She took her backpack to every catering event, and hung it in a tree out of sight of the house, and brought it in to fill it with leftovers when she knew it would never be out of her sight. She began to feel as if she had done as her father instructed, as if she had seized the moment.
Then Taylor lost two weeks of work to the snow, and when she at last dug herself out, she was desperate and starving … again. When she managed to get to the gates of the party house, she hung her backpack on a high, broken limb in a pine grove at the far end of the massive yard, and trudged up the drive. She made her way to the kitchen door, and stood at the back of the catering truck waiting to be recognized.
Georg gave orders to everyone else, and pretended he didn’t see her.
His staff took their cue from him, and walked past her as if she didn’t exist.
Only Jasmine took the time to smile smugly.
In the battle between the two of them, Jasmine was the winner.
Taylor wanted to sit down and cry. But she didn’t dare. She needed this work. She needed this food. She needed the warmth and the human companionship. When Georg tried to walk into the kitchen and leave her out in the cold, she grabbed his arm. “Please…,” she whispered.
For the first time, he looked at her. Closed his eyes as if the sight of her was painful. Gave a mutter of disgust. “All right. Go in. Eat. Get dressed. We really need you to serve, but in this condition”—he waved his hand up and down as if to illustrate her terrible appearance to the world—“you’d scare the guests. So you’ll work in the kitchen.”
She nodded and started inside.
He grabbed her arm and brought her around to face him. “But listen to me. I need a steady staff. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but leave that bastard who locks you in the basement and starves you, come down to Ketchum and get some counseling. I’ll take you down. I’ll help you. I’ll give you a job. Just … grow some self-respect and leave him.” He swept into the house ahead of her.
She stared after him.
The bastard who locked her in the basement? Georg … he thought she was involved in an abusive relationship. She had been so worried about going into town, being identified as a murderer and thrown in jail, she hadn’t considered that it was possible to go somewhere—a woman’s shelter—say as little as possible, get a job, and use their resources to figure out her next move.
This could work. She felt pretty certain no one would recognize her—no one had so far—and even more sure that once she IDed herself as an abused wife, everybody would take care not to look directly at her. Oh! And she could keep her head down as if she were ashamed and afraid … “Thank you,” she called.
Energized, she hurried into the house. She showered and changed into black slacks, a black shirt, and a red bow tie, then topped it with a white chef’s coat and a white chef’s hat. She grabbed a plate of food and ate like a ravenous beast, and went to work. The first flurry of setup was done, and the cooks had settled down to a steady rhythm.
Georg stood alone, surveying his crew, and Taylor walked up to him. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll go with you tonight.”
He glared at her fiercely, and with his typical candor said, “You should have done it long ago. Now chop the onions.”
She did. She chopped onions; the other cooks mocked her for the tears that ran down her face. She listened to the servers complain about the size of the house, the number of guests, the wealth of their host. The women talked about their host, too—Michael Gracie was apparently a handsome devil in an Armani suit with a real Rolex on his wrist, and a top model and a French actress were fighting over him. He got a big thumbs-up for ignoring them, offering his arm to an aging actress, and taking her in to dinner.
As the courses progressed, the frenzy in the kitchen grew ever more intense, and Taylor’s adrenaline raced as she fought to keep up with the chopping. Her blade flashed, over and over, slicing through cilantro, fennel, parsley, oregano. Nothing halted her fierce attack on the vegetables and herbs … until someone collided with her knife arm.
She dropped the eight-inch chef’s knife, yanked her vulnerable hand away, and examined it. It happened all the time, the sous-chef cutting off the tips of their fingers with a sharp blade. Even Georg sported a shortened index finger.
But by the grace of God, Taylor had done no more than cut off the end of her thumbnail. She turned in a fury. “Be careful!”
Jasmine shrugged, all innocent and airy. “Oh. Did I bump you?”
The simple bitch had done it on purpose.
Taylor grabbed her and yanked her around. “Listen to me, kid. I’m not going to let a pouty brat like you hurt me, and if you’re smart, you’ll toe the line or Georg will toss you out on your ear. It’s not an accident you’re down here working the kitchen tonight instead of upstairs, where you can look for a rich husband.”
Jasmine’s eyes got big, and for the first time, she seemed aware that Taylor could be dangerous. “What do you mean?”
“Outside, Georg saw you walk past me and smirk.”
“Georg doesn’t care about you!”
“Amazingly, he seems to. But more than that, he makes the decisions for his team and doesn’t like people like you thinking they can play him.” Taylor put her face right into Jasmine’s. “Tonight, if not for you, he would have ignored me, and I’d be outside freezing and starving.”
“You’re not really starving.” But Jasmine’s gaze swept Taylor up and down, and Taylor could see her narrow little mind working, computing the fact that maybe Taylor had been starving. And maybe … that Taylor was tougher than Jasmine could ever imagine.
“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Taylor said. “And don’t you ever bump me again.”
From directly behind Jasmine, Sarah spoke. “Is there a problem, girls?”
“Not at all.” Taylor let go of Jasmine’s arm, picked up the chef’s knife and the sharpening steel, looked Jasmine in the eyes as she drew the blade across the shaft—top to bottom, top to bottom—to hone the edge.
Jasmine eyed the motion and edged away. But she was dumb enough to mutter, “Nut case.”
Sarah stared, narrow-eyed, as the blade sang on the steel shaft, and didn’t move away until Taylor wiped her knife and went back to work.
Then, at the moment between the entrée and the dessert course … sound died. Motion stopped. The only movement and noise in the kitchen was the bubbling of pots. And a deep, warm voice said, “I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for your efforts. Dinner is a triumph and I will be making my appreciation known.”
Taylor turned, a slow swivel from the cutting board. She didn’t need to hear the whisper that ran around the kitchen to know … this was Mr. Gracie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wow. Yes.
Taylor groped on the counter behind her. She put down her pastry tube stuffed full of whipped cream. She straightened her white chef’s coat and her white chef’s hat, and stood at attention, her gaze fixed on the wonder that was Mr. Michael Gracie.
Maybe she had been too long away from the sight and sound of an honest-to-God rock star hot guy, but the impact of his sensuality rocked her back on her heels. He was tall, athletic with a swimmer’s body, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, and with long, strong legs. He oozed old-world charm, outrageous wealth, beauty in body and soul. His mussed, curly, ash-brown hair tumbled around his forehead, and his olive skin seemed to glow with days of past sunshine. His dark gaze touched on each one of them, and when he looked at Taylor, he smiled.
At least … she thought he smiled. She felt a little giddy.
His gaze wandered on, then returned to her, sharp and enigmatic. His eyes narrowed. He looked her over. Definitely looked her over. And this time, he did smile, a warm and charming smile.
She couldn’t look away. Not until he did.
He turned to Georg. “Could you help me pick out a very special wine for the dessert course? I would like to give my friends a present.”<
br />
The way he said it, as if he knew what it was to give, sent a thrill down Taylor’s spine.
“Of course, Mr. Gracie. I’d be glad to lend you any small expertise I have in the matter,” Georg said.
The two men walked toward the back of the kitchen where a set of stairs descended into the basement. The whole kitchen released its collective breath.
Charlene, one of the servers, was waiting to transport the first round of sweets up the stairs to the dining room. “That man can pick out my dessert wine any day,” she announced.
“Amen,” Taylor said.
“And Summer, he liked you.” Charlene glanced at Jasmine.
Jasmine’s cheeks were red, and she looked like a cobra about to strike. “Why would he bother with her, skinny and no makeup with an overgrown thatch of a haircut!”
Charlene waited until Jasmine flounced away. “Yep. He definitely liked you.”
Taylor’s hands shook as she picked up the pastry tube and returned to work piping flourishes of freshly whipped cream onto the individual pots au chocolat, then adding a small, decorative sprig of mint. She smiled a secret smile.
Within five minutes, Georg was back in the kitchen. He leaned close to Taylor. “Give that to Jasmine to finish. Get rid of the chef’s jacket and hat. Pick up a black serving jacket and a black bow tie. You’re going to help me.”
Jasmine glared.
Taylor could see Georg make a mental note, and knew Jasmine had just condemned herself to an eternity in the kitchen. Honest to God, that kid needed to learn subtlety.
Taylor changed, and waited for Georg as he collected Brent, the new guy they used for carrying heavy loads; Allison, the most attractive member of the team; and Charlene.
While Brent and Allison donned serving clothing, Georg stepped close to Taylor. “Mr. Gracie specifically asked for you.”
“He did?” He did?
“Mr. Gracie pays well, and I don’t speak ill of employers who pay well. But in general, I find it’s best if my female servers are unnoticed by hosts and guests.” Georg looked into her face. “Especially a woman in your circumstances.”
“My circumstances?” Taylor deflated. “As a battered woman, you mean.” Because having a good-looking guy check her out was fun, but Taylor needed to concentrate on survival.
When Brent and Allison joined them, Georg lined everybody up, looked them over, and told Brent to button the collar button on his shirt.
They now looked, in Taylor’s opinion, like a family of funeral directors.
As they descended into the basement, Georg told them, “Mr. Gracie already knew which wine he wanted. He simply wanted me to deal with transporting the bottles. Which is where you come in.”
“We’re the muscle,” Brent said proudly. At twenty-one years old and six and a half feet tall, Brent was the muscle, if lacking in brains or tact.
Georg viewed the big, brash boy with disfavor. “Right.”
The basement was bare, sparse, cool, and set into the hill, but as they entered a small anteroom, Taylor saw a narrow, arched, solid oak door set into the wall.
“The wine cellar,” Georg told them, and opened the door.
It opened silently and inside, a motion-activated light flipped on.
Taylor took a deep breath. The rich, fruity aroma of wine perfumed the air.
Georg ushered his staff inside the dimly lit cavern, and the door whooshed shut behind them.
“Fabulous.” Allison did not so much speak the word as breathe it.
In her line of work, Taylor had seen, and decorated, some excellent wine cellars, but even she had to admit this was impressive. Like everything else in the house, the cellar was the largest, and the tallest, she had ever seen lined with bottle racks from floor to ceiling. The walls appeared to have been carved from solid rock, and the far end disappeared in the shadows.
“Why is it so dark and cold?” Brent rubbed his arms.
“Light and heat are the enemies of wine,” Georg said.
“Oh.” Brent seemed amazed. “These are all bottles of wine?”
“Yes,” Georg said.
“Don’t they drink beer?” Brent asked.
Georg was getting annoyed. “If they wish to. But they don’t keep it in the wine cellar.”
“Oh. Right.” Brent nodded in approval. “Do they have a beer cellar?”
Taylor took over to spare Georg’s sensibilities. “No. They do probably have a beer cooler, though.”
Touch-screen monitors had been set at intervals into the walls.
“What are those for?” Brent pointed.
“They’re the catalog of wines and the locations,” Taylor answered.
Georg sent her a sharp glance. “Our Summer is right.”
Taylor shut her mouth firmly. She did not need to give herself away with her knowledge.
Brent reached out a finger to tap the screen.
Georg snapped, “Do not touch that.”
Brent pulled back his hand. He said, “Yes, sir,” but his gaze wandered back to the monitor.
“Do not touch anything.” Georg’s stern gaze swept his staff of four. “Not any of you. Mr. Gracie would view any mucking with his possessions with displeasure, and you do not want to displease Mr. Gracie. You’re here to carry cases of wine, so stay close and keep your hands to yourself.” He pulled a folded printout from his pocket. “We’re serving a Seghesio Old Vine Zinfandel, port, and an ice wine from Mr. Gracie’s personal winery, three cases of each. Each of us will carry one case, except Brent, who will carry two.”
Brent puffed out his chest.
Georg continued, “We will gently transport these into the dining room and stand at attention while Mr. Gracie presents the wines to the guests and they applaud his generosity. Then we will take the bottles to the staging area beside the dining room, where they will be uncorked and allowed to air. We will return to the kitchen at a rapid clip since, due to this disturbance, we are now behind schedule. Brent, don’t touch that!” The last was in a sharp, staccato voice.
Brent pulled his finger away from the dusty bottle. “I was going to wipe it off.”
“Do. Not. Touch. Anything.” Georg’s face turned the dusky red of annoyance. “You do understand what anything means, right?”
Brent nodded.
Georg went to a cubicle, where long, narrow bottles of golden wine glistened. “Summer make sure each bottle is correct, pack it into the case and”—he sighed again—“can you lift this?”
Taylor locked eyes with him. “Of course.”
Going to another cubicle, Georg repeated the instructions to each of his staff, saving Brent until last. He hovered over Brent, checking each bottle himself to make sure it had the proper label.
When the wine was packed, the staff lifted their cases and followed Georg, but not back toward the door where they had entered. Instead they took a left into a completely different section of the wine cellar. This second room was long, wide, and lined with rows of bulky old-fashioned oak wine barrels against each wall. The barrels were three feet apart and had been placed on carved wooden racks that held them two feet off the cool, flagstone floor. Small carved wooden plaques hung from narrow chains, identifying the varietal inside: CABERNET SAUVIGNON, BARBERA, MOURVÈDRE.
Taylor had seen this kind of setup in some old, respected European wineries—but only to impress the tourists. Yet here, the careful attention to decorative detail, combined with the scents of aging wine and new oak, made her think this was an actual working cellar. She asked, “Georg, does Mr. Gracie keep wine in these barrels?”
“He does. Idaho wineries produce some fine wines, and Mr. Gracie owns one of the wineries. For his own pleasure, he transports his best vintages and ages them here in this controlled environment. When he has guests he wants to impress with his European heritage, he brings them down and taps a barrel.” Georg sounded … off … as if he didn’t want anyone to know his real thoughts.
But Taylor suspected those thoughts were not com
plimentary. Yet … why? Mr. Gracie appeared in every way to be a man admired by his colleagues. And God knows she admired him. “What is his background?” she asked.
“He’s an orphan. He says his family originally came from southern France.” Georg was careful. Too careful.
She moved back toward the end of the group, and realized Brent was lingering, nudging one of the casks with his shoulder. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Trying to get fired?”
“I can’t believe it. All this wine, waiting to be drank.”
“Drunk.”
“Yeah, I imagine everybody gets drunk. How much do you think is in each one of these?”
“A regulation-sized wine barrel holds sixty gallons and weighs about six hundred pounds.” She eyed the barrel. “These are custom wine barrels, probably half again as large.”
“Whoa.” He nudged it again. “Feels like it weighs a ton.”
“Not that much. Including the weight of the barrel, it’s maybe a thousand pounds.”
Brent was clearly impressed. “How do you know all that?”
I’ve decorated a winery in Cenorina. I dated the vintner. It was fun and I learned a lot. I even learned he was a lying, cheating bastard. “I once visited the California wine country and took a tour. Now, let’s go.” She stepped away.
Brent bumped the barrel again.
It settled more securely into place. The supports groaned.
And Georg whipped around and stared forbiddingly.
Brent looked guilty.
Unfortunately, so did Taylor.
“Don’t! Touch!” Georg thundered.
Taylor hurried to rejoin the group.
At this end of the cellar, two massive oak doors awaited them under an arch decorated with an ornate carving of vines and grapes intertwined with the name Gracie. Georg pushed against one of the doors; like the other, smaller door where they had entered, it whooshed open silently. He held it with his shoulder and waited while his servers exited. Then he let it go and took the lead again, and walked up the wide, ornate stairway toward the main floor.
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