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Secret Ingredient: Love
Teresa Southwick
THE WAY TO A BACHELOR'S HEART:1 Alex Marchetti–die-hard bachelor1 Fran Carlino–marriage-shy beauty1 simmering attraction2 matchmaking families&1 secret ingredient: loveCombine passionate, hotheaded chef Fran Carlino and supercool, straitlaced bachelor Alex Marchetti. Slowly increase their mutual attraction. Add a dash of tension (neither claims to be the marrying kind), a generous spoonful of romantic spice and round off with a lot of familial stirring.Finally, mix business with pleasure, turn up the heat and wait for the delectable developments….



“We can’t do this, Alex.”
He blinked and looked at Fran with a dazed expression. “I thought we were pulling it off rather well.” His breathing was ragged and fast.
“Way too well,” she agreed, stepping out of the circle of his arms. “But we have to forget this ever happened. This is a recipe for disaster. Mixing business with—”
“Pleasure is the word you’re looking for,” he supplied.
“Whatever you want to call it, we’re asking for trouble if we don’t stop. We’ve already established that you’re not looking for love and neither am I.”
Finally he said, “I suppose you’re right. This isn’t a good idea.”
Fran felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart. Surely it was for the best? But since when did being right, or doing what was for the best, hurt so much?

Secret Ingredient: Love
Teresa Southwick


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

TERESA SOUTHWICK
is a native Californian who has recently moved to Texas. Living with her husband of twenty-five years and two handsome sons, she is surrounded by heroes. Reading has been her passion since she was a girl. She couldn’t be more delighted that her dream of writing full-time has come true. Her favorite things include: holding a baby, the fragrance of jasmine, walks on the beach, the patter of rain on the roof and, above all, happy endings. Teresa also writes historical romance novels under the same name.

BROCCOLI LASAGNA
12 oz lasagna noodles—wide
2 tbsp salad oil
1 ½ tsp salt
¼ tsp pepper
20 oz frozen broccoli (or spinach)
1 lb creamed cottage cheese
¼ cup sour cream
2-3 cups tomato sauce
12 oz mozzarella cheese, grated

Cook noodles according to directions on package. Drain, then toss with oil, salt and pepper until well coated. Cook broccoli according to package directions. Drain. Combine cottage cheese and sour cream and set aside. Arrange enough noodles to cover bottom of an 8"x12" baking dish. Cover with half the broccoli and some tomato sauce, then a layer of mozzarella cheese. Add another layer of noodles, topped with broccoli, tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese, and then add all of the cottage cheese mixture. Top with remaining noodles and a final layer of tomato sauce to cover. Sprinkle with remaining mozzarella cheese. In a preheated 350°F oven, bake for 30 minutes, until cheese melts and is golden on top.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Chapter One
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
As she finished cleaning her kitchen, Fran Carlino thought about the nightly phone call and her mother’s final irritating words. Fran wasn’t looking for the way to a man’s heart. She wasn’t looking for a man. Period.
She turned the light out before flopping in her favorite worn chair in her apartment living room. She was tired. It had been a long day. A trained chef, she was finishing up her contract to develop natural baby food for a national company. That was good. Except it meant that she had to line up something else. Soon. She liked what she did, but freelancing was unstable and insecure—especially when it was time to pay bills.
Consulting was only a temporary divergence, a choice she’d made because she’d learned the hard way how tough the food service business was on a woman. In cooking school, she’d been flattered when the best looking guy picked her to romance. But it turned out that he’d been using her to further his career. He’d only wanted the secret ingredient to a recipe of hers that had impressed the teachers. One bruised, battered and filleted heart later, she had vowed that love was an ingredient that had no place in any kitchen. Or in her life.
Her ultimate goal was a restaurant of her own, where she called the shots.
Pulling out the Sunday classifieds, she flipped through, then stopped at the restaurant listings. After spreading the sheets out on the ottoman in front of her, she grabbed her red pen from the glass-topped table beside her. She started marking the want ads, although nothing very exciting was available.
“That’s okay,” she said to herself. “Something will turn up.”
The doorbell rang, startling her. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She stood and hurried to the front door, pulling over her step stool to see out the peephole. The man was tall, dark-haired and carrying no weapons that she could see. Must be a salesman. She decided to answer, because it felt rude to ignore someone even if she wasn’t buying what he was selling. And—her father would have used this as an example of why she needed a man to take care of her—he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses.
She got off her stool and opened the door as wide as the latched chain would let her. In spite of what her father thought, she wasn’t a complete airhead just by virtue of being a woman. “Yes?”
“Fran Carlino?” the stranger asked.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“That’s what all the serial killers say,” she answered. “Or salesmen. I’ll cut to the chase, the part where I tell you I’m not interested in what you’re selling. And I don’t want to waste your time when you could be talking to someone who is interested. Goodbye,” she said, closing the door.
He stuck his foot in the way. “Wait. I’m not a salesman. I have something to give you.”
“Like I said, that’s what they all say.” She met his gaze. “Now let me close my door or I’ll—”
“I’m Alex Marchetti.”
“Good for you.” The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
In her narrowed field of vision, he held out a paper shopping bag from a well-known department store. “My sister, Rosie Schafer, asked me to return these jars.”
Rosie was her bookstore-owner friend who was test-marketing her baby food on her daughter, Stephanie. Her son, Joey, was still nursing. Rosie had mentioned her brothers, but she’d never said a word about how good-looking this one was. Fran was about to remove the chain from her door when that last thought stopped her. The phrase “beware of Greeks bearing gifts” flashed through her mind. Alex was Italian and holding baby food jars, but the same warning applied.
“You didn’t have to bring them to me,” she said. “I told Rosie I’d stop by the store to pick them up.”
“Technically, I haven’t actually given them to you. If you’ll open up, I could do that.”
“Just leave the bag in front of the door,” she said. Fran couldn’t decide whether to curse or bless her father for the years of cynicism conditioning that was now second nature to her. Her own unfortunate experience had reenforced his message, making her wary of men. “I’ll get them later.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
Yes, she thought, but not for the reason he meant.
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” she asked, stalling.
“Instead of trying to tell you, I’ll go straight for a positive ID and show you.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her his driver’s license through the small opening.
The Department of Motor Vehicles picture definitely matched him, not to mention that it was better than most people took with a professional photographer. But it was hard to miss with such great raw material. The description said he was six feet two, a hundred and ninety pounds, with dark brown hair and brown eyes.
“You’re definitely Alex Marchetti.”
“So are you going to open the door and let me do my good deed? If that’s not enough to convince you, I’ve got a proposition.”
“My father warned me about stuff like that.” About a hundred million times he’d warned her. And where Leonardo Carlino left off, her four brothers began.
“I was referring to a job.”
That piqued her interest. She did remember Rosie saying that her family owned a chain of restaurants. Since she was going to be out of work soon, what did she have to lose?
“Okay. We can talk. But you have to move your foot first.” When he did, she shut the door long enough to unlatch the chain, then swung it wide. “Come in.”
“Thanks.”
“So talk to me,” she said, shutting the door behind him.
“My sister says you’re a trained chef with a flair for picking just the right ingredient to enhance a recipe,” Alex began. He set the bag of jars down next to the door. “She claims that you can even make Brussels sprouts palatable.”
“I’m proud to say that I haven’t had a baby complain yet,” she quipped.
He grinned and Fran nearly lost her balance. The wattage in his very attractive smile could put a twenty-four-hour-glow in a girl’s heart. Maybe even forty-eight, she thought, absorbing the warmth. Correction: any girl but her. But even she had to admit that he was a walking, talking poster boy for tall, dark and handsome. He made the glasses look macho—sexy, in fact. He even made his wrinkled, pinstriped slacks and rumpled white dress shirt look good. Especially because his long sleeves were rolled up, revealing wide, strong forearms sprinkled with dark hair. It was a look that she was especially vulnerable to. And Alex wore it better than any man she’d ever seen.
Because of her very powerful feminine response to him, she was about to thank him for returning the jars, then politely ask him to leave. But he hadn’t told her about the job yet. “I was just going to have some tea. Would you like a cup? Or are you a coffee kind of guy?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
He followed her through her living room to her small kitchen. The U-shaped work area included a bar. Alex stood on the other side of it while she put on the teakettle. From the corner of her eye, she watched him look around. The Marchettis owned a very successful chain of restaurants. Her small but cozy surroundings had to be a world away from wherever he hung his hat.
He put his hands in his pockets. “My sister tells me that you’re a food consultant. She says the baby food you’ve developed is great. My niece loves it.”
“I have to take her word for that. Unfortunately, I don’t get direct feedback—you’ll pardon the pun—from my little consumers.”
She met his gaze, and the wry look on his face told her he got the second play on words that she’d managed to slip in. She couldn’t help liking that about him. To dim the tractor beam of his appeal, she turned her back on him and reached up into the cupboard for her sugar container. “What else did Rosie tell you?”
Behind her, Alex cleared his throat. “That you have good taste.”
“How nice of her.” Fran turned around in time to see his lowered gaze size her up from top to bottom. That and the appreciative look in his eyes made her wonder if brother and sister had been discussing food at the time. It also made her heart skip into an escalated rhythm. Setting her sugar on the counter, she said, “Do you concur?”
“I haven’t tasted your cooking,” he said, his voice husky. “But your apartment is charming.”
“Thank you,” she answered, annoyed at the breathless quality that had crept into her own voice without warning. “I tried to give it touches that reflect myself. Why do I get the feeling that Rosie wasn’t talking about food or furnishings when she said I had good taste?”
One dark eyebrow rose. “She didn’t mention how perceptive you are. As a matter of fact, she launched into a Fran Carlino monologue, including that you’re five feet two, but no eyes of blue. Instead they’re…” he met her gaze “…cocoa-brown. Rosie said they’re big and gorgeous, and I’d have to concur. She also said you’re concise, and curvy and cute as a—”
“If you say button, I’m going to have to throw you out,” Fran interrupted.
“Okay. Although she did, and that was when I asked what all of that had to do with your cooking.”
“So she did actually tell you about my cooking.”
He nodded. “She said that the baby food you’re developing is simple and pure, for children prone to allergies. I was just wondering if you’d done anything else?”
“I worked on a line of fat-free muffins. After that I developed recipes for dry soup mix. I also did some frozen vegetable stir-fry, just add beef or chicken.”
“What about preservatives in the baby food?”
“It’s pretty easy to prepare without additives, then freeze. To test-market, I gave it to Rosie in jars, but we’re working on the packaging this week. So far the advance reports are good. The secret is simplicity. I don’t get too free with spices that might be disaster to their immature systems.”
“Sounds like a smart move. Too many sleepless nights with a baby battling indigestion could generate some pretty negative publicity.”
Fran put a cup and saucer on the counter, then added a tea bag. “Do you know a lot about publicity?”
He nodded. “I’m vice president in charge of marketing as well as R and D for Marchetti’s Inc.”
“Research and development,” she said, feeling an “aha” moment coming on. “So there is an actual job? And Rosie really did send you over?”
“Sort of. But it’s more in the category of a double whammy,” he said, without batting an eye.
“Double. As in two. I’m intrigued. What’s whammy number one?” she asked.
“I’m looking for just the right person to oversee my latest research and development plan for Marchetti’s Inc. Rosie tells me you’re an excellent chef.”
“I went to culinary school,” Fran said. “Right now I’m doing freelance work. But you already know that.”
He nodded. “I need a food consultant to develop a line of frozen foods. I want to take the Marchetti’s menu into as many homes across America as possible.”
The teakettle shrilled and she lifted it off the stove, then poured steaming water into her cup. Fran looked at him. “That’s an exciting proposition,” she said.
He nodded. “I intend to carve a niche in frozen foods for the company. Are you aware that it’s a four-billion-dollar-a-year industry?”
No, but she was aware of how incredibly good-looking he was when he turned earnest and intense. “That’s a lot of frozen peas and carrots,” she conceded.
“Exactly. I think the time is optimum to branch out into another venue with the right product. Our father started the first Marchetti’s Restaurant. When he retired, my older brother, Nick, took over the company and expanded it, creating the present restaurant chain. I plan to do the same, just in a different direction.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter between them and rested her chin in her hand. “Second-son syndrome.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re suffering from second-son syndrome. In the Middle Ages, the first son inherited the castle and son number two played second fiddle, twiddling his thumbs because he had nothing to do. Nick took Marchetti’s into the fast lane and you’re saying, ‘Hey, notice me, too.”’
Alex frowned. “There’s only one thing wrong with that theory.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m the third son.”
“Ah. Any sons after one and two get paid to do nothing. That makes the syndrome twice as acute.”
Why did she feel this absurd desire to tease him? Maybe because he was so serious. A side effect of the glasses. But mostly because she found her almost instant attraction to him disconcerting. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t resist the urge to loosen him up a little.
“Did you say I’m twice as cute?”
Mission accomplished, she thought, watching him struggle to hold back a grin. “No. I said the syndrome is acute times two for son number three. You’re competing with two brothers for approval, affection and your rightful place in the castle dynamics.”
Alex watched as she dunked her tea bag. She wouldn’t blame him if he grabbed it away and stuffed it somewhere. Like in her mouth. This wasn’t the first time her mouth had gotten her into hot water. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last, either.
She put her soggy tea bag on her saucer. Then she stirred some sugar into the steaming liquid while she waited for him to respond to her last verbal barb.
“I think your theory is interesting,” he finally said. “And there may be a grain of truth to it.”
“Really?” she asked. She’d expected him to bristle and get angry. Not to semi-agree with her.
“If second-son syndrome means that I want my parents and brothers to be as proud of me as I am of them, then I’m guilty as charged.”
“Hmm.” She could relate to that. She felt the same way. Only in her case it wasn’t likely to happen. She wrapped her hands around her mug and blew into the steam to cool off the liquid. “Good luck with your goal,” she said.
“Do you have siblings, Fran?”
“Do I have siblings?” She laughed. “Do four older brothers qualify?”
The corners of his very attractive mouth turned up. “No wonder you and Rosie hit it off.”
She nodded. “We did bond over the trials and tribulations of having a father and four stand-in bodyguards.”
“So you’ve been able to observe second-son syndrome firsthand,” he commented.
“Among other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like marriage and kids. For women, it’s not much evolved from a feudal society.”
“How do you figure?”
She sipped her tea, then said, “Think about it. The woman works her fingers to the bone fetching for her husband and sons, and all she gets is a place to live, food and clothes.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” he asked. “My mother and sister seem to find family, especially motherhood, very rewarding.”
“I’m exaggerating a little. But from my firsthand observations, it seems more servitude than satisfying. I keep after my mother to get a life, but she insists that she has one, thank you very much. But I don’t see that she’s receiving enough personal fulfillment for me to follow in her footsteps. Much to my father’s annoyance.”
“Why annoyance?”
“He believes a woman’s place is in the home. Her fulfillment is taking care of a husband and children. He even wanted me to be a teacher.”
A shadow crossed Alex’s face, and she wondered what she’d said to put it there.
“Why teaching?” he asked, the sad look chasing away the warmth in his dark eyes.
“Good career for a mom, because when you’re finished with work, your children get out of school. Same vacations.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“For starters, it was his idea, not mine. And—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “This sounds like a long, yet interesting story. Would you mind if we sat down?” he asked.
“Of course not. How thoughtless of me.”
She wasn’t usually so rude. But apparently her brain was on overload, filled as it was with good-looking Alex Marchetti. After that, there wasn’t a whole lot of room left over for rational thought, not to mention manners. Then she’d climbed on her soapbox, something that usually followed when the subject of her family came up. Everything else went out the window. Including courtesy.
She waved her hand toward the living room. “Please.”
He turned away and she couldn’t help peeking at him from the rear. For a while now, Fran had wondered about the hoopla, hype and hyperbole associated with men’s backsides. Movies, magazines and other media were full of it. And she didn’t get it. At least she hadn’t until this very moment. It was sort of comforting to know she wasn’t immune.
He filled out a pair of slacks in the best possible way. She would bet he was something of a phenomenon in a pair of worn jeans. Alex Marchetti probably sat behind a desk all day, and it wasn’t fair that he showed not a single hint of secretary spread. More proof that God was a man.
He sighed as he settled his very attractive rear end in her big, overstuffed chair. Her want ads still rested on the ottoman in front of him. “This is comfortable,” he said.
“I think so, too. It was my grandmother’s.” Fran sat on the sofa at a right angle to him. “She died a couple years ago.” She smiled sadly.
“I guess she was very special to you.”
Fran nodded. “My father’s mother. She visited all the time. We were very close. She financed my rebellion.”
“Rebellion?”
“Culinary school. My father refused to pay for it. He said that if I liked to cook, I should get married and prepare meals for one man instead of a bunch of strangers.”
“Hmm,” was his only comment. “Where did you go to school?”
“San Francisco.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Chalk one up for your grandmother. And you still miss her.”
“Every day,” Fran agreed. “But that’s why I love that chair. It’s nice to have something to remind me of her.”
“Do you want me to give you my amateur psychological take on that?”
“Nope. And I won’t practice armchair psychology if you won’t.”
“You already have,” he said wryly.
“Okay. No more cracks about second-son syndrome.”
He held out his hand. “Deal.”
“Done,” she agreed, slipping her hand into his.
A tingle of awareness skittered through her. If she had foreseen the magnitude of disturbance caused by the warmth of his large hand, she would have kept hers to herself.
She removed her fingers from his, hoping he didn’t notice her abruptness. It smacked of attraction. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. Nothing personal. But after her disaster, she wasn’t interested in a flirtation or anything more serious with any man. Especially one in the food service industry. If only Alex didn’t look so darn cute sitting in her grandmother’s chair. What in the world had possessed her to look through that peephole in the first place? Curiosity.
Which reminded her. She was still curious about the second reason he’d dropped by. He’d admitted he was looking for a chef, but he didn’t seem terribly impressed with her verbal credentials. There wasn’t much chance he would offer her the job. Too bad. It was a wonderful opportunity.
But he’d said he was here for two reasons, and he’d only accounted for one. “So what’s the second whammy?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said you’re here because of a double whammy. Chef search is number one. What’s number two?”
“Matchmaking.”

Chapter Two
“Why would you assume Rosie was matchmaking?” Fran asked. “Because I’m a female chef?”
“Yes.”
Alex didn’t miss the defensive note in her voice or the way her gaze narrowed at his response. He’d been around the restaurant business long enough to know that women who decided on this career had a tough time. Attitudes were changing, but males still dominated the kitchens in a lot of four star restaurants.
He couldn’t resist adding, “If you were a guy, it would have been the single whammy.”
“Huh?”
“Chef search. No matchmaking.”
She nodded slowly as the corners of her mouth curved in a knowing smile. “Okay. But why would your sister try to fix you up?”
“Because she’s a hopeless romantic.”
“I wouldn’t think a guy who looks like you would have trouble finding a woman on his own.”
She offered the observation without embarrassment or evasiveness. A woman on the make wouldn’t be so straightforward. He found her refreshing.
And more, he thought. Sweat broke out on his forehead as she touched a finger to her full bottom lip. He wondered how it would taste. That thought came out of nowhere. He’d never felt such a strong attraction. Not since Beth, he amended. Guilt hit him hard and fast. Followed by the pain—dull now, but still there, every time he thought about her and what they’d lost. Love like that happened only once in a lifetime. And fate, karma or whatever you wanted to call it had dumped on him in a big way. He’d found the perfect woman, but chance had stolen from him the part where they would grow old together. Fate wouldn’t get another chance to kick him in the teeth.
“I’m not looking for a woman,” he said. With luck, in addition to being direct, Fran wasn’t inquisitive. This subject was off-limits. There was no point in discussing it.
Her eyes glittered, as if she wanted to ask more. But all she said was, “Then that’s why Rosie is trying to fix you up. It’s a delicious challenge. I just don’t understand why she would think I was matchmaking material.”
“There was that cute-as-a-button remark. Rosie said it, not me,” he stated, raising his hands in surrender.
He had to admit Rosie had been right about that. Funny, he could see buttons as cute, but not sexy. And Fran Carlino had sex appeal in spades. Especially her mouth. Straight white teeth showed to perfection when she smiled, which she did often. She had full soft lips. Kissable lips.
“I would prefer stunning or drop-dead gorgeous to cute, but at least she didn’t tell you I need to wear a bag over my head in public.”
He blinked and forced himself to switch his focus from her mouth to the words coming out of it. “Actually, she was right about you. You’re very attractive, Fran.”
“Be still my heart,” she said, touching a hand to her chest. “Now there’s a line to turn a woman’s head. You really are out of practice. You’re not kidding, are you—about not looking for a woman?”
“No.” It wasn’t even a matter of looking. He’d had his shot. It hadn’t worked out. End of story.
“Then if you suspected Rosie was matchmaking, but you’re not interested in participating, why are you here?”
“She said I couldn’t get you. And if I wanted to know why, I had to ask you myself.”
“Ah,” Fran said, with one emphatic nod that said she understood completely. “I get it. Brilliant strategy. And it worked like a charm.”
“What worked?”
“Reverse psychology.”
“What happened to no more amateur analyzing?” he asked.
“I forgot,” she admitted. “But this is too classic, too characteristic of reverse psychology.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Unless this is the Twilight Zone it would be pointless to deny it. But I refuse to believe strategy played a part.”
“It’s so obvious.” She shook her head sympathetically. “Guys always want what they can’t have. If anyone knows about this it’s me. With four brothers, I’ve had lots of practice studying how the male mind works.”
“And how is that?”
“It has something to do with that whole prehistoric hunter-gatherer thing. Deny them, and they’ll go out with single-minded determination and intense focus to hunt it down and bring it back to the cave. So Rosie’s method worked. She said you couldn’t bag me. Now you’re here, spear in hand.” She watched him for a moment, then added, “So to speak.”
“You’ve been reading too many of the psychology books in Rosie’s store.”
Instead of taking offense, she laughed. “Probably. No doubt it’s nothing more than a man’s competitive nature.”
He nodded. “I’ll go along with that. So, I’ll bite. Why can’t I get you?” That sounded way too personal. “As in why can’t I get you to work for me?”
She set her empty teacup and saucer on the end table beside the sofa. As she leaned sideways, the lamp’s glow highlighted the flush on her cheek. She’d noticed his double entendre.
When she didn’t answer right away, he asked, “Do you have something against Italian cuisine? Either cooking or eating?”
She shook her head. “I love it.”
“So your schedule is tight? You’ve got more work than you can handle? You couldn’t fit me in with a shoehorn?”
“Nope. After the baby food contract is satisfied, I’m up for grabs.”
Did she realize she’d lobbed a double entendre of her own? “Then you’re taking some much needed time off,” he suggested. “Haven’t had a vacation in years?”
“Wrong again. In fact, just before you rang my doorbell, I was wondering where my next job was coming from. I had the want ads out, and marked a few things that looked promising.”
He reached over and picked up her marked up classifieds. Looking at the ads she’d circled, he read, “‘Experienced cook. Must know breakfast.”’ He lowered the newspaper and met her gaze.
She shrugged. “I know breakfast. Never met one I didn’t like.”
He glanced at the paper again. “‘Busy retirement resort seeks chef experienced in home-style volume production.”’
The corners of her tantalizing mouth turned up. “I lived in a home once, and believe you me, in my house you didn’t learn anything if not cooking food in volume. The Carlino boys could put it away faster than you can say hot and hearty.”
Another circled ad caught his eye. “‘Accepting applications for grill and taco bar positions.’ Isn’t this beneath you?”
“It’s honest work.” Her mouth pulled tight.
“Seems to me your family would help out if you’re strapped and between assignments for a while.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not.”
“Why?” If he was in need, his family would be there for him, as Fran had said, faster than you could say hot and hearty.
“I can take care of myself.”
He decided to leave it at that. Fran Carlino had a story and he didn’t want to hear it. Nothing personal. This was all about business. “So you’re actively looking for work,” he concluded.
“Yes,” she agreed.
They looked at each other and said at the same time, “Definitely matchmaking.”
“With overtones of reverse psychology,” Alex added. “And just to clarify—I could get you? To work for me, that is?”
“Make me an offer.”
The first offer that came to mind had nothing to do with a job and everything to do with exploring the curve and circumference of her mouth. Hello! There it was again. That weird attraction, and it didn’t seem to want to let up. The realization rocked him. It had been a while, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t reacted so strongly to a woman, not even Beth. This was different. And it was something he didn’t want to think about.
Pushing the feelings aside, he reminded himself he was here on business. And if he knew anything about anything, it was work. He’d buried himself in it to get through every day without Beth.
He stood up. “An offer is a little premature. I’d like to see a résumé and references. Then…”
“What?”
“Well, I’m not sure. This isn’t normally my area of expertise. My brother Joe is in charge of human resources. He’s the recruiter.”
“So should I see him?” she offered, seeming relieved somehow.
Alex shook his head. “I’d like to handle this. Partly because it’s my project, but mostly because my brother is getting married soon.”
“When?”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“The only day of the year set aside for lovers,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“So you believe in love. You’re just not looking for it yourself.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the significance of the day for others,” he clarified. Just not himself. “You probably have a guy to Valentine with,” he guessed.
“No. But I think it would be very romantic as a wedding day.”
He grinned. “That from the woman who would say Joe bagged a female and is in the process of dragging her—by the hair, I might add—back to his cave.”
She smiled at him. “There’s no keeping a steadfast hunter-gatherer down,” she said. “Apparently it doesn’t run in the family.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re not looking for a woman,” she reminded him.
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “If I were in charge of recruiting, I would probably want to know what job experience you’ve had.”
“Okay, I’ll get you my résumé and work history.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “Here’s the address.”
“Thanks.”

Fran stood before the reception desk at Marchetti’s Inc. the following afternoon. It was late, after five, and she’d spent much of the day debating with herself. Should she play it cool and wait a week before getting Alex Marchetti her résumé? Or appear eager and needy by doing it right away? She finally reasoned that it didn’t matter. The man had seen her want ads. He knew how needy she was.
Stopping at the building’s information desk, she’d explained that she was there to see Alex. The woman had buzzed his office to announce her, and had listened to his response.
“Mr. Marchetti will see you,” she’d said. “Tenth floor,” she’d added with a polite smile.
“Thank you.”
Remembering his deep, resonant tones, Fran wondered how the woman could listen to that wonderful voice and remain impassive. On the phone, there was no distraction to mute the full power of it. Then again, the receptionist looked to be in her late fifties. Not to mention that there were a lot of offices. She probably didn’t talk to him much.
Shaking her head at her silly musing, Fran walked past the reception area to the elevator and took it to his floor. When the doors opened, she walked out and scanned the U-shaped desk and the woman behind it. Alex’s secretary.
That explained it. The information lady probably only talked to his secretary. Hence her demeanor was safe and secure.
“I’m here to see Alex Marchetti,” Fran explained to the gray-haired woman. With her cap of curls, she reminded Fran of one of the flitting fairy godmothers from the classic cartoon fairy tale.
Fran had to conclude that if Alex had had any say in hiring his secretary and the information lady, he had deliberately surrounded himself with females unavailable to him. He wasn’t kidding about not looking for a woman. Fran couldn’t help wondering why. A hunk like him could probably have anyone he wanted, but he’d taken himself out of circulation. She wasn’t the only one with a long, yet interesting story. But she recalled the sadness in his brown eyes and had a suspicion his didn’t have a happy ending.
“He’s expecting you,” the older woman said with a smile. “His office is down the hall to your left.”
“Thanks,” Fran said.
She quickly found his door, and knocked.
“Come in.”
There was the voice. She took a deep, bracing breath, then entered his office. Alex sat behind the desk. Today he had on a tie, a paisley print in shades of brown and gold complementing his tan shirt. The long sleeves were rolled up. She couldn’t suppress one small, appreciative sigh.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”
She clutched her portfolio briefcase tightly. “Here I am, as promised.”
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Anytime this week would have been fine.”
“I thought you were anxious to get started.”
“And I thought you were busy finishing up your current assignment.”
“Just tying up loose ends,” she explained, struggling for perky.
His words made her stomach fall like the sudden drop on a roller coaster. He didn’t want her. The thought flashed through her mind, and disappointment quickly followed. She couldn’t tell whether she was disturbed professionally or personally. That sent her to a whole different level of emotional confusion. She’d been involved with a guy who had dumped her after he got what he wanted. She hadn’t done anything for Alex yet. Her self-esteem would plummet to the basement if she were jettisoned without even being on board.
“Have a seat.” He indicated one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk.
“Thanks.” She sat down and crossed one leg over the other, hearing the whisper of her nylons. She noticed Alex glance in that direction, but was pretty sure his desk blocked his view. And she was glad about that.
On top of her debate about whether or not to show up at all, she’d had a hard time deciding what to wear. It was December in southern California, but unseasonably warm. Should she show up in a suit with a skirt that was businesslike yet feminine, or a pantsuit that was professional and didn’t draw too much attention to her as a woman? Based on their meeting the previous evening, she hadn’t been able to decide whether he was retro or progressive on that last point.
She’d finally chosen an outfit that made her feel professional and confident. Her chocolate-brown suit filled the bill nicely. Its not-too-short skirt and the fitted jacket that hugged her hips and stopped about six inches from her hem made her feel good.
He stared at her for several moments, then finally said, “May I see your résumé?”
“Of course.” She quickly unzipped her briefcase and removed a folder. “I also have letters of recommendation from each of the companies I’ve worked with.”
Alex scanned the sheets, giving her a chance to scan him. As he concentrated, frown lines appeared between his dark brows. He had a well-formed nose and a nice mouth. Very nice, she thought with a little shiver. His cheeks and jaw sported a five o’clock shadow. Incredibly male with just a hint of danger, she decided. But the wire-rimmed glasses debunked that impression pretty quickly. His wrists were wide, dusted with a masculine covering of dark hair, and his hands, with their long fingers, looked lean and strong.
“Very impressive,” he said.
“Yes, indeed.” She gave herself a mental shake and, with an effort, switched gears back to business. She cleared her throat. “They seemed to be happy with my work.”
He set the last letter on top of the folder. “With a health-conscious consumer public, the fat-free muffin mix is very timely. So is the frozen vegetable stir-fry.”
“Not to mention the recipe booklet for the dried soup mix,” she reminded him. “I included hints to cut fat and calories.”
“I see,” he said, looking at her. Was that appreciation in his eyes?
Maybe. But that didn’t dismiss his vague tone. She would bet her double boiler that he had mega-reservations about hiring her.
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” she asked.
“You have no experience in entrées.”
“Not as a consultant, that’s true. But as my résumé states, I was trained at a prestigious culinary school. Making entrées was part of the curriculum. I know which ingredients freeze well.”
Alex met her gaze. “I was hoping to find someone with more—”
“Seasoning?” she questioned when he hesitated.
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Frankly, yes,” he said.
Tamping down her disappointment, she asked, “How long have you been looking?”
“Awhile now,” he admitted. “Casually at first, because I was fleshing out the idea and brainstorming the ad campaign. I had a verbal agreement with a chef, but he bailed out on me when he got an offer for his own restaurant. So when I found myself back at square one, I started looking at our own personnel in the restaurants, without pressuring anyone.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “No dice.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“I was hoping to land a well-known name in the business, but that went nowhere. I also talked to culinary schools. I interviewed some students who came highly recommended.”
“Apparently that didn’t go well?”
He shook his head. “Either they were starstruck, with ambitions of working at world-famous restaurants in New York, or their specialties leaned toward froufrou and artsy.”
“Not on the same wavelength?” she asked, adding a dollop of understanding to her tone.
“That’s putting it mildly.” He leaned forward and folded his hands, resting them on his desk.
She tried, but couldn’t summon sincere sympathy. Not when she wanted this job so much. She couldn’t help feeling grateful that he was having a difficult time filling the position. It boded better for her.
“I hate to say this, but it sounds like you don’t have a lot of choices left,” she said.
“You noticed.” He sighed as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Look, Fran, I worked through lunch and I’m starving. What would you say to an early dinner? The very first Marchetti’s Restaurant my father opened is across the street. Would you care to join me?”
Part of her wanted to say, “Lead me to the linguine.” The other part said her presence here at all was the main ingredient in a recipe for trouble. But she needed a job. And this assignment was leaps and bounds better than grill and taco bar positions. Her only concern was Alex Marchetti. He didn’t seem like the type who would turn the project over to even the most experienced chef, which she was not. That meant he would be a hands-on employer. Shivering at the thought, she reminded herself his hands wouldn’t be on her. This was work, not personal. The business of cooking had been personal once and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t ever let it be again.
This instant and powerful attraction to a man had never happened to her before. She was guessing, but felt it had something to do with the fact that Alex had dropped by without warning last night. She hadn’t had time to erect her defenses. He’d slipped past her fortifications before she could arm herself against his arsenal of looks, laughs and loads of sex appeal.
But she couldn’t let a little thing like that stop her. If she was the type to run from confrontation, she would be a teacher today instead of a chef.
“A business dinner would be fine, Alex. I’d like very much to check out Marchetti’s menu.”
“You’ve never been to one of our restaurants?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He stood up. “It’s time we rectified that.”

“Hi, Abby.” Alex gave his newest sister-in-law a kiss on the cheek.
He and Fran had just entered the restaurant. As assistant manager, Abby happened to be filling in for the hostess. He didn’t miss the look on Fran’s face. Her expression registered surprise, disapproval and a distinct “Do I really want to work for a guy who kisses his employees?”
“A table for two, Alex?” Abby asked, smiling politely at Fran. Her blue eyes glittered with curiosity.
Alex had always thought the penchant for meddling was an inherited Marchetti trait. Apparently it was passed on through marriage, he realized as his blond sister-in-law gave Fran a thorough once-over. But in all fairness, Abby wasn’t accustomed to seeing him with a woman. And there was something about Fran—a sparkle, a sense of fun humming through her, a subtle sexiness.
He cleared his throat. “A quiet table please, Ab. We have business to discuss,” he added quickly. Squash the rumors before they got started. No sense fueling the family gossip mill. The meddling Marchettis needed no challenge or encouragement.
“I have the perfect table,” Abby answered.
He looked at Fran, the doubtful expression in her eyes reminding him he hadn’t made introductions. “Fran Carlino, I’d like you to meet Abby Marchetti. She and Nick have been married…” He stopped to think how long it had been.
“Six months, and we’re still on our honeymoon,” Abby stated with stars in her eyes. “But who’s counting? It’s nice to meet you, Fran.”
“My pleasure,” Fran said, visibly relaxing.
“I’ve got a corner booth, quiet and secluded.” Abby led the way through the romantically lit, almost empty restaurant. “You picked a good time to come in, Alex. The dinner rush hasn’t started yet.”
“Good.”
His sister-in-law seated them. “I’ll send the waiter over. Enjoy your dinner. Good to see you, Alex,” she said, then she was gone.
He knew she’d wanted to say, “Good to see you with a woman.” He wished his family would get over worrying about him being alone. They would have a field day if he told them that visions of Fran kept popping into his mind. Followed quickly by a nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong. He pushed that thought away. He wished his caring but misguided relatives would find another charity case. He’d been taking care of himself—alone—for a while now. And he’d been doing a pretty good job of it if he did say so himself. That reminded him of something Fran had said that he’d wondered about.
Alex looked at her across the table. “Before we talk business, would you mind explaining the remark you made last night? About being able to take care of yourself?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity. You were a shade defensive.” He shrugged. “I just wondered why you would feel you couldn’t count on your family.”
“I can count on them. I just choose not to. Because I would hear about how if I was married, I wouldn’t have to ask them for help because I’d have a man to take care of me.”
“And you don’t want a man in your life?”
“That’s oversimplifying.”
“How?”
She clasped her hands together and rested her forearms on the table. “My family is big on following in footsteps. My four brothers followed my father into the construction business. A lot like your family. The difference is yours seems to accept Rosie’s decision to be an independent businesswoman.”
“Your family hasn’t accepted your career?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think my father knows what to do with me. He’s never gotten over the fact that I wasn’t a boy. Plus girls can’t work construction. I was supposed to do what my mother did—marry and have babies. He wants me to find a man so he won’t have to worry about me anymore. I feel a lot like the Olympic torch, getting handed off to become someone else’s responsibility.” She sighed. “He would want me in a nunnery if he knew about the jerk in cooking school. But that’s a sad, boring story,” she said, looking as if she would like to call back those words.
Alex laughed. “What’s wrong with allowing someone the privilege of looking after you?”
“I’m not a responsibility. I can take care of myself. A man would quadruple the home-front workload. My career would suffer.”
“And your career is important to you?”
“You bet your corporate office it is. I love what I do. A good thing, since culinary school was no picnic for a woman. I didn’t go through that so I could play second fiddle to a guy and his laundry.”
“So a job with Marchetti’s is important to you?”
She nodded. “You said it yourself. I don’t have experience with entrées. This job would give me that and, with a little luck, put me on a course closer to my ultimate goal.”
“Which is?”
“A restaurant of my own.” She met his gaze. “You’re wondering why I’ve taken a detour from that.”
“Yeah.” She’d read his mind. He hoped she couldn’t read the rest of his thoughts as easily. Or she would know how interested he was in her mouth and how it would feel and taste. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
“I’m sure you’re aware that there’s a certain prejudice against women in this business.”
“I’ve seen some,” he admitted.
“School was tough, but I was naive and thought when I finished it would be behind me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a position I wanted in the restaurant field. When I was offered a consulting job, I took it, even though it veered away from my objective.”
“So you want me to hire and train my competition?”
She laughed. “When you put it like that, it wouldn’t be very smart. But realistically, my goal is quite a way down the road. And it doesn’t matter what my future plans are. You need someone now. And I’m the best person for the job.”
“You certainly are cocky.”
“That implies you don’t think I can do what I say.”
He shook his head. “Let’s just call me skeptical.”
“So give me a chance to prove myself.”
“That’s tempting.”
She frowned. “Let me ask you something now.”
“Okay.”
“Would your reluctance to hire me have anything to do with the fact that I’m a woman?”
Yes, he admitted to himself. But not for the reason she thought. There was something about Fran. She’d made him notice her. And he didn’t want to notice any woman. But he was as dedicated to his career as she was to hers. He wasn’t going to just turn this project over to her. He intended to oversee it. That meant he would see her—a lot. What would it be like to work closely with her?
But, as she’d pointed out, he was out of options. “No,” he lied. “The fact that you’re a woman in no way impacts my decision about whether or not to offer you the job.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You’re inexperienced. I don’t want to say no out of hand. But I’m not sure what my next step should be.”
“I’ll cook for you,” she offered. “Let me put my money where my mouth is.”
He’d like to put his mouth where her mouth was. That thought took him by surprise again. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t surprised. He’d been semi-obsessed with her mouth since he’d met her almost twenty-four hours ago. And that was the main reason he hesitated to hire her.
“I thought your father didn’t want you cooking for strange men,” he said.
“Strangers,” she clarified. “Besides, he doesn’t get a vote. And I really want this job.”
“Something to prove to your family?”
“Maybe. As I said, it would look great on my résumé. And the bottom line is you haven’t found anyone yet. Time’s awasting. I’m good at my job and I’d like the opportunity to prove it to you.”
“Fair enough. When and where?”
“Tomorrow night. My apartment.”
“I’ll be there.”

Chapter Three
This time Fran was ready for him. And getting ready for a man like Alex Marchetti was no small feat.
She didn’t just mean ready as in food preparation and presentation, either. Although she had to admit she’d done herself proud. Surveying her modest circular oak table with the four surrounding ladder-back chairs, she nodded with satisfaction. A white linen cloth covered the small round surface. Her grandmother’s flatware was arranged to leave space for her supermarket-special dishes. In her dollar-store water goblet, the cloth napkin fanned out, exotically folded the way she’d so painstakingly learned. And there was extra glassware on the table just to show that she knew how it should look.
In the center of everything was a vase filled with flowers from the grocery store hothouse. Rust-colored mums, yellow carnations, baby’s breath and greens mingled their perfume with the aroma of her two favorite entrées. Presentation was as important as taste, and she’d done the very best she could with what she had for maximum visual appeal. Now her culinary skills had to stand on their own. For reasons she could neither understand nor explain, she wanted to impress Alex Marchetti. And, unfortunately, getting hired for the job wasn’t her only motivation.
But dazzling Alex Marchetti with food and atmosphere wasn’t the only thing she was ready for. Resisting his electric effect on her senses was going to be touchier than getting a soufflé to stand at attention. If she was right, and she was sure she was, he’d wowed her with the element of surprise.
She had told herself repeatedly that good looks and a physique that made her palms tingle to touch him were just his presentation. She had no intention of digging deeper to find out if his ingredients—looks, charm and temptation—blended into a dish with substance. He was dishy, all right, but she was on a restricted diet. Once burned, twice shy. So bring on his sex appeal, animal magnetism and magazine-cover backside. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even tempted. She wasn’t going to let anything, especially a good-looking man, come between her and the job she wanted.
She glanced at the clock on the stove. He was due at seven. It was six fifty-five. Her palms started to sweat and her stomach dropped as if she were in the first car on a roller coaster headed down the world’s longest drop.
The doorbell sounded, making her jump. She took a deep breath and let it out as she surveyed her table one last time. She was grateful that he was punctual; she didn’t think she could handle clock watching. Her nerves were already stretched as tight as the skin on a stuffed and trussed Thanksgiving turkey.
I am so ready, she said to herself as she walked through her living room toward the door, where she called, “Who is it?”
“Alex. Remember me? Your friendly, neighborhood serial killer.”
She couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the fact that his deep voice raised tingles that chased each other up and down her back. She took the chain off and opened the door. One look at Alex’s worn, button-fly jeans and white shirt, sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, told her she was not ready.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Come in.”
“Hi,” he answered, walking through the door with a bottle cradled in each arm. “I brought some wine. One white, one red. I wasn’t sure what you’d be serving.”
“Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that. This is a job interview.” She grabbed the doorknob to steady herself when he grinned.
“I know. But it isn’t like any interview I’ve ever conducted,” he said.
“Preparing food isn’t like any other job. You get results on the spot. Or not,” she added.
“True.” He sniffed. “Your results smell pretty good.”
“I hope so. Let me show you to your table.” She took the lead, then glanced over her shoulder. “This way, please.”
They walked the short distance into her kitchen. She took the two bottles of wine from him and set them on the bar while he surveyed her efforts. Then he looked down at her, a slight frown marring his forehead just above the rims of his glasses.
“There’s only one place setting. You’re not joining me?”
“Every chef strives to imprint his or her own style,” she said. “I’m going for the mystique. Joining the diner would shatter the atmosphere.”
And component number one in her recipe for success in working for Alex was to keep her distance. Pretend she was head chef of her own restaurant, where she could make policy. In this case: stay as far from Alex Marchetti as she could. And she had to admit it was a good rule, because already this felt too much like an awkward first date.
“When I was growing up, there was an unspoken law—never let anyone eat alone.” He rested his hands on lean, jean-clad hips as he met her gaze. “Or maybe you have another strategy. You’re going to poison me and put me out of my second-son syndrome misery.”
“Right. And I could kiss my cooking career goodbye.”
“Or me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You could kiss me.” He looked as if he would like to take the words back. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad joke. But I’m serious about this. I think we should eat together.”
“Haven’t got time,” she said. “You have to be judge, jury and executioner. While I’m hostess, wait staff and chef. Please take a seat. Course number one is coming up. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starved.”
As Alex uttered the single word, she caught a glimpse of the dark intensity in his eyes. She swore he was looking at her mouth like a famished man. Flutters started in her stomach and spread to her knees. As if she wasn’t nervous enough! This was the best opportunity she’d ever had. It would be a real feather in her high, white chef’s hat. All she had to do was not mess up. And that was a tall order, because her hands were shaking like a power line in a hurricane. She’d like to know which of the gods she’d inadvertently offended and give him a penance raincheck. This business was hard enough without the extra challenge of serving a flawless meal while under the influence of Alex Marchetti.
She smiled brightly. “A healthy appetite is a chef’s best friend. I can show you to a table now, sir.”
He rested his hand on one of the chairs and smiled wryly. “I think I can find it.”
“You’re not just another pretty face.”
Before he could see how much she liked his face, she turned away, wishing he was a balding fifty-year-old who didn’t know what hair color to put on his driver’s license. But she’d seen his picture, not to mention the living, breathing man. His dark brown hair was wavy and thick, just begging to be touched. Focus! she ordered herself. In her professional capacity, she’d never had trouble doing that. Except for her one misstep in culinary school. Unfortunately, it was also a stumble of the heart. One she would never repeat.
Darn it, she wanted this job; she was a good chef. She needed to get Alex’s attention. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she’d have it nailed. The job, not the man, she amended.
“I prepared a variety of dishes, so you could see the range of my skills,” she said, opening her refrigerator.
She pulled out a bowl of antipasto salad lavish with greens, cheese and black olives, and a more artsy arrangement of fresh spinach, asparagus and artichoke topped with alfalfa sprouts. Over the first she ladled a combination of spiced aromatic oil and estragon vinegar. She vigorously tossed the mixture, venting some of her nervous energy on the poor, innocent vegetables before placing a portion on a salad plate. On the other she spooned a delicate blend of light olive oil, garlic vinegar and her favorite combination of salad seasonings.
She set the two choices in front of him, along with a basket of fresh baked rolls wrapped in white linen to keep them warm.
“Enjoy,” she said in her best professional voice. It would have been more businesslike without the husky quality, which made her sound like a call girl showcasing her attributes.
“This looks wonderful,” he said, taking the salad fork and testing first one, then the other. He chewed thoughtfully. “It tastes as good as it looks. Both of them.”
“Good.” She went back into her work space. “I’ve got more courses, so save some room.”
“Are you sure you can’t sit down and eat some of this?”
“I’m not hungry. I’ve been tasting everything. A good chef does, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Bald-faced lies, except statement number three. A good chef was supposed to taste as she went along. Unfortunately, Fran had a knot in her stomach the size of Los Angeles and couldn’t get anything down. If she aced this interview, it would be because her instincts were in tip-top shape and she really and truly was an outstanding chef.
From the oven she removed a baking sheet and placed the contents on a serving platter. Then she put the next course in the oven for heating. Rounding the bar, she set the platter on the table, then put one of the appetizers it held on his plate.
“Portobello mushrooms,” she announced.
He sniffed, then tasted. “Excellent,” he commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever had better.” He finished the whole thing.
“I’m glad you like it. Entrées will be ready in about ten minutes. I’ll open some wine,” she said, starting to turn away.
He stood up. “I’ll do it. If you’ll show me the way to the corkscrew.”
Uh-oh. Red alert. He was changing the rules already. This was her kitchen and he was making himself at home. Familiarity breeds contempt. Down with friendly. Fie on familiar. Cool and distant. Up with professional and businesslike, and what had happened to that, anyway?
She looked up at him—way up. Clearing her throat, she said, “Do you always open the wine in a competitor’s restaurant, Mr. Marchetti?”
“Since when are you a competitor? I thought we were on the same team.”
“I’m trying out for a spot on the team. Remember?”
“Yeah. And I seem to recall you calling me Alex. What happened to that?”
“I’m being formal, putting my best professional foot forward. I just need a chance to show you what I can do.”
There it was again. That breathless quality to her voice. Along with her call girl tone she was tossing double entendres like an antipasto salad. As her cheeks burned with embarrassment, she hoped he wouldn’t attach a personal meaning to what she’d said. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” had never rung more true. And she’d been face-to-face with the saying more than once since she’d decided on a male-dominated career.
“Okay. You open the wine,” he said. But he didn’t sit down.
From one of her kitchen drawers, she removed a foil cutter and corkscrew. The first worked like a charm. Unfortunately, the second was inexpensive, antiquated, and only penetrated the cork. It didn’t have handles on the sides to propel the stopper upward. She tried to pull it out, but didn’t have the strength. Then she attempted to wiggle it loose, without luck.
Finally, Alex gently took the bottle from her. With only enough effort to cause a slight tightening in the tendons of his wide forearm, he removed the cork. “Voilà.”
“I feel like a gymnast waiting to see how much the judges will deduct for a fall off the balance beam.”
“Strength and manual dexterity are not the benchmarks of a good chef. I only deduct points for an entrée that triggers the gag reflex or food poisoning.”
“You’re joking, but this is very serious to me.”
“In a restaurant setting the waiter or wine steward would wrestle with this bottle. Any muscle-bound moron can do it. It’s not a failure.”
“It’s not a win, either.”
“Lighten up. If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, you’ve hooked me.”
“Whatever you say.” How she wished she could believe him. She took the opened bottle from him and poured some into the wineglass already on the table.
Before he could respond to her remark, the timer sounded. “The entrées are ready,” she said. “If you’ll resume your seat, I’ll continue to serve.”
“Deal.”
Fran took the food from the oven. She arranged it on two plates resting on a warming tray. Then she slipped on pot holders before she went back around the bar and set the servings on the table in front of him.
With one gloved hand she indicated the first plate. “This is veal parmigiana.” Pointing to the other, she said, “Stuffed chicken breast with mushrooms and vegetables. Enjoy your meal.”
Anxiously, she stood over him and watched while he picked up the fork and sampled everything on each plate. He took a sip of wine, and continued to eat. After finishing the veal, he tasted the chicken again and nodded. Hesitantly, he cut through the green vegetable with his fork and scooped up a small taste. The serious expression on his face told her nothing useful. Curiosity killed the cat and it was about to snuff her, too. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Well?” she asked, struggling for nonchalance. “What do you think? How do you like it?”
“Are you fishing for a compliment?” His mouth twitched slightly.
“I want your honest opinion. An objective, yet sincere critique of my work.”
“I have to make sure.” He took several more bites. “If I’m going to be honest, fair, yet sincere, I need to sample enough product.” He scooped up another mouthful.

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