So, he’d crafted a variety of mushroom dishes, recipes he’d perfected over the years. Nothing better than wowing people with creative fungi when they thought they hated ‘shrooms.
Lindsay had disappeared into the engine room toward the lower center section of the boat, muttering something about having to do a maintenance check on the ship’s two diesels, but Alton didn’t forget her.
He set out a tray of potato chips and Cokes to take to her if she didn’t surface before dinner. He was certain she’d turn up her nose at his complex dishes and matched wines for that evening. He might not agree with her food choices, but no one on the Bonnie Blue was going to go hungry, not while he was around.
Tommy was on watch in the cockpit, and Raoul was tending to the guests. Alton would make up special plates for them in the crew’s mess later that night.
Like his mom, Alton was a feeder. When people ate his food, he felt relaxed and accepted for some strange reason.
Lindsay wasn’t eating what he cooked for her, but he could imagine them together in some small apartment with a tiny kitchen. He’d dazzle her with his culinary magic. In the fantasy, she looked up at him from the table with the same glow she’d had skimming across the water in the tender.
Alton shook away thoughts of her. He had to focus. His entire future depended on every meal being perfect. No mistakes. Not ever.
Besides, while Lindsay might not be gay, Alton couldn’t imagine her going for him, not if she had ever hooked up with a macho douche-bag like René.
“We do have the same taste in sunglasses, though,” Alton said out loud to himself. He shook his head. Crazy, this boat cooking was getting to him.
He hadn’t met the guests yet, but he’d heard them come aboard. Tommy and Raoul had wrestled their luggage into their rooms, with Fiona complaining about the size of the yacht.
“It’ll be like roughing it, Fi,” Becca said, “a total adventure.”
Alton had grown up hunting with his dad in subzero temperatures in South Dakota. Yeah, this was roughing it. A hundred-fifteen-foot yacht was sheer torture. Yet, he could understand where Fiona was coming from. He had expected bigger as well. A day later, however, it felt like just the right size.
Alton popped out onto the top deck, the late-afternoon sun blazing. A canvas bimini provided some shade, but away from the air conditioning below decks, he started to sweat. Still smiling sweetly, he asked, “Ladies, gentleman, can I provide you something to eat?”
All heads turned to him, and it was exactly as he planned. Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead in chef’s whites. He liked bucking the trends, offending the snobs, by cooking in jeans and an apron. However, right then, it was the look that was important, the look that was expected.
When you’re on top, you can do what you want, dress how you like. When you’re struggling up a mountain of trouble, though, you do what the bosses want.
With his tray in hand, and chef’s uniform pristine white and pressed, he fit the part of the Kitchen God. Raoul had already brought out the silverware and place settings. He’d arranged things well. The bartender-steward stood behind the table, scowling while he waited to pour more wine.
Becca Carrothers and her friend, Fiona Stuart, were out in the sun, oiled up, and in their bikinis. Becca’s blonde hair was just subtle enough for the paparazzi to claim it was real, and Fiona was world-famous for her red, curly locks. While not on the A-list of celebs, Fiona was definitely a solid B-plus.
Being married to the hip-hop record producer, Moj, didn’t hurt her. Not at all.
Moj was tall, bald, with gold jewelry winking from his ears and around his neck. He was dressed in swim trunks and a short-sleeved linen shirt unbuttoned to show his sculpted abdominal muscles and tight pecs. He had an easy smile, but from what Alton had heard, Moj was a demonic perfectionist in the studio. He was a control freak and insisted everything go exactly his way.
Which probably was the reason he and Fiona got along so well. She was similar, notorious for being strung so tight she went through a different assistant every month. Everything had to be perfect, even the B-plus movies she appeared in.
Fiona jabbed Becca with an elbow. “No way, you got Alton Maura for us? Really? Really? The Kitchen God?”
Becca grinned and clicked her tongue in the side of her mouth. “Girlfriend, did I not say this was going to be an adventure?”
Alton moved forward and put the tray down. “Escargot-stuffed mushrooms, rice crackers with a vegetable tapenade or warm Camembert, and a wild-mushroom fricassee.”
Fiona sighed long, loud, and obnoxiously. “Really, snails? I don’t eat anything that has a face.”
“Which is why I made the fricassee completely vegan. We can save the planet by saving our bodies. We were not meant to eat so much meat, but then you know that,” Alton said.
Fiona’s mouth fell open. He knew exactly what to say to get the results he wanted. Cooking was one thing, but the presentation and the schmooze were equally important, maybe even more so.
“And we have Sakata rice crackers in case you are gluten sensitive. And Camembert, direct from Normandy, set off with vegetable tapenade, my own recipe, full of vegetables and healthy olive oil, with added Omega 6 oils. Oils based not on fish protein, but from a special blend of flaxseed oil I brought just for you.” Alton paused. “Because our health is our wealth. Didn’t you say that in your Esquire interview?”
Fiona remained speechless.
Moj rumbled laughter. “Oh, baby, does he get you or what?”
“Like an open book!” Fiona said with a squeal.
Becca beamed at her friend, then at Alton. “Very nice, but while Fiona is pure vegan, I need animal protein. And I adore escargot. Only the French could make snails delicious.”
She sampled a canape and closed her eyes in bliss. “Oh, Alton, it’s as delicious as you are.” She opened her eyes, watching his reaction. “Yes, isn’t he just so handsome, Fi? A gorgeous man who can cook. I can just imagine the morning after food. Can’t you?”
Fiona laughed. “Oh, Bec, the things you say.”
Moj took a plate and started sampling. “Good stuff, guy. But are we going to be okay with what you serve? I’ve heard stories. I don’t like talking shit behind people’s backs, so let’s get it all out in the open. What happened on Kitchen Gods and in San Francisco? One poisoning, maybe. But two? You got a serial killer thing going on?”
Fiona’s fork stopped midway to her mouth.
A wave of fear shivered across Alton’s shoulders and down his spine. It felt especially chilly in the heat.
Alton let a slow smile slide across his lips, slow, and perfectly calm. “What you heard was true. I take full responsibility. As the master chef in the kitchen, I oversee all the food. My assistant, known as the sous chef, is supposed to carry out my orders and work with the line cooks, or station chefs. The kitchen is very much like an army, and as the general, I should know about everything that happens.”
Fiona put her fork down on her plate with a clang and punctuated it all with a dramatic sigh.
“However,” Alton added quickly, maybe a little too desperately, but his career was hanging in the balance. “My sous chef was a jealous lover, and I was caught up in some things I would rather not talk about. She was French, and yes, they can do amazing things with snails, but they are also very adept at revenge. She caught me cheating on her, and she is to blame for the poisonings. No one died. All lawsuits have been dropped, and I have learned a great deal of self-restraint since then. In the end, it was my fault, but as you can see, I was sabotaged.”
“Oh,” Moj said simply, and resumed eating with gusto.
“I’m just happy Becca has given me a chance to prove myself,” Alton said.
Becca smiled like a shark about to suck down a surfer.
Fiona raised a fork of the fricasseed mushrooms to her lips. “Love makes fools of us all, doesn’t it?”
Alton nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, it does. I’m just sorry
my foolishness was so public.”
Becca laughed. “That is the life we live, isn’t it? Every little thing we do is scrutinized. But I think it’s rather romantic. You must be quite the lover for your French sous chef to go to such lengths to destroy you.”
Alton shrugged. “Between you and me, if I’m going to get sweaty, I’d rather do it in the kitchen.”
Fiona giggled. “Oh, Bec, he’s a scream.”
“I know,” Becca said, giving Alton a proprietary look. “Isn’t he just?”
Alton bowed and withdrew back down the steps.
When he met Lindsay on her way up, she had a few potato chip crumbs stuck on the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t help himself and brushed them away. It was such an intimate gesture, he immediately flushed.
Lindsay colored. “Thanks. For everything. Are our guests on deck?”
“Oh, Fi. Oh, Bec,” Alton mimicked in a high falsetto voice. “Isn’t it all just, just?”
Lindsay laughed. “This is going to be a long trip, isn’t it?”
“It’ll be what it’ll be. But hey, you look good. Go up there and knock ‘em dead, captain.”
Lindsay did a little salute. “You keep ‘em fed, and I’ll keep us on course. Deal?”
“Deal,” Alton said. He took her hand, warm, not soft, but strong. For a minute, they locked gazes, and Alton wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t. He’d just explained how his love life had destroyed his career. No way he was going down that path again.
Alton swallowed hard and then moved past her. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder. When she continued on up the steps, Alton adjusted his pants.
Chapter Nine
Sunday, Vieux Fort Anchorage, St. Lucia
Lindsay emerged from the stairway, but she was distracted. After the chips and Coke, she felt better, but her head still throbbed and her stomach churned. Had Alton been about to kiss her? If so, how come he’d run away so quickly with no more than a hasty “good luck?”
What was his deal?
Lindsay pulled down her captain’s hat, straightened her jacket, and went out to greet the giggly Fi and Bec. Moj stood by the safety rail, watching the ocean, texting on his phone.
Becca rushed over and put her arm around Lindsay as if they were BFF’s. “This is our captain, she said with a gush. Isn’t she just the most adorable little macho thing you’ve ever seen?”
Lindsay cringed, sweating profusely under the hat the Carrothers family insisted she wear around guests.
“But when are we gonna go, Bec?” Fi asked, her voice in perpetual whine mode. “I’m sick of this harbor, bay thingy. And we have got to get to Bequia. I have something very important to do there. My life depends on it, seriously. You know how sick I’ve been.”
“We can’t leave without my husband’s partner, Devin Manning.” Becca glossed over Fi’s drama-laden complaints. “You’ll like him. He has all these super secret spy stories. All very James Bond.” Becca adjusted her string bikini top with a self-conscious flick of her freshly manicured nails.
Lindsay could swear the last time Becca was aboard the Bonnie Blue she was a whole cup size smaller.
“I suppose if we have to wait, we have to wait, but I only hope you don’t have to call in a helicopter to take me to the hospital.” Fiona frowned and collapsed back onto the cushions of the banquette surrounding the deck dining table.
Moj rejoined the group and sat close to Fiona, massaging her arm. “You know, little squirrel, I won’t let anything happen to you.” When she leaned toward him, he put his massive muscled arm around her.
Moj turned to Lindsay. “Now where is this bastard, Manning? I don’t care if he’s in outer-fucking space. This boat leaves tonight if I have to send my own jet to pick him up.” The glare Moj sent Lindsay was overkill after his passionate speech. “You get him here, or we move on without him.”
“Sir, I appreciate your concern for your wife’s needs,” Lindsay said, “but the earliest we can sail is tomorrow at dawn. We have a long sail ahead of us, and no one sails at night down here.”
“You got lights on this boat, right?” Moj asked, clearly not impressed.
“You can’t always depend on working navigation lights along the coasts down here, and we have to pass near a volcano. The magnetic pull sometimes screws up the electronics. It’s safer to keep good visuals of the coastline,” Lindsay said, and shifted into positive spin mode, keeping her voice authoritative and soothing.
Becca interrupted. “Captain, have you heard when Devin is going to join us? I thought he’d be on our flight, but Raoul said things have changed.”
“As you well know, Mrs. Carrothers, Mr. Manning is a difficult man to pin down,” Lindsay said.
“Yes, you’re right,” Becca said with a sigh. “Every time I think he’ll finally act at least a little normal, he pulls another stunt like this. I guess that’s how he gets all of his stories. But it’s still annoying.”
Alton walked out onto the deck to replace the plates with the second course, shrimp bisque, and offer the women more wine.
Raoul, who had been standing off to the side, pushed Alton away. “I pour drinks. I’m the bartender.”
Alton raised his hands. “Yes, and I bet you make a mean white Russian.”
“I am not Russian,” Raoul growled.
“Of course not. I’m guessing Uruguay.”
The dour excuse for a steward mixed a dirty look with a shrug.
Lindsay intervened to avoid bloodshed. “Thank you, Raoul. Why don’t you get a couple more bottles from the wine chiller?”
When Alton took away some of the dishes, Lindsay caught him staring at the half-naked women chatting. Part of her couldn’t blame him. There was a lot of oiled skin on display. However, if he was checking out the women, there might be a chance he could be interested in her.
Lindsay thought he must be at least bi because of the sparks they ignited every time they got within two feet of each another.
“Captain, maybe you could call my husband? He might know about Devin.” Becca was insistent.
“Yes,” Lindsay said. “I’ll do that right now. If you’ll excuse me.”
She walked away while Alton joked with Moj about some esoteric aspect of the music industry. When she made her way to the cockpit, she found Tommy napping on the seat, his bare feet up on the control panel.
Lindsay slapped his toes. “Tommy, come on. Careful.”
He jerked himself away and put his feet on the floor. “Sorry, Linds. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He gave her a pointed look. “How are our guests? I plan on avoiding them as much as possible.”
“You’re lucky you can,” Lindsay said. She fished the satellite phone out of her pocket and started to dial, but then stopped for a minute. “You think Alton is gay?”
Tommy squeezed his eyes closed. “Don’t go there. Yes, he’s completely gay. So don’t go there.”
“What?” Lindsay asked as innocently as possible.
“You know what. You’ve been eyeing that boy like a seagull diving for fish guts. Last thing we need on this trip is for you to be getting all middle school on me -- does he like me, like me, or just like me? Come on. This gig is too important.”
“I know all that,” she protested. “Nothing happened, nothing is going to happen, I’m just curious.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Like you’re all pure. What about that sweet young cook we had on the Johnson boat? She could’ve been your daughter.”
“Okay, fine,” Tommy said. “I’m not perfect, but for this trip, we have to be. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m going to call Carrothers to see what the holdup is with Manning.”
Tommy grunted, “Ol’ Mr. I’m-Saving-the-Free-World-from-Terrorism-and-Common-Sense. What an asshole. I’ll go look at the diesels for the millionth time. Like we’re ever going to use ‘em.” He angled toward the stern.
“That’s the long way around,” Lindsay said, and pointed toward the companionway amidships, next to the covered dining
deck.
Tommy reversed course, and she knew he was going to dive off the side and circle around the stern just so he wouldn’t have to deal with Becca and her buddies.
Lindsay called Carrothers. Not her favorite thing. He hated calls from subordinates, but she had no choice.
He answered with a short “Yeah, what?”
“Your wife is wondering when we can cast off, but Mr. Manning isn’t aboard yet.”
“Dammit. Goddammit.” A harsh, ugly, static noise broke up their connection for a second. More curses from the boss. “He’s there, or should be. I don’t know what his problem is. Just leave. He’ll catch up.”
“You’re sure?” Lindsay asked. Carrothers had never had a problem with Manning sneaking around before.
“Do it. And don’t call me again. I’ll call you.” The phone disconnected.
Lindsay took off the stupid captain’s hat and slapped at her hip. “Ahoy, maties, we set sail now, I guess. For Bequia. Huzzah,” she announced to the empty cockpit. Every now and then she liked to break out in a little Popeye-eze to lighten the tension. All she needed to complete the illusion was a can of spinach.
She moved back toward the guests to warn everyone they’d be hoisting anchor in the morning and setting sail. She’d make sure Alton and Raoul stowed everything so they could get under way at first light.
There was a pretty good wind honking down the circuit to Bequia. She hoped to hell Becca had prepared Fi for what sailing heeled over would feel like.
Yes, this trip was going to be a long one.
Lindsay touched her lips where Alton had brushed the crumbs away. She remembered tearing up after realizing he’d taken care of her when she needed him. Damn. She hated women who cried. And the men who made them do it.
* * *
Monday Morning, Vieux Fort Anchorage, St. Lucia
The next morning Tommy was at the anchor controls wearing clean shorts, his Bonnie Blue polo shirt neatly tucked in, deck shoes tied, and his still-wet hair slicked back. Lindsay kept a light touch on the wheel and kept the RPMs high enough to support hauling up the anchor rode.
Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1) Page 7