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The Baby Truce
Jeannie Watt


Reggie Tremont has always had clear goals. Open a catering business: check. Enter Reno's premier catering competition: check. Have a baby with her ex…. Okay, maybe Reggie Tremont's life went slightly off course with that singular unplanned event. But she's not going to let Tom Gerard–renowned rebel of the culinary world and father-to-be–distract her again.Tom may insist that he's changed and that he's dependable. That he's sworn off his prima donna fits. But he needs to back those promises with some action…starting with being a humble prep cook for her. It turns out that sharing her kitchen with him is more temptation than Reggie can afford. And suddenly she's considering another unplanned event…with him!









“Start chopping veg for eighty chicken pot pies.”


Tom smiled, humoring her. “Reggie, you’re preparing an Italian meal, which I happen to be rather good at, and you want me to chop veg for pot pies.”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “I understand.” And he no doubt did. Reggie was putting him in his place.

She started to fold her arms over her chest, caught herself, and forced them back to her sides. “And I want you to be nice to Patty. For some reason her back is up.”

“No problem.” This time there was a note of irony in his voice, but Reggie ignored it as she led the way into the kitchen.

She pulled a list out of her apron pocket. “Here you go. I’m sure you can familiarize yourself with the kitchen. This is your station.” She indicated an area of the stainless steel counter with a sweep of her hand. “Let me know when you’re done.” She hesitated, then added, “And be nice to Patty. I mean it.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Reggie left Tom standing next to the counter and went into the office. When she returned, Tom glanced up. Oh, yeah. This wasn’t nerve-racking or anything, having him here.

Tom was chopping as he’d been told to do, his hand moving so quickly it was a blur. Reggie knew he wasn’t showing off. He was making a point. Yes, he’d chop veg, but using him that way was a waste. He was probably thinking of how he could revolutionize her kitchen.

He’d lost that chance seven years ago.


Dear Reader,

I love to cook, but more than that, I love it when my husband cooks for me. What is it about a man in the kitchen?

I had heard that chefs are notoriously difficult to write and guess what? They are. Many chefs are bona fide alpha males, used to command and having their every order followed without question. My chef, Tom Gerard, made a spectacular career for himself by refusing to compromise, and then destroyed it in the same way. When the story opens, he has burned most of his professional bridges by refusing to bow to authority and has finally come to realize that there are consequences to his actions. And as he makes that discovery, he gets another bit of news. His former girlfriend, caterer Reggie Tremont, is pregnant—and she doesn’t need any help or support from him, thank you very much.

Now Tom not only has to rebuild a career; he has to rebuild a relationship with the woman he once abandoned.

I hope you enjoy Tom and Reggie’s story. While writing this book, I researched celebrity chefs, read several chef biographies and became a cooking show junkie. I guess you could say that Tom and Reggie broadened my world and, thanks to the many recipes I just had to try, I may have broadened in other ways, too.

I love to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact me via my website, www.jeanniewatt.com.

Best wishes,

Jeannie Watt




The Baby Truce

Jeannie Watt





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




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Jeannie Watt lives off the grid in rural Nevada and loves nothing better than an excellent meal. Jeannie is blessed with a husband who cooks more than she does, a son who knows how to make tapas and a daughter who knows the best restaurants in San Francisco. Her idea of heaven is homemade macaroni and cheese.


To Gary, my personal chef.

I couldn’t do it without you.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

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 THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY




PROLOGUE


TOM GERARD CAME AWAKE suddenly, aware that something wasn’t right. He reached out and found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

“Reg?”

The suite remained silent, and although he couldn’t see into the living room, he felt the stillness.

“Reggie!” He got out of bed and walked out there naked. His clothes were still scattered across the floor, but hers were no longer there.

He stood taking in the emptiness, not liking it. She was gone, and he didn’t think she was out getting coffee and the newspaper. That had been his Sunday morning task during the year they’d been together. Hers had been to laze in bed until he returned. Then they would drink coffee, share the paper, make love again.

Those days were almost a decade past, but when Reggie had come to his suite with him last night, he’d assumed everything would be the same. For a while anyway, until they went back to their real lives—hers in Reno, his in New York City…or wherever he got hired. So far San Francisco was a bust, but he didn’t care, because, honestly, he was an East Coast chef. California cuisine didn’t do it for him.

The phone rang and Tom scooped it up. “Reggie?”

“It’s Pete.” Tom’s long-suffering business manager, who took a nice slice of his income in return for that suffering. “I just booked you a ticket to New York. You leave at noon. Jervase Montrose wants to talk about a job. It looks good.”

“Great.” Tom wasn’t surprised to have nailed an interview with Jervase, despite Pete’s concerns. Yeah, he’d gotten his ass fired a couple weeks ago—the second time in two years—but he was still one of the top chefs in the country. Jervase would be lucky to get him.

Pete gave him the flight information, then added, “Be on your best behavior.”

Hey. It wasn’t like he was a wild man. He simply knew his own worth and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Was it his fault that he’d run into a hell of a lot of fools lately? “I’ll call you when I land.”

He hung up the phone and stood regarding the empty suite.

In all the time he’d known her, Reggie had never once walked out on him without a word.




CHAPTER ONE


REGGIE TREMONT SNAPPED OFF the TV and tossed the remote onto the sofa, startling her fat cat, Mims. “Damn it, Tom.”

Fired again.

Not a world event, but he was enough of a bad-boy chef to get a small blurb on the E! entertainment network. Volatile chef dismissed. Celebrity witnesses involved.

They’d flashed a photo that made him look more like a pirate than a chef, with his black hair pulled into a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, dark eyes glinting. She was quite familiar with that unrepentant expression—a mask he popped on when he didn’t want anyone getting too close. Or when he was getting ready to walk away.

Reggie grabbed her red cardigan off the arm of the recliner, where she’d left it the night before. She slipped it on while Mims twined around her ankles.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She headed for the pantry, where the cat food was stored. Like she’d forget to feed the cat. Mims was as wide as she was high.

Reggie opened the can and dumped it into the ceramic dish with Meow spelled out on the bottom, wrinkling her nose as the scent of fish mixed with who-knew-what hit her nostrils. Her stomach roiled. Second day in a row. That did it. She was going back to the old brand.

She fanned the air as she retreated from the kitchen. She had to make a quick stop at the catering kitchen she ran with her sister, Eden, and her brother, Justin, to pick up her portfolios, before her client meetings and site visits. At noon she’d trade her business heels for kitchen clogs and prep for a luncheon the following day.

Full days were good days.

She glanced at her watch after pulling her hair into a barrette at the back of her neck and double-checking her makeup. Please let the traffic be with me for a change.

The kitchen still smelled of the awful cat food and she tried not to breathe as she retrieved her keys from the hook next to the sink. Once she got outside the house and took a deep breath of fresh, non-cat-food-tainted air, she felt better. Well, a little better, anyway. The scent of the lilacs blooming beside the house was surprisingly strong and cloying, but not nearly as bad as Mims’s new food.

Reggie pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach as she walked to her car, parked on the street, since her tiny brick house had no garage. She would not, could not, come down with something while they were short one prep cook.

Mind over matter. That was the trick.



EDEN SWIVELED IN HER CHAIR AS soon as Reggie walked into the tiny Tremont Catering kitchen office. “We have three applicants for the prep cook position!”

Finally. The employment agency they used for catering temps had taken its sweet time. Eden and Reggie had been fighting to keep their heads above water after their last employee quit.

“Have you set up interviews?” Reggie asked, dropping her tote bag on the floor next to her small workstation. She was still fighting queasiness and now her forehead felt damp.

“Day after tomorrow. Back-to-back, starting at one o’clock.”

“Great.”

Eden slipped an elastic band off her wrist and gathered her dark blond hair into a haphazard knot, then pulled a clean white chef’s apron off one of the hooks next to her station. She wrapped the strings twice around her before she tied them. Eden was petite, but…

“I think that’s Justin’s apron,” Reggie said.

“It’ll do,” she replied distractedly. “After the agency called about the applicants, I got news that the Dunmores have an unexpected guest this week, so I have to figure how to stretch what I made yesterday and add a couple more dishes. Then I still have all the morning prep for that luncheon.”

Reggie glanced at the handwritten schedule she kept next to her computer. “Justin’s coming in at nine?”

“New cake order and he wanted to get started.”

“Of course,” she murmured. He wasn’t quite overextended enough and had to take on that one extra project to tip the scales.

When they’d first started Tremont six years ago, all three of them had worked extra jobs to keep the business afloat. Reggie, who like many would-be restaurateurs and caterers, had taken business and accounting classes along with her culinary courses, did the books for a couple small firms. Eden worked as a personal chef and Justin had snagged a part-time job as a backup cook for a resort at Lake Tahoe.

Reggie had long ago given up the bookkeeping to run Tremont full time, but Eden still cooked for three families on a weekly basis and Justin was a backup pastry chef and fill-in cook at the same hotel. And he made cakes. Exquisitely crafted and gloriously expensive cakes that were gaining popularity and bringing some serious money into the business. At the same time they were forcing him into a ridiculous work schedule that didn’t involve a lot of sleep.

“I saw that your ex got the ax again,” Eden said.

“I saw it, too,” Reggie said, without looking up. She tucked her site notes into the wedding portfolio.

“I guess he should have kept his mouth shut.” Eden breezed by her and disappeared into the kitchen.

“A lesson for all of us,” Reggie muttered. A lesson Tom wasn’t learning.

She shut off her monitor before shouldering the leather portfolio. Her stomach tightened as she walked into the kitchen, where Eden had beef stew simmering.

“There’s something wrong with your stew,” Reggie said, wrinkling her nose. She stopped a few feet away from the stove.

“What?” Eden lifted the spoon and sniffed.

“Can’t you smell it? It’s…off.”

Eden sniffed again, then tasted. “No, it’s not.”

Reggie came closer, took a deep whiff of the rich brown broth, and her stomach roiled violently. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Reg?”

The leather portfolio hit the rubber floor mat in front of the stove as Reggie turned and raced for the bathroom, barely making it before she heaved. She pushed away from the porcelain bowl as sweat broke out on her forehead. Then pulled herself closer as she heaved again.

“Reggie!” Eden knelt beside her, one hand on her back, offering her a wad of toilet paper.

“I’m fine,” Reggie said automatically, taking the tissue to wipe her mouth.

“Oh, yes. Totally fine.”

“No. Really.” Reggie focused on her sister. “I feel better.”

Eden regarded her for a moment. “Could you stop by the seafood shop right now?”

Reggie’s stomach convulsed at the mere thought of fish. It must have showed.

“Uh-huh.” Eden helped her to her feet. “You need to go home and lie down before you get really sick.”

“This was just a fluke. Besides, I have meetings.” That she couldn’t afford to throw up in.

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

“A couple days,” Reggie said. “Just a little out of sorts. Kind of sick in the mornings.”

“Morning sickness?!”

Reggie met her sister’s eyes, then slowly started shaking her head. “No. I feel sick in the morning. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, yeah? And what is that difference?”

“I believe what you’re talking about is called pregnancy,” Reggie said.

“No chance…?” Eden asked.

“Who are you talking to? I never take chances.”

Eden merely stared at her in a decidedly unconvinced way.

“Ever,” Reggie added. She glanced down at her shoes, which, thankfully, hadn’t suffered any damage.

“You’ve been damned cranky lately and now you’re puking in the morning.” Her sister lifted her chin, looked Reggie in the eye and asked flatly, “You swear there’s no chance at all?”

Next she’d have her putting her hand on the Bible.

“None,” Reggie replied. After all, she and Tom had used condoms.



TOM WALKED DOWN FIFTH AVENUE, hands shoved deep in his pockets, chin tucked low to his chest against the pelting rain. He hated rain.

Right now he hated just about everything, and especially Jervase Montrose. It was one thing to get canned, and another to get canned in front of his kitchen brigade just after service. Jervase had planned it that way. He’d all but called in a news crew. And he’d made such a fricking big deal about having taken a chance on him. What chance? Tom had delivered everything he’d promised. The number of covers had increased exponentially since he’d taken the helm of Jervase’s restaurant.

Ungrateful bastard.

Tom climbed the four stone steps to the entryway of Pete’s office building. The security guard nodded at him as he passed on his way to the elevator. His business manager’s receptionist did the same, then ignored him during the twenty minutes Pete kept him waiting. He hadn’t even sat down in one of the sleek ebony chairs on the opposite side of the equally sleek but cluttered desk when Pete announced, “It was your fault.”

Tom didn’t bother sitting after that, since it was going to be one of those kinds of meetings. Pete might be a good six inches shorter than Tom and generally soft spoken, but he didn’t take crap from anyone. “My fault? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“Eyewitness reports.”

“What? Who? Because anyone there last night could tell you—”

“Not last night. The night before. When you told the group of diners how ridiculous upper management was.”

Tom shifted his weight impatiently. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Rampant inefficiency was making it damned hard for him to do his best work, and it wouldn’t have been that tough to fix it.

“But unfortunately, you said it to one of the men responsible.”

Tom snorted. “All the more reason to say something. If they would have listened to me weeks ago—”

“Play the freaking game, Tom! Other people do. Why can’t you?”

He placed his palms on Pete’s desk and leaned closer. “Because the game bites. If there’s a problem, you identify it and fix it.”

“Well, apparently Jervase has identified the problem and fixed it.”

Tom had no answer for that. Jervase was within his rights to fire him. He was stupid to, but within his rights.

“What now?” he asked.

“What the hell do you mean, what now? You’re burning bridges faster than I can build them.”

“Build faster.”

Pete slumped back in his chair. “Jervase is well respected. I hate to say this…but you may have burned your last bridge. For a while, anyway.”

“Meaning?”

“If he wants to, he can blackball you.”

Tom’s chin came up. “He’s a money man. He doesn’t know squat about running a restaurant—or creating a menu.” One of their first bones of contention. “I mean, seriously.”

“Money talks.” Pete got out of his chair and came around his desk. “Consider an apology. Possibly even a public one.”

“An apology?” Tom almost choked. “Give me one frigging reason why I should apologize to him when his head is so far up his—”

“He can do you some major damage, no matter how good you are.” Pete paused, then added significantly, “Even more damage than you’re causing yourself.”

“I am not the problem.”

“So this has all been what?” Pete asked calmly. “A run of bad luck?”

Tom slapped his hand down on the desk. Why in the hell couldn’t the man see what was going on? “It’s been a run of idiots with money thinking they know more than the experts they hire. Assholes who can’t handle hearing the truth because they didn’t think of it themselves.”

“Assholes who do the hiring and firing.” Pete pointed a finger at him. “Assholes who hold your future in their hands.”

“They don’t hold my future,” Tom said. “I hold my future.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

Tom’s head started to pound. Pete was missing the point, and Tom needed to get the hell out of there before he really blew. He turned and headed for the door. “I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Pete said. “Or should I say stupider.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom yanked the heavy paneled door open and strode out into the hall. “I’ll check back with you.”

Pete didn’t answer. Tom didn’t know whether that was good or bad, and didn’t care. Pete had been his manager since he’d been a candidate for the James Beard Upcoming Chef awards, and once they weathered this particular storm, things would be good again.

He could see why Pete wanted to make nice with Montrose—after all, Tom wasn’t Pete’s only client. But he was his biggest name, and Tom would pound nails with his knife before he’d apologize for speaking the truth.

Let the man do his worst.



THE UNOPENED PREGNANCY TEST stood like a sentinel on Reggie’s kitchen island. She walked slowly around the granite-topped fixture, not quite ready to take the plunge, mainly because she couldn’t be pregnant.

No. Way.

She and Tom had used condoms. Both times.

So why didn’t she just pee on the stick and get it over with?

Because the possibility of being tied to Tom for the next eighteen years was simply too much for her to handle. Yeah, she’d once loved him. But that wasn’t why she’d slept with him.

Never sleep with someone you don’t want to raise a kid with—no matter how hot they are. Her ninth-grade health teacher’s words, which had been repeated at least fifty times during the semester.

No question about Tom being hot. And if Reggie pushed aside her resentment about how he’d walked out on her, how he’d chosen a high-risk job on the other side of the ocean over staying with her and starting the catering business that had become Tremont, she could concede that he had good points besides hotness. But he wasn’t father material. Fathers needed to be steady. And there.

Reggie grabbed the box and opened the top. Enough. She was settling this once and for all.



IT TOOK TOM A LONG TIME TO wake up enough to realize that the constant ringing was not in his head. He pushed himself upright on the sofa, stared at the cell phone he held in his hand, then answered.

“Are you crazy?” Pete barked into his ear, making him wince.

“According to you, I am,” Tom said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat twice, trying to ease the cotton mouth. “Why?”

“Do you recall talking to any reporters lately?”

Tom planted a palm on his forehead, trying to hold in the pressure. “Why in the hell are you calling me about reporters?”

“Because of what greeted me in the paper this morning!” Pete, normally the most patient of men, even when Tom was on a rampage, sounded utterly pissed. “I sent you the link. Take a look once your vision clears enough to read it.” The phone went dead.

Tom let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. Closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. Mescal? Was that what he’d drunk? He remembered demanding something strong to kill the disappointment of having everyone he’d called for a job lead give him a helpful suggestion as to somewhere else he might want to call.

Whatever he’d drunk, it’d been a killer night. But he hadn’t talked to any reporters. He was certain of that.

The room spun as he got to his feet and trudged naked to the bathroom. A woman’s red sequined top hung on the doorknob by one strap. He stared at it for a moment, then continued into the john, closing the door just in case. When he came back out, he looked around the apartment, which didn’t take long since it was only four small yet highly expensive rooms. No woman.

He sat in front of the computer, brought up his email and clicked on the link Pete had sent. Obviously some tabloid had manufactured a few lies, twisted a few truths.

And that tabloid was called the New York Times.

Oh, shit.

In a small but clear photo he had one arm draped over a woman wearing a sequined top very similar to the one on his bathroom doorknob. With the other hand he pointed directly at the camera, his mouth open as he obviously expounded.

And how he’d expounded, according to the article beneath the photo. The text wasn’t long, but it was colorful and explained exactly what he thought of Jervase Montrose and his restaurants, plus his feelings on all corporately managed eating establishments. The reporter had also helpfully included Tom’s insights into the personal habits of several food critics. There were many, many quotation marks.

Tom slammed the laptop shut and jumped to his feet, needing to move.

He sensed the need for some damage control.

He punched Pete’s number into his phone. The business manager answered on the first ring. “You read it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll understand what I’m about to say next.”

“Which is?”

“I quit. Please seek other management.”



REGGIE HAD HEARD OF WOMEN IN denial buying three and four different pregnancy tests, just to make certain the first two or three were correct. She was about to join their ranks. The only thing that stopped her was the landline ringing as she went for her purse and keys. Ignore her sister or get it over with?

If she ignored her, Eden would show up at her door.

“Well?” Eden said when she answered.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No!”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Reggie planted the palm of her free hand on her throbbing forehead, trying to ease the tension there. “I’m going to buy another test. This one may have been old.”

“Old?”

“Or compromised in some way.”

“Or the reason you’re throwing up is because you’re pregnant.” Reggie dropped her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to respond. “I’ll be right over,” Eden added.

“Don’t tell Justin,” Reggie said through gritted teeth. Her brother did his best to appear as if nothing bothered him, but it was a front. Justin was the most protective male of her acquaintance, and right now she didn’t need protection. She didn’t need to hash this through with Eden, either, but better to get it over with now, while she was still numb.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Eden said. “See you in twenty. Just…stay calm.”

Reggie rolled her eyes and hung up. Stay calm. Oh, yeah. She headed for the door. She had just enough time to get to the nearest drugstore and back again.

No. She’d wait for Eden and then go to the drugstore. They could go together. Reggie stopped in the middle of the room and pressed her palms against her abdomen. How? How could there possibly be a baby growing inside her?

When Eden showed up twenty minutes later, Reggie was sitting on the sofa, holding Mims on her lap and staring at the opposite wall. This was real. She had accidentally become pregnant at the age of thirty.

Unless, of course, the test was wrong. It happened.

Reggie stood as Eden let herself in with her own key. They were dressed almost identically in white T-shirts and jeans…and Eden’s jeans were going to fit her in six months. For a moment the two sisters simply stared at each other, then Eden crossed the room to wrap her arms around Reggie and hug her tightly. “You’re not alone in this. All right?”

“I know.”

Eden released her and stood back. “It’s none of my business—”

“Tom.” No sense being coy.

“Gerard?” Eden’s mouth fell open. She waited, as if expecting Reggie to say, “Just kidding.” That didn’t happen. “When…where…? Isn’t he in New York?”

“Sommelier class. San Francisco. He was staying at the hotel while interviewing for a job. We ran into each other the first day of class.”

“So you slept with him?”

Reggie gave her sister a weary look. Obviously.

“You—”

“We used protection,” Reggie said. “It didn’t work.”

“But…Tom?”

She wasn’t going into the wherefores and the whys—mainly because they sounded lame. And she didn’t want anyone to know that she’d gotten pregnant proving to herself that she was over a guy; that she could walk away, just as he had.

Especially when she’d made the rather startling discovery that physically, at least, she wasn’t over him. Regardless of what her very logical brain was telling her. Sleeping with Tom after all these years had been…something. And if it hadn’t been for her realization that she still had issues with him, she would have pushed back her departure. Had another night with him.

“Yes, Tom.” She picked up a squirming Mims, who’d had about enough of being used as a security pillow. “And now I have to tell him.”

Eden’s expression became closed. “Why?”

Reggie hugged Mims tighter, holding the cat’s plump gray body against her chest. “What do you mean, why? Because he’s the father. He has a right to know.”

Eden let out a sigh as she reached up to pat Mims, who escaped to the back of the sofa after Reggie released her. “It’s just that he made you so damned unhappy when you guys broke up, and now…” She gave a small shrug. “But it isn’t like he’s going to want to settle down or anything.”

“No.” Again, obviously. He hadn’t settled into anything since leaving her, moving from job to job, city to city. Her kid was going to have a normal life, and Tom’s life was anything but normal.

Her kid. What a concept.

“And I guess he should pay support,” Eden added.

“I don’t know that I want him to.” Because if he paid support, he’d have a say in the child’s upbringing.

But would he want a say?

She’d been officially pregnant for all of an hour and was already drowning in unanswered questions and potential complications.

And she was still grappling with the thought of a tiny being growing inside her. “I guess the smart thing to do, after I go to a doctor and make sure I’m really pregnant, is to see a lawyer.” She sat on the sofa, reaching up to stroke Mims on the cushion next to her head. “It’s going to take a while to get used to this idea.”

“For all of us.”

Reggie dropped her hand into her lap and looked up at Eden, who still stood next to the recliner. “I always figured that if one of us got into this mess, it would be Justin.”

Eden’s mouth twisted in ironic acknowledgment. “Instead, it’s the responsible Tremont. Go figure.”

The responsible Tremont who had no idea what to do next.




CHAPTER TWO


REGGIE TOOK TWO MORE PREGNANCY tests early the next morning before work. Just to make sure.

Her body and three different pharmaceutical companies were in agreement. She was pregnant.

After the last test went into the trash, Reggie poured a big glass of orange juice, took two sips before deciding it tasted off, then put the glass on the counter.

She sat at the kitchen table and laid her head on her folded arms. Mims jumped up on the off-limits surface and butted her with her head, trying to remind her that the Salmon Soufflé was still in the can. Reggie shooed her off, then closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep here, shut out the world and all the issues she had to figure out fast.

Issues she didn’t think Eden would fully understand, because she hadn’t understood until she’d found herself in this position.

The questions about her future, the sobering reality of being responsible for a child. The fear that Tom’s gypsy lifestyle would forever warp her kid, coupled with the lingering sense of unreality about the entire situation. She wanted nothing more than to slip into denial, pretend none of this was happening—at least until she vomited again.

Mims was having none of being shooed away. She threw her body hard against Reggie’s legs and then, when she had her weary owner’s attention, raced for the pantry. Reggie got to her feet and followed, wishing she’d thought of picking up the old brand of cat food when she’d gone to the store for more pregnancy tests.

A few minutes later, she took a deep breath, held it as best she could as she opened the can and dished out the food. She tossed the can in the trash on top of the pregnancy tests, then fled the kitchen for the relatively fresh air of the living room.

When she arrived at work twenty minutes later, Justin was there alone, leaning against the counter at the opposite end of the room, not moving at high speed for once in his life…almost as if he was waiting for her.

“Justin.”

“Reggie.”

Oh, yeah. He knew. She didn’t know whether to be angry at Eden for spilling the beans, or grateful that she herself didn’t have to. The three siblings hadn’t kept many secrets from one another while growing up. They’d been in the odd position of practically raising each other while their long-haul trucker father had been on the road, after their mother’s death. Oh, Justin had tried to hold secrets, but the neighborhood grapevine was quite effective at keeping Reggie and Eden up to date on his activities.

But this time it wasn’t Justin who was in hot water. Nope. Tables turned.

Reggie walked the short distance from the back door into the office as if nothing was wrong, put away her purse, smoothed her hair, tied on an apron. When she left the office, Justin was right where he’d been when she’d entered the building, leaning against the stainless steel counter, gripping the metal on either side of him. His usually warm expression was cold. Was he ticked because this had happened to her after all the lectures she’d given him?

“Been talking to Eden?” Reggie asked, giving him an opening so they could get this discussion over with fast.

“Yeah.” Still cold. Still closed off.

“Well.” Reggie shrugged, less than comfortable discussing this matter with her younger brother. The one she’d threatened with annihilation as a teen if he wasn’t sexually responsible. “I don’t know what to say.”

He nodded as he regarded her. “Have you…made any plans?”

“Like…?”

“Keeping the baby?”

Reggie raised her eyebrows. “I’m keeping the baby.” Of course she was keeping the baby. She wasn’t a pregnant teen. The thought of giving it up hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Her brother’s face relaxed an iota, but his voice was still stern when he asked, “Told Tom yet?”

“No.”

“You gotta do that.”

Reggie frowned. “I will.” Justin appeared as if he was on a mission. But what mission? She hadn’t a clue. “I’m going to phone him.”

Her brother glanced down at his feet. He was wearing flat skateboard shoes. He hadn’t changed yet, which meant talking to her had been his first order of business. “I can be there when you make the call.”

Justin was returning to protective form—a good sign.

“I’ll handle it.” It wasn’t a conversation she wanted anyone to hear. She met her brother’s blue eyes. “If I need propping up afterwards, I’ll hunt you down.”

He smiled slightly. “Just…don’t put it off too long. All right?”

“All right.” Reggie smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron. “Well, I guess I’d better get going on the chops for the dinner tonight.” She started for the cooler, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Will you be here for the interviews this afternoon?”

“I got called in to the lake early.” His mouth tightened. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I understand.” Justin’s job at Lake Tahoe brought in a lot of contacts and potential business. “Eden and I will be fine.”

“Don’t settle,” he said. “Because, well, there’s a chance whoever we hire might end up full time for a while. You know?”

Reggie knew.



TOM GAVE PETE A WEEK TO COOL off, then phoned. Pete was out of the office. The next time he called, a day later, Pete was once again unavailable. By the third call Tom understood that he was never going to be available. Tom was on his own.

And that sucked, because while he could cook, he knew squat about business.

He’d already called everyone he knew in the city, tried to pull in a few favors, but so far no luck. Even people who said they wanted to help indicated they couldn’t. Not right now. Lower-end restaurants were more than willing to take a chance on him, hoping his notoriety would bring in business, but that wasn’t a career move Tom was ready to take. He wasn’t into notoriety. Not on purpose, anyway. He was into making good food the only way he knew how. His way. The Times article had done him some serious damage. He spent an evening writing a blistering rebuttal, but realized after an hour of slamming thoughts onto paper that he wasn’t in the most defensible position. In fact, he was pretty much in the juice.

Memories were short, though. Given a month or two, a new scandal, people would forget. He’d be back at the helm of a new restaurant, and this time he’d choose more wisely—choose a place where he approved of the management style, rather than the name. He had savings and investments. Although he knew very little about them, since he’d trusted Pete implicitly.

But what to do now? Continue pounding the pavement, trying to get an interview? Call Lowell and hear the guy rant about how Tom had screwed himself?

Not yet. Lowell Hislop, who’d gotten Tom the job in Spain that had ultimately jump-started his career, was the closest thing to a mentor he had. He was also unpredictable and hard to deal with. A veritable force unto himself, and at the moment as unemployed as Tom was. But in Lowell’s case it was by choice, while he hammered out a divorce agreement with his French wife, Simone. They’d split innumerable times in the past, but this once it appeared to be for real. Lowell had sold his restaurant, dumped his investment properties and quite likely stashed a bunch of cash in odd places. He was nothing if not savvy, but the last Tom had heard he was up to his ass in his wife’s lawyers.

Yeah, Tom would call him, but first he’d see what he could do on his own. There were still a couple avenues left to him.

He hoped.

He was halfway up the stairs to his apartment when his phone rang. It wasn’t Pete, as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t Jervase telling him the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them, either. It was a Nevada number.

“Reggie?”

“Hi, Tom.” There was an awkward silence, then she said, “I, uh, have some news for you.”

“All right.” A lead on a job, maybe? The Associated Press had picked up his “interview” with the Times and it was all over the country. No doubt she knew he was out of work. He didn’t really want a job in Reno, but he’d consider it. For a while.

“Before I start, I just want to tell you that you don’t have to be involved in any way. I plan to handle everything myself.”

“Handle what?” He balanced the phone on his shoulder while he dug his keys out of his pocket.

After another short silence, she said, “I’m pregnant.”

He almost said congratulations. Then her meaning struck him. “How pregnant?”

“Almost two months.”

He dropped the keys on the carpet between his feet. “We…used protection.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone but you.”

“We…used protection,” Tom repeated. He pressed the heel of his palm into the solid wood door. Blood hammered in his temples, making it damned hard to think.

“Like I said…” She hesitated. “I thought you should know, but…I don’t need anything from you.”

“Well, aren’t you brave?” he snapped.

“Yes. I am. I lived with you for a year.” The phone went dead.

Tom stood for a moment without moving, then reached down and picked up his keys. It took him two tries to get the right one into the lock, mainly because his hands were shaking.

Pregnant?

Call her back, you jerk.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

He needed time in the worst way.

Once inside, he dropped the keys on the table, set the bag of produce beside them.

He was going to be a father.

Out of a job. Living on savings. About to be a dad. This was not the way his life was supposed to work out.

Tom rubbed his temples with his fingertips. Then he went to the cupboard and pulled out a bottle, the first one he touched. He didn’t even look to see what it was. He poured a healthy amount into a glass and downed it in one swallow.

Bourbon.

He poured another, then went to the window and stared out at the building behind his, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. This time he sipped, allowing the alcohol to warm his throat slowly. The tension started to ease out of the muscles of his neck and shoulders, but his mind was still whirling.

If Reggie was two months pregnant, then he had seven months to figure this all out. He’d be employed by then. Have a new business manager, be able to set up a college fund, or do whatever dads did. His father had done two things—hauled him around the world with him when he could, or sent him off to boarding school when he couldn’t. Not the most normal of upbringings. His dad had been more like a friend than a father…when they’d been together.

So what the hell did Tom know about fatherhood?

“Damn.” He tossed the bourbon back, then reached for the bottle and poured another shot.



TWO INTERVIEWS DOWN AND ONE TO go. So far, not so good.

Eden and Reggie exchanged glances as the second of their three candidates walked out the door. Reggie’s stomach was in a tight knot, but this time it had little to do with morning sickness.

The first candidate hadn’t known how to hold a knife and, when shown, had preferred to do it her way. That was fine. She could do the wrong thing in her own kitchen, but not the Tremont kitchen. Oh, and she couldn’t work on weekends.

The second candidate had skills, but also had a schedule Tremont would have to work around. That kind of defeated the purpose of having a prep cook, who had to be able to prep when they needed her, not when she was free from her other job.

If these were the top candidates, Reggie didn’t hold out much hope for numbers four, five and six.

“If this person can breathe and work our schedule, I say we hire her,” Eden whispered to Reggie as a roundish woman in her mid-forties, with short brown hair and a no-nonsense expression—candidate number three—walked in the door exactly five minutes before her interview.

She approached the desk where Eden and Reggie were sitting and set a bound résumé before them.

“I’m Patty Lloyd. How do you do?” she said. “I’m here for the interview. I realize that I have large gaps in my employment history, but I assure you, I can cook.”

Eden met Reggie’s gaze with raised eyebrows as Patty took her seat on the other side of the desk.

The interview went well. Despite her somewhat arrogant, take-charge attitude, she’d been employed at a private care facility kitchen for the past two years and proved to be slow yet meticulous. And part time was fine with her for now. What the woman didn’t know they could teach her.

The only problem was that Patty was very, very serious, in her speech, in her dress, in her attitude, which made Reggie wonder if the woman could handle Justin. Justin, when not dealing with pregnant sisters, tended toward irreverence.

Eden obviously had the same concern. She smiled up at Patty and said, “I want you to meet my brother for a second interview tomorrow, and then we’ll have you make a couple standard dishes on our menu. Would that work for you?”

“Certainly. Let’s say ten?” Patty stood, extending her hand.

“She scares me a little,” Eden said after the door shut behind her. They watched through the front window as she got into a small blue Ford that had to be twenty years old, yet appeared almost new.

“That,” Reggie said, carefully setting down her pen, “makes two of us. But if we keep her in the kitchen and away from clients, I think she’ll do fine.”

“We’ll have to tell Justin to behave.”

“That goes without saying. I’ll get going on the tapenade,” she added, because Eden had that touch-base-to-see-how-you’re-feeling look, and Reggie wasn’t in the mood.

She was still recovering from her phone conversation with Tom, would most probably have to have another in the near future, and wanted time to stew. Alone.



TOM WENT TO THE WINDOW OF HIS apartment and leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the people on the sidewalk five stories below. A lot of them were probably going to work. The bastards.

It was hard to believe, but Montrose appeared to have him by the short hairs. As near as he could tell, he was blacklisted.

But for how fricking long?

Tom left the window and stepped over the clothes he hadn’t bothered to pick up during the past few days. It was time to call Lowell, admit that he needed his help.

“You’re totally screwed,” Lowell said shortly, after hello. “I’ve been keeping tabs.”

“I don’t buy ‘totally screwed.’” Maybe he was temporarily screwed, and for the zillionth time Tom wondered how getting fired for stuff that had nothing to do with his cooking ability could interfere with his ability to get a job cooking. “What do you suggest I do about that?” he asked with more patience than he was feeling.

“Keep out of trouble for, say, a day or two and let this blow over.”

“It’s been a goddamn day or two.”

“Calm. Down.”

“This is your advice? Calm down and what? Helpful, Lowell. Really helpful. At least tell me if you hear of anything…”

“Yeah…but like I said. Right now? Screwed. Hope you have some savings.”

Tom hung up so he didn’t have to tell Lowell what he could do with his bloody useless advice. One thing about Lowell—you might not know what he was going to do next, but you knew where you stood with him.

Staring at the phone, Tom became increasingly aware of an unfamiliar feeling unfurling inside him. Desperation. Coupled with fear.

He grabbed the phone and threw it across the room, where it smashed into the wall. That felt satisfying. He refused to give in to fear.

He had to plan for this baby.

Tom had no idea how to handle fatherhood, but regardless of Reggie’s glib assurance that she would handle everything by herself—or maybe because of it—he’d have some say in his kid’s life. Even if that kid didn’t seem real. Yet. Seven more months and he’d be real. A new Gerard in the world.

Tom went into his kitchen, bypassed the bottle of bourbon for a glass of tap water, which tasted of metal, then went back to his phone and called Pete at home. He was getting his business manager back and his life on track. All he wanted to do was cook and cook well—for someone other than himself. And get himself into a position where he could at the very least support his kid.




CHAPTER THREE


THE DOCTOR WAS RUNNING LATE BY almost an hour, and if he didn’t hurry, Reggie was going to have to abandon ship in order to make a meeting with a prospective client. A bride.

Several other women sat in the waiting room with her, most very pregnant, and she studied them out the corner of her eye while pretending to read. What did it feel like to no longer have a waist? Or in some cases ankles? Oh, she hoped she got to keep her ankles.

How did seat belts work when one didn’t have a lap?

Was she going to have to get a special order chef’s jacket? Hers was roomy, but judging by the slender-except-for-her-belly woman who was just called from the waiting area by a nurse with a chart in her hand, not roomy enough. Maybe Reggie could wear Justin’s jacket? Not working wasn’t an option. Working kept her sane. It also kept the business afloat and money in the bank.

Her heart gave a mighty thud when her name was called and she followed the nurse to the room where she was weighed and her blood pressure taken.

“First pregnancy?” the nurse asked.

“Yes.” Reggie stared at the opposite wall, at the collage of happy babies.

“We’ll have to run a blood panel,” she said briskly.

Reggie automatically pushed up her sleeve to expose the veins in her arm. “How often will I have appointments?”

“First we have to make certain you’re really pregnant.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “I took three pregnancy tests.”

“We’ll just run a blood test anyway,” the nurse said.

What if she wasn’t pregnant? What if she’d been so afraid of becoming pregnant, of tying herself to Tom, that she just showed the symptoms?

“Do you get many false positives?”

“Not with three positive home tests, but we have to follow procedure.” The woman slipped the needle into Reggie’s vein, filled first one vial, then another. “Was this an unplanned pregnancy?” she asked as she labeled the small containers.

“You could say that.”

“Do you want to make an appointment to speak with our wellness counselor?” Reggie frowned.

“About the pregnancy.” The nurse popped the needle into the sharps container. “Unplanned pregnancies cause stress. Especially if the mother is going through it alone.”

Did she have the look of someone going through her pregnancy alone?

“I want the baby,” Reggie said coolly, not taking a particular shine to this nurse. “I just hadn’t planned to become pregnant. It happens.”

“Boy, does it,” the nurse muttered. She smiled at Reggie, though. “I didn’t mean to offend. If a woman isn’t comfortable with her pregnancy, she needs to confront the issues both for her health and the health of the child. I offer the service to all mothers-to-be.”

Reggie didn’t believe her. Or maybe she was just nervous and cranky.

The doctor was a very likable, if somewhat harried man. He did a quick exam, pronounced Reggie fit to have children without a C-section, and prescribed vitamins. “Now, do you have any questions?”

“About five hundred,” Reggie said.

He laughed. “I’ll answer what I can and point you to some excellent online sources for the questions that pop into your head as soon as you leave.”

Reggie left the office with a handful of literature and web addresses, a prescription for vitamins and a November due date.

“Well?” Eden said, looking up from the manicotti she was filling when Reggie walked into the kitchen.

“Everything’s good.”

“No pictures? No boy or girl?”

“Not yet. Several more weeks before they can tell.”

“Hope it’s a girl,” Eden said.

Obviously the aunt was settling into this pregnancy better than the mother.



PATTY PASSED HER SECOND interview with flying colors, because Justin was more than happy to rein in the irreverence if they could get some additional help. She started work the day after Reggie’s doctor’s appointment, bustling in fifteen minutes early and then carefully stowing her purse in the locker assigned her. She’d brought a chef’s jacket that was so stiff it seemed to creak when she put it on. Once it was buttoned to the top, she rolled her shoulders and asked, “Where do I begin?”

“Inventory,” Reggie said, leading the way to the dry storage area.

Patty pulled a small spiral book and pencil out of her pocket. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Not at all,” Reggie said. “Although honestly, the procedure isn’t that complex.”

“Everyone has their own way of doing things.”

Indeed. Counting could be tricky. But Reggie reminded herself that the woman had primarily worked in hospital and care facility kitchens. There were probably set procedures for everything.

Once she and Patty were in front of the open stainless steel shelving, she said, “It’s important that we have emergency stock and an adequate supply of basic ingredients, but having too much of anything is a waste of money that could be earning interest.”

Patty nodded sagely and made a notation in her book.

“I have a master list here…” She went through her procedure, letting Patty do the actual inventory. “Justin’s cake supplies are on a different sheet, and vary according to what he needs for the week. I take care of the orders, but he fills out this list.” Reggie was just flipping to it on the clipboard when the phone rang.

“When you’re done here, move on to the cooler. The sheet is on the very bottom of the stack.”

“Will do.” Patty didn’t salute, but Reggie had the feeling she wanted to. Please relax, she wanted to say.

The call was from Eden. She was leaving the site for the Italian dinner party they were giving that evening and heading for the linen supplier. She’d discovered that the order was short. “Be sure you make a notation on the invoice,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’m tired of you asking that every morning.”

“Better?”

“Good enough.”

It had been only two weeks since Reggie had found out she was pregnant, but her body had definitely become different. Not her own. It was acting on autopilot, responding to ancient signals from deep within her DNA. She only wished those signals would stop making her feel queasy because she wanted the Italian dinner, not to mention the bridal shower the day after tomorrow, to be perfect. Or if not perfect, to at least give that impression.

Funny how the success or failure of Tremont Catering had taken on a whole new significance since discovering she was pregnant. Yes, she’d been driven to make the business a success, but it had been because she loved to cook and cater. Because she enjoyed the challenge and thrill of running her own company and enjoyed working with her brother and sister.

Now success was a matter of necessity, because she was going to have a child to support.

As soon as Patty finished the inventory, Reggie put her to work chopping veg for the salad and vegetarian courses for that evening’s dinner. Reggie waved at the mail lady from the kitchen, as the woman came and went, and minutes later Justin walked through the front door. Reggie kept her eyes on her knife as she sliced mushrooms, but she heard her brother sorting through the mail, envelopes hitting the bottom of the metal trash can every few seconds, then silence.

He was yawning as he walked in, and Reggie was about to say something along the lines of how much sleep did you get last night, despite her intentions not to, when he held up an envelope with a distinct blue-and-green design.

Reggie almost dropped her rolling pin. “Is that…”

“I hope it’s not bad news,” Patty said.

“Bad news doesn’t come in a blue-and-green envelope, Patty.” The prep cook turned a little pink at Justin’s tone.

“Are we in?” Reggie asked, stunned. The deadline for acceptance into Reno Cuisine had passed two weeks ago—just about the time she’d discovered she was pregnant, and hadn’t given two hoots about a catering competition. Not even a big one.

Justin pulled the contract and a letter out of the envelope and handed them to her. “We’re in. Sutter’s Catering had to drop out and we’re first on the waiting list.”

“I’ll write the check and get it in the mail today,” Reggie said, skimming the letter. This was good. Really good. Now to make a decent showing. Thank heavens for Patty. “How much time do I have? Do we have to notarize the contract?”

“They need word by the end of the week. No notarization.” Justin had obviously read every word before coming in.

“Maybe I’ll drop it by their office on the way home.” Reggie looked up at him.

“Good plan.”

“The Reno Cuisine?” Patty beamed. “How exciting.”

“You have no idea,” Reggie said. Tremont was doing well, but competition was tough in Reno, and they needed every edge they could get. This would help establish them.

“Exciting and hopefully lucrative.” Justin smiled at the prep cook and again she went pink, even though she was old enough to be his mother.

“Patty,” he added, “you might just be our good luck charm.”



TOM HAD FINISHED FUNNELING HIS frustrations into a massive apartment sterilization project and was packing laundry into bags for his weekly trip to the cleaners when the phone rang.

“Tom Gerard,” he answered as he cinched a bag shut.

“Mr. Gerard? This is Debra Banks from the Letterbridge Hotel Corporation.”

Tom dropped the laundry bag on the sofa and stood up straighter. Finally. He’d turned down an offer from them two years ago, but now he wasn’t turning down anything. Maybe they knew that.

“Would you be interested in flying to our corporate office in Seattle for a meeting and interview with our culinary vision team?”

“Yes, I would,” Tom replied without hesitation. “When?”

Many fine chefs worked for hotels. It was exactly the kind of corporate, don’t-color-outside-the-lines environment that had gotten Tom in trouble in the past, but things had changed since he’d found out Reggie was pregnant. He was going to have to learn how to survive in a corporate environment. There weren’t many other options. He could give them a year or two, then try to move into a more creative kitchen.

“I know it’s short notice, but next week, if you can work it into your schedule.”

“I, uh, think I can do that.”

Ms. Banks went on to describe exactly what they were looking for—three chefs to head operations in three different areas of the country. They had a short list of four chefs for each region. “Does that sound like something that would interest you?”

It sounded like an answer to a prayer.

“I’ll email you the meeting, flight and hotel information. Please call if you have any questions or conflicts at all with the time.”

“Sure thing. Thanks.”

“No. Thank you. I certainly hope you become part of the Letterbridge Hotel team.”

So did Tom.



REGGIE GOT IN TO BED AT NINE, still making plans for Reno Cuisine. She and Eden had made some preliminary decisions that afternoon, decided on a French bistro theme, since it hadn’t been well represented in the last competition—unlike luau and garden party. They had a ton of work ahead of them and Reggie was supremely grateful. She wanted her plate full. Loaded to the brim. Anything to keep her from obsessing full time over how to handle the baby situation. So far, she’d had no word back from Tom.

But she’d hung up on him. Maybe that was that.

She knew it wasn’t.

Mims was curled up on her chest and she was just nodding off—finally—when her cell phone rang, startling her awake. “Great,” she muttered, automatically snapping on the beside lamp before she answered.

“Reggie.” Speak of the devil… There was no mistaking Tom’s voice. “I’m flying to Seattle and routed the flight through Reno. I’d like to see you.”

“When?” Realizing she was holding the phone in a death grip, she forced herself to relax her fingers.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Damn. Kitchen prep and nothing else. She was so tempted to lie and say she was booked, just to buy some time, but it would only put off the inevitable. Better to man up, get this first difficult meeting over with.

“Yes. I can see you then,” she grumbled.

“You don’t need to sound so thrilled about it.”

Reggie ignored her irritation. Anger would get her exactly nowhere with Tom. He dealt with high emotions every day in the kitchen. A master. “Will you have enough time between flights to go in and out of security?” she asked politely.

“I’ll take a later flight if I have to.”

Oh, joy. “All right. Any idea what time?”

“Around noon as things stand now.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport. McDonalds. It’s on the lower level.”

There was a moment of silence, then Tom said, “McDonalds it is.”



REGGIE TOLD EDEN AND JUSTIN about her imminent meeting with Tom the next morning in the kitchen as they drank the lattes Justin had bought.

“Maybe I should go with you,” Eden suggested.

Reggie appreciated what her sister was trying to do, but she’d gotten herself into the situation and she’d take care of it on her own.

“No need,” she said. “We’re going to start a dialogue. Nothing more.” Because she wasn’t ready for anything more. Just a civil meeting with the father of her child. In a public place.

Damn, but she was nervous.

Justin said nothing as he drank his coffee. Which wasn’t like him. And he wasn’t meeting Reggie’s eyes, which in the old days meant he either had or was planning to pull a fast one. Nowadays it meant he had something to say and was biding his time.

Reggie finished her drink and tossed the paper cup into the trash. “Are you meeting with the birthday people this morning?” she asked Eden.

“They’re coming here to sign the contract and finalize the menu. Which means I’d better get it printed out.”

She headed to the office and Reggie turned to face her brother. “What?” she said softly, perplexed by his attitude.

“I’m concerned,” he said flatly. “About you. And the kid.” He crumpled his cup in one hand. “You’ve spent so much of your life raising us, and now you’re going to be raising a kid you didn’t expect to have. Probably without a father around.”

Without a father around.

They’d basically grown up without one around and it had left a mark. Especially on Justin, who’d idolized their dad until he’d let him down one time too many. Hero worship had turned to bitterness.

And now Reggie was about to reenact the crime.

She wanted to say, “The kid will have a great uncle, though,” but she didn’t wish to put that burden on Justin.

“We’ll do all right,” she stated.

He had more to say. She could see it, but he was holding back. “If you change your mind about having one of us come with you, pick me. Okay?”

Reggie reached up and patted her brother’s cheek, then smiled. “First on the list.”



REGGIE ARRIVED AT THE AIRPORT McDonalds early because she wanted to make sure the smell of food wasn’t going to trigger any bouts of nausea. So far, so good.

She chose a table close to the edge of the seating area, where she could watch the escalator, see Tom before he saw her.

She didn’t have long to wait. Less than fifteen minutes after she sat down, he came down the escalator. Tall, dark, striking. Two women traveling up on the opposite side gave him second glances, but he had zeroed in on her.

Reggie swallowed.

This is Tom. Just…Tom.

But they had so much to hash out, and were undoubtedly coming at it from two different angles. Tom was probably wondering what this would do to his career, and Reggie was wondering what his career would do to the kid.

“No bag?” Reggie said before he could speak. She wanted to take control. Now. Always.

Good luck to her.

“I checked it.”

“So if you take a later flight—”

“It’ll be waiting for me. Do you want something?” he asked, gesturing at the counter.

“I already had orange juice.”

“Been here long?” he asked, looking at the table, empty except for her napkin. The napkin was to give her something to do with her hands.

“Not really.”

Tom sat opposite her and for a moment they regarded each other coolly. Warily.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Distraught. Confused. Nervous.

“A little sick in the morning, but not as bad as last week.” There was no way she was going to pour her soul out to him, count on him to make things better, help her through this.

“Me, too,” Tom said. Reggie smiled. Or tried to. “We have some stuff to work out,” he added softly. But Reggie heard that underlying steel she remembered so well.

“Yes.”

“I have no idea where or how to begin.”

Reggie reached for the napkin. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I remember that part from our phone conversation.”

She didn’t answer immediately, not wanting to make any more errors at this point in the game. “What exactly do you see as your role here?”

“Father?”

Reggie briefly twisted the napkin between her fingers, then realized what she was doing and made herself stop. “How much contact do you want with the baby?”

“Jumping right into it, aren’t you?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Tom put both his palms on the table in front of him and Reggie focused on his long, strong fingers, with the small nicks and scars from past culinary adventures. He had wonderful hands. There was a lot about him she’d found wonderful…and yet something had prevented him from fully giving himself to her. And that had made it possible for him to walk away from her—from their plans—pretty much devastating her.

“I’m here as a first step only.”

“Agreed,” Reggie said. “We can’t arrange custody until the baby is born, but I’d like to understand our roles beforehand.”

Tom nodded, lightly moving the tips of his fingers over the tabletop.

“Do you want custody?”

He looked up at her point-blank question, his dark eyes unreadable. “That’s what I’m here to figure out.”

“If you have any doubts about it…err on the side of caution,” Reggie said.

He cocked his head, his eyebrows moving together. “Meaning?”

“A kid needs a steady father, Tom. I know that because I didn’t have a steady father.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t be steady?”

Reggie gave a short laugh, crumpling the napkin. “What makes me think you would be?” She hadn’t meant to be cruel, but it was oh so true. He had no record of steadiness, and she was justified in pointing that out.

His expression darkened, the first sign that his temper was taking over. Reggie had never been intimidated by his moods, and when they had argued in the past, she’d merely stuck to her guns and eventually the storm would peter out. But sticking to her guns took time, and today she didn’t have time.

“I’m sorry, Tom. That was uncalled for.”

“But somehow it seemed to come from the gut,” he said.

Reggie leaned back in her chair and studied his face. With the exception of the longer hair and the beard, which was little more than a neatly trimmed five o’clock shadow, he looked almost the same as he had seven years ago. But he wasn’t. Her Tom was there—she’d seen glimpses of him the night they’d slept together—but he was buried under a heavy layer of Chef Tom Gerard. The dog-eat-dog world he had embraced had changed him.

But why had he chosen it over her? Why couldn’t he have stayed with her?

“Maybe it did,” she allowed. She put a hand against her flat abdomen. “I’m concerned about the baby.”

“And I’m your biggest concern.”

“In a way, yes.”

“Why? This has got to be as life altering for you as it is for me.”

She had a feeling he knew exactly what she was going to say. That he wanted her to say it so he could contradict it. Fine.

She leaned forward again. “I’ll spell it out, Tom. Once upon a time I loved you. We were supposed to start a catering business. Papers were signed. We had a plan.”

His eyes flashed with sudden temper. “It wasn’t carved in stone.”

“Obviously,” Reggie replied, unfazed. “Since you took off for the north of Spain for a job that had no future.”

“It made one hell of a future for me.”

“Yes, it did,” she conceded. He’d taken a gamble and it had paid off. And, since he had such a valid point, she took the low road. “But which of us is still employed?”

“I will be employed,” he said coldly. “I don’t think Letterbridge is flying me across the country on a whim.”

“Okay…and forgive me for being blunt,” Reggie said, tossing the crumpled napkin past him into the trash, “which one of us will stay employed?”

He smiled. “Which one of us has had the more successful career?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

“I rather like mine. At least I know I’ll be bringing home a paycheck. It may not be as big as yours, but it’s steady.”

Tom hooked an elbow over his chair back. “You’re still angry about me leaving,” he said as if making a major deduction.

Brilliant, Tom. “Believe it or not, it stung when you chose a shot in the dark over me and a fairly sure thing.”

“You could have come with me. Instead you gave me that fricking ultimatum.”

“Which you took.”

“It didn’t have to be all or nothing. We could have worked something out.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. Compromise. I don’t think so. It’s all or nothing for you. If everything isn’t just so in your kitchen, you throw a fit. And now you’ve gone public with those fits.”

“I don’t throw fits!” Tom’s voice rose and then he clamped his mouth shut as several people at nearby tables looked his way.

“Tizzies?” Reggie asked innocently, not above driving a point home.

His neck corded as he fought to bring his temper under control. Finally he said in a low voice, “My tizzies aside, here’s what it comes down to.” He stabbed the table with his finger. “You could have come with me to Spain. The catering business had barely started. You wouldn’t because I had deviated from The Plan.”

“I didn’t come because you didn’t ask me.”

“Yes, I did.”

Reggie jutted her chin out. “No, you didn’t.”

Sweat broke out on her forehead, always a precursor to a surge of nausea, but she was not going to give in to it. Not in front of Tom.

Unfortunately, as totally pissed as he was, he noticed. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little queasy.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?” he demanded.

“Yes.” She got to her feet, gathered her purse, holding the oversize bag in front of her stomach like a shield. “I want to come to an understanding about the baby, Tom, but obviously this is not the time or place.”

“I agree,” he said with an obvious effort to control himself. “It seems as though we have some other issues to sift through first.”

Issues Reggie hadn’t expected to come screaming out of her so rapidly. But she should have known better.

She just hoped he hadn’t gotten his back up. The old Tom would have cooled off fast, seen the argument for what it was—a release of pent-up frustrations and unresolved anger. This new Tom…she wasn’t so sure what he was going to do.

“Yes. Maybe we can meet again—” she glanced around “—in a different environment.”

He gave her a you-picked-it-I-didn’t raise of an eyebrow, but simply nodded.

“Good luck on the interview.”

He stood. “I don’t need luck. I’m getting this job, and when I do, we’ll discuss our baby.”

“Call me when you get that job, Tom.” Reggie started across the lobby without a backward glance, thankful that the nausea was rapidly abating so she wouldn’t embarrass herself in the terminal.

She didn’t realize how rigidly she’d been holding herself until she reached the automatic doors. Her shoulders were aching. She rolled them as she started across the street for the parking garage, willing her muscles to relax.

Not the meeting she’d imagined.

She hoped she could repair the damage before it was too late.



THE AUTOMATIC DOORS CLOSED behind Reggie before Tom started back to the escalator. So much for catching a later flight. Going after Reggie would do no good. He’d have to nail this job and show her that, regardless of what he might have done seven years ago, he was more than capable of being “steady.” He had no idea exactly what his role would be, but his father had always been there for him, even if it had been on the other end of a phone line, and Tom would be there for his kid.

And suddenly it was important to him to prove that he wasn’t some maniac who threw fits in public—although every time he’d had a blowup, he’d been more than justified.

He got back into the security line, which was ridiculously short compared to the one in LaGuardia on the first leg of his flight. He pulled his crumpled boarding pass for the next leg out of his jacket pocket.

And what the hell was that about not asking her to go to Spain? Of course he’d wanted her to go. But she’d stuck with The Plan.

At the time he’d been stunned by her choice…?.

In a matter of fifteen minutes he and his belongings had been inspected, prodded and okayed, and Tom was seated alone in the one bar in the concourse, going over his interview notes. This deal with Reggie, the depth of her anger at him, was upsetting, but he would figure out how to handle it after he got this job. One challenge at a time. Surmount one, move on to the next.

Despite all the shit that had come his way, he’d never interviewed for a job and not gotten an offer. The only thing that had tripped him up over the past several weeks had been in not landing the interview. Well, he had one now and he was going to ace this sucker.

He was back.




CHAPTER FOUR


REGGIE HAD BEEN HOME BARELY AN hour when Eden showed up at the door. She knocked, then let herself in, carrying a bottle of sparkling apple cider by the neck.

“I thought you might need a belt after meeting Tom,” she said, lifting the cider. Reggie tried to smile. Couldn’t do it. “Bad?” Eden asked.

“I said some things I probably shouldn’t have.” Definitely shouldn’t have.

“He’s being unreasonable?”

“That’s the problem…I think he was trying to be reasonable. Reasonable for Chef Gerard, that is.” She took the bottle and headed into the kitchen, Eden and Mims following. Her sister went to the cupboard and pulled out two glasses, while Reggie opened. She poured two healthy amounts of cider, then looked down at her stomach with a wry twist of her lips. “Somehow I don’t think sparkling cider is going to take the edge off.” She raised her eyes. “I don’t think anything is going to take the edge off. Tom and I trigger each other.”

“That’s to be expected,” Eden said, sitting at the table. “You guys have got a ton of unfinished business to work through.”

“I think that we both need more time. This meeting…not a good idea.”

“How much time?”

Reggie shrugged. “I don’t know. A decade, maybe?”

Eden smiled and raised her glass in a salute, then changed the subject. “What’s with Justin?”

“In what way?”

“He’s been really quiet. You haven’t noticed?”

“I’ve been kind of preoccupied,” Reggie said with a significant lift of her eyebrows.

“Yeah. So’s he.”

“Do you think it’s…me?” She frowned as Mims got up on the chair next to Eden and put a tentative paw on the table. Her cat was pushing the limits, perhaps as a reaction to Reggie’s constant tension.

Eden gently moved the chair back while Mims hung on, her eyes going a little wild on the short ride. “Maybe. Or woman trouble.”

“He’s a big boy, Eden. We need to let him face the world on his own.”

She laughed. “I asked him if he was dating and all I got was a sour look.”

“Woman trouble,” Reggie said. She hoped so, anyway. Justin saw himself as the man of the family—still—and she didn’t want him losing sleep over her.

“And speaking of woman trouble,” Eden said, “I ran into Candy.” The owner of Candy’s Catering Classique, who had hired Justin and Eden in high school and had never forgiven them for starting a competing business.

“She was sweet as always, while shooting daggers at me. She wished us luck in the Reno Cuisine. She even added a ‘bless our hearts for trying.’”

Kiss of death coming from Candy, who always took one of the top honors at the event.

“And Julie is working for her now.” Their prep cook who had quit so suddenly.

Reggie paused, her glass halfway to her lips. “Figures. Welcome to the cutthroat world of catering.”

“Well, she’d better keep her hands off Patty.” Eden’s jaw set. “I know we won’t win, because Candy will have a booth that would put a Hollywood set to shame—”

Mims took a flying leap at the table from her chair just then, didn’t quite make it and would have hit the floor if Eden hadn’t caught her. “Have you been ignoring your kitty?” she asked as she set her on the floor. Mims instantly started a bath.

“Not on purpose.” Reggie went to pick up the cat, but Mims walked away, tail held high, before Reggie could scoop her up. Maybe she had been ignoring the cat.

“Anyway…” Eden reached for the cider and topped up her glass “…I thought I could take the helm of the Reno Cuisine, since both you and Justin are so busy.”

“Please,” Reggie replied. They had just booked a big wedding on short notice—three weeks—and that would consume most of Reggie’s time, particularly since they already had a business dinner booked that same week. “Take the helm, take the entire ship, because right now I have to make amends with my cat and battle plans for a big-ass wedding reception.”



HUMILIATION SUCKED.

Numbly, Tom took his seat on the flight back to Reno. Not only had he not gotten a job, he hadn’t even gotten to interview or cook. In fact, he was going back to New York sooner than he’d expected. Days sooner.

He didn’t know if Jervase had gotten hold of these guys or what, but after a very short, very terse and uncomfortable meeting with three members of the Letterbridge cuisine vision team, one of them had taken him aside and explained that rather than put him through an interview for a job he had no chance of getting, they were simply going to come clean. Inviting him had been a mistake. Literally a mistake. The associate in charge of contacting the top candidates had pulled his file in error. Tom had no chance of working for Letterbridge.

“None?” he had asked, flabbergasted. Two years ago they’d offered him a damned handsome deal.

“None,” the guy had said flatly.

Tom felt as if he’d just swallowed a chunk of cement. How in the hell had he gotten to the point where he was disappointed—no, make that devastated—at not being a candidate for a freaking corporate kitchen job?

The man babbled about public opinion and image, and how all members of the kitchen staff and management had to be team players, because Letterbridge was a team, from the top on down. Then he looked at Tom and said, “You have to see how we cannot possibly have someone like you on our team.”

And that was when Tom, despite his vow in the Reno airport not to indulge in public fits of temper, told the HR guy exactly what he could do with his team and how.

Shortly before security showed up, Tom left the building of his own volition.

He was screwed. Royally. Just as Lowell had said.

Worse yet, he was beginning to suspect that part of it was his own fault.

So what now?

Letterbridge had arranged for an earlier flight back to New York, but he’d booked his own on their dime. He wanted to stop in Reno again. Had to stop in Reno, since he had no idea when he’d get another chance to meet with Reggie face-to-face.

What was he going to tell her after his assurances that the job was all but his?

As he stared morosely out the window, waiting for takeoff, he became aware of the woman across the aisle staring at him. He glanced at her, she looked down, then when he shifted his attention back to the window, she started studying him again.

“I’m not him,” Tom said.

“Not who?” the woman asked, perplexed.

“Whoever you think I am.”

“Right now I don’t think you’re anyone,” she said curtly.

“Sing it, sister,” he muttered, looking back out at the tarmac.

Right now, he wasn’t anyone. And being someone—in the cooking world, that is—had become a huge part of his identity.

Shit. He let the side of his head rest against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. There was a commotion across the aisle and he glanced over to see that the woman who’d recognized him had scooted over to the window seat to let a woman with a baby sit on the aisle. A baby.

Tom leaned his head back and rolled his eyes heavenward.

I get it. I’m going to be a dad. I have a responsibility here. I don’t need it hammered home.

His not so prayerlike prayer didn’t make him feel any less tense. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mother settled the child on her lap. What was it? A boy? A girl? Whatever, it was totally bald. The baby looked around, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then his mouth opened and he let out a howl. Every muscle in Tom’s body tensed.

The mom pulled her child closer, but he pushed away with his chubby fists, turned his mouth upside down and wailed again.

“I know, I know. It’s all right,” she murmured, jiggling him on her knees, rubbing his little shoulders and neck. The kid howled some more. Tom turned to the window.

How on earth was the mother dealing with this?

The hiccuping sobs continued, and when Tom looked back—because he couldn’t help it—the kid’s gaze fastened on to his. One fist clutched his mother’s collar and she continued to soothe the baby until finally he slumped against her, pulling in shaky little breaths. But his eyes stayed on Tom until they finally drifted shut. Asleep.

He’d fallen asleep. Just like that.

The mother smiled at Tom and he made an effort to smile back. Then she took advantage of the moment to shut her eyes, too. But her arms stayed wrapped tightly around her young son, until the attendant arrived with a travel seat and the kid woke up again. Wonderful.

This time he didn’t cry. He watched in fascination as the attendant put the seat in place. As soon as she was done, a person sat in the aisle seat next to Tom, blocking his view.

The plane started to back away from the terminal, then slowed to a halt with a slight jerk. A moment later, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’ll be a slight delay before takeoff. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Tom wasn’t a huge believer in signs—well, other than the baby, perhaps—but he did believe in opportunity. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on, shielding it with his hand in case the attendant went militant. He needed to make this call now. Because he didn’t know what else to do, and he suddenly felt as if he was running out of time.

He had seven months, which wasn’t very long at all. He didn’t want to be an unemployed bum of a chef when his child was born.

By some miracle Pete answered his call.

“Pete…I need advice.”

“No.”

“Can you at least give me the name of a decent manager?”

“No, because you’ll tell him I sent you.”

“I won’t.” There wasn’t a hint of irony or amusement in his voice. “I, uh, need some advice here.”

“You’re a talented guy, but that talent’s a waste if your opinion of yourself is so high that you don’t think anyone else knows jack.”

Tom almost said, “They don’t,” but managed to hold in the words. Progress. He was making progress.

“You cut your own throat, Tom. No one did it for you.”

“I know. I know.” He didn’t want to hear about cutting his throat. He wanted to hear about saving his ass. “What can I do to uncut my throat?” That didn’t involve a lot of public kissing up.

“Nothing. And I mean that literally.”

“Nothing.”

Pete exhaled wearily. “If you can stay out of the limelight for, say, a year without blowing up or quitting or criticizing your bosses in public, then maybe I can do something for you.”

Tom tapped the tips of his fingers on his thigh impatiently. Pete was missing a fairly big point here. The job, or lack thereof, was the problem. Unless…

“What am I supposed to do? Wear a paper hat?” And he wasn’t talking a chef’s toque.

“It might do you some good.”

The flight attendant walked up the aisle, and Tom turned in his seat, shielding the phone from her. “It would kill my career if I settled for some mediocre job now.” In his gut he knew this was true, and Pete had to know it, too. Maybe he’d given Pete so much grief that he wanted him to die a culinary death. Disappear from the radar.

“Well, you might have to settle. Your only other option would be to find the backers to open your own restaurant, and with this economy, and your track record, I don’t see that happening.”

Neither did Tom. “That’s it?”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it. Work for a year without raising hell, and people might be ready to take a look at you again.”

“What kind of work, Pete?” Tom muttered in frustration.

“Hell, it could be a school cafeteria. You simply have to behave and make good food. One of those won’t be a problem.”

Tom shoved a hand into his hair. There were many other business managers out there. Ones he hadn’t yet contacted.

“Six months,” Pete said.

“Six months?” Tom repeated as the plane lurched forward and the captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing that they’d been cleared for takeoff. He covered the phone with his free hand.

He sighed. “It’s like chef rehab. Work sedately for six months, prove that you can do it, and I’ll see what I can do. Screw up and you can find yourself a new manager. Although right now, Tom…I don’t know of a reputable guy in the industry who’d take you on.”



SIXTEEN GUESTS SHOWED UP FOR A sit-down meal booked for twelve. Tracy Bremerton, the hostess, dressed about a decade too young for her age, didn’t understand why this was a problem, apparently expecting Eden and Reggie to manufacture food out of thin air. Which they did, of course. Reggie cut the rolls in half; Eden raced to the store to buy ingredients to stretch the salad. Patty, who was there to watch two of Tremont’s regular temp waiters serve, and learn the ropes so she could fill in if someone didn’t show, ended up taking Eden’s place in the kitchen while she was gone.

Thankfully, they had plenty of soup, and the entrée was a pasta dish, so it was easy to stretch. Dessert was not so easy to stretch. Reggie was not at all happy with the size of the tiramisu servings, and neither was the hostess, from the expression on her face.

When dinner was over and the van was packed, Mrs. Bremerton stepped into the kitchen and gave it a critical once-over. It was spotless, because Reggie and Eden never left a place in any other condition.

“Are the leftovers in the refrigerator?” she asked.

“There are no leftovers,” Reggie said, wondering how the woman could possibly expect any under the circumstances. Even if there’d been extra food, the contract clearly stated that Tremont did not leave leftovers. They’d had a bad experience early on with a host not storing the food properly, and then getting sick days later—and threatening to sue. It’d taken months to move past the rumors he’d started. After that they’d rewritten their contract.

“There was extra pasta and bread. I saw it.” Not much. Reggie was about to explain about the leftover policy when Mrs. Bremerton added, “I was a bit embarrassed at the size of the desserts you served.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Reggie said as tactfully as possible. Finesse was part of the game. But this was the time to be blunt. “I had a final count of twelve. We served sixteen.” And worked our butts off to do that.

“I called as soon as I found out my friend and her family would be able to make the dinner, after all,” the hostess said, taking hold of her long string of definitely not fake pearls and running them through her fingers.

“The call came a little late.” As in while they were driving to the Bremerton house high on the hill overlooking Reno.

“It seems to me that caterers should be prepared for this type of emergency.”

“Yes—as long as you don’t mind paying for the extra food.”

“Which you refuse to leave. Very unreasonable.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. Perhaps we can get together and discuss ways to avoid this in the future?”

Mrs. Bremerton sniffed. “I don’t foresee a future.”

“Well, good night, then.”

Reggie made one final visual sweep of the spotless kitchen, nodded at the hostess, then left through the back door, a smile frozen on her face until the door closed behind her.

“Not a happy hostess,” Reggie said as she got into the van, where Eden and Patty were waiting for her.

“I don’t see why not,” Patty said stiffly. “It was a lovely dinner.”

“Because we couldn’t read her mind and guess that she had extra people coming.” Eden put the van in gear. “I’ll do some damage control tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that.” Reggie leaned her head against the window.

She was so very tired. More tired than a catering event and disagreement with a host should have made her.

Pregnancy, coupled with the unfinished business with her baby’s father, was wiping her out.

Reggie hoped Tom got this job so their personal negotiations could begin.



IT WAS RAINING. OF COURSE. HE comes to Nevada, one of the driest states in the union, and it rains on him. And not just a little. It rolled down his cheeks, into the corners of his mouth, collected on his lashes and got into his eyes when he blinked.

And Reggie wasn’t answering her door. Finally, he heard a shuffling noise and then the peephole went dark. The door swung open.

“How did you find me?” she demanded.

“Could you please change that to ‘Come on in. It’s wet out there?’” And it had been easy to find her, thanks to the internet.

Reggie looked past him at the cab idling on the wet street, then stepped back so he could come inside. “Why are you here?”

She wasn’t any more welcoming now that he was under her roof, but he was going to be a damned sight warmer.

“Did you get the job?” she added with a frown, since they’d met less than two days ago.

“Do you mind if I take my coat off?” he asked, buying time.

Reggie gave him a pained look, but nodded. He couldn’t help but glance at her abdomen under the form-fitting T-shirt she wore. There was no sign of pregnancy.

“I’ve gained four pounds,” she said, interpreting the look. “But I probably won’t start showing until next month. Why are you here?”

“We did well together once.” Reggie stiffened at his opening words, delivered as if they were part of a memorized speech. That’s what he got for not practicing.

She casually folded her arms, shutting him out. “Agreed. Then one of us changed.”

“I want another chance.”

Reggie took a half step back, bringing her hand up to the base of her neck in a way that totally pissed him off. “With me?”

“Don’t look so horrified.” Plan B, Plan B. “I didn’t get the job in Seattle.”




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