Hot Under Pressure

by Louisa Edwards

  Things had gotten dicey back in Chicago when Eva had taken her quest to get the RSC televised too far. But now that she’d ditched the Cooking Channel and sent the cameras home, Beck thought everything should work out fine for her and Danny.

  For a while, anyway.

  Not that he thought Eva and Danny were mismatched—in fact, the millionaire playgirl and the family-oriented pastry chef were weirdly perfect for each other. But Beck didn’t have a lot of faith in forever.

  “As you all know,” Eva began, “the next few days will be pivotal. The next challenge will decide which team goes home and which two will continue on to the final round, choosing two representatives to go head to head for the title of Rising Star Chef.”

  A rustle of nervous murmurs and shifting bodies blew through the crowd of chefs like wind stirring up sand. Beck kept his eyes front and center, all his attention lasered on Eva.

  “Up until now, the challenges have been very teamwork oriented. But for the finals, we’ll be judging the work of individuals. So to prepare for that, in the next challenge we will be asking each team to essentially give us a bio. We want one signature dish from each chef on the team, one dish that sums up your cooking style and tells us who you are as a chef.”

  This time the murmurs through the crowd were excited, and Beck felt his own heart rate increase by a few BPMs. This was a good assignment, one that would allow each chef to really stretch and showcase his or her talents.

  “You’ll have tomorrow to shop and prep, and the morning of the following day to cook. We’ll expect one small, amazing plate from each of you tomorrow afternoon. But there’s a twist. East Coast team, are you listening? This is where your win comes in.”

  Beside Beck, Winslow nodded vigorously, bouncing up onto the toes of his white sneakers. Beck suppressed a grin.

  Eva didn’t bother, letting her lips stretch into a pleased, proud smile for just one moment before she went back to her professional face. “Each team will be doing their shopping in a different location around San Francisco. There are three choices, and the East Coast team gets to pick first. Then the Midwest team, then the West Coast team.”

  This was a big deal. A chef was only as good as his ingredients. Beck glanced over to where Skye Gladwell stood with her team.

  Her face was frozen in a small, strained smile that didn’t reach her blue eyes, and he had to turn away before the wave of sympathy swamped him. Yeah, it sucked that she got last dibs, and he’d much have seen that douchetruck Larousse ranked third, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  Eva paused dramatically, flipping her short brown hair off her face with an imperious head toss. “The shopping destinations are the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market, the brand-new Fresh Foods store in the Mission, and Chinatown. You may discuss.”

  Beck turned to his group as they huddled up, but there was little or no discussion to be done. Basically, they all took one look at each other and said “Ferry Building.”

  Well, duh. A farmers’ market, especially one as comprehensive and amazingly stocked as the one at the San Francisco Ferry Building, was a no-brainer. The best, freshest produce, all of it local, seasonal, and perfect—it was hard to imagine choosing any of the other options. Grinning and relieved, they left the huddle and waited for the other teams to make their choices.

  Eva Jansen wasn’t kidding—this was a major advantage. Beck watched as Skye stood silently with her team, lips pressed into a thin line. There wasn’t much point to them debating, was there? They were stuck with whatever the Midwest team didn’t choose, by default. He wondered what she was hoping for as she squared her shoulders and reached up to corkscrew a few red-gold curls back into the knot on top of her head.

  Ten years ago, Beck would’ve known the answer to that without even thinking.

  Finally, Larousse and his team resurfaced, high-fiving each other and looking smug.

  “Ready with your choices?” Eva asked.

  When everyone nodded, she looked to Jules Cavanaugh, Beck’s team leader. In a clear, firm voice, Jules said, “We’ll take the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market.”

  Beck, who was watching for it, saw the way Ryan Larousse wrinkled his nose in annoyance, but apparently he’d been prepared for that answer, because when it came to his turn, he didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll go with the Fresh Foods in the Mission district.”

  Interesting. And not what Beck would’ve chosen if he’d had command of the Midwest team.

  Cocking his head to catch Skye’s reaction, Beck thought he was probably the only person in the kitchen who could read the tug of pleased surprise at the corner of her mouth.

  “Guess that leaves us with Chinatown, then,” she said, neutral as grapeseed oil, but Beck knew. She was happy.

  There wasn’t time after that to analyze just why he left the kitchen filled with a certain warmth.

  He tried to convince himself that it was nothing but the job-well-done, mission-accomplished satisfaction of having won the day with his team. There was certainly plenty of backslapping and jubilating going on around him as they decamped for the hotel where the Jansen Hospitality Group had secured rooms for the competing chefs.

  But deep down, part of him knew that at least an ounce of that warm, liquid pleasure sloshing in his belly was the knowledge that even after all these years, he could still read Skye Gladwell like a step-by-step recipe.

  Now all he had to do was figure out how to use that knowledge to win the Rising Star Chef competition.

  Chapter 4

  Claire Durand definitely did not storm out of the competition kitchen—but it was a near thing.

  She wasn’t a woman given to fits of diva drama. As editor in chief of an internationally renowned food magazine, in charge of a revolving staff of temperamental, artistic, flighty journalists, photographers, test kitchen cooks, and columnists, Claire was known for keeping a level head.

  When dealing with a photographer held hostage in a jungle by militants, Claire kept her sangfroid. In the face of crushing workloads during all major holidays, rigid deadlines, and plummeting budgets, Claire was a tower of calm, cool strength.

  But even she had her limits.

  Being forced to sit on a judging panel with two men who had entered into a humiliating, caveman-style battle for the right to claim her? Pushed her right up to the edge of those limits.

  The glancing touch of long, blunt-tipped fingers on her shoulder tossed her off the edge and into free fall.

  Throwing off the warm weight of the hand she’d recognize anywhere, Claire whirled to face Kane Slater.

  Again, more dramatic than she preferred. She’d managed to keep it together for most of the challenge itself, but now that their audience of chef contestants had left the coordinator and judges alone in the kitchen, it was harder to keep a tight rein on her composure.

  Kane backed up a step, hands held up as if she’d aimed a loaded gun at his chest. “Hey, now. Go easy, gorgeous, and tell me what’s bugging you.”

  Kane Slater, with his shock of sun-kissed hair and deep blue eyes; his tightly muscled, compact form; the youthful, energetic vibrancy of his presence … just a glimpse of him caused every nerve in her body to throb out a quick, ecstatic burst of remembered pleasure.

  What a pity Claire’s body was not as sensible as the rest of her.

  “There are no bugs,” she snapped, losing her grasp on American idiom in a rush of embarrassed anger. “Which is to say, I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you are.” His gaze traveled over her from head to toe, warming her skin like a touch.

  Shivering, Claire wished Kane’s flirting didn’t have the effect of making her insides turn to molten chocolate.

  It should’ve been foolish, so over the top—but instead, his artless, honest appreciation for all things Claire made her want to throw herself into his arms like the naïve, lovelorn young girl she hadn’t been for so many years.

  But there was the danger he might interpret such an action to mean tha
t she’d forgiven and forgotten … and she hadn’t.

  Besides, they weren’t completely alone. Eva and her father were carrying on a low, serious conversation over by the door, and the mere sight of Theo Jansen was enough to make shame and betrayal rise up to swamp the swirling attraction that clouded the air.

  “I thought I made my position very clear,” she hissed, rounding on Kane. “Rather than choose between you and Theo, I choose neither. I choose to be alone.”

  He shrugged. “That’s your choice. Just like it’s my choice not to give up on you.”

  This situation was untenable. But Claire didn’t have time for the scream of frustration that was building in her chest, because at that moment, Eva and Theo concluded their discussion and came over to begin the judges’ meeting they’d scheduled for after the preliminary challenge.

  “It’s official,” Eva began, her eyes sparkling like smoky quartz. “Devon Sparks is coming back for the finals!”

  Relief made Claire a little lightheaded. “That is wonderful news.” She caught Theo Jansen’s eye across the group. This meant he wouldn’t have any reason to stay here, thereby cutting the level of tension on the judging panel in half.

  “His wife is doing better, then?” Kane asked.

  “It was his wife who called me,” Eva said, laughing. “Apparently, Devon makes for a very exhausting, intense nursemaid. She’s importing her aunt, Bertie or something, from Virginia and kicking her husband out of the penthouse and back over to us.”

  “I’m glad,” Kane said, and Theo shot him a glare.

  “Of course you are,” he growled. “With me gone, you’ll have no more competition for Claire’s affections!”

  “Whoa, Dad,” Eva said, stepping between the two men just as Kane scowled and ground out, “I’m glad because Lilah Sparks is a nice lady, and it’s good that she’s feeling well enough to send her husband away in the middle of a difficult pregnancy. You total and complete ass.”

  Claire supposed there were women out there who would watch two alpha males snarling over them and, rather than feeling like pieces of meat about to be torn in two, would feel honored. Important. Powerful.

  Claire was not one of them.

  Kane shook his head in disgust and turned away, his broad shoulders tense under his thin cotton shirt. Claire watched him go, helpless to stop the unwanted curl of heat that melted through her lower body.

  Stupid, stupid body.

  “Enough.” Eva raised her voice just enough to let them all know she meant business. Despite her inner turmoil, Claire felt a flash of pride in her young friend—since embracing her own faults and mistakes, and rising above them to reach for the love of the man she’d wronged, Eva had gained in both poise and confidence.

  Which was slightly frightening, really, given how confident Eva had always seemed. But where the younger Eva’s spiritedness had bordered on bravado at times, she now seemed more grounded—settled and sure of herself and her place in the world.

  “Probably the best thing about Devon coming back is that we’ll cut down on distractions like this,” Eva bit out. “Dad, you know I love you, and I would never bar you from attending the competition you founded. But it’s time for you to leave.”

  My, my. Claire regarded her friend with renewed interest. If Eva was throwing her father out of the judges’ meeting, she certainly had gained confidence. The old Eva had been desperate for her father’s love and respect, to the point of making choices that later came back to haunt her. But now …

  Theo sputtered for a brief moment before recalling himself to gravitas. Lifting his leonine head, he studied his daughter as if searching her for a weakness.

  Evidently finding none in Eva’s calm, implacable expression, Theo turned to Claire, an appeal clear in his eyes.

  But Claire had no sympathy left to spare for him. Not after he instigated the conversation that had led to her discovering that the young man she’d … come to care for could betray her confidence by dragging their affair out into a testosterone-measuring contest between chest-thumping men.

  Oh yes, she was angry with Kane. But Theo was just as culpable, and she’d be pleased to see the back of him.

  Raising her chin a notch to Ice Queen stature, she said, “I agree. With Devon returning, we have no more need of your help on the judges’ panel. Go home, Theo.”

  Thwarted, Theo pressed his lips together so tightly, they disappeared into his impeccably trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. But he hadn’t built America’s largest restaurant empire by fighting losing battles.

  Instead, he shrugged dignity over his shoulders like a perfectly tailored blazer and inclined his head. “Very well. Since everyone seems to be in agreement, I’ll step down.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Claire caught movement as Kane shifted his weight.

  “I’ll step down,” Theo continued, voice hardening, “but I’m not leaving San Francisco. I’m staying for the finals.”

  “Of course you are,” Kane said softly, with a bitter amusement that was wholly unlike him.

  Theo tensed but didn’t respond. When he kissed Eva on the cheek and stalked out of the kitchen, Claire felt a large chunk of the stress and emotional upset she’d been carrying for days go with him.

  “Now,” Eva said briskly, “let’s get down to business. Here’s what we’re going to need to watch out for in the next challenge.”

  As she began outlining the specifics they’d be facing, Kane rejoined the conversation by walking back to stand at Claire’s side.

  He was close enough that she could feel the heat he gave off, the restless energy of his presence ruffling the air between them like a caress against her skin.

  Theo might be gone, and with him, a portion of her tension. But the larger part—the part that had caused her the most intense emotional upheaval she’d experienced in the last twenty years—was still very much here.

  And Kane was still very much intent on stirring Claire up, if she were to judge by the swift, wicked grin he slashed in her direction.

  It was going to take everything she had, every trick she’d learned at the hands of callous, cruel men and faithless lovers, to hold strong against that smile and what it offered.

  Claire could only hope she was strong enough.

  Chapter 5

  Twenty-four hours after escaping his second airplane in as many weeks, it was still all Beck could do not to fall to his knees and kiss the gritty San Francisco sidewalk every time he walked outside.

  The mercifully solid, right-under-his-feet, surrounded-by-clear-open-space sidewalk.

  That was a feeling he never thought he’d have about coming back home, but Beck had learned not to try to predict shit like that. People reacted all kinds of crazy ways when their adrenaline was up and their defenses were down.

  Take him, for example.

  Beck hated airplanes. Not as much as he hated submarines, but close. They both gave him that messed-up, suffocating feeling of being an anchovy packed into a thin metal canister, barely able to move or breathe or think through the rising panic.

  “You doing okay?” Winslow Jones, line cook and mother hen extraordinaire, put a concerned hand on Beck’s shoulder.

  Caught between embarrassment that he’d freaked out enough lately that people were starting to notice, and gratitude for his teammate’s quiet worry, Beck blanked his tone with the ease of practice.

  “Fine,” he said shortly, hoping his expression communicated both thank you and drop it. He didn’t shrug Win’s hand off his shoulder, though.

  Even if Winslow Jones, with his intense enthusiasms and hyperactive kitten-on-catnip behavior, sometimes drove Beck crazy, it was nice to have buddies again, to feel like part of a team. He’d missed that since he left the Navy.

  Even though this team was all about culinary battles instead of real ones, that feeling of being in it together was the same. Through the ups and downs of the Rising Star Chef competition, they had each other’s backs.

  That had never b
een more clear than during the past week, ever since they lost the last round in a humiliating upset and only advanced to the next level of the contest by the skin of their nuts.

  Beck really, really didn’t want to think about the reasons behind that epic failure in Chicago. Not when he was finally catching his balance after the turbulent flight and the shock of Skye’s demand for a divorce.

  Okay, so his personal life was a train wreck. Fine. All he wanted to do was bask in his team’s win on the relay challenge, breathe in the achingly familiar breeze off of San Francisco Bay, and figure out what the fuck he’d find here at the Ferry Building Farmers’ Market to cook that would tell the judges who he was as a chef.

  If he could maybe get Winslow to quit looking at him with so much freaking compassion and understanding, that would be a big bonus.

  Win nodded and curled his hand into a fist, bumping Beck’s shoulder companionably. The thin, chill light of the northern California sun cast dramatic shadows on his high, brown cheekbones. “Good. Because no way can I haul your gargantuan ass up off the pavement if you faint on me, son.”

  Beck grinned. He knew what to do with this. “Come on, Jones. I know you work out. How much do you bench, one-fifty? One-eighty?”

  Win sniffed, tossing his close-cropped head as if to brush his nonexistent long hair out of his light green eyes. “Bitch, please. I work out to achieve the Unattainable Gay Ideal Body, not to be able to actually lift heavy shit. Although…” Pursing his lips, he made a big show of looking Beck up and down. “You’re not so far off from attaining that ideal, Mr. Universe. Where’d you get all those muscles, anyway?”

  “You’re not going to tease me into squirming,” Beck told his winking teammate. “So you can quit licking your chops.”

  Pretending to pout, Win’s eyes nevertheless held that sharp glint of intelligence so many people missed when they looked at the energetic, enthusiastic young chef. “You are a mystery, Henry Beck.”

  Beck frowned. He wasn’t trying to be mysterious. He just didn’t like to talk about himself. Or anything, really.