Tamed by a Texan

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again with the stream of Spanish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only child.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And double the work?”

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

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

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

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

“They have my sympathy,” he quipped.

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

“Have a little faith, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every man for himself.

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

She considered throwing a blackberry at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darts,” she blurted. “I like darts.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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