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Tamed by a Texan
Tanya Michaels


Too Hot To Handle? Grace Torres has a lot to lose. And the Texas Hill Country restaurateur isn’t letting Ty Beckett steal her thunder. He may be the Lone Star State’s most famous bachelor chef, but Grace has a family legacy to save. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep her beloved restaurant afloat…even go head to head in a reality TV cook-off only one of them can win.Growing up dirt-poor just made Ty more determined to succeed. But he’s facing some stiff competition. Grace may be the only female alive who sees past Ty’s footloose façade and charming one-liners. She’s also igniting more heat than a Mexican jalapeno.Walking away with first place could give Ty everything he ever wanted. It could also make him lose the one woman who’s ever come close to taming this culinary cowboy!







Too Hot To Handle?

Grace Torres has a lot to lose. And the Texas Hill Country restaurateur isn’t letting Ty Beckett steal her thunder. He may be the Lone Star State’s most famous bachelor chef, but Grace has a family legacy to save. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep her beloved restaurant afloat…even go head-to-head in a reality TV cook-off only one of them can win.

Growing up dirt-poor just made Ty more determined to succeed. But he’s facing some stiff competition. Grace may be the only female alive who sees past Ty’s footloose facade and charming one-liners. She’s also igniting more heat than a Mexican jalapeño.

Walking away with first place could give Ty everything he ever wanted. It could also make him lose the one woman who’s ever come close to taming this culinary cowboy!


They passed a stall selling an assortment of quality and novelty hats. He slowed to pick up a green plastic leprechaun bowler and plop it on his head. “What do you think?”

What she thought was that he was trying to cajole her out of a bad mood, and she adored his flippant nature. It was the perfect antidote to everything weighing on her.

“Not actually the best look for you.” She laughed. Her gaze landed on a cowboy hat. Every true Texan needed one. “Here, try this.”

Obligingly, Ty settled it on his head, then tipped it back with a finger to smile down at her.

Those blue-gray eyes hit her full force, and her breath caught. Damn, he was a good-looking man. She hadn’t realized just how close they were standing until that moment, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to slide her hands around his waist and reach up to meet his kiss.


Dear Reader,

Thank goodness the Texas Hill Country offers calorie-burning opportunities like hiking, cycling and dancing—they’re necessary to counterbalance all the fantastic food in the area! If you’ve ever attended the Fredericksburg Food and Wine Fest, or even just stopped for dinner in the region, you’ll understand my inspiration for this book.

In my first Hill Country Heroes story (Claimed by a Cowboy) I briefly introduced chef Grace Torres and her family’s restaurant, The Twisted Jalapeño. Now Grace is a contestant on a televised cooking competition that will be filmed during a local festival. She needs the prize money and publicity to save her restaurant. But she’s about to meet her match in charmer Ty Beckett.

Ty’s flirtatious banter and lazy smiles mask a steely determination. As a kid who grew up poor and hungry, he swore he’d make something of himself. Now, he’s trying to negotiate a deal to host his own cooking show, and the producers have hinted that if he wins the highly publicized competition in Fredericksburg, the contract is his. Ty has never let anything stand in his way. He relishes the challenge of facing down fiery-tempered Grace. Neither expected that, on the way to winning, they might lose their hearts….

Happy reading,

Tanya

P.S. To hear about what I’m cooking up next, “like” Author Tanya Michaels on Facebook or follow TanyaMichaels on Twitter.


Tamed by a Texan

Tanya Michaels







Belated thanks to Susan Lang, who walked me through my first official wine tasting!


Contents

Chapter One (#u850ff97a-af99-5fc4-916a-1a97b33810a1)

Chapter Two (#u3c43a237-13fc-54f2-8f80-b98f670fec95)

Chapter Three (#u92f5afb5-3e77-5260-9aef-ca8b04220347)

Chapter Four (#u32fe7cc4-7b5e-5da1-935c-25e4f99741ca)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Chef Grace Torres had inherited her Irish mother’s fiery nature and her late father’s impressively thorough knowledge of Spanish swear words, both of which were about to boil to the surface on this gloomy February morning.

“I can’t believe you two!” Grace gripped the edge of the stainless-steel workstation so she wouldn’t do anything stupid, like start throwing plates. The restaurant had enough financial burdens without having to replace dishes.

Ben’s and Victor’s nervous expressions might have been funny under different circumstances. Both of her brothers were older than Grace—who’d been an unplanned souvenir from her parents’ fifteenth-anniversary cruise—and they each stood close to six feet. Not that Ben could stand right now—he’d been injured during an arson investigation and would be in a wheelchair for another few weeks. Grace was the runt of the Torres family and claimed to be five-three, which was true when she wore heels. In height, she’d taken after her aunt, small but fierce Tía Maria, instead of her parents.

“Now, Graciela…” Victor was the oldest, and his tone bordered on patronizing.

Her already simmering temper began to bubble and pop.

“We know you love this place,” Ben quickly interrupted, secure in the knowledge that his broken leg and still-mending ribs would keep her from smacking him upside the head with a rubber spatula. “We all love it, but—”

“Ha! You love eating here, trying out new specialties before I put them on the menu and bringing your dates to woo them with the nostalgia factor. But you don’t… The two of you have never—” She broke off, eyes burning, and spun abruptly, turning her back on her brothers. I will not cry in front of them. It would be such a clichéd girl thing to do.

She battled the threat of tears with a stream of words that would have made her dad grin and her mother threaten to ground her from the kitchen. Colleen Torres had once said Grace was the only teenager in Texas who got more upset about losing cooking privileges than being forbidden to go to the movies with friends. Grace and her friends had rarely gone to the theater, though. They’d had movie nights at her house, where Grace prepared a menu of snacks themed to go with the rented DVDs.

“Guess I should brush up on my Spanish,” Victor said behind her. “I consider myself bilingual, but I only understood half of that.”

“I got all of it,” Ben said. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”

When she faced them again, Grace was calmer. “I realize you’re both going through difficult times.”

Ben, the lawman, was on medical leave, and Victor, who worked for a local bank, had recently separated from his wife of nine years.

“But let’s not panic,” she continued, “and do something we can’t take back.” Like sell the restaurant, her heart and soul. My home.

Of all the things she’d inherited from her family, The Twisted Jalapeño was what she most cherished. The modest restaurant nestled in Texas Hill Country was a Torres legacy. It not only kept her close to the beloved father they’d lost three years ago, the Jalapeño gave her an opportunity to develop her own talent, putting her stamp on the place. She had big plans and hoped to bridge the gap between the past and a bright future for generations of Torreses to come.

Victor sighed, running a hand through his inky-black hair. All three siblings had the same dark hair and eyes. Colleen, a pale redhead with ethereal features, used to laugh at the surprise on people’s faces when they realized she was their mother. “It’s not only Ben and I who have hit bumps in the road,” Victor pointed out gently. “You think we’re so preoccupied with our problems that we don’t see how hard everything’s been on you? Putting in crazy hours here, breaking up with Jeff last week, the situation with Mom.”

Grace winced at mention of their mother, recalling the stab of guilt when she’d gone to visit Colleen yesterday. The woman had been confused about where she was and how she’d gotten there, asking her daughter, “Are you here to take me home, Gracie?” I hope we did the right thing. Grace and her brothers had agonized over the decision to move their increasingly disoriented mom from her longtime home to an apartment in a supervised facility.

Instead of dwelling on that, Grace focused on the far less painful split with her boyfriend. “It was fun for a few months, but Jeff clearly doesn’t understand me. He was mad I wouldn’t make huge Valentine’s Day plans with him because I needed to be here. He should have been more flexible! February 14 is a number on the calendar, not a test of loyalty. We could have been just as romantic together on the fifteenth.”

Ben held up a hand, his expression pained. “I’m gonna stop you there. Don’t really want to hear about my baby sister’s romantic escapades.”

“I’m twenty-six.” She rolled her eyes. “Plenty old enough for…escapades.”

But her grumbled words were a matter of form, not a declaration of interest in dating. Truthfully Jeff had been right about her priorities, which was why she’d kindly told him he should find someone else. Once the restaurant was back on its feet—and her brothers weren’t hounding her to sell it—she could worry about romance.

“I was saving this for Sunday dinner,” she said, “but since you two decided to ambush me…” She strolled out of the kitchen with no further explanation, confident they’d follow.

Grace really had been planning to share the big news with her family this weekend. Even before they’d moved Colleen into one of the assisted-care apartments, they’d gone to the complex on Sundays to have dinner with Tía Maria. The wizened seventy-four-year-old woman had outlived both her husband and her younger brother, Grace’s father. Unlike Colleen, Maria’s mind was still as sharp as her tongue had always been. She’d moved into the apartments willingly after breaking her hip one year, claiming she liked the smaller living space and the twice a week housekeeping help. Grace took some comfort in knowing Maria visited her sister-in-law every day and helped soothe Colleen when she became confused.

Inside the tiny office adjacent to the storeroom, Grace opened the bottom drawer of the scarred wooden desk and withdrew a manila envelope with her name on it. Just seeing it made her heart beat faster in a combination of exhilaration and nerves. She took a steadying breath while she waited for Ben to roll his way into the office. Victor walked behind his brother.

“This better be good,” Ben said. “It’s not a piece of cake to wheel down that hallway.”

She shoved away her remembered horror at hearing he’d been hurt, keeping her tone light. “Oh, quit your whining. Wheeling yourself around is probably good for your upper body strength.” She waved the envelope. “Behold, the next step in my plan to revitalize the restaurant.”

Ben widened his eyes in a comical attempt at fear. “We’re still trying to adjust to your last step. You know she has people drinking something called a blueberry tequila sour?”

A couple of months ago, Grace had hired Amy Winthrop, a mixologist from Austin who’d been adding signature twists to traditional cocktails. Some of the regulars had been shy about trying her more outlandish margarita flavors, but Amy was slowly winning them over, just as Grace was gradually winning fans with her fusion dishes. The restaurant still served some of the classics that had been on the menu since her grandparents first opened the doors, but there were a thousand places from here to the border where a person could order a burrito. Grace wanted the Jalapeño to stand out.

And my brothers want to sell it. The three of them owned it jointly, which meant Ben and Vic held the majority vote. She had to convince them she could do this.

Her gaze swiveled from Ben in his chair to Victor in his suit and tie. “I realize you guys watch ESPN and that Wall Street show, not Food Network, but even if you’ve never seen them, you have to know there are a lot of cooking shows on the air. There’s a new one called Road Trip that focuses on different regions of the country, hosting multiepisode competitions in each location. In March, they’re spotlighting the Texas Hill Country Food and Wine Association and filming challenges at Frederick-Fest.” The ten-day annual festival was always a major draw for both tourists and culinary professionals.

“And guess who made it through the selection process and is one of the semifinalists!” Despite her best efforts to demonstrate businesslike competence, her voice squeaked with excitement.

“They picked you?” Victor asked.

“Of course they did.” Ben winked at her. “They’d be fools not to! Way to go, hermanita.”

She beamed. “Thank you.”

Victor was not as caught up in his siblings’ enthusiasm. “I assume this televised competition is going to take a lot of your time next month. How are we going to keep the restaurant running smoothly? In a perfect world, Ben and I would cover it, but he’ll be on crutches. And I have a full-time job at the bank, not to mention meetings with lawyers and trying to schedule time with my own children.”

“Plus,” Ben inserted, “neither of us can cook.”

Victor ducked his head. “That, too.”

“Temporarily we can cancel the lunch shift and open only for dinner. Plenty of places around here do that,” she added in a rush. “It wouldn’t be forever, just long enough for us to snag all the free publicity the competition will bring. One of the judges is an editor whose food magazine will do write-ups on the contestants and the show’s website will run streaming videos of cooking demonstrations and other footage. This will be great for us!”

“I don’t know how I feel about you pinning all your hopes on this,” Victor said slowly. Ever since the woman he’d planned to be with till death parted them had told him they were no longer compatible, he’d been a lot more pessimistic. To be fair, though, as the person who kept the books for the Jalapeño, he knew better than anyone that they were barely scraping along. “You could work for someone else, Grace, and have all the joy of cooking without the responsibility of everything else. We didn’t suggest selling the place because we don’t believe in you.”

“I don’t want to sell,” she said mulishly.

“I miss Dad, too.” Victor’s voice started to rise. “But sinking all our time and money into this old restaurant won’t bring him back!”

She flinched, too stung to form a response.

“Whoa,” Ben interjected. “Let’s everyone take a second. Getting a little tense in here.”

Lowering her gaze and her voice, Grace said, “I need this. I can win!”

Just as softly, Victor rebutted, “You don’t know that. No one’s disputing your talent, but competition is like owning a restaurant. There’s a lot of luck involved and timing and—”

“If I lose, you can sell the restaurant.” Grace hadn’t known she was going to say the words until she heard them. But rather than add to her anxiety, the impulsive promise wrapped around her like a soothing hug. I can do this.

Once again, Ben and Victor exchanged glances, an entire conversation passing between them with nothing said. Finally Victor nodded.

“All right, you have a deal.” He paused, holding her gaze a long moment before adding, “Good luck.”

* * *

SUNLIGHT RIPPLED ACROSS the surface of the water. Not a single cloud marred the expanse of blue overhead. Country music piped through discreet poolside speakers, accompanied by the melodic rush of a small landscaped waterfall that ran over natural-looking rocks. The shirtless man drifting lazily on an inflated lounge chair grinned. It was a damn good day to be Ty Beckett.

“But then,” he drawled aloud, “every day is a good day to be me.”

From the nearby patio table came a grunt. “Don’t get too comfy,” his business manager cautioned without looking away from his laptop. “We have to clear out soon. You have an interview with an entertainment reporter from the Statesman at three-thirty and that restaurant opening tonight.”

“Too bad we couldn’t invite the reporter here to Cody’s place and do the interview in the pool. Did you see the picture with her byline? Bet she looks smokin’ in a bikini.” At his manager’s reproachful silence, Ty added, “I’m just sayin’.”

Ty sighed. “You are no fun, dude. Not that you ever were, but you’re even less so lately.”

Stephen Zigler glared over top of his sunglasses. “You mean now that I’m married and have a baby on the way and generally choose to act like an adult? I swear, if Donna wasn’t plagued by round-the-clock cravings for that secret-recipe potato salad of yours, I’d drop you as a client.”

“When we’re on the verge of hitting it big? No, you wouldn’t.” Ty stuck his hand into the water and paddled toward the steps. Despite the bright sun, the early-March temperature would be too brisk for swimming if the pool weren’t temperature-regulated. He climbed the stairs, glancing around at the sculpted yard and Cody Black’s million-dollar Barton Creek mansion. “Someday I’ll have a place like this.”

Stephen turned, his expression startled. “You sound serious.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, but…it’s you. Sounding serious. I didn’t think you knew what the word meant.”

Ty ignored the gibe. Despite Ty’s devil-may-care persona, his manager knew better than anyone how hard the celebrity chef worked. Well, not a full-fledged celebrity yet. But he was definitely on the right path. Last night, for instance, he’d been hired to cook for the three dozen closest friends of country music star Cody Black, who’d wanted to celebrate his fortieth birthday with an “intimate” dinner. As her gift, Cody’s wife had booked them a European vacation before his next tour started; they’d left this morning. Cody had invited Ty to stick around for a few hours and enjoy the pool and high-tech game room.

Nathan Tyler Beckett, the skinny kid who’d grown up in a series of south Texas trailer parks, wouldn’t have even believed a house like this existed.

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Ty said, “and make sure all my stuff’s packed up from the kitchen. Then we’ll hit the road.”

Two hours later, Ty sat in an upscale Austin restaurant while a beautiful blonde smiled across the table. As much as he enjoyed looking at her, her questions were all ones he’d heard before. His mind kept wandering from the mundane conversation to the appetizer sampler they’d ordered. The fried pickles tasted too much like the inside of a deep fryer and whoever was responsible for the bland travesty of aioli should be shot. Other offerings were intriguing, though. He was trying to dissect the ingredients of the house Loco Guacamole, which included not only pumpkin but—

“I’m sure my readers will be interested to know, how’d you get hooked on cooking in the first place?” the blonde asked.

He flashed her a practiced smile. “Would it make me sound desperate if I said I started cooking because I wanted to impress women?”

Her cheeks turned a rosy-pink. “I don’t think anyone could ever mistake you for desperate, Chef Beckett.”

“Ty. Please.” He widened his grin. “It all began back in middle school with Family and Consumer Sciences, which was their fancy name for what used to be called Home Ec.”

There were grains of truth in his stock answer. He had, after all, taken Family and Consumer Sciences, which included a cooking component. But Ty hadn’t been there for the cute female students. He’d wanted the free food each lesson brought, supplementing the state-funded school lunches he qualified for because of his family’s poverty level. By the time Ty was thirteen, he’d been growing like a weed and constantly hungry. Beth, his single mother, had never been able to put much on the table. During his teen years, there had been times late at night or even in the middle of class when he’d catch himself fantasizing about food with the same intensity other guys his age probably daydreamed of cheerleaders.

But he didn’t share those memories with anyone. Ever.

“So what’s next for you?” the reporter asked. “I know you’ve traveled extensively, helping new restaurants find their feet and developing menu items before you move on to the next challenge. Some of us wonder, will Chef Ty Beckett ever settle down?”

Not until the price was right. He’d followed specific strategic opportunities, constantly building on his name and reputation, rather than investing in a place of his own.

“You never know,” he said enigmatically. “But as for what’s next, I’m one of the ten semifinalists in a cooking competition that will be filmed in Fredericksburg this month. Fans will have to watch the show to see how I do, but I can tell you right now, I plan to win.”

A cable network had hinted this show was his informal audition. Ty had done televised segments before and was popular with audiences. Male viewers liked him because he eschewed fancy French terms they were suspicious of and offered grilling advice real men could use; women loved him because… Well, women just loved him. If Ty won this Frederick-Fest competition, getting his own show was a done deal. He could be a household name one day like other famous chefs before him.

And being a household name paid well.

His companion leaned back against her side of the booth, looking impressed. “Your skills are legendary,” she conceded, looking him up and down in such a way that made him wonder just which skills she meant. “But I’m sure the other nine chefs are very talented, too. You believe you’ll beat them?”

Ty gave a decisive nod. “Bet on it.”


Chapter Two

“Can’t sleep?” Amy Winthrop stood at the edge of the kitchen wearing an oversize University of Texas Longhorns jersey that fell almost to her knees.

Grace looked up guiltily from the batter she’d been stirring. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Maybe middle of the night cupcake experimentation hadn’t been such a good idea.

Her roommate waved a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t you. I’ve screwed up my sleep cycle for all eternity. The job I had before this, I rarely got home before five in the morning. A bunch of us would clean up the bar after closing, then go for breakfast at one of those twenty-four-hour diners. I’m trying to retrain myself to be normal.”

Grace grinned at the woman’s eggplant-purple hair, which clashed spectacularly with her burnt-orange shirt, and sparkling eyebrow ring. A row of small hoop earrings curled up her left ear. “Retrain? That implies there was a time when you were normal.”

Amy grabbed a dish towel off the counter, wadded it and threw it at Grace, who laughed.

The two of them had hit it off within minutes of meeting each other last fall. Grace had been in Austin for the weekend and ordered one of Amy’s drinks, which had been exceptional. They’d talked on and off all night as Amy served other patrons. Before Grace left, she’d impulsively pulled out a business card for The Twisted Jalapeño. “You ever want to relocate to Fredericksburg, you have a job waiting for you.”

Still, Grace had been shocked when Amy walked into the restaurant six weeks later. Amy and her fiancé had called it quits and she needed a change of pace. Meanwhile, Grace, who’d been living with her mom at the time, had agreed with Ben and Victor that it was time to sell the house to help pay for Colleen to have professional care. Grace and Amy had decided to pool their limited resources, and they’d moved into the small two-bedroom carriage-house apartment behind the Henderson family. There wasn’t much space, but it was a cute place and Grace enjoyed the company. After growing up with brothers, she looked at Amy as the sister she’d never had.

“You sure you want to start with me?” Grace picked up the towel that had just missed her and brandished it with deadpan menace. “I’m muy peligrosa.”

“Dangerous? You?” Amy snorted. “Bring it on, shorty.”

Although Amy was at least two inches taller than Grace, the bartender had a very delicate build. A strong breeze might knock her over. Grace, while short, was curvy. Nothing delicate about me. She was all right with that. Who would trust a chef who looked like a twig? Besides, the guys she’d dated had told her she was rounded in all the best places.

Amy pulled down a glass and filled it with water. “So what’s with the late-night cooking spree? Sudden inspiration for a new dessert menu?”

“Nerves,” Grave admitted. “About tomorrow night.” Or, more accurately, she realized with a glance at the clock, tonight.

“But the competition doesn’t even begin until Monday. Tomorrow, you’re just being introduced to some judges and the other contestants.” One of the local vineyards was hosting a reception, an opening ceremony of sorts.

“And you don’t think spending the evening with a bunch of people who are going to shape my future is nerve-racking? I, uh, got the list today,” she admitted. She hadn’t told anyone because she’d had this weird superstitious response to seeing the other names, as if talking about the impressive chefs on the list somehow added to their power.

Two vertical lines appeared over Amy’s nose as her forehead puckered in a frown. “What list? I’m not following.”

“When I was first notified I’d made it through the selection process,” Grace backtracked, “I was told I was one of ten chefs, but I didn’t think I’d know who the others were until we got started. Today they emailed me a list.” She’d printed it out along with some final paperwork she had to sign.

“And you’re just now telling me?” Amy demanded. “Gimme names, woman!”

Grace sighed, abandoning the cupcake batter. She crossed the kitchen to the slotted wooden box on the wall where they kept mail and bills. She wasn’t sure why she retrieved the message and unfolded it—she’d already memorized the other nine names. Hoping Amy wouldn’t interrupt to ooh and aah over the combined talent, she sped through the list. There were men and women of varying ages and specialties, from all over Texas. Katharine Garner currently worked as an executive chef in New York but had grown up in Dallas; Grace wasn’t sure where Texas-born Ty Beckett lived. He seemed to bounce all over the place.

“Ty Beckett?” Amy fluttered her eyelashes. “I saw him at a couple of events in Austin. Do you have any idea how hot he is?”

“He’s not that good-looking,” Grace grumbled. “I’ve seen him on TV.”

“Okay, one.” Amy jabbed an index finger in her friend’s direction. “You are a lousy liar. No talent for it whatsoever, so don’t bother trying. And, two, take it from me, he’s even better looking in person.”

“That’s probably why they selected him,” Grace said, trying to bolster herself. “He’s so photogenic. He’ll look good on television.”

“Also, he’s supposed to be a phenomenal chef.”

Grace groaned. “Whose side are you on? I’m sure he’s very good, but I can beat him, right? He has little formal training that I’ve heard of, doesn’t have a restaurant of his own and his entire career seems to consist of flitting from one thing to the next. Do you think he loses focus, gets bored easily?” That could bode well for his competitors. Serious cooking required lots of patience.

Her pride niggled at her. Didn’t she want to be named the best because of how hard she’d worked at her craft? Would it be as satisfying to beat Ty Beckett because he got distracted by something shiny or bailed midway through the competition? Then again, if the end result was that she got to keep her restaurant…

“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I realize that in the media he seems very flirty and like he doesn’t take anything seriously, but, to the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t lost any culinary competition in years. Don’t let his attitude fool you. He may crack jokes and not look like he’s exerting much effort, but my gut tells me, when Ty Beckett wants something, he goes for it.”

“Yeah?” Grace raised an eyebrow. “Well, so do I.”

* * *

“REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE’RE stopping here for dinner when we’re on our way to a party with lots of food,” Stephen said from the passenger seat. “While you’re at it, remind me how it is that you ended up driving my car.”

Ty flashed a grin. “Because people find it impossible to tell me no. And we’re here because there was only one person on that list neither of us know anything about, and coincidentally, she happens to be local. Or maybe not coincidentally. Do you think they picked her to keep the Hill Country sponsors happy?”

“As opposed to any of the other dozens of award-winning Hill Country chefs and restaurateurs?” Stephen said wryly. “Face it, if she’s in the game, she’s probably something special.”

“Must be.” Ty peered into the darkness surrounding them. “Because, hard as this place is to find, they’d need incredible word of mouth to stay in business. Haven’t these people heard of neon signs?” There were a couple of parking lights shining down on the pothole-riddled lot, but nothing lit up with the name of the place. According to the one-line bio in the paperwork Stephen had received, her restaurant was The Twisted Jalapeño.

He parked the car. “We’re not really eating dinner, you know. Just order something small and I’ll do the same, so we can get a feel for the place. The reception doesn’t start until seven. We have time.”

“Assuming we don’t get lost again,” Stephen said. His phone was equipped with a GPS navigational system, but based on their experience trying to get Ty to his hotel this afternoon, the GPS was a compulsive liar.

“We’re not going to get lost,” Ty said as they crunched across the gravel lot. “In a couple of hours, we’ll meet the people who are going to help me get my own show. This is it, my big break. Trust the Beckett Instinct. When have I ever steered you wrong? And before you make some wise-ass comment, I’d like to remind you who introduced you to your wife.”

“Caroline Groves introduced me to my wife, you lunatic. You weren’t even there.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t been ducking Caroline’s calls, she wouldn’t have cornered you at that museum benefit, which led to you meeting Donna. So I claim credit.” Ty opened the restaurant door and stepped inside.

Music played merrily overhead, and Ty quirked an eyebrow. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was an Irish reel. Not exactly what he’d expected.

A smiling hostess with a profusion of curly hair greeted them. “Two this evening, gentlemen?”

“Yes, ma’am. But we can’t stay long,” Ty said apologetically. “So no need to waste a table on us. Seats at the bar would be fine.”

“You got it.” She gestured toward the back corner of the room. “Amy’s got some great specials going on tonight. Enjoy.”

The decor consisted mostly of framed photographs. Old black-and-white family pictures intermingled with colorful landscapes of the region. He recognized shots of Main Street from his exploring town this afternoon. There was a photo of three kids, a tiny dark-haired girl standing between two lanky boys, in front of The Twisted Jalapeño. He wondered how long the restaurant had been doing business. The place had its charm—and something certainly smelled good—but as he and Stephen walked through the dining area, he noted signs of age and disrepair. This restaurant needed some TLC…if “TLC” stood for infusion of cash.

About half the tables they passed were occupied, but the bar was mostly empty. At one end, a woman spoke into her cell phone while twirling a straw in her margarita; at the other was a man in a suit, with a laptop in front of him. Ty and Stephen took seats at the middle of the counter. The bartender had purple hair and a butterfly tattoo on her upper arm, revealed by her blue tank top and black leather vest.

She smiled at them. “Can I interest you two in…” She trailed off, blinking at Ty, then mumbled something.

He couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but he thought she said, “Oh, this should be good.”

She walked away briefly, returning with a basket of tortilla chips and some green salsa. “Those are our drink specials tonight.” She pointed to a chalkboard at the end of the bar. “And here are a couple of menus. Be back in a minute to take your order.”

Before either man had a chance to speak, she hustled to the far end of the bar, to the man in the suit. They had a quick conversation in low voices. Ty didn’t betray his curiosity by looking toward them. Instead he swiped a chip through the salsa and nodded.

“Excellent,” he pronounced.

He flipped open the menu and was studying the range of selections when he sensed motion. Ty glanced over his shoulder. A woman in a formfitting green dress was stalking toward him, her long black hair bouncing against her shoulders. She was one of those women for whom the expression “you’re beautiful when you’re angry” had been created, although Ty had no idea why she looked so ticked.

“Incoming,” he said under his breath to Stephen.

Stephen took a quick look, then shook his head. “Tell me you didn’t date her and break her heart. There must be a hundred females in the world who want you dead.”

“Not true,” Ty objected. The benefit of keeping his relationships casual was that women tended not to be heartbroken when he left. Most of his breakups were amicable, including the food critic who’d given him a glowing write-up even after they stopped seeing each other. “Besides, you know me, I’m a pain in the ass. By the time I leave, they’re relieved to see me go.”

“You!” The woman had reached them. Her narrowed eyes were sharper than the best set of knives he’d ever owned. “You have a lot of nerve.”

Ty gave her a disarming smile. “It’s true, ma’am. I’ve always had more nerve than brains. Have we met? Ty Beckett.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Beckett. You’re the competition and you’ve come to spy.”

“Spy? Ah. You must be Grace Torres,” he deduced. “Look, it isn’t as if I came in here to steal your recipes. Although, kudos on this salsa verde. It would definitely be worth stealing.” He waited a beat to see if the compliment improved her opinion of him. Nope. “I was just stopping by on my way to the reception because I was intrigued. You were a mystery. I’ve heard of all the other finalists.”

When Stephen coughed, choking on his chip, Ty realized his phrasing might not have been the best way to break the ice, insinuating she was a nobody in the culinary world.

To cover his uncharacteristic gaffe, Ty offered quickly, “Hey, we could all ride together. Want a lift to the vineyard?”

Grace drew back, her almond-shaped eyes incredulous. “I’d rather walk.”

“In those heels?” Ty teased. “Might be uncomfortable.” He’d noticed the shoes because they were sexy as hell and did great things for her exposed calves, but he kept that information to himself. Instead he introduced her to Stephen. “This is Stephen Zigler, my friend and business manager. It was his idea to come in,” Ty fibbed cheerfully.

Stephen reached across him to shake her hand. “The manager designation is true. The friend part is debatable.”

When Grace laughed, her entire face lit with warmth. She’d already been lovely, but as her lips curled into a smile and her eyes lit… Damn. Ty was jealous of his friend, annoyed that Stephen, the married soon-to-be-father, had been the one to coax this from her.

“You, I like,” Grace said, ignoring Ty’s presence completely. “I’ll see you at the reception. I really should be going…just came in to go over a few changes with the kitchen staff. Amy, their drinks are on the house.”

The bartender nodded. “You’re the boss.”

Then Grace turned and left without another word to Ty. Stephen hooted with laughter. “There goes the winner of this cooking competition,” he pronounced between chortles.

“What? Now, that’s just mean,” Ty complained. “You’re only saying it to wound me. A great salsa verde is no basis for determining whether she can win the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Oh, I wasn’t basing it on that.” Stephen’s grin was full of admiration. “She’s possibly the only woman on the planet completely immune to the Ty Beckett charm. In my book, that makes her a superhero with mystical powers. Dude, you’re toast.”

* * *

GRACE DROVE PAST THE MAIN building, which looked like an Italian villa, complete with a red-tiled roof and graceful fountains out front, and found a place to park. Her hands were shaking from adrenaline. And from too little sleep, she admitted to herself. She was not in top form tonight.

Her father would have been disappointed in her display back at the Jalapeño. Victor Torres Senior had possessed a gift for making people feel welcome. She’d given in to her temperamental side and had been rude to Ty Beckett. What were the chances she could avoid speaking with him for the rest of the night? She wasn’t even sure what she’d meant by her “spying” accusation—it wasn’t as though she’d caught him sneaking into the kitchen wearing a hat and false mustache. But when she’d seen him at the bar, exuding negligent confidence as though he belonged there, as though he rightfully belonged anyplace he felt like being, she’d been intimidated. Which in turn made her angry.

She was putting that behind her now. I am a consummate professional. Should she happen to find herself in Ty’s company, she’d be courteous and simply ignore him the rest of the time.

Right. Because ignoring a face like that would be so easy. Amy had been correct—he was even better looking in person. But what had been more startling was the sense of overwhelming familiarity Grace had felt when he’d looked at her. He reminds me of someone.

Grace gave herself a mental shake. Enough. Her focus needed to be on this competition, not some wandering chef with a dazzling smile and lady-killer rep. She climbed out of the car and followed the path, which twinkled with dozens of tiny white lights. There was enough illumination for her to appreciate the stone bell tower to her left and a beautifully tiled open courtyard. She imagined that later this evening, once food and drinks were served, guests would mill outside and make use of the round iron tables. It was a lovely evening, but the breeze carried a distinct chill. She was glad for the long sleeves that offset the vee neckline of her wraparound dress. Still, the filmy green fabric wasn’t very thick. She should have grabbed the sweater she kept on a coatrack back in the restaurant office, but she’d been flustered when she left.

Once she opened the rounded wooden door that brought to mind stately castles, her stomach clenched in a fresh bout of nerves. Since she had the advantage of being local, knowing her way around town and not having to check in to a hotel that afternoon, she was one of the first contestants to arrive. But the two other chefs she spotted inside the huge room were both renowned in their areas of expertise—desserts and molecular gastronomy, the industry term for those who applied science to cooking in innovative ways. Talking to them was the host for Road Trip, Damien Craig, whom she recognized from myriad television appearances.

Behind her, the door swept open, admitting Katharine Garner and her husband, plus Ty Beckett and his business manager. Knowing that if she continued to stand in the entryway she wouldn’t be able to avoid Ty, Grace made a beeline toward one of the four bars bracketing the room. There, she accepted a glass of an award-winning cabernet blend so richly delicious that she immediately began trying to compose recipes to go with it.

She closed her eyes to better savor a sip, then opened them again as she sensed someone next to her.

“Is it good?” a baritone voice asked.

She turned to smile at Damien Craig, thinking it was a shame he didn’t narrate audio books. He was sort of generically handsome—he’s no Ty Beckett—but he had an incredible voice. “Mr. Craig, nice to meet you. I’m Grace Torres. And yes, the wine is fantastic.”

They stood making small talk about the vineyard, the upcoming festival and how he thought he had the best job in the world, traveling all over, meeting new people and enjoying meals prepared by legendary chefs. By the time he continued on with his social rounds, all of the contestants had arrived. Guests were grouped in clusters around the room, some standing near the large hors d’oeuvres table in the center, others chatting in corners or waiting for their wineglasses to be filled. Ty Beckett stood amid three attractive women. Naturally. One of them seemed to be on the show’s crew, but the other two were chefs. Judging from the women’s smiles and the way blonde pastry chef Phoebe Verlaine kept finding excuses to touch him, they didn’t find Ty less attractive just because he was the competition.

Grace was en route to say hello to Antonio Zavalo, a chef who’d known her father, when Ty unexpectedly fell into step with her.

“We meet again,” he said cheerfully.

“That tends to happen when you follow someone.” As an afterthought, she added a half smile to temper the acerbic words, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Are you always so prickly, Grace, or—” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—is this an act to keep people from knowing how much you want me?”

She nearly gaped at the outrageous comment but decided that would only encourage him. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a protest, she nodded. “Yes. Arrogant chefs who resort to mind games with their opponents are exactly my type.”

The amount of sarcasm dripping from her words would have shamed a lesser man into retreat. Instead Ty’s mischievous smile grew more wicked. “I knew you were crazy for me. Stephen didn’t believe me.”

Grace’s step faltered as she studied his grin. She was experiencing that tingle of déjà vu again. Was he familiar to her because she’d seen him on television? Maybe that was it, although she still felt as if he reminded her of someone specific, someone famous whose identity was right on the tip of her brain.

“Grace!” Meeting her halfway, Antonio stepped forward to pull her into his burly arms for a warm hug. “So wonderful to see you again. How are your brothers?”

“They’re…” Well, one of them was injured physically and the other was injured emotionally. “Oh, how rude of me. Antonio, do you know Ty Beckett?”

“Only by professional reputation.” The older man shook Ty’s hand. “Congratulations on making the semifinal round, to both of you.”

“It’s an honor,” Ty said. “Especially when it means cooking alongside greats such as yourself. I’ve always looked up to you. Of course, I still plan on beating you,” he added unrepentantly.

This was met with one of Antonio’s deep belly laughs. “Cocky. I’d heard that about you.”

“I’m afraid that, in my case, you should believe everything you hear.”

Antonio clapped him on the shoulder. “Hope you aren’t eliminated too soon. I have a feeling working with you around is never boring. Grace, I’ll catch up with you later. For now, I want to try a glass of their port.”

“I do believe he liked me,” Ty said as the other man walked away. “Most people do,” he added pointedly.

“Conformists,” she scoffed. “I’m not into groupthink.” Why was she bantering with him? What had happened to her plan of polite but remote? Face it, remote just isn’t in the Torres DNA.

“Is that why you do fusion food?” Ty asked. “Unique combinations of flavors because you don’t want to be like everyone else?”

“I’m not trying to make a social statement, just being who I am.” When he looked unconvinced, she added, “I have an eclectic background. My mother is of Irish descent, my father was Hispanic. My favorite cousin was adopted as a little girl from China. My music playlists are like that, too, jumping from genre to genre. I enjoy variety.”

“On that we agree, sweetheart.”

Suddenly it clicked. I know who he reminds me of! She flashed back to her childhood, watching Indiana Jones movies with her brothers. Ty’s gray-blue eyes were far too light, but his build was about the same. With his short brown hair, tousled slightly on top, and a five o’clock shadow that looked more like half past eight, he had the right mix of clean-cut masculinity and attractively scruffy. All he needed was the fedora.

Ty smirked, making her aware she’d been staring for several seconds.

Heat crept into her cheeks. “I—I was just trying to picture you with a hat and a whip.”

His face went completely blank at the non sequitur. She felt a twinge of satisfaction, seeing the irrepressible Ty Beckett nonplussed.

But he recovered with a lazy half smile. “Interesting game. My turn. Want to know how I’m picturing you?”

“No!”

At that moment, Damien Craig called for everyone’s attention, solidifying Grace’s belief that there was a benevolent God. She sidled away from Ty, losing him in the throng as people gathered toward the front tables. Damien spoke into a portable microphone, inviting them all to sit down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I hope you’re all enjoying the wonderful food and wine…and getting to know your rivals. There are ten fantastic chefs in this room tonight, each with different backgrounds and unique skill sets.” He read all of their names in alphabetical order, starting with Ty and finishing with Seamus Wilson. “Unfortunately only five of you will actually compete in the events at Frederick-Fest, which begins Saturday. We’ll start filming tomorrow, giving you individual and team challenges this week until we’ve narrowed it down to our finalists. Good luck. Remember it’s an honor just to compete.” He waited a beat. “Of course, it’s a much bigger honor to win.”

* * *

DECLINING A CUP OF after-breakfast coffee, Stephen pushed his chair back from the table and stood. His expression, a combination of sternness and awkwardness, made him look like a father leaving his teenage son at college for the first time. “Would it do any good to tell you to behave?”

Ty grinned. “You’re one of the most paranoid SOBs I’ve ever met. What kind of trouble do you think I’m going to get into, exactly?”

“The mind boggles.” Stephen was returning to Austin to be with his pregnant wife and catch up on work for his other clients, but he’d promised to bring Donna up for the festival when Ty made the finals. “You’re going to be all right without a car? I could schedule a rental.”

“The producers are providing group transportation, remember?” He paused, considering. “Although, with any luck, I can sweet-talk Grace Torres into showing me around town.”

“I don’t think so. Face it, you’ve finally met your match. She might be your kryptonite. Meaning you should probably stay away from her.”

Ty made a noncommittal mmm sound but couldn’t help thinking that if Stephen believed he could walk away from the challenge of befriending Grace, his manager didn’t really know him at all.

Not long after Stephen left, it was time for Ty and the other chefs to meet in the hotel lobby. They were taken to the industrial kitchen of an upscale local restaurant that that was closed on Mondays. The owners, delighted by the publicity it would gain them, were letting the show use its facilities for the first challenge.

Once the chefs were gathered, Damien explained that they had a warm-up task involving local Texas wines. “You had the opportunity to learn about some local wines last night. Now let’s see how you do with a blind tasting.” They were given tasting notes to read, then they were shown to a table of numbered bottles with no visible labels. They sipped rieslings, cabs, chards and tempranillo, cleansing their palates between with bites of bread.

After they all turned in their sheets, Damien and one of his production assistants conferred in the corner, checking answers. The host returned to the center of the room. “As expected from chefs of your caliber, most of you did well. Katharine Garner and Grace Torres did particularly well, only transposing two of the wines. They tied for second place, beaten out by Ty Beckett.”

Grace swiveled, pinning Ty with her dark gaze. “You didn’t miss any?”

He didn’t get a chance to answer before Damien responded, “Oh, he missed one of the same reds you and Katharine missed. But instead of mixing up number two and number eight, he hedged his bets by putting eight for both of them, giving him one more correct answer than either of you. As a reward, Chef Beckett, you get first pick of who you would like as your partner for today’s cooking challenge.”

Ty’s grin widened as he pretended to debate his options. It would be undiplomatic to blurt the first name that came to mind, as if he hadn’t even considered all the other fine chefs in the room. So he waited, giving the moment a significantly dramatic pause before declaring, “Grace Torres.”


Chapter Three

Aware that a camera had probably panned to her the minute Ty said her name, Grace struggled to keep her face neutral. Having grown up with two brothers, there were a lot of things she’d learned to do as well as Ben and Vic—fishing, skateboarding, throwing darts. Alas, she’d never mastered a poker face. “You might as well hand us your money the second you sit down,” Ben had said, laughing. “You’re way too expressive.” Could everyone in the room see just how aggravated she was at the idea of working with Ty Beckett?

Ty ambled toward her, looking entirely too self-satisfied. To be fair, she doubted his smugness was directed at her. He probably woke up looking like that every day.

“There are people who would consider it an honor to be working with you,” she murmured under her breath. “But you may have noticed, I don’t like you.” Grace had watched him work the room last night; even married Katharine Garner, who was older and far more acclaimed in her career, had favored him with girlish smiles. It was important Ty understood he couldn’t twist her around his little finger just because of those silvery eyes and his gotta-love-me grin.

He stood beside her, watching as Damien matched up the next two chefs. His lips barely moved as he answered, “You’ll come around. I’m an acquired taste.”

“Like huitlacoche?” she supplied helpfully, wondering if he knew about the crop by-product some considered a delicacy.

“Call me corn fungus all you like, you still have to work with me.”

Don’t remind me. Something about him recalled cute guys she’d known in high school, ones who’d charmed smitten girls into doing their homework. If Ty Beckett thought he was going to take creative control and relegate her to chopping and peeling…well, then he was out of his damn mind.

They were silent for a few minutes as they sized up the teams they’d be facing. In particular, the pairing of Katharine Garner and Antonio Zavalo seemed formidable. Finally it was down to noted pastry chef Jo Ying—a trim Asian woman who seemed far too skinny to cook desserts for a living—and Reed Lockhart, who’d introduced himself last night as the “token molecular gastronomist.” The buzz of individual conversations filled the kitchen as chefs shook hands and expressed polite enthusiasm to be working together.

Ty grinned expectantly. “This is where you tell me that being on my team is a dream come true.”

She snorted—“his” team indeed. “You aren’t worried I’ll try to sabotage you somehow?”

“And risk torpedoing yourself in the process?” He shook his head. “You seem like you want this pretty bad.”

“I do.”

His gaze turned steely, the playful spark in his eyes extinguished for the first time since she’d met him. “So do I.” The uncharacteristic intensity in his expression and voice was jarring, but kind of sexy.

Not that I think he, personally, is sexy! It was more an appreciation for the trait in general: a man who knew what he wanted and had the focus to work for it. Had she underestimated him, just as Amy had warned her against?

If Ty was really as good as he told everyone he was… Adopting the adage about keeping enemies close, she decided to look at his choosing her as a strategic opportunity to see how he worked. And, hopefully, to get one step closer to her dream.

“All right!” Damien clapped his hands. “Now that everyone has a partner, it’s time to explain your first challenge. Each team will be preparing a three-course meal of soup, entrée and dessert for the judges and notable guests. The dishes should represent the best of your combined areas of expertise as much as possible and must include certain ingredients inspired by Hill Country culture and crops.”

A production assistant rolled a small metal cart into the room. On top of it was a trio of large ceramic boots.

“Each team will draw a slip of paper from all three boots,” Damien instructed. “You must use all three items you pick, one per course. Outside of that, anything goes. Use this chance to show the judges what you’re made of and why you should make it to the finals! Dinner will be served at seven-thirty tonight. The losing team,” he added, “will be eliminated from the competition.”

Grace’s stomach clenched unpleasantly. She was the only local participant. If at any point she was “sent home,” she didn’t have the luxury of returning to her regular life and forgetting all about the contest. She’d be at the festival, on the sidelines, watching someone else win. That won’t happen.

She had to do this, or her restaurant would be gone.

Ty interrupted her thoughts with an exaggerated sigh. “Dessert! If I’d known we had to make dessert, I would have picked Phoebe or Jo.” Both Jo Ying and Phoebe Verlaine were acclaimed pastry chefs, and Phoebe owned a bakery in Houston. Judging by how the blonde had poured herself over Ty at the reception, like chocolate ganache over cheesecake, she would have jumped at the chance to partner with him.

“Thanks for taking a chance on me instead,” Grace said grudgingly. Growing up a short girl dwarfed by her classmates, she’d spent more than one elementary-school PE period waiting uncomfortably to be selected for a basketball or kickball team. While she hadn’t appreciated Ty’s comment last night that he’d never heard of her, she was one of the lesser-known competitors. “Why did you choose me?”

“Because you and I are going to be very good together.” He tapped his temple. “The Beckett Instinct, it’s never wrong.”

Caught between the urge to grin and roll her eyes, she instead returned her attention to the chefs drawing their ingredient assignments. Phoebe and Stuart Capriotti got pecans, barbecue sauce and sauerkraut, none of which did much to heighten Phoebe’s dessert advantage. Chef Camellia Stone, a vegetarian, groaned aloud at her slip that read Angus Beef.

“We’ll trade you for that!” Ty volunteered.

“The hell you will,” Camellia’s partner, Seamus, said good-naturedly.

“Are you picking for us?” Grace asked Ty.

His immediate “not a chance” surprised her—he seemed like someone who preferred to take charge. But then he added, “If we get crappy ingredients, I want to blame you.”

“There are no crappy ingredients in the Hill Country,” she informed him tartly. But she knew he would have liked the chance at steak—the first article she remembered ever seeing about him had called him the Whiz Kid of the Grill. Based on the number of chocolatiers and fudge shops in Fredericksburg alone, she suspected chocolate would be one of the assigned ingredients. What else was waiting in those boots?

“Beckett and Torres,” Damien said. “Who’s doing the honors?”

“Me.” Chin raised, Grace stepped forward and stuck her hand in the first boot. She unfolded the piece of paper and read, “Poblano.” Half a dozen uses for the pepper immediately sprang to mind and she reached into the second boot. “Goat cheese.” She’d purchased goat cheese from a local dairy for the restaurant plenty of times. “And pears.”

They were great ingredients that left their team lots of latitude on what to prepare. Grace’s enthusiasm soared. When she returned to Ty, she could tell by his smile that he felt the same way.

“We’ve got this in the bag,” he whispered. “I already know the perfect entrée.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What a coincidence. So do I.”

* * *

NORMALLY SPENDING TIME IN his hotel room with a beautiful woman—one who knew about food, no less—would sound like Ty’s idea of heaven. But the past half hour with Grace Torres had sent his blood pressure blasting off like a space shuttle. Were other teams having this problem? After they’d been given their challenges, they’d been turned loose to plan independently. How many of his opponents were already at the designated market, working through their budget for tonight’s menu?

“You’re being needlessly stubborn,” he informed Grace from his seat at the desk. When it had first become clear that she was resisting his ideas, he’d employed the patented Beckett charm. But so far, Stephen’s observation had held true: she was immune. Ty had abandoned the smile in favor of arguing outright. He might have found the experience strangely liberating if the outcome didn’t affect his career.

Grace didn’t even pause in her pacing. “How am I being any more stubborn than you?” she demanded. “Steak with poached pears! It’s lame.”

“It’s delicious,” he corrected. “If we had time, I’d borrow the kitchen at your restaurant and make you eat your words, but we don’t.”

She muttered a few phrases in Spanish, then sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘lame.’ But even you have to admit, poached pears are predictable. And at least one other team is already doing steak.”

“Their attempt will probably make ours even better in comparison. Camellia’s a vegetarian!”

Again with the stream of Spanish.

“Cut that out,” he insisted. “I feel like I need damn subtitles for this discussion.”

“You’re conveniently forgetting Seamus was a chef for three years at a steak house,” she said. “Look, I get that you’re Lord of the Lighter Fluid or whatever, but steak can’t be the only thing in your comfort zone.”

“I have just as many things in my repertoire as you do, lady. Just because I don’t throw together weird flavors for shock value like some fusionists doesn’t mean I’m a one-trick pony.”

She halted, her hands going to her nicely rounded hips. “Only someone with an extremely limited palate would find pear salsa shocking.”

Ty grunted dismissively; it wasn’t the salsa that bothered him as much as what she wanted to put it on. “You expect to win with chicken tacos?” He rocked his chair back on two legs. “Now who isn’t thinking outside the box?”

“These dishes are supposed to represent who we are as chefs,” she reminded him. “Both of us. You can grill the chicken, and the pear salsa is representative of the way I like to blend flavors. Don’t you dare try to muscle me out of what we serve.”

He plowed a hand through his hair, aware it was probably standing on end. Thank goodness she’d wanted to talk privately to deter friendly locals from interrupting, because he’d completely abandoned the public image he worked so hard to project. If the suits making the decision on whether to green-light his show saw him like this, short-tempered and disheveled, he’d be screwed. Get it together, Beckett. He and Grace both had the same goal, to kick the other teams’ butts, so how hard could it be to find common ground?

“We seem to have lost sight of the fact that we’re on the same side.” He offered her a wry grin. “I’m guessing you’re the oldest child in your family. Used to bossing everyone else around?”

Her espresso eyes narrowed. “Youngest, actually. You the oldest?”

“Only child.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

“All right, so we’re both control freaks.” He lowered his chair back to the hardwood floor. “Here’s what I suggest as a compromise—you take the soup and the dessert, and I do the entrée. We help each other with any necessary prep but, creatively, we stay out of each other’s way.”

She tapped her index finger against her lips. After a moment, Ty realized he was staring and wished she’d stop drawing attention to her mouth. He was suddenly far too intent on the curve of her full bottom lip.

He cleared his throat. “What do you think?”

“I’m torn,” she admitted. “You took the main course for yourself.”

“Giving you double the opportunity to wow the judges with your epicurean genius,” he said diplomatically.

“And double the work?”

“I’ll even let you pick which two ingredients you want first,” he offered.

“Meaning that our entrée will be either steak with pears, steak with goat cheese or steak with poblano peppers.”

He ground his teeth. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a real pain in the ass?”

Surprisingly she grinned, her expression the most affectionate he’d ever received from her. “My brothers, on a daily basis.”

“They have my sympathy,” he quipped.

“Okay, you get the entrée,” she said. “But I’m taking the pears and goat cheese. Can you do a poblano justice?”

“Have a little faith, sweetheart.”

She nodded to the hotel stationery near his elbow. “Can you tear me off a sheet of that? I want to jot down a quick grocery list before we go.”

“Would it save time if I drive and you make your list in the car?”

“You’re not driving my car. Besides, I’m the one who knows how to get around town.”

Both valid points. “Guess I’m just used to being in the driver’s seat,” he said with an easy shrug.

“Then this will be a character-building experience for you.”

He handed her the piece of paper for her notes and turned at the desk to jot his own list. But his thoughts lingered on Grace rather than the challenge. Interesting woman—his smiles and flattery had no effect on her whatsoever, but when he’d called her a pain in the ass, she’d capitulated. Focus. He gave himself a mental shake and concentrated on his list.

But once they were in her dented two-door hatchback, on the way to the store, he gave in to his curiosity, wanting to know more about her life and what made her tick. “You mentioned brothers earlier. Two, right?”

She cut her gaze toward him. “How did you know that?”

“There was a picture at the restaurant,” he said. “Of a little girl standing between two taller boys. I didn’t realize it was you at first, but when you said brothers… So you grew up in the restaurant business?”

“Yeah, the Jalapeño was my second home. By the time I hit elementary school, Ben and Vic were already busy with middle-school extracurriculars. While Mom was running them to and from practices and games, I’d go to the restaurant to do my homework and stuff myself on sopaipillas. One of the waiters used to help me with math, and Mac, our bartender before he retired, used to drill me on spelling words. But the best part was being in the kitchen, getting to taste-test for my father.”

Ty squelched a pang of envy, trying not to recall his own lonely, hungry childhood. It doesn’t matter now. That’s not who you are.

Shoving aside his past, he kept the conversation on her family. “Your dad must be proud of you, following in his footsteps and becoming a chef.”

Grief contorted her features, and he could see her struggle to regain composure. Her face was almost painfully expressive. Just looking at her could feel like an invasion of privacy. He turned toward the window, watching tourists walk across intersections. He’d deduced that her father was dead long before she spoke.

“Dad passed away three years ago. I thought I’d finished mourning him, but then when Mom…”

“You lost her, too?” Ty was horrified by the Pandora’s box he’d unwittingly opened.

She swallowed hard. “No, not the way you mean. She has early-onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t sure if the trite word was meant to be a condolence for what she was going through or an apology for bringing up her family in the first place.

His usual talent for effortless small talk deserted him. Claustrophobia gripped him. He wished he could be anywhere but inside this car. Or, if he had to be here, he wished Stephen was, too. Ty excelled at flirting, getting his way and perfectly searing meat. He could look into a camera and make an unseen audience feel as if he were connecting with them, but it was a superficial illusion. When it came to actually relating to anyone, his business manager was far more skilled.

With a sniff, Grace swiped the side of her hand beneath her eye. “This is the longest I’ve ever heard you go without talking.”

“I do like the sound of my own voice,” he agreed. He was more than happy to discuss his character flaws if it kept them out of the quicksand of her personal tragedies.

“Well, if you’ve been stewing because you’re afraid the weepy chef is too emotional to carry her weight on this challenge, I promise you, I’m up to the task.”

He blinked, startled by her perception of him. He might not be deep, but he wasn’t heartless, either. “That honestly hadn’t crossed my mind, Grace.”

“Really?” She assessed him with a sidelong glance. “Sometimes, with my brothers…they treat me as if having feelings is a liability somehow, makes me fragile. I’m going to prove them wrong when I win this competition.”

Hopefully second place would be enough to make her point to her siblings. Because Ty had every intention of beating her. He said nothing, glad that for now at least, for this one challenge, they could work toward a joint victory. But after that, it would be a return to the philosophy he’d clung to since adolescence.

Every man for himself.


Chapter Four

Grace’s index finger hovered over the pulse control of the food processor. “Sorry,” she said with saccharine-sweet contrition, “can’t hear you.” Then she jabbed the button again and the blade whirred to life.

From the other side of the counter, Ty smirked. They both knew that the second the appliance stopped, he’d go back to his heckling. He’d been teasing her all afternoon and, although she’d do the unthinkable and buy salsa in a jar before she ever admitted it, she appreciated his irreverent playfulness. It kept her nerves from getting the best of her and helped her move past the melancholy she’d felt this morning when discussing her family.

As soon as the motor slowed and the noise died, Ty glanced up from the large pot of chowder he was stirring, which smelled like peppery-scented heaven. “Now would be a good time for you to admit you were completely wrong, by the way.”

Keeping her expression deadpan was a struggle in the face of his contagious grin. Apparently her partner’s charisma was like radioactivity—the longer you were exposed, the more pronounced the effects. “Fine, you didn’t make steak,” she acknowledged. “You want an award for that?”

His blue-gray eyes glinted. “What are you offering?”

She considered throwing a blackberry at him.

He pointed toward the chowder, his smile fading into temporary earnestness. “You want to try this one last time before we start plating?”

They’d drawn numbers earlier in the evening to determine the order in which they’d serve the judges. Phoebe Verlaine and Stuart Capriotti had just presented their food, Reed Lockhart and Jo Ying were plating now, then it would be Grace and Ty’s turn.

She shook her head. “We’re good to go.” They’d both tried each other’s dishes, and she was confident they’d nailed the recipes. Continuing to mess with the food was a rookie mistake that could lead to overseasoning and muddled flavors.

She was really excited about their three-course meal and a bit surprised by how well they’d worked together. Since her father’s death, she’d grown accustomed to running the kitchen of the Jalapeño, and it was refreshing to brainstorm with someone truly knowledgeable about food. Ben and Amy normally limited their input to “mmm” and Victor couldn’t help automatically calculating ingredient costs. Grace and Ty had been tasting each other’s dishes, offering small suggestions when warranted, but there hadn’t been much tampering. She’d half expected Ty would need to put his stamp on everything that came out of the kitchen, but when he’d tried the filling for her dessert, he’d simply said, “Can’t improve on perfection.”

We could win this. She was still worried about Katharine and Antonio, who had more combined experience than any other pair, but she thought her and Ty’s chances were excellent. Their first course would be her spicy butternut-and-pear soup, followed by his grilled shellfish on a bed of creamy poblano-and-corn chowder. Then the finishing touch—Grace’s goat-cheese-and-blackberry empanadas with a nutty glaze. It offered sweetness without the overwhelming richness of that triple-chocolate tart Phoebe had prepared.

Grace began ladling soup into the judge’s bowls, finishing each with a decorative swirl of seasoned crème fraîche and a wafer-thin slice of pear.

“Nervous?” Ty looked pointedly at her hands, which were shaking. “I think we’re going to kick ass, personally.”

“So do I.” She made a fist and squeezed, willing her fingers to cooperate. “It’s more excitement than nerves. When it’s something I care about this much, I just get…keyed-up sometimes.”

Could he understand that? Smooth-talking Ty Beckett didn’t seem the type to get jittery about anything.

“Tell you what,” he drawled. “After we wrap this tonight, I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate. Take me somewhere that has a pool table or air-hockey or whatever so you can burn off this extra energy. Maybe a dance floor.”

She experienced a too-vivid picture of Ty pulling her into his arms. Not a chance in hell. There was an uncrossable line between “keeping your enemy close” and flat-out courting disaster. No matter how their challenge ended tonight, tomorrow morning they’d be opponents again.

“Darts,” she blurted. “I like darts.”

He affected a look of mock-panic. “Wait, only this morning you were telling me you don’t like me. Now you want me to arm you with sharp missiles? Should I be worried?”

“Just make sure we win so I’m in a really good mood before I start throwing.”

* * *

SEAMUS WILSON, IN CONTRAST to his partner Camellia’s sulky silence, tried to accept defeat with a joke. “Guess I should have traded you for that Angus, after all,” he told Ty.

Ty shook the man’s hand. “We all have off-days, buddy.” It was a tactful fib. Personally Ty hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of a bad day in over a decade. The success he’d dreamed of for so long was nearly in his grasp, and he wasn’t about to let anything jeopardize it.

Still, he waited until the other teams had left the challenge kitchen before he allowed himself to gloat fully.

He took Grace by the shoulders and whirled her in a small, triumphant circle. “Hot damn, we did it!”

Her dark eyes shone with pleasure. “I can’t stop smiling.” In a voice husky with pride, she marveled over their accomplishment. “We just beat Antonio Zavalo and Katharine Garner! I may never stop smiling.”

Antonio and Katharine had been their stiffest competition. One of the judges had said they might have won if they hadn’t used two of the signature items from the famed menu of Katharine’s New York restaurant.

“The food was every bit as excellent as we would have expected from you, but you didn’t stretch yourselves. You merely took already proven recipes and tossed in a few additional items, making the Hill Country ingredients seem more like afterthought than inspiration.”

Camellia and Seamus, on the other hand, might have been overly ambitious, especially with their dessert. When complications had arisen with their peach soufflé, they’d become distracted trying to save it. As a result, the steaks had overcooked—a crime against Angus, in Ty’s opinion.

Grace took a step back, unbuttoning her chef’s jacket. “We’ve got to celebrate! And eat. I’m starving. Are you starving?”

He had been, before she’d shrugged out of her jacket. Now he was distracted by the sight of her in the red tank top. The scooped neckline dipped down beneath her collarbone, providing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. She pulled a cropped black sweater out of her duffel bag.

“Ty? We still on for grabbing a bite and toasting victory?” She reached both hands to the top of her head, working at an elastic band until her hair tumbled free over her shoulders.

“Oh, yeah.” But the words were automatic. He’d barely heard the question, not that it mattered. The way she looked right now—eyes sparkling, her smiling face framed by the thick, inky waves of her hair—she could probably get a man to agree to just about anything.

* * *

GRACE SWIPED A SWEET POTATO fry through the spicy honey mustard on her plate, appreciating the way the flavors counterbalanced each other. “I feel funny about bringing you here,” she told Ty, her voice raised in deference to the overhead music blaring in the small bar.

“Funny?” he repeated. “Why?”

She probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him except that their table was only about a foot and a half in diameter, forcing them to sit in close proximity. She’d accidentally grazed his leg with her own, and they were near enough that his body heat was keeping them both warm. It was funny—she’d spent all afternoon and much of the evening in a kitchen with multiple stoves and ovens running but couldn’t remember feeling as flushed as she did now, seated beneath a lazily spinning ceiling fan.

Frowning, she tried to remember what she’d been about to say.

She averted her gaze. Somehow it was easier to think when she wasn’t looking directly at him. “It’s not exactly a five-star restaurant,” she admitted. “The cooks do okay with the menu they have, and people come here more for the pool tables and range of beers on tap than for the food. But you just spent the day in the company of some of the best chefs in Texas!”

“Sweetheart, I am one of the best chefs in Texas. You think that stops me from going out and enjoying a quick burger now and then?” He gestured toward his half-empty plate. “You haven’t heard me complain.”

The mild sense of relief she felt surprised her. Had she actually been worried about his opinion? It was true she’d grown up in the area and loved her hometown, but why should she care what Ty Beckett thought of his time here? As soon as Road Trip was finished filming their competition segments, he would move on to whatever awaited him next.

“I’ve read articles about you,” she began.

“My fame precedes me.”

She ignored the interjection. “Seems like you’re something of a drifter in the culinary world. Surely a chef of your caliber has had opportunities to open your own place?”

As soon as the press release had gone out that she’d been selected for the cooking show, locals had been congratulating her and offering moral support. And, while she didn’t like to dwell on the dark days right after her dad’s death, she’d been touched by the outpouring of sympathy from town citizens. Did Ty get lonely, not having that sense of community? Then again, having witnessed him flirt with women both on television and in person, she supposed he found ways to alleviate loneliness.

“My own place?” He shook his head, looking vaguely alarmed by the idea. “Restaurants are never a sure thing, even for chefs of my caliber.” He echoed her words with a grin, raising his hand slightly to salute her with his glass.

It was true that many new restaurants failed, even good ones. But she couldn’t imagine he was afraid of the odds. Ty Beckett seemed too sure of himself to fear anything.

“Besides,” he continued, “I don’t have to tell you how much responsibility a restaurant is! How many days do you get to just have fun in the kitchen, play with new ideas without worrying about mortgage payments or staff issues or advertising?”

His question hit too close to home, and even she could hear the cranky undertone in her voice when she asked, “So you’re just in it to have fun?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He shrugged unabashedly. “I’m enjoying the hell out of my life, and I’m not hurting anyone.”

She had no response that wouldn’t sound wildly sarcastic, so instead, she pushed her plate toward the center of the table. “I’m all done, whenever you’re ready for that game of darts.” Suddenly Grace found herself in the mood to throw something.

* * *

TY COULDN’T REMEMBER WHEN he’d had dinner with a less predictable woman—or one with better aim. To say he’d lost their first game of ’Round the Clock was a bit of an understatement. I got my ass handed to me. Though she’d resisted any urge to mock him outright, her eyes had danced with humor as she suggested handicapping herself for the second game. As much as Ty detested losing, it was good to see her spirits rise again.

When they’d left the challenge kitchen tonight, she’d been vibrating with giddy energy from their win, downright bubbly in the car. Yet she’d tensed up again as they ate, leaving him feeling almost as if he’d done something wrong, which was ridiculous. As they’d left their table, there had been a painfully rigid set to her spine. Now, however, she moved with fluid grace that was a joy to watch.

He marveled at her most recent throw. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone with such merciless precision.” He supposed many people could train themselves to hit the bull’s-eye consistently, but after winning the initial throw that determined who went first and who got to pick the game, Grace had chosen a variation that required mastery of every section of the board. “I might be a little scared of you now.”

She grinned over her shoulder. “Flatterer.” After she nailed the bull’s-eye with her second dart, she commented, “My oldest brother, Victor, can add forty numbers in his head with the same accuracy as a calculator. He said once that he was gifted with precision, that Ben—who tracks down criminals for a living—was blessed with intuition, and that I…” She hit the double bull’s-eye, putting him out of his misery. “Got the best of both.”

The poetry of her timing, skill and wicked grin hit his system like a fiery shot of tequila. With some disoriented surprise, Ty realized he was turned on. For someone with his competitive drive, it was an unheard of response to losing. Well, except maybe for that one game of strip poker shortly after his twenty-first birthday, but that was different.

He had a sudden visual of Grace peering at him over a hand of cards, wearing the same smile she had now. And very little else. His brain almost short-circuited at the thought.

“You are one dangerous lady,” he said softly.

Luckily she had no idea he meant it. “Muy peligrosa,” she agreed cheerfully as she retrieved her darts. “I keep trying to tell my roommate that!”

“Roommate?” For no logical reason, his mind went straight to some of the romantic comedies he’d seen with dates. Movies where an attractive heroine lived with an attractive guy, but for reasons Ty could never fathom, neither of them acted on their obvious attraction until practically the end of the film. The idea of Grace—

“Amy,” she said. “You’ve met her. She’s the bartender at the Jalapeño.”

His shoulders eased. “The one with the butterfly tattoo?”

Grace nodded, exchanging the darts in her hand for the drink she’d left on the wooden rail. “She moved here from Austin and, selfishly speaking, she couldn’t have come at a better time. She was bunking at a bed-and-breakfast while she looked for a more permanent living situation. Meanwhile, I had to move because…” She faltered. “I’d been living at home, helping take care of Mom after Dad died. But then we—my brothers and I—decided that she needed more help. Better help.”

Her voice trembled, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

“Hey. It’s okay.” He reached for her, meaning to squeeze her arm or pat her on the back, something innocuously encouraging. But his body took it a step further, pulling her against him in a hug. Beckett, you ass. Was he really taking advantage of her mother’s illness to hold her? He couldn’t have let go any faster if she’d been a burning hot pan he’d mistakenly touched.

“Sorry,” he said curtly.

Her forehead crinkled as she frowned at him. “Don’t be. That was…sweet.”

The hell it was, he thought guiltily. “I don’t do ‘sweet,’” he told her, shuddering for effect. He paused a beat before asking lightly, “How do you know it wasn’t just an excuse to touch a beautiful woman?”




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