Sizzle

“Flour,” she said, then with a final whisk of her make-up wand she walked away.

Great, Staci thought, she’d been standing there looking like a messy little girl with flour on her face. She wished she’d known … but then it was a good thing she hadn’t. It might have affected how she’d acted toward Remy and Hamilton and she didn’t want that. She was serious about her food and this competition and she wanted to let the boys know she’d come to win.

“I think we are ready,” the director said. “Go.”

“Tell us a little about yourselves,” Pete invited them. “Staci, you’re a baker?”

“Yes, I co-own a cupcake bakery in San Diego called Sweet Dreams. I was trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”

“And Remy?” Lorenz asked in that sexy Italian accent of his.

“I’m from Nawlins,” he said, combining the two words into one with his smooth southern accent. “I learned to cook at my granddad’s elbow. I’ve been working down there but am currently between gigs.”

“Staci, you were the leader on this dish, tell us what you prepared for us.”

“We combined what makes both of our culinary influences so great. A mixture of street food from the Big Easy and So Cal. Its a trio of po-boy tacos.”

“Remy, what did you make?” Hamilton asked as Lorenz cut the first taco into thirds.

“The filling,” he said.

“What’s in them?” Pete asked.

“Shrimp and andouille, lime crusted tilapia and Portobello mushrooms Vera Cruz style.”

“Sounds interesting,” Lorenz said. “We are going to taste now.”

All three men sampled the tacos and Staci felt her heart in her throat as she waited for them to give their critique. She’d tried the food. She knew that she and Remy had put together a good dish but now she was so nervous. She reached over and grabbed his wrist, as the silence seemed to grow.

Hamilton glanced at Lorenz and than at Pete.

“I really enjoyed this. The mixture of spiciness with the lightness of the bread. Well done,” Pete said.

“I liked it too,” Lorenz said. “The sausage was delicious and the seasoning layered and complex.”

“Well that’s three of us who’d come back for more of this. You two worked well together,” Hamilton said.

With that the judges moved on, Remy’s hand turned in her grasp and he briefly held her hand before dropping it. She wanted to jump up and down but Remy didn’t seem to think it was time to celebrate.

“What’s the matter? You look almost nervous.”

“I’m hardly that. I just don’t believe in counting my chickens before they’re hatched.”

“Um … all three judges liked our food. It’s a safe bet that we’ll be asked to stay,” Staci said.

“I want to hear what he’s saying to the others. This is a competition. Just because we made a good dish doesn’t mean the other competitors didn’t as well,” Remy said.

She nodded. And for the first time really looked at the other chefs and the dishes they’d put together. Everyone wanted this chance to make it to the next level. Everyone wanted to win and she had to remember that.

The chefs next to them had made a dry rubbed brisket that they had sliced thin and steamed. “Sounds iffy to me,” Staci said. “Brisket needs to be slow cooked.”

“I agree, but Pete seems like he’s enjoying it.”

She had to admit the restaurant critic did seem to be enjoying the meat. But Hamilton made a face and spat his portion back out. “Dry.”

“It is dry,” Lorenz agreed. “But it’s admirable that you tried to do a brisket in the time allotted and I love the spice combination in the rub. Whose recipe is that?”

“Mine,” the tall, skinny chef said.

“Good job, Dave. It really flavors the meat and to be honest makes up for the dryness,” Lorenz said.

“I enjoyed it,” Pete said. “The barbecue sauce you made covers up the lack of moisture in the meat.”

“Thanks,” Dave said.

The judges finished up their tasting and they were all told to clean up their stations while a final decision was reached. Remy was introspective as he worked quickly and efficiently. She watched him moving and then realized what she was doing.

She always had the worst timing in her infatuations and it seemed the worst taste in men. She’d let a man ruin her cooking career once. Was she really going to let that happen again?

“Don’t worry, chère, whatever happens today, you can cook and no one can take that from you,” he said. “I enjoyed working with you today.”

“Me, too,” she said.

They were all told to move back to their stations as a final decision had been reached. Remy stood next to her and this time he squeezed her hand as Hamilton started talking.

“We’ve sampled some truly fine dishes given that we asked you to work with a chef whose style was different from yours and gave you a time restraint. We know you can all cook; this competition is designed to take you beyond that. Therefore the winners of this challenge and staying in the competition are …

“Staci Rowland and Remy Stephens,” Lorenz announced.

Remy tugged her close for a victory hug but he held her a little longer than he should have and when she pulled back there was a new awareness in his eyes.

REMY MADE SURE HE WASN’T in the same Escalade as Staci when they left the studio and were driven to the Premier Chef house in Malibu. They were in a luxury home that overlooked the Pacific.

The water was bluer than his beloved Gulf of Mexico but the scent of salt in the air reminded him of home. There were production assistants in the house when they arrived. And they were all directed where to go in the eight-bedroom house. They’d be sharing two to a room to begin with and the producers had already assigned them into pairs. Remy was in a room overlooking the ocean with Quinn Lyon.

“Dude, do you mind if I take this bed?” Quinn asked.

Remy shrugged. “That’s fine. Where are you from?”

“Seattle. I’m the executive chef at Poisson … one guess what our specialty is?”

Remy smiled. There was an easy-going nature about Quinn and he reminded Remy of one of his Cajun uncles who was a shrimper. “Fish, right?”

“Hell, yes. Your accent says you’re from the south—where?”

“Nawlins’,” he said.

“Where do you work?”

“Currently, I’m between jobs,” he said. It was sort of the truth since he’d taken a leave of absence from Gastrophile.

“That’s cool. I saw you working today, you keep a neat station,” Quinn said.

“I began cooking with my dad and he’s a tyrant in the kitchen.”

Quinn laughed. “My old man was a logger, didn’t know anything about food.”

“How’d you come to be a chef?”

“Dropped out of high school,” Quinn said. “Started as a dishwasher and worked my way up. I never thought I’d be a chef when I was a kid. I mean, girls cooked where I came from, you know?”

“No, I don’t. The women in my family can cook but the kitchen has always been filled with men. I can’t remember a time when anyone thought I’d be anything but a chef.”

“What’s your family think of you being unemployed?” he asked.

“Not too fond of that. But getting on this show will probably help ease their minds,” he said. The truth was his parents didn’t know where he was right now. But he figured that Remy Stephens’s family would be happy that he was cooking with the chance of employment at the end of the show. “What about your family?”

“My wife’s great. My dad moved to Alaska so he’s not that involved with my day-to-day life,” Quinn said. “I don’t know if I should unpack or not.”

“I am,” Remy said. “My grandmère is superstitious and she’s always said that if you believe you’ll succeed you will and vice versa.”

“Ah, that’s confidence not superstition,” Quinn said, unzipping his suitcase and starting to unpack. “But I think you’re right. Better to act like I’m here for the long haul.”

“Definitely,” Remy said.

Quinn had a picture of his wife and one of him with his dad holding up the biggest fish that Remy had ever seen. Quinn kept up a quiet conversation while he moved around the room and Remy learned the other man was thirty-eight and was contemplating an offer to become the chef owner of Poisson. Something he wasn’t too sure he wanted to do.

Remy didn’t give the other man any advice. He’d learned that decisions that significant had to be made intuitively. Otherwise doubt and resentment followed.

Quinn’s cell phone rang and he smiled. “It’s the wife.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” offered Remy.

The bedrooms were all on the second floor of the house, which sat, nestled on a cliff overlooking the Pacific ocean. Remy went downstairs and saw that several contestants were on the balcony smoking. But he didn’t see Cupcake Girl. He wasn’t looking for her, he thought, but part of him knew he was.

She’d been good in the kitchen today and he was happy enough that her direction had resulted in a win, but there could only be one winner of Premier Chef—The Professionals and he needed to be that winner.

His future hinged on it in his mind. He envied Quinn and his easy relationship with his father. The older Lyon hadn’t pressured and bullied Quinn into cooking. In his early twenties, Remy would have been happier to make up his own mind and to find his own path. Instead, it had been done for him. Hence his doubts now.

Remy headed toward the kitchen for a bottle of water. Quinn would be tough to beat in any seafood challenge but Remy had grown up on the Gulf so he wasn’t too worried, but he wanted to get an idea of what else he was up against.

“You smoke?” a heavily tattooed man with a Jersey accent asked him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” Remy said.

“Good. So far everyone who’s come downstairs is a smoker. I’m Tony. Tony Montea,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Remy Stephens,” he said shaking the other man’s hand. “I’m guessing you’re from New York or Jersey.”

“Jersey—born and bred. But I work in Manhattan. You’d think I’d cook Italian but my grandmother is French.”

“Mine too … well, French Creole,” Remy admitted.

“Cool. Did she cook?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yours?”

“Yeah. She’s the one that taught me to cook. But you can only go so far in a home kitchen,” Tony said.

“True. Do you have any formal training?”

“CIA,” he said with a smile. “This might be the only place where I don’t have to explain that it’s the Culinary Institute of America not the Central Intelligence Agency. Though to be honest there are a few from my hood that think I’m with the government.”

Remy laughed. “Where do you work?”

“Dans La Jardin,” he replied, naming one of the most popular French restaurants in the city.

“Head chef?”

“Nah, junior, but I’m hoping to learn some skills here that will give me a leg up when I get back home.”

“Not here to win?” Remy asked.

“Sure I want to win, but I have heard of some of these other chefs,” Tony said. “They might be hard to beat.”

“They might be,” Remy agreed, writing Tony off as a nice guy but not much competition. Anyone who was more concerned about what would happen when he got home versus what needed to happen here wasn’t going to win it. And Remy was definitely here to win.

“You’re not worried?” Tony asked.

“Nah, but I have been around celebrated chefs before,” Remy said.

“Me, too,” a tall thin girl with skin the color of cappuccino said, joining them. “I’m Vivian Johns.”

“Tony Matea,” Tony said. “This is Remy Stephens. Whom have you cooked with?”

“Troy Hudson,” Vivian said flashing them both a grin. “I work at The Rib Mart in Austin and he came down there for one of his cook offs.”

“How was it?” Remy asked.

“Interesting. He’s a solid cook but a lot of his talent gets lost in filming the show. He had a staff with him for the challenge,” Vivian said.

“Did you win?” Tony wanted to know.

“Hells to the yeah,” she said. “It’s hard to beat Austin ribs in Austin but my dish was good. Really good. It’s interesting how people act around celebrity chefs. Who’ve you cooked with, Remy?”

“Alain Cruzel,” he said. His grandfather was one of the most famous chefs to come out of New Orleans.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s one tough guy in the kitchen.”

“Yes, he is. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes,” Remy said. “However, sharing the kitchen with him made me realize even the greatest chefs make mistakes some times. That’s why I’m not worried about anyone’s reputation.”

“You don’t have to,” Tony said.

“What do you mean?” Remy asked wondering if he’d somehow given away his real name and pedigree.

“You won today. I think that means most of the participants will be gunning for you.”

“Not just me,” he said. “Cupcake Girl was pretty impressive as well.”

“I don’t think she’s going to take kindly to being called that,” Vivian said with a grin.

He didn’t think so either but Remy would do whatever he had to in order to avoid the chemistry between them. And to preserve some kind of edge over her. The nickname bothered her so he’d keep using it.

“We need everyone gathered in the living room,” the director said.

Everyone moved into the spacious room that had a big screen television on one wall and three long sofas and a number of assorted armchairs casually placed into conversation groups. He saw cupcake girl across the room and forced himself to look away from her.

“The winners of today’s challenge are going out to dinner tonight at Martine’s where they will have a private tour of the kitchen and talk with their chief sous chef. The rest of you will be participating in a grilling workshop.”

Remy shook his head. The last thing he wanted was more time alone with Staci. If he were as superstitious as his grandmother he’d believe that fate was pushing them together.

But he wasn’t.

Really.

DINNER ALONE WITH REMY and Chef Ramone wasn’t what she’d anticipated when she’d started the day off by spilling tea all over the hottie in the elevator. However, she was happy enough for it now. She got dressed in the one nice dress she’d brought with her.

The instructions for Premier Chef were pretty explicit. She’d had to bring her cooking gear but also jeans, a dress, a skirt, a bathing suit and a number of other expected items. Still, it was the specific clothing that had struck her as funny.

She knew it was a television show and that they’d want them all to look a certain way but beyond that she hadn’t given what she wore much thought. Now that she was heading to one of the LA areas nicest restaurants she was glad she’d gone shopping with Alysse last weekend.

She enjoyed spending time with the co-owner of Sweet Dreams, especially since Alysse was so busy—engaged to be married and busily determined to expand their cupcake business. Staci had decided to take a break from the day-to-day running of the bakery to get ready for this show. Staci was the first to admit her dreams lay in a different direction now.

The bakery had saved her sanity when she’d first come back to California but that was a long five years ago and given that she was almost thirty, Staci felt it was time to figure out what she wanted from life. And she couldn’t until she made up for her past mistakes. Until she resolved her lingering doubts about her abilities as a chef. This show was her chance to do that.

She did a double check of her make-up, although she knew that the production person would re-apply it and make it heavier for the television cameras.

“You look good,” her roommate Vivian said.

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure that I’d be wearing this dress on TV. Do you think it’s too low cut?” she asked. She’d tried it on in the store but had been wearing a sports bra so she hadn’t noticed how much cleavage it revealed.

“Not at all. Sex sells, baby. It also distracts. If Remy is staring at your chest it should give you an edge over him.”

She sighed inwardly. It was a contest after all. She wanted Remy distracted and off his A game. But at the same time using her body to win, well, why not? Remy hadn’t hesitated to use his sexy southern accent to distract her.

She grabbed her handbag and made sure she had her moleskin recipe journal in there. The journal had seen better days and was bulging with pages and photos she’d added. She never went anywhere without the journal. She liked to make notes about the meals she ate and she found eating out always inspired her palate.

“Knock ’em dead,” Vivian said.

“I hope so,” Staci replied as she left their room. She was used to living alone, cooking alone and spending most of her time by herself, so this living with the other contestants could be a strain.

Remy was waiting in the foyer with Jack, the director and one of the producers. She almost missed a step on the stairs staring at Remy. His thick black hair was slicked back. He wore a white dress shirt left casually open at the neck and a navy dinner jacket and gray pants. He glanced at his watch and then at the stairs, his mouth dropping open when he saw her.

She gave herself a mental high five and forced herself to smile at him in what she hoped was a casual way. To be honest, he was oozing sexiness in his dinner wear, so she wasn’t entirely sure what impression she gave off.

“Now that you are both here we will head over to the restaurant. We won’t be filming until we are there so you can relax.”

“Thanks,” Remy said. “Will we be driving ourselves?”

“No. We have a production assistant who will take you and pick you up. During the course of the show you will always be in our hands. Chef Ramone doesn’t like cell phones and he has requested you leave them with us.”

“Okay,” Staci said, opening her handbag to retrieve her phone, which she handed to Jack.

“What’s that book in your bag?” the producer asked.

“Just my food journal. I like to write down the meals I eat.”

“I’m sure that will be fine. Though we will check with the chef before you arrive and if it’s not, you’ll have to give it to one of our staff at the location.”

She didn’t like the thought of letting anyone else have her journal but she wasn’t going to argue about it right now. Jack directed them out the door and into a Mercedes sedan.

“How many vehicles do you have?” Remy asked.

“Enough. In this case Mercedes is sponsoring one of the upcoming challenges and giving away this car as a prize.”

“Nice. I hope I win,” Staci said. “I’ve been riding the bus for too long.”

Remy laughed. “Ah, without the bus I wouldn’t have that great first impression of you.”

She shook her head remembering how she’d landed in his arms. “I could have done without that.”

Soon they were both seated in the backseat and being whisked across town toward the famous restaurant. Instead of thinking about the evening or even the contest, Staci’s thoughts hadn’t drifted any further than the man sitting next to her.

She wished she’d made a better first impression on him but she knew that her skills in the kitchen had made up for her stumble. And if she were honest, she wouldn’t trade their first meeting for anything.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“A little. But not really,” she said. “You?”

“No. I’m curious to see his techniques. I haven’t cooked much outside of the South.”

“I was trained in Paris,” she said.

“Really? Pastry?” he asked.

“Yes and everything else,” she admitted.

“Then why are you the co-owner of a cupcake bakery? You should be working in the finest kitchens in the world.”

“That is a long story,” she said.

“Well, we do have a long drive ahead of us,” he replied.

3

THE WARMTH OF THE CAR’S interior felt like an intimate cocoon and it would have been easy for her to forget that Remy was her competitor. Yet, this situation was so far removed from what she knew life to be like. Remy might be an out-of-work chef but he was clearly used to luxury. He sat relaxed next to her in his expensive clothes.

What was his story? Did she want to know? A lot of people said it was better to know your enemy but given her personality flaw regarding men, she thought a little mystery was probably in order.

“You were going to tell me how a Cordon Bleu chef ends up owning a cupcake bakery,” he said in that sultry southern way of his.

It would be easy to dismiss him as an innocent were it not for the shrewd look in his eyes. She didn’t have to guess to know that he was one of those who subscribed to the know-your-enemy theory.

“Was I?” she asked, turning toward him. The fabric of her skirt slid up her legs and she waited to see if he had noticed.

He had. But he arched one eyebrow at her to let her know that he knew she’d done it deliberately. She shrugged and he smiled.

“It’s clear that neither of us is going to forget this is a competition,” he said.

“I’m here to win,” she said. “I have to assume you are too.”

“Indeed. Why else would I travel across the country with just my knives and culinary training?”

“Where did you train?” she asked, turning the tables back to him.

“CIA. But we’ll learn about that during the competition. I want to know more about you. The things you aren’t going to reveal in front of the camera,” he said, as he shifted to stretch his arm along the back of the seat. His fingers just inches from her shoulder, she felt the heat of his body against her skin.

“But those facts aren’t ones I’ll give up for nothing. What are you going to offer me in return, what secrets do you keep, Southern Man?”

She realized that the attraction ran both ways and that Remy wasn’t afraid to turn the tables on her. She cleared her throat.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he said.

“That hardly seems fair unless I know what you’re offering to give up,” she said.

“Okay, tell me how you got started cooking. Where did your culinary journey begin?” he asked, running his finger along the side of her cheek.

She turned her face away from his touch. “And you’ll do the same?”

“Oui, chère,” he said.

She rubbed one finger along his beard-stubbled jaw just to try to keep him off-balance and because she was longing to know what it felt like. He seemed to just reach out and touch her whenever he wanted to.

“Good. I grew up in here in southern California. I’m an only child and was always in the kitchen with my grandmother who practically raised me,” she said. “Your turn.”

“I grew up in Louisiana. Though I live and work in New Orleans now, I spent a lot of time in the bayou as a young boy with my grandmother’s people. I learned to shrimp and cook off of what we found each day. I didn’t realize how great a gift that would be as a chef.”

“I bet. My grandmother used to buy whatever was on sale at the grocery store when we went. She never had a menu and when we’d get home she’d combine the ingredients in different ways.”

“Sounds like we are similar in our upbringing,” he said.

“Maybe. You seem very comfortable surrounded by luxury,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Yes. This is probably the nicest car I’ve been in unless you count the limo I took to prom. I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

He laughed. “Who did you go to prom with?”

“A boy who thought he loved me,” she said.

“Why did the boy think he loved you?” Remy asked.

She was not about to start talking about her rocky past and the loves that might have been. “Don’t avoid the question.”

“What was the question?”

She frowned at him. “You’re difficult and cagey. What exactly are you hiding, Remy Stephens?”

“I believe that some things shouldn’t be spoken of. But you are right, I did grow up in a comfortable home financially. However, that’s not as interesting as a boy who thought he loved you. Didn’t you love him?”

“I’m not talking about that,” she said. She hadn’t allowed herself to really care about anyone when she’d been younger because she’d had big dreams of leaving California and going to Paris. She was going to be the next Julia Child.