, America.
It was the biggest one he’d ever done or would do by a long shot. Lord alone knew there’d been enough of them the last few days, but most of those would never be talked about. Ever. This was the public’s showstopper and the story stopped here.
The applause roared into another standing ovation requiring the three of them to bow several times. They didn’t cut for commercial, the director let it run. Who cared if the sponsors screamed, they were making history.
His feet started tapping again. He couldn’t stop them, but did his best to contain the energy coursing through him below the line of the counter.
“Soooo.” He pulled out a tray covered with a charming batik cloth of a lighthouse he’d once visited in Puget Sound, all bright-water blue and deep-sunset red.
“I have a friend who is always in a hurry. And as much as I’ve begged her to eat something sensible, she won’t. She eats the same thing every day and doesn’t much care. She is the bravest woman I’ve ever met, except perhaps for her mother, but the worst eater you can imagine. A real chef’s nightmare.”
This time he couldn’t stop the jig and the audience started laughing and pointing at him.
“Today, I’m going to show you how to make a functional but sad meal, that our government buys by the millions, just a little more palatable. Now remember when you see what’s under here, this woman lives on these things, three meals a day.”
He whipped off the cloth and did a little magician’s tah-dah kind of stance, suddenly frozen in the moment.
A Chicken Salsa MRE rested on the tray, and a large Mission MPK titanium field knife.
He winked at the camera.
Shelley was gonna kill him.
AUTHOR BIO
M. L. Buchman has over 40 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the Year,” nominated for the Reviewer’s Choice Award for “Top 10 Romantic Suspense of 2014” by RT Book Reviews, and twice Booklist “Top 10 of the Year” placing two of his titles on their “The 101 Best Romance Novels of the Last 10 Years.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.
In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world.
He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at www.mlbuchman.com.
First there was Jeff the Chef,
then there was Kate Stark!:
One Chef!
(excerpt)
Marianne Rimaldi scooped a scant teaspoon of the Gran Marnier chocolate ganache and drizzled it atop the single bite of truffle cheesecake. The perfect final bite for the meal she was creating.
A glance at the competition clock.
Two minutes.
She plated three more desserts for the judges. The television cameras filming Kate’s Kitchen from Hell hovered close by—two on her, two on her competitor as the final seconds ticked away. One glass-eyed lens had an angle that showed the cameraman wasn’t focused only on the food.
Precisely according to plan.
Marianne needed the win on America’s most popular cooking show, which meant winning over at least two judges. More than that, she lusted after that Kate’s Kitchen “Golden Knife” stamp of approval on her career, which required all three judges. For that she wasn’t above applying other…ingredients.
The heat of the competition kitchen—the flaring burners and blinding stage lights—had “forced” her to pull at the cross-shoulder buttons of her confining chef’s jacket which now hung half open. She wore a loose-necked satin blouse beneath, no bra. She’d chosen an emerald green to contrast with the fire-red of the winner’s jacket that she hoped to be awarded at the end of the show. It also stood out well against her unadorned ash-black jacket of a contestant, but she wanted the red.
However, mere party tricks wouldn’t work on the show’s main judge.
Marianne had to capture Kate Stark’s attention. With her, nothing would count except the food itself.
Kate Stark, the blue-eyed goddess of television food on the nation’s most popular cooking network, was also founder and perennial judge of the show. Always front and center on the final panel.
Deep down Marianne didn’t want to just win Stark’s vote, she wanted to impress the hell out of her. She’d sell her soul to the Devil if needs be; it was Kate’s Kitchen from Hell after all.
Don’t think! Focus on the food…but don’t forget the theater.
Marianne was slightly built, so even the least view down her blouse from above was a very revealing one. She bent over her dessert plates and the satin draped away from her body allowing a deliciously cool ripple to course down her front. Her build might be far less substantial than the one that had made her mother such a success on the “wrong” side of Hollywood. But she’d certainly watched her mom and learned what sold. It had been an educational upbringing, if not a typical one.
Three judges.
Two of them were easy.
The guest taster was Zania in the role of the “every person’s” palate so necessary for engaging an audience. Someone for the viewers to identify with, among all those professional chefs. Of course her palate was about the only thing on Zania that wasn’t extraordinary.
Zania was the hottest new Hollywood starlet—who Marianne would bet was a closet butch. It wasn’t too dangerous a bet because Zania’s mother worked the same side of Hollywood as Marianne’s and word got around of what really happened after the bedding was rumpled in erotic film.
During her intro, Tinsel Town’s hot new box-office draw had announced she was centerfolding for Playboy next month in the same sultry breath as promoting her new tight-leather, sci-fi thriller movie. Marianne knew that anyone who pegged Zania as an airhead had a nasty surprise coming; she absolutely knew how to market herself. In all ways.
However, hinting to the actress that there was a chance of some woman-on-woman bonding that would allow Zania to prove just who was the “ultimate female among women” offered real possibilities for leveraging the star’s vote. It definitely looked as if she’d bought into Marianne’s careful seasoning of her performance with hints and suggestions.
Marianne’s own tastes however, were for the second guest judge; the professional chef.
Harold Merritt, with his Michelin-starred Chicago’s Merritt restaurant, was both very handsome and notoriously single. Win or lose, she’d make a point of chatting him up after the show. All that broad chest and short dark crew cut gave him a deliciously tough look; she could find many uses for him outside the kitchen, or in it—a little oil, two bodies, maybe some chocolate sauce…
A careful peek from behind the screen of the jet-black dyed bangs of her blond hair revealed Zania and Harold were staring hard at their monitors of the show’s live feed rather than gazing benignly over the competition kitchen floor. Their attention was right where Marianne wanted it. On her.
The head judge was a different problem.
Kate Stark—the number one slotted television chef on any network, not jus
t the one she owned—also watched the monitor, but with a slightly amused smile that Marianne would pay a lot to understand. Kate with her direct blue eyes and straight brunette hair that brushed her shoulders and framed the well-defined cheekbones, and aquiline nose that made her one of the most attractive faces in television, cooking or not.
She was a notoriously deadpan judge, at least on this show, so that wry smile must mean something.
For good or ill, Marianne would not find the answer to that this side of the judge’s table.
The camera that was spying down her jacket still hadn’t wavered, so Marianne “accidentally” dribbled a large dollop of the orange-chocolate ganache onto the back of her hand. She licked it clean as if too hurried to wipe it away, making sure the camera could see the pleasure on her face at the success of her own work without losing the angle on her blouse.
Damn! It really was good. Marianne would win on taste alone. But she’d have to play the meal presentation very carefully, spiking the odds even further in her favor with both of the two guest judges.
The competition buzzer sounded as she shaved the last of the zest of a blood orange using a nutmeg rasp. Even as Marianne held up her hands to show she was done, the camera focused in on the cloud of orange dust still sprinkling down like the first snowflakes.
Her shiny dark green satin blouse made a perfect backdrop, which had “somehow” slipped out of another button. Somehow…because she’d enlarged the buttonhole last night to ensure that the button popped when she raised her arms.
Nailed it.
She had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself.
Light-headed.
She needed to eat.
Her normal technique of shrugging it off didn’t work. Even lowering her arms and subtly bracing herself against the table didn’t help clear her head.
Her hands were shaking.
Her hands never shook.
# # #
Franco Lamar cursed.
The damned bitch wasn’t supposed to taste her own food, not that big teasing lick off the back of her hand anyway. A small taste and she’d have been fine. For a while. Long enough anyway.
Swap Out! Page 31