Some Like It Hot (6 page)

Claire shifted in her seat, the leather creaking under her hips. After a moment of visible internal struggle she said, “No, not just like that. And not for the reason you’re thinking.”

Kane’s brain had gone to a very visceral place at the sound of her moving against the leather.

Yeah, this was a make-or-break conversation in which he was seriously emotionally invested, but he was still a guy.

“I promise, you have no idea what I’m thinking,” he told her.

Something in his voice, some hint of the X-rated memories playing out in his mind’s eye like the best-ever porn, made her dark brown gaze snap to molten hot chocolate in an instant.

“I need to pull away from this”—she gestured between them languidly—“because when I’m with you, I lose my balance. I don’t feel calm and happy.”

She leaned forward, and Kane swallowed down his immediate urge to leap across the table and crush her thin lips under his.

“When I’m with you,” Claire said, her accent rolling through the words like distant thunder, “I am a starving lion, raging at my captivity.”

And as she sat back, the fires in her eyes banked again while she gathered up her laptop and left, Kane realized two things.

He’d never wanted to be eaten up so badly in his life.

And if Claire could still look at him like that, then nothing—
nothing
—was over.

Eva was supremely grateful she spent a good portion of her life strapped into ridiculously high heels. If these Louboutins were out of the norm for her, there was no way she’d be able to keep upright after that knee-weakening, eyebrow-singeing, no-holds-barred kiss back there.

The kiss itself had thrown her off balance with its intensity, the immediacy of the connection between them. It felt … real, in a way she wasn’t used to, and wasn’t a hundred percent sure she liked.

But if the kiss had her wobbling, it was his parting shot that nearly knocked her flat. The idea that Daniel Lunden might make new rules for the game they’d just started, a game she hoped, more than ever, would continue—it gave her chills.

Maybe good, maybe bad. Who could say at this point? All Eva knew was that she felt something, something interesting and unusual and worth exploring.

Although not right at the moment, maybe, because holy crap, what did I just walk into?

She’d taken a moment, no more than thirty seconds, truly, to untwist her metaphorical panties and de-wobble her knees. Half a minute after Lunden went on through to the kitchen, Eva stepped in after him.

And plunged directly into the middle of a fistfight.

That tall, heavily muscled chef from the East Coast Team crouched in the middle of a knot of kicking, punching Limestone chefs. The Limestone executive chef, and head of the Rising Star Chef competition’s Midwest Team, lay on the rubber mats at Muscle Man’s feet, clutching his jaw and spitting curses. The other East Coast chef, the cute black kid with the freckles and green eyes, had a bruise coming up along one cheekbone, but was valiantly engaged in a struggle with the Limestone saucier on the edge of the fight.

Beside her, Daniel Lunden yelled, “Break it up, guys. Come on.” Which, of course, accomplished nothing other than to add to the din of crashing bodies, loud insults, and heavy breathing. He must’ve known they were past the point when talking could solve things, because before the words were out of his mouth, he was pushing up his sleeve and grabbing hold of the nearest combatant.

Assessing the situation in a blink, Eva dropped her Chanel purse safely to the left of the door and prepared to wade into the fray.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lunden snarled at her as he strong-armed his flailing opponent away from Eva. “Stay out of this.”

“Like hell,” Eva said, ducking a flying fist. “I run restaurants for a living. You think this is my first kitchen brawl? All right, boys, that’s enough!”

She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, loud and shrill. The sound guaranteed to bring a New York taxi screeching to a halt in front of her made the Limestone chefs freeze in their tracks long enough to realize their boss was in their midst.

The only one who didn’t seem to notice or care about her presence in the kitchen was the big guy in the middle of the fight. Eva was close enough to the center of the action now to see the mindless rage, layered over with something sharper, like pain or fear, clouding Muscle Man’s dark eyes. With his chin-length hair lashing around his face and his warrior’s stance, he looked absolutely wild, like a bull skewered with a Spaniard’s sword.

Eva didn’t allow herself even an instant of hesitation.

Just as he drew back his meaty fist for another right hook, Eva stepped directly in front of him and tilted her head back to look him in the eye.

“Enough,” she said as firmly as she could, doing her level best to radiate calm and confidence in spite of the fact that her palms were slick and clammy with nervous sweat.

Vibrating with anger, every visible muscle clenched, the big chef blinked down at Eva, fist still pulled back and ready to strike.

“Come on, Beck,” Lunden said into the silent tension. “Whatever it is, let it go for now. We can figure this out, but only if you calm down and let us help you.”

Shuddering like a wounded bear, Muscle Man, aka Beck, lowered his fist. His massive shoulders drooped, and Eva let out an unobtrusive sigh of relief, adrenaline still flooding her veins. She felt as if she’d averted disaster, and, glancing around the kitchen, it seemed the feuding chefs had managed not to destroy any of the ovens, blast chillers, or salamander broilers.

Thank God they hadn’t knocked over the liquid nitrogen tank in the corner. That would’ve been a bitch and a half to explain to the insurance people.

“This meathead attacked me,” slurred a voice from around Eva’s knees. She looked down to where Ryan Larousse, Chicago’s brightest young culinary prodigy—and hottest-tempered chef—sat pressing an open palm to the swelling line of his lower lip. One of the Limestone chefs reached a hand down, and Ryan scrambled to his feet. “I want him thrown out of this kitchen, and I’m definitely pressing charges. That psycho should be in jail!”

Before Eva could do anything to calm the troubled waters, Daniel Lunden jumped right on in and started splashing around.

“Hold on just a minute there, Gloria Allred. No one’s going to jail.” He pushed through the crowd to stand at his teammate’s side. Eva wished he didn’t look so damn sexy while stirring up trouble and making her life harder, but it was hard to deny that the sight of him, all alpha male and inflexible, beautifully lean arms crossed over his chest, got her thinking decidedly and deliciously inappropriate things about handcuffs.

“I know my boy, and Beck isn’t some hotheaded kid out looking for action.” Lunden sneered that bit, giving Ryan Larousse a once-over that made the younger chef flush as red as the blood trickling from his split lip. “If he jumped your skinny ass, you damn well did something to provoke him.”

Having dealt with Ryan Larousse before, Eva had no doubt that this was true. Still, in the interests of fairness. “Ryan? Is this true?”

The quick slide of his gaze told her everything she needed to know before he replied with a surly, “No way. We were just talking. I mean, what the hell.”

Beck remained as silent and immovable as a monolith, except for the rapid rise and fall of his rib cage as his breath returned to normal. Tilting her head to one side to get a different angle on him, Eva said, “Beck. Anything to add?”

The crackling flames had died away from Beck’s expression, so Eva wasn’t surprised when his only response was to stand there stolidly, meeting her gaze without blinking.

Lunden didn’t like it much, though. “Come on, Beck. Tell her what happened, so we can sort this thing out.” Casting a frustrated look at the third member of the East Coast Team, he said, “Win, you were here. What went down?”

Win straightened up guiltily, unhappiness in every curve of his wiry body. “I don’t know,” he admitted reluctantly. “I mean, we came in, introduced ourselves, tried to figure out where you two had disappeared to, and started shooting the shit about the other teams in the competition. Trading stories, getting background info.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “You know how it goes.”

Oh, Eva knew, all right. Whenever a bunch of chefs got together in one room, the first thing that happened—after the requisite dick measuring, of course—was gossip.

The restaurant industry was fairly small and tight-knit, even across state lines. Lots of chefs were nomadic, traveling to new cities chasing opportunities in new restaurants, and they tended to all know one another, or at least know of one another.

And from the way that little sweetie pie Win was blushing, Eva could guess at one other component of the gossip.

Some chefs’ conversations sounded a lot like they could’ve been overheard around the watercooler at the offices of TMZ or
Star
magazine. The only kind of stories those chefs considered worth trading had to do with who’d slept with whom, and how good—or bad—the sex was.

Eva happened to know that the East Coast Team wasn’t the only one with a female chef.

“So who is she?” Eva asked, watching Beck closely.

He didn’t move. Not by the flicker of an eyelash did he betray a reaction, but Eva knew she was right.

The dawning realization in Win’s wide eyes as he darted a glance at his stoic teammate was just the cherry in the Manhattan.

“Okay, it sounds like this was all a big misunderstanding,” Daniel Lunden said, spreading his open hands in front of him and giving a big, hey-we’re-all-buddies-here smile. “Sorry things got out of hand, but you know, it’s a competition. Tempers are high, we’re all feeling the pressure.” He quirked a brow at the hulking Beck. “And hey, the show hasn’t even really started yet. Just wait until there are cameras all over the place and twenty-five chefs sharing one kitchen! This was nothing compared with the clusterfuck that’s going to be. No need to borrow drama when tomorrow’s going to bring enough of its own. Am I right?”

Eva caught several of the chefs—the ones who’d had to put up with Ryan Larousse the longest, probably—nodding. The tension in the room had broken like a stick of dry pasta, brittle and weak in the face of Lunden’s charisma.

She had to admire his style—from kissing the stockings off her in the elevator to defending his teammate to keeping the peace.

Or almost.

“No fucking way,” Ryan spat. “This isn’t over just because you say it is, Lunden.”

“Actually,” Eva said mildly, taking one casual step forward to interpose herself between Ryan and Lunden, “it’s over because
I
say it is. Come on, Ryan. You wanted to stir some shit and, congratulations, you made shit soup. It’s not my fault if you’re unhappy with the way the dish turned out.”

From the corner of her eye, Eva could tell Ryan wasn’t the only chef gaping at her in astonishment.

Yes, fellas. The lady knows how to swear. Get over it.

“That’s pretty stand-up of you, Ms. Jansen,” Win said. His tentative smile made Eva want to smile back, but she squashed the urge. They weren’t getting off so easily as all that.

“Yeah, thanks,” Lunden added, although his jaw was so tight it looked as if it must’ve hurt to get the words out. “I think it’s time for us to go. We’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Interesting. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t the only one defending his pack. Or maybe he just wasn’t used to it. A little shiver of anticipation tightened everything in Eva’s body for one luscious instant.

There were so many intriguing layers to Daniel—that name, so formal, didn’t seem to suit him—Lunden.

He was like an artichoke, she mused, watching him skillfully extricate his boys from a roomful of men who’d been doing their best to kill them not ten minutes before. Lots of tasty layers.

And Eva couldn’t wait to peel all the way down to the heart of him.

So close. They were so close to getting out of this mess with no harm, no foul, but just as his hand touched the door, he heard, “Not so fast.”

It was Eva.

Turning slowly, he arranged his features into his best pleasant expression, eyebrows arched over innocent eyes, slight smile stretching his mouth.

What now, damn it?

Eva stood in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by men who were taller than her and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

It said something about her that Danny had felt no compunction leaving her alone in the midst of all that raw, seething, thwarted aggression. Ryan Larousse might be a violent little punk who resented the hell out of authority, but he was no match for Eva Jansen.

Holding up one scarlet-tipped fingernail in a silent command for them to wait, Eva turned away from the East Coast Team and focused her high beams on the Limestone chefs.

“You boys have better things to do than pick fights in my kitchen, I’m sure. And since you know the layout, you’ve already got the advantage on the rest of the teams. So unless you’re in here booby-trapping the place—yes, Larkin, I said
booby,
try to keep it together—I suggest you head up to the rooms we’ve so graciously provided for you, and get some rest. I expect great things from you tomorrow. Go!”

They went.

Danny watched the scarred, tattooed gang of kitchen hooligans march past and tried not to envy them.

Ryan Larousse, clutching one hand to his lividly bruising chin like a drama queen, gave Beck a nasty stare on the way out. Beck, back to doing his normal impression of an oak tree, didn’t appear to notice. Not for the first time, Danny wished he could borrow a little of the guy’s invincible poise.

“Now,” Eva said when the other team had gone. “I don’t need to know what this was about—since I know Ryan, I can make an educated guess. And as he’s technically my chef, I’ll apologize for him.”

Approaching the unapproachable mountain that was Beck could be unnerving at the best of times. When he was like this, sweaty and disheveled and strung wire-tight from a fight? Put it this way: Eva’s quick, fearless stride right up to him earned her some respect in Danny’s book.

She held out her hand, head tilted way back to be able to make eye contact with Beck. “For whatever he said about her, however he mocked what she means to you, I’m sorry.”

Danny still had no clue how or why she’d gotten the idea that this whole scuffle was over a woman. That seemed way out of character for gruff, unsentimental Beck—but instead of setting her straight, Beck actually took her hand and said, “Thanks. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”

She nodded, dropping his hand but never his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you should probably let your teammates know, so they can watch your back and keep this from happening again. Because Ryan is not the type to let up on something once he knows it bothers you. And I don’t need to know what that is.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes went flinty. “But I do need to know that a fight like this isn’t going to happen again. Not while I’m in charge of this competition.”

Danny held his breath for Beck’s response. The guy had proven himself unpredictable today, after all. But he shook his head, shoulders back and straight like a prisoner at a parole hearing. “I get it. I take full responsibility. It won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t.” Eva’s voice was gentle again, and she smiled as she leaned down to scoop up her shiny leather satchel with the big interlocking C’s on the side. She slanted a glance at Danny. “I’ll be watching you carefully to make sure of it.”