Читать книгу Island Heat - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

THE TERMBUTT-HEADHAD been expressly invented for Ben Cooper, Tory decided as she forced another smile onto her stiff lips. They’d nearly finished their afternoon cooking demonstration, and if she had a voodoo doll made in his image, she’d twist its head off and throw it in the rubbish disposal.

She bristled all over again as she remembered the way he’d walked in as though he owned the place and started rearranging the kitchen. He was exactly the way she’d remembered him, only more so. More confident. More cocky. More charismatic.

God, how she hated admitting that to herself, especially after what he’d said to her. But it was the truth. Age had not wearied him. Age had in fact been damned kind to him. His body was stronger, more muscular, his face more attractive with its laugh lines and the hint of roguish crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.

The thing that really got her goat—apart from his born-to-rule mentality in their shared kitchen—was that he patently thought he was God’s gift to womankind. It was no wonder, of course, given the way the women in the audience responded to him. It almost made her ashamed of her sex. Word had clearly spread since their morning session, and the number of women seated in the theater had doubled for this afternoon’s lecture. And it wasn’t because they wanted to hear more from Tory. She had no illusions there. They had come to ogle and flirt with Ben—and, worse, he was encouraging it.

For starters, there was his chef’s uniform. Every chef she knew wore a white or black jacket with checked pants. It was traditional, professional. Ben, however, wore a pair of dark indigo wrinkled linen trousers paired with a navy singlet worn beneath his open white chef’s coat, the ensemble casually revealing his well-sculpted chest and long, strong legs to all comers. She’d stared outright when he’d come back into the cuisine center after changing.

“You’re not going to do up your jacket?” she’d asked him incredulously when he’d started preparing food for their demonstration.

“Nope. Cooler this way.”

“No doubt, but I would have thought that safety might rate a little higher than your groove factor,” she’d said.

Chef’s coats were designed to protect the wearer’s torso and arms and be easily removed in case of hot spills. She’d escaped many a burn over the years thanks to her chef’s whites.

He’d laughed briefly to himself. “Man, you are so uptight. I’d forgotten that. I meant it’s less hot this way, not more fashionable. And I won’t be working with hot oil, so the risk factor is low. Unless you think this coconut salad is going to leap up and attack me?”

She’d ignored him, just as she’d tried to ignore everything else about him, from his low laugh to the deep timbre of his voice to the fresh, crisp aftershave he wore. It was hard to ignore his skill in the kitchen, however.

She’d opened both sessions, talking about spices in general in the first, then jerk mixes more specifically in the second, explaining, among other things, how many of the strong spices in Caribbean foods had originally been employed to cover the lack of refrigeration in the region and that jerk pork had been brought to the islands by the Cormantee slaves from West Africa in the 1600s. Once she’d finished her spiel, Ben had stepped up and immediately upstaged her with his humor, his stupid exposed chest and his show-off cooking skills.

The audience had oohed at his speed with a knife. They’d aahed when he’d dramatically flambéed some bananas in the pan. They’d laughed when he’d juggled mangoes for them.

And she’d stood on the sidelines and known that her own presentation had been about as interesting as a stale bottle of beer by comparison. Now, watching him invite the audience up to taste-test the meals he’d just demonstrated, she thought of her carefully prepared lectures, all her local information, all the images she’d sourced and organized for each lecture. She’d have to stay up late tonight to revamp it all if she wasn’t going to wind up looking like a theology lecturer by comparison for the rest of the cruise.

Which brought her back to why Ben Cooper was a butt-head. He was funnier than her. He oozed charisma. And he was sexy. How was she supposed to compete with that?

And it was a competition, she had no doubt about that. She’d caught him watching her out of the corners of his eyes a few times, enjoying her growing awareness that his portion of their dual presentation was a hit and that hers was most definitely a flop.

But the worst thing—the absolute very, very worst thing—was that she wasn’t immune to his flashy charms, either. She’d tried with every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep her gaze from lingering on the well-defined planes of his chest. She’d ordered herself very specifically not to check out his cute, tight rear end when he bent to pull something from a lower drawer. And she absolutely forbade herself to respond to a single one of his charming jokes, quips or witticisms. To no avail. She’d stared, she’d run greedy eyes over his sexy butt and she’d caught herself smiling more than once at something he’d said.

It made her feel so pathetic. Especially after the fight they’d had when he’d first arrived. She had no illusions about the way he felt about her—he’d made it clear that he wasn’t here to make nice. In fact, she’d gotten the distinct feeling earlier that he’d been more than ready and willing to keep battling it out with her until the cows came home. There’d been something intense and almost desperate in his eyes as he’d goaded her. Then he’d called her that old, nasty name from school, and it had taken the wind out of her sails in an instant.

It was stupid to let something so ancient and dusty get to her like that. Before he’d walked in the door this morning, she’d been so sure that she’d come to terms with what had happened between them. But one look into his navy-blue eyes and she’d been awash in memories….

She’d noticed Ben from the first moment she walked into her first class. Along with every other girl, of course. He was tall, dark and handsome, with a cheeky smile and a laconic charm that encompassed everyone and everything—except, it seemed, her. He’d never once given her one of his lazy smiles. And he’d certainly never run his eyes over her in warm appreciation the way he did with the other girls—not until he had an ulterior motive, that is. She’d told herself that she was too busy acing her way through the Cuisine Institute to care. But she’d cared. She’d noticed him and she’d wanted him to notice her back. And then he had, and she’d fallen into his bed as though it was meant to be.

And the next day she’d learned the truth.

“You just going to stand there or are you going to pack up?” Ben asked.

Tory jolted out of her reverie and blinked at him. “Sorry?” She realized too late that the theater had emptied and they were alone again.

He shot her a searching look, and she busied herself disconnecting her notebook computer from the plasma screens and collecting her notes. She could hear the clang and clatter of him tidying the demonstration kitchen, and when she’d finished stowing her own gear, she automatically reached for a bottle of cleaning spray to wipe down the counter.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I can’t just stand around and watch you work,” she said, spraying cleaner across the counter.

He looked thrown, as if she’d surprised him.

“What? I can’t help out in the kitchen now? You want to do your own cleaning as well as all the prep and cooking work?” She dropped the spray bottle and held her hands in the air as though he’d told her to stick ’em up.

“No. You don’t have to help, that’s all,” he repeated.

She frowned at him, then her hands found her hips and her frown turned into a glare. “I get it—you think I think I’m too good to clean, is that it?” she asked.

“You are Little Miss Haute Cuisine.” He shrugged. “Cleaning up is for the apprentices.”

She flinched, stung by his comment. Was that what he really thought of her? What he’d always thought of her?

“You have no idea who I am,” she said.

He picked up her cookbook, Island Style, and waved it under her nose. “You might be slumming it with us islanders for a little while, but you’ll be back serving up chateaubriand and chausson aux framboises at Le Plat once you’ve finished playing around.”

She was surprised to realize that he didn’t know that her father had closed Le Plat on his retirement rather than pass it on to her. She understood why Andre had made that decision, but she doubted Ben would and she wasn’t about to give him more ammunition. He’d just take enormous satisfaction from learning that she’d apparently missed out.

She made a grab for her cookbook, but he held on tight and she had to put all her weight behind it to tug it from his grasp.

“You know what, you can clean up on your own,” she said, tucking her book under her arm and grabbing her computer bag and notes.

She turned for the door but stopped in her tracks when she saw Patti, the cruise director, standing there.

Hot color stained her cheeks as she wondered how much of her and Ben’s exchange the other woman had heard. To say they were being unprofessional was a gross understatement. Immature, childish—both descriptions were much more accurate.

“Hi, guys. Welcome aboard, Ben. Nice to be offering you hospitality for a change instead of the other way around.” She smiled at Tory, obviously feeling an explanation was in order. “We try to dine at Ben’s restaurant every time we pass through. Best food in the islands.”

“You’re just saying that,” Ben said modestly. “But don’t stop—I like it.”

Patti laughed. “Plus he’s charming, but I’m sure you already know that.”

Definitely the other woman hadn’t overhead their exchange. Tory felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Somehow she and Ben had to find a way to get through the next few days without sniping at each other. At least not in public, anyway.

“I came to let you know the captain has invited you both to dine with him this evening,” Patti said.

“That sounds great,” Ben said easily. “Tell Dominique I’ll be taking notes on her secret conch sauce.”

Tory rolled her eyes. Dominique Charest was the chef de cuisine on Alexandra’s Dream. Trust Ben to know her personally.

“The captain’s dining room is on the Artemis deck, Victoria,” Patti said. “I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind showing you the way.”

“Of course,” Ben said politely.

Tory waited until the other woman had gone before letting her smile fade.

“I have a map,” she said shortly as she turned once more for the door. “I can find my own way.”

“Good,” he said.

She gritted her teeth, a dozen pithy insults tingling on the tip of her tongue. But he’d turned his back, and she found herself measuring his broad, well-muscled shoulders with her eyes.

Confused, annoyed, flustered, she headed for the exit. How on earth could she find anything about this man attractive when he had such a low opinion of her? And then there was her opinion of him—also low. Positively subterranean, in fact. Really, it was an insane situation, and she hoped her stupid hormones would snap out of it soon. The last thing she wanted was to have the hots for Ben Cooper all over again. God forbid.

BEN SAT BACK IN HIS chair and took a sip from his champagne cocktail. Nikolas had opted to open the French doors on his private dining room this evening, and the cool night air almost made up for having to wear a suit. The one downside to eating at the captain’s table, he decided as he eased a finger beneath his collar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so trussed up. The Caribbean wasn’t exactly known for its formal dress code, but he’d suspected the Dream might have different standards and was glad now he’d packed his suit.

His eyes automatically flicked to his watch again, and he felt a curl of annoyance at himself. So what if Tory hadn’t turned up yet? So what if he suspected she was lost? It was no skin off his nose, after all. She was nothing to him. In fact, if anything, rather than being worried, he should be actively hoping she was lost, that she would be forced to make an embarrassingly late arrival. It was the kind of social faux pas that he imagined would send Tory and her blue-blood family screaming for the hills.

Despite himself, he was about to make an excuse to go scout around for her when she swanned in the door. He blinked as he took in the dress she was wearing. Made from some clingy, gauzy fabric in hot-pink and aqua florals, it had a halter neck and a plunging neckline. A single row of soft ruffles ran down the front to the full-length hemline, and the clingy fabric outlined every curve of her breasts and hips faithfully. Patti was on hand to introduce her to Nick and his fiancée Helena, and Ben’s eyes widened involuntarily as Tory turned and he caught sight of the back of her dress. Or, more accurately, the lack of a back. Bar the bow that dangled down the line of her delicate vertebrae from where the halter tied, her back was deliciously, decadently bare. The skirt of the dress kicked in just short of indecently exposing the perky curves of her butt, also showcased to perfection by the figure-hugging fabric.

“Nice,” he heard someone say beside him, and he turned a frown on the blond-haired guy who’d been introduced to him earlier as a travel journalist. The guy shot him a conspiratorial male smile, inviting Ben to comment in return on Tory’s figure. Ben just took another slug of his drink.

He didn’t want to find Tory attractive, but it was useless to pretend he didn’t. He’d been fighting a losing battle against his libido all day. The truth was, he’d always been hot for her. From the first day he’d arrived at the Institute, his gaze had been drawn to her tall, slim figure. There was something about the way she held herself, the beauty of her face combined with her cool composure. His poor-boy’s antennae had told him instantly that she came from money, and straight off he’d understood that she belonged at the Institute in a way that he never would. Then he’d learned who her father was and her grandfather, and his already burgeoning sense of inferiority and insecurity had burst into full bloom. He’d spent half his time at the Institute ignoring her or resenting her, suffering from what he now ruefully acknowledged as a bad dose of small-island syndrome.

Belatedly Ben glanced around and registered that there was only one empty seat at the table—and it was beside him. Before he could do more than swear under his breath, Tory was being ushered toward him.

He inhaled a waft of vanilla and musk as she sat beside him and they exchanged unamused looks at their forced proximity.

“Believe me, I know,” she said fervently.

“Feel free to ignore me,” he said as he drained the last of his cocktail.

“Ditto,” she said.

So saying, they both swiveled away from each other to face the person on their other side. Ben eyed the travel journalist with determination. He despised small talk, but the alternative—tense silence while pretending not to notice how good Tory looked and smelled—was not an option.

“So how are you finding the cruise so far?” he asked.

THE CAPTAIN’S PRIVATE dining room was a revelation. Timber floorboards glowed in soft candlelight, and plantation shutters gave the windows an exotic appeal. The table was a superb slab of honey-colored timber, the linen crisp and white, the table settings divine. The captain himself was a handsome, charismatic man, his fiancée equally attractive and vivacious. That they were wildly in love with each other was ridiculously obvious to Tory. The only fly in the ointment was Ben Cooper. But what was new about that? He’d single-handedly turned her tropical jaunt into a war zone—and they were only on the first day of their enforced collaboration.

Fortunately the middle-aged woman on her right turned out to be good company. Recently retired from the military, Lt. Williams had a host of fascinating stories about her postings throughout Asia, and they chatted easily through the starter and main course. Almost it stopped her from being aware of the man seated beside her. Almost she could ignore the low timbre of his voice, the brush of his shoulder against hers, the sound of his laughter. Almost but not quite. She was feeling just a little edgy as they neared the end of the main course—then she tuned in to Ben’s conversation with his neighbor, a travel writer who’d been introduced to her as David, and nearly dropped her wineglass. The instant she heard the words Cuisine Institute and petty revenge her stomach lurched and she jerked upright in her chair.

He wouldn’t dare. Surely he wouldn’t dare.

“…if it hadn’t happened to me, I probably would have thought it was pretty funny, too,” Ben was saying as she turned to face him.

His head was angled toward the man on his other side, but she glared at him nonetheless. She simply couldn’t believe he was about to do what she suspected he was about to do. Even Ben could not be that brazen. Could he?

“So, what, this guy just turns up at the Institute purporting to be a representative of one of the best, most exclusive restaurants in New York, and you bought it?” David said skeptically.

Tory’s whole body tensed.

“He was a brilliant actor. And it was more subtle than that. This classmate of mine—Victor—had set it all up beautifully.” Ben shot Tory a loaded look before returning his attention to the man on his left. “He started a rumor that a talent scout from Brown’s would be coming to put us through our paces, so when this guy called me out of the Institute’s restaurant kitchen after the meal and offered me a job once I’d graduated, I thought it was all aboveboard. I thought I was the luckiest bastard under the sun. I rang home and told my folks I wouldn’t be coming back to the family business straightaway after graduation, told them this was too good a chance to learn how it was really done to pass up. Then I hocked everything I owned to buy a wreck of a car and get to Manhattan.”

“Then you walked in the door at Brown’s…” David guessed, leaping ahead to the coup de grâce of Tory’s revenge.

“And they’d never heard of me, of course. Every single goddamned person in the kitchen turned around to stare at me when I announced myself, from the pot scrubbers to the chef de cuisine. I could still hear them laughing when I was back out front on the sidewalk.”

“So you had to go home with your tail between your legs?” David asked, shaking his head. “Tough luck, man.”

“Are you kidding? For starters, I’d lost my nonrefundable flight home when I decided to head to New York. Then there was the fact that I had told my parents I was going to be this big-shot New York haute cuisine chef,” Ben explained.

Tory squirmed in her seat as she felt a dull flush running up the back of her neck. She told herself that Ben had deserved every moment of her well-planned and executed revenge, but still her conscience burned.

“So what did you do?”

Tory realized she was holding her breath, wanting to know, too, how Ben had responded.

“I stood out on the street for about ten minutes, putting all the pieces together until I realized Victor had set me up. I swore a bit. Well, a lot, really. Then I finally realized that I had to find some work or starve. Across the road from Brown’s was this dinky little Italian place, Signor Mario’s, although the owner was actually called Luigi. He had a Help Wanted sign in the window, so I just walked across the street and told him I needed a job.”

“From haute cuisine to spaghetti Bolognese in five paces,” David said with an appreciative guffaw.

“Best thing that ever happened to me,” Ben said firmly. “The way he ran that kitchen, the way he loved and respected the food he cooked, the way he treated his staff, his customers—I couldn’t have had a better mentor.”

Tory squirmed again, gripped by an odd mixture of guilt, relief and annoyance. How typical—putting Ben on the spot at Brown’s might have momentarily fazed him, but, as usual, he’d landed on his feet. If only she’d been able to move on from what he’d done to her so easily.

To her dismay, she could feel Lt. Williams leaning forward on her other side to join in the conversation.

“I couldn’t help overhearing—it sounds just like the sort of cruel pranks that cause so many problems in the military academies,” she said, her dark eyes flashing with censure.

“Cruel—I guess I hadn’t thought of it in that context before,” Ben said. “But it was a pretty cruel thing to do. That’s a good word for it, actually.”

He didn’t so much as glance sideways at her, but Tory bristled nonetheless. He was using their dinner-table conversation to put her on trial. Any minute now he was probably going to reveal that she was the one who’d set him up, and she’d become a social pariah for the rest of the evening.

“You were at this Institute with Ben, I understand?” Lt. Williams asked Tory. “Was this sort of thing common?”

“Not precisely, no,” Tory said, hating herself for blushing furiously. She could feel smug satisfaction radiating off Ben in waves. Before she knew it, she was opening her mouth again. “We certainly had our fair share of frat-house bad behavior, though. And some of that was definitely cruel.”

It was Ben’s turn to stiffen in his seat, and she felt a surge of triumph. See how he liked it when the shoe was on the other foot.

“There was one girl in our year level who, through no fault of her own, had gained the reputation for being standoffish. They called her the Ice Queen, didn’t they, Ben?” Tory tilted her head to one side as though she were genuinely asking him to verify her memory of events.

He nodded minutely and avoided her eye. “I believe that was it.”

“Anyway, the guys started a book on who could be the first to get the Ice Queen to melt, if you know what I mean,” Tory explained.

David smirked, but Lt. Williams frowned.

“How charming,” she said. “I hope no one collected.”

“Unfortunately she was a little gullible. I understand she wasn’t very experienced with men, so when this one student turned on the charm, she was pretty much putty in his hands.”

“Let me guess—she found out about the bet, didn’t she?” the lieutenant asked, looking really angry now.

“Yes,” Tory said. “But not until afterward.”

There was a small pause as they all absorbed this.

“How humiliating,” the other woman said in sympathy.

“Yes,” Tory said again, more quietly this time as she remembered the stinging hurt she’d felt when she’d overheard Ben’s friends laughing at her and talking about the bet.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben shift in his chair and open his mouth as though he was about to defend himself. She waited for him to dare try it, but he obviously thought better of the impulse.

“Wow, and I thought the world of journalism was cutthroat,” David said.

The arrival of dessert distracted both of their dining companions for the next few minutes, and Tory smoothed her napkin in her lap and absolutely refused to look in Ben’s direction. She couldn’t believe he’d brought up their personal history like this in front of everybody. And she couldn’t quite believe that she’d taken a shot back at him, either. She wondered if anyone realized that they’d both been taking veiled jabs at each other beneath their apparently innocuous anecdotes. She’d tried very hard not to react to what he’d been saying, but she wasn’t certain she’d succeeded very well.

At last she risked a sideways glance at Ben. He was looking at her, she realized. They locked eyes for a split second, then broke contact simultaneously.

Concentrating on her dessert, Tory willed the evening to be over.

AFTER DESSERT, COFFEE and liqueurs were served, the captain invited his guests to move away from the formality of the table and take advantage of the couches and occasional chairs nearby. Ben heaved a silent sigh of relief as he at last moved beyond the range of Tory’s perfume.

He’d had worse dinners—but not many. The meal itself had been fine—parts of it excellent—but being trapped next to Tory for two hours had been a new and exquisite form of torture. Every time he’d let his guard down and his gaze wander, he’d found himself studying the swanlike line of her elegant neck or the golden curls teasing at her delicate ears. Several times during dinner he’d heard her low, melodious laugh as she’d talked with the woman on her right, and the hairs on his arms had stood on end.

Then there was the little game of tit for tat they’d played. He was still trying to come to terms with the hurt he’d heard in her voice when she’d talked about their date. And that damned stupid bet…

“More coffee, sir?” a waiter asked, and Ben shook off his preoccupation and held out his cup.

He’d never been the kind of person who dwelled on the past. Besides, she’d gotten her own back. More than gotten her own back, in his opinion.

Glancing up, he saw that Nikolas was crossing the room to join him.

“Captain,” Ben said with a half-assed attempt at a salute.

“Maître d’. Sorry, no, it’s something else, isn’t it?” Nikolas pretended to be confused. “Chef de something or other?”

“Close but no cigar,” Ben said drily.

Nikolas grinned, his teeth very white against his olive skin. “How did you rate Dominique’s efforts tonight?” he asked, his gray eyes intent.

He prided himself on setting a good table, Ben knew.

“Her sauces are excellent. The fish was very fresh and beautifully cooked.”

Nikolas made a low sound of agreement. Neither of them mentioned the slightly soggy berries in the dessert.

“And how are you finding working with Ms. Fournier?”

“Tory is also very good at what she does,” Ben said easily.

“Helena swears by her cookbook. She’s fallen in love with your spicy Caribbean food.”

“If Helena is interested in trying real island food, I’ll give her some local recipes to try,” Ben said.

Ever astute, Nikolas picked up on the reserve in Ben’s tone.

“You don’t like Ms. Fournier’s cookbook?” he asked with the quirk of a dark eyebrow.

“It’s fine. It’s just not authentic, that’s all.”

“What do you mean it’s not authentic?” an all-too-familiar voice demanded.

Ben turned to see Tory standing behind him, Helena at her side.

“I was bringing Tory over to meet you,” Helena said to her fiancée, obviously trying to smooth over the awkward moment.

But Tory wasn’t about to let his comment go. “Well? What’s not authentic about my book?” she asked again.

Her cheeks had flushed a becoming pink, the color flattering against her creamy skin.

“For starters, have you ever visited half the places you’ve written about?” Ben asked.

“No. Have you ever visited France?” she countered.

“No.”

“Yet I bet you dare to serve a bouillabaisse in your restaurant, right? And I bet there are a host of other recipes cherry-picked from half a dozen other countries around the world on your menu.”

He nodded. “That’s true.”

“I researched my book meticulously and I worked with dozens of expat islanders in New York. I may not have the same beach view you have from your restaurant, but I know what I’m talking about.”

“If I’m willing to concede that my bouillabaisse might not hold its own against a local offering in Marseille, will you concede that as a born-and-bred islander I might just have the edge on you?” Ben asked.

Her chin came up and her hand rested her hip. Despite how annoying he found her, a part of him couldn’t help admiring her chutzpah. Did this woman never admit defeat?

“Nope. I’d pit my jerk chicken against yours any day,” she said proudly.

“Sounds like a challenge.” Nikolas was clearly enjoying their sparring.

“Why not?” Tory said.

All eyes turned to Ben. He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’ll be like taking candy from a baby, but if that’s what the lady wants…” he said provocatively.

Tory didn’t rise to the bait. Instead she smiled a secretive, confident smile.

“Done.” She agreed. “My jerk chicken versus your jerk chicken. Time and place of your choosing. And when I win, I’ll expect a quote for the review pages of my next cookbook.”

That nearly made him choke. He’d rather eat her damned cookbook than endorse it. But she was hardly likely to beat him.

“Deal. And if I win…” He couldn’t think of what to say because the only idea that popped into his head was so inappropriate and never-going-to-happen that it made him want to shake his head to knock the thought loose from his mind. “If I win, you give me your father’s famous secret recipe for port wine glaze,” he finally said.

“Still haven’t worked it out, Ben?” she asked mockingly. “It’s very simple, really.”

Very aware of Helena and Nikolas watching their interplay like spectators at a tennis match, Ben stuck out his hand. “Are we agreed or not?”

Her hand was warm and firm as it slid into his. “Agreed.”

Helena cleared her throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Ben stared at her blankly and was aware of Tory doing the same.

“Such as?” he asked.

“Who is to decide the winner?” Nikolas asked.

“Oh,” Tory said.

“Of course, Nikolas and I might be available….” Helena hinted with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Perfect,” Ben said. “You two are the judges and your decision is final. We’ll use the cuisine center as a base. How does two day’s time sound, after we’ve departed Grenada?”

Tory lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “If you need two days to get your act together, by all means,” she drawled.

Ben looked down at her, at the flush in her cheeks and the challenge in her blue, blue eyes.

“It’s a date,” he said.