Tamed by a Texan

“You sure you want to start with me?” Grace picked up the towel that had just missed her and brandished it with deadpan menace. “I’m muy peligrosa.”

“Dangerous? You?” Amy snorted. “Bring it on, shorty.”

Although Amy was at least two inches taller than Grace, the bartender had a very delicate build. A strong breeze might knock her over. Grace, while short, was curvy. Nothing delicate about me. She was all right with that. Who would trust a chef who looked like a twig? Besides, the guys she’d dated had told her she was rounded in all the best places.

Amy pulled down a glass and filled it with water. “So what’s with the late-night cooking spree? Sudden inspiration for a new dessert menu?”

“Nerves,” Grave admitted. “About tomorrow night.” Or, more accurately, she realized with a glance at the clock, tonight.

“But the competition doesn’t even begin until Monday. Tomorrow, you’re just being introduced to some judges and the other contestants.” One of the local vineyards was hosting a reception, an opening ceremony of sorts.

“And you don’t think spending the evening with a bunch of people who are going to shape my future is nerve-racking? I, uh, got the list today,” she admitted. She hadn’t told anyone because she’d had this weird superstitious response to seeing the other names, as if talking about the impressive chefs on the list somehow added to their power.

Two vertical lines appeared over Amy’s nose as her forehead puckered in a frown. “What list? I’m not following.”

“When I was first notified I’d made it through the selection process,” Grace backtracked, “I was told I was one of ten chefs, but I didn’t think I’d know who the others were until we got started. Today they emailed me a list.” She’d printed it out along with some final paperwork she had to sign.

“And you’re just now telling me?” Amy demanded. “Gimme names, woman!”

Grace sighed, abandoning the cupcake batter. She crossed the kitchen to the slotted wooden box on the wall where they kept mail and bills. She wasn’t sure why she retrieved the message and unfolded it—she’d already memorized the other nine names. Hoping Amy wouldn’t interrupt to ooh and aah over the combined talent, she sped through the list. There were men and women of varying ages and specialties, from all over Texas. Katharine Garner currently worked as an executive chef in New York but had grown up in Dallas; Grace wasn’t sure where Texas-born Ty Beckett lived. He seemed to bounce all over the place.

“Ty Beckett?” Amy fluttered her eyelashes. “I saw him at a couple of events in Austin. Do you have any idea how hot he is?”

“He’s not that good-looking,” Grace grumbled. “I’ve seen him on TV.”

“Okay, one.” Amy jabbed an index finger in her friend’s direction. “You are a lousy liar. No talent for it whatsoever, so don’t bother trying. And, two, take it from me, he’s even better looking in person.”

“That’s probably why they selected him,” Grace said, trying to bolster herself. “He’s so photogenic. He’ll look good on television.”

“Also, he’s supposed to be a phenomenal chef.”

Grace groaned. “Whose side are you on? I’m sure he’s very good, but I can beat him, right? He has little formal training that I’ve heard of, doesn’t have a restaurant of his own and his entire career seems to consist of flitting from one thing to the next. Do you think he loses focus, gets bored easily?” That could bode well for his competitors. Serious cooking required lots of patience.

Her pride niggled at her. Didn’t she want to be named the best because of how hard she’d worked at her craft? Would it be as satisfying to beat Ty Beckett because he got distracted by something shiny or bailed midway through the competition? Then again, if the end result was that she got to keep her restaurant…

“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I realize that in the media he seems very flirty and like he doesn’t take anything seriously, but, to the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t lost any culinary competition in years. Don’t let his attitude fool you. He may crack jokes and not look like he’s exerting much effort, but my gut tells me, when Ty Beckett wants something, he goes for it.”

“Yeah?” Grace raised an eyebrow. “Well, so do I.”

* * *

“REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE’RE stopping here for dinner when we’re on our way to a party with lots of food,” Stephen said from the passenger seat. “While you’re at it, remind me how it is that you ended up driving my car.”

Ty flashed a grin. “Because people find it impossible to tell me no. And we’re here because there was only one person on that list neither of us know anything about, and coincidentally, she happens to be local. Or maybe not coincidentally. Do you think they picked her to keep the Hill Country sponsors happy?”

“As opposed to any of the other dozens of award-winning Hill Country chefs and restaurateurs?” Stephen said wryly. “Face it, if she’s in the game, she’s probably something special.”

“Must be.” Ty peered into the darkness surrounding them. “Because, hard as this place is to find, they’d need incredible word of mouth to stay in business. Haven’t these people heard of neon signs?” There were a couple of parking lights shining down on the pothole-riddled lot, but nothing lit up with the name of the place. According to the one-line bio in the paperwork Stephen had received, her restaurant was The Twisted Jalapeño.

He parked the car. “We’re not really eating dinner, you know. Just order something small and I’ll do the same, so we can get a feel for the place. The reception doesn’t start until seven. We have time.”

“Assuming we don’t get lost again,” Stephen said. His phone was equipped with a GPS navigational system, but based on their experience trying to get Ty to his hotel this afternoon, the GPS was a compulsive liar.

“We’re not going to get lost,” Ty said as they crunched across the gravel lot. “In a couple of hours, we’ll meet the people who are going to help me get my own show. This is it, my big break. Trust the Beckett Instinct. When have I ever steered you wrong? And before you make some wise-ass comment, I’d like to remind you who introduced you to your wife.”

“Caroline Groves introduced me to my wife, you lunatic. You weren’t even there.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t been ducking Caroline’s calls, she wouldn’t have cornered you at that museum benefit, which led to you meeting Donna. So I claim credit.” Ty opened the restaurant door and stepped inside.

Music played merrily overhead, and Ty quirked an eyebrow. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was an Irish reel. Not exactly what he’d expected.

A smiling hostess with a profusion of curly hair greeted them. “Two this evening, gentlemen?”

“Yes, ma’am. But we can’t stay long,” Ty said apologetically. “So no need to waste a table on us. Seats at the bar would be fine.”

“You got it.” She gestured toward the back corner of the room. “Amy’s got some great specials going on tonight. Enjoy.”

The decor consisted mostly of framed photographs. Old black-and-white family pictures intermingled with colorful landscapes of the region. He recognized shots of Main Street from his exploring town this afternoon. There was a photo of three kids, a tiny dark-haired girl standing between two lanky boys, in front of The Twisted Jalapeño. He wondered how long the restaurant had been doing business. The place had its charm—and something certainly smelled good—but as he and Stephen walked through the dining area, he noted signs of age and disrepair. This restaurant needed some TLC…if “TLC” stood for infusion of cash.

About half the tables they passed were occupied, but the bar was mostly empty. At one end, a woman spoke into her cell phone while twirling a straw in her margarita; at the other was a man in a suit, with a laptop in front of him. Ty and Stephen took seats at the middle of the counter. The bartender had purple hair and a butterfly tattoo on her upper arm, revealed by her blue tank top and black leather vest.

She smiled at them. “Can I interest you two in…” She trailed off, blinking at Ty, then mumbled something.

He couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but he thought she said, “Oh, this should be good.”

She walked away briefly, returning with a basket of tortilla chips and some green salsa. “Those are our drink specials tonight.” She pointed to a chalkboard at the end of the bar. “And here are a couple of menus. Be back in a minute to take your order.”

Before either man had a chance to speak, she hustled to the far end of the bar, to the man in the suit. They had a quick conversation in low voices. Ty didn’t betray his curiosity by looking toward them. Instead he swiped a chip through the salsa and nodded.

“Excellent,” he pronounced.

He flipped open the menu and was studying the range of selections when he sensed motion. Ty glanced over his shoulder. A woman in a formfitting green dress was stalking toward him, her long black hair bouncing against her shoulders. She was one of those women for whom the expression “you’re beautiful when you’re angry” had been created, although Ty had no idea why she looked so ticked.

“Incoming,” he said under his breath to Stephen.

Stephen took a quick look, then shook his head. “Tell me you didn’t date her and break her heart. There must be a hundred females in the world who want you dead.”

“Not true,” Ty objected. The benefit of keeping his relationships casual was that women tended not to be heartbroken when he left. Most of his breakups were amicable, including the food critic who’d given him a glowing write-up even after they stopped seeing each other. “Besides, you know me, I’m a pain in the ass. By the time I leave, they’re relieved to see me go.”

“You!” The woman had reached them. Her narrowed eyes were sharper than the best set of knives he’d ever owned. “You have a lot of nerve.”

Ty gave her a disarming smile. “It’s true, ma’am. I’ve always had more nerve than brains. Have we met? Ty Beckett.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Beckett. You’re the competition and you’ve come to spy.”

“Spy? Ah. You must be Grace Torres,” he deduced. “Look, it isn’t as if I came in here to steal your recipes. Although, kudos on this salsa verde. It would definitely be worth stealing.” He waited a beat to see if the compliment improved her opinion of him. Nope. “I was just stopping by on my way to the reception because I was intrigued. You were a mystery. I’ve heard of all the other finalists.”

When Stephen coughed, choking on his chip, Ty realized his phrasing might not have been the best way to break the ice, insinuating she was a nobody in the culinary world.

To cover his uncharacteristic gaffe, Ty offered quickly, “Hey, we could all ride together. Want a lift to the vineyard?”

Grace drew back, her almond-shaped eyes incredulous. “I’d rather walk.”

“In those heels?” Ty teased. “Might be uncomfortable.” He’d noticed the shoes because they were sexy as hell and did great things for her exposed calves, but he kept that information to himself. Instead he introduced her to Stephen. “This is Stephen Zigler, my friend and business manager. It was his idea to come in,” Ty fibbed cheerfully.

Stephen reached across him to shake her hand. “The manager designation is true. The friend part is debatable.”

When Grace laughed, her entire face lit with warmth. She’d already been lovely, but as her lips curled into a smile and her eyes lit… Damn. Ty was jealous of his friend, annoyed that Stephen, the married soon-to-be-father, had been the one to coax this from her.

“You, I like,” Grace said, ignoring Ty’s presence completely. “I’ll see you at the reception. I really should be going…just came in to go over a few changes with the kitchen staff. Amy, their drinks are on the house.”

The bartender nodded. “You’re the boss.”

Then Grace turned and left without another word to Ty. Stephen hooted with laughter. “There goes the winner of this cooking competition,” he pronounced between chortles.

“What? Now, that’s just mean,” Ty complained. “You’re only saying it to wound me. A great salsa verde is no basis for determining whether she can win the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Oh, I wasn’t basing it on that.” Stephen’s grin was full of admiration. “She’s possibly the only woman on the planet completely immune to the Ty Beckett charm. In my book, that makes her a superhero with mystical powers. Dude, you’re toast.”

* * *

GRACE DROVE PAST THE MAIN building, which looked like an Italian villa, complete with a red-tiled roof and graceful fountains out front, and found a place to park. Her hands were shaking from adrenaline. And from too little sleep, she admitted to herself. She was not in top form tonight.

Her father would have been disappointed in her display back at the Jalapeño. Victor Torres Senior had possessed a gift for making people feel welcome. She’d given in to her temperamental side and had been rude to Ty Beckett. What were the chances she could avoid speaking with him for the rest of the night? She wasn’t even sure what she’d meant by her “spying” accusation—it wasn’t as though she’d caught him sneaking into the kitchen wearing a hat and false mustache. But when she’d seen him at the bar, exuding negligent confidence as though he belonged there, as though he rightfully belonged anyplace he felt like being, she’d been intimidated. Which in turn made her angry.

She was putting that behind her now. I am a consummate professional. Should she happen to find herself in Ty’s company, she’d be courteous and simply ignore him the rest of the time.

Right. Because ignoring a face like that would be so easy. Amy had been correct—he was even better looking in person. But what had been more startling was the sense of overwhelming familiarity Grace had felt when he’d looked at her. He reminds me of someone.

Grace gave herself a mental shake. Enough. Her focus needed to be on this competition, not some wandering chef with a dazzling smile and lady-killer rep. She climbed out of the car and followed the path, which twinkled with dozens of tiny white lights. There was enough illumination for her to appreciate the stone bell tower to her left and a beautifully tiled open courtyard. She imagined that later this evening, once food and drinks were served, guests would mill outside and make use of the round iron tables. It was a lovely evening, but the breeze carried a distinct chill. She was glad for the long sleeves that offset the vee neckline of her wraparound dress. Still, the filmy green fabric wasn’t very thick. She should have grabbed the sweater she kept on a coatrack back in the restaurant office, but she’d been flustered when she left.

Once she opened the rounded wooden door that brought to mind stately castles, her stomach clenched in a fresh bout of nerves. Since she had the advantage of being local, knowing her way around town and not having to check in to a hotel that afternoon, she was one of the first contestants to arrive. But the two other chefs she spotted inside the huge room were both renowned in their areas of expertise—desserts and molecular gastronomy, the industry term for those who applied science to cooking in innovative ways. Talking to them was the host for Road Trip, Damien Craig, whom she recognized from myriad television appearances.

Behind her, the door swept open, admitting Katharine Garner and her husband, plus Ty Beckett and his business manager. Knowing that if she continued to stand in the entryway she wouldn’t be able to avoid Ty, Grace made a beeline toward one of the four bars bracketing the room. There, she accepted a glass of an award-winning cabernet blend so richly delicious that she immediately began trying to compose recipes to go with it.

She closed her eyes to better savor a sip, then opened them again as she sensed someone next to her.

“Is it good?” a baritone voice asked.

She turned to smile at Damien Craig, thinking it was a shame he didn’t narrate audio books. He was sort of generically handsome—he’s no Ty Beckett—but he had an incredible voice. “Mr. Craig, nice to meet you. I’m Grace Torres. And yes, the wine is fantastic.”

They stood making small talk about the vineyard, the upcoming festival and how he thought he had the best job in the world, traveling all over, meeting new people and enjoying meals prepared by legendary chefs. By the time he continued on with his social rounds, all of the contestants had arrived. Guests were grouped in clusters around the room, some standing near the large hors d’oeuvres table in the center, others chatting in corners or waiting for their wineglasses to be filled. Ty Beckett stood amid three attractive women. Naturally. One of them seemed to be on the show’s crew, but the other two were chefs. Judging from the women’s smiles and the way blonde pastry chef Phoebe Verlaine kept finding excuses to touch him, they didn’t find Ty less attractive just because he was the competition.

Grace was en route to say hello to Antonio Zavalo, a chef who’d known her father, when Ty unexpectedly fell into step with her.

“We meet again,” he said cheerfully.

“That tends to happen when you follow someone.” As an afterthought, she added a half smile to temper the acerbic words, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Are you always so prickly, Grace, or—” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—is this an act to keep people from knowing how much you want me?”

She nearly gaped at the outrageous comment but decided that would only encourage him. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a protest, she nodded. “Yes. Arrogant chefs who resort to mind games with their opponents are exactly my type.”

The amount of sarcasm dripping from her words would have shamed a lesser man into retreat. Instead Ty’s mischievous smile grew more wicked. “I knew you were crazy for me. Stephen didn’t believe me.”

Grace’s step faltered as she studied his grin. She was experiencing that tingle of déjà vu again. Was he familiar to her because she’d seen him on television? Maybe that was it, although she still felt as if he reminded her of someone specific, someone famous whose identity was right on the tip of her brain.

“Grace!” Meeting her halfway, Antonio stepped forward to pull her into his burly arms for a warm hug. “So wonderful to see you again. How are your brothers?”

“They’re…” Well, one of them was injured physically and the other was injured emotionally. “Oh, how rude of me. Antonio, do you know Ty Beckett?”

“Only by professional reputation.” The older man shook Ty’s hand. “Congratulations on making the semifinal round, to both of you.”

“It’s an honor,” Ty said. “Especially when it means cooking alongside greats such as yourself. I’ve always looked up to you. Of course, I still plan on beating you,” he added unrepentantly.

This was met with one of Antonio’s deep belly laughs. “Cocky. I’d heard that about you.”

“I’m afraid that, in my case, you should believe everything you hear.”

Antonio clapped him on the shoulder. “Hope you aren’t eliminated too soon. I have a feeling working with you around is never boring. Grace, I’ll catch up with you later. For now, I want to try a glass of their port.”

“I do believe he liked me,” Ty said as the other man walked away. “Most people do,” he added pointedly.

“Conformists,” she scoffed. “I’m not into groupthink.” Why was she bantering with him? What had happened to her plan of polite but remote? Face it, remote just isn’t in the Torres DNA.

“Is that why you do fusion food?” Ty asked. “Unique combinations of flavors because you don’t want to be like everyone else?”

“I’m not trying to make a social statement, just being who I am.” When he looked unconvinced, she added, “I have an eclectic background. My mother is of Irish descent, my father was Hispanic. My favorite cousin was adopted as a little girl from China. My music playlists are like that, too, jumping from genre to genre. I enjoy variety.”

“On that we agree, sweetheart.”

Suddenly it clicked. I know who he reminds me of! She flashed back to her childhood, watching Indiana Jones movies with her brothers. Ty’s gray-blue eyes were far too light, but his build was about the same. With his short brown hair, tousled slightly on top, and a five o’clock shadow that looked more like half past eight, he had the right mix of clean-cut masculinity and attractively scruffy. All he needed was the fedora.

Ty smirked, making her aware she’d been staring for several seconds.

Heat crept into her cheeks. “I—I was just trying to picture you with a hat and a whip.”

His face went completely blank at the non sequitur. She felt a twinge of satisfaction, seeing the irrepressible Ty Beckett nonplussed.

But he recovered with a lazy half smile. “Interesting game. My turn. Want to know how I’m picturing you?”

“No!”

At that moment, Damien Craig called for everyone’s attention, solidifying Grace’s belief that there was a benevolent God. She sidled away from Ty, losing him in the throng as people gathered toward the front tables. Damien spoke into a portable microphone, inviting them all to sit down.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I hope you’re all enjoying the wonderful food and wine…and getting to know your rivals. There are ten fantastic chefs in this room tonight, each with different backgrounds and unique skill sets.” He read all of their names in alphabetical order, starting with Ty and finishing with Seamus Wilson. “Unfortunately only five of you will actually compete in the events at Frederick-Fest, which begins Saturday. We’ll start filming tomorrow, giving you individual and team challenges this week until we’ve narrowed it down to our finalists. Good luck. Remember it’s an honor just to compete.” He waited a beat. “Of course, it’s a much bigger honor to win.”

* * *

DECLINING A CUP OF after-breakfast coffee, Stephen pushed his chair back from the table and stood. His expression, a combination of sternness and awkwardness, made him look like a father leaving his teenage son at college for the first time. “Would it do any good to tell you to behave?”

Ty grinned. “You’re one of the most paranoid SOBs I’ve ever met. What kind of trouble do you think I’m going to get into, exactly?”

“The mind boggles.” Stephen was returning to Austin to be with his pregnant wife and catch up on work for his other clients, but he’d promised to bring Donna up for the festival when Ty made the finals. “You’re going to be all right without a car? I could schedule a rental.”

“The producers are providing group transportation, remember?” He paused, considering. “Although, with any luck, I can sweet-talk Grace Torres into showing me around town.”

“I don’t think so. Face it, you’ve finally met your match. She might be your kryptonite. Meaning you should probably stay away from her.”

Ty made a noncommittal mmm sound but couldn’t help thinking that if Stephen believed he could walk away from the challenge of befriending Grace, his manager didn’t really know him at all.

Not long after Stephen left, it was time for Ty and the other chefs to meet in the hotel lobby. They were taken to the industrial kitchen of an upscale local restaurant that that was closed on Mondays. The owners, delighted by the publicity it would gain them, were letting the show use its facilities for the first challenge.

Once the chefs were gathered, Damien explained that they had a warm-up task involving local Texas wines. “You had the opportunity to learn about some local wines last night. Now let’s see how you do with a blind tasting.” They were given tasting notes to read, then they were shown to a table of numbered bottles with no visible labels. They sipped rieslings, cabs, chards and tempranillo, cleansing their palates between with bites of bread.

After they all turned in their sheets, Damien and one of his production assistants conferred in the corner, checking answers. The host returned to the center of the room. “As expected from chefs of your caliber, most of you did well. Katharine Garner and Grace Torres did particularly well, only transposing two of the wines. They tied for second place, beaten out by Ty Beckett.”