Secret Ingredient: Love. Teresa SouthwickЧитать онлайн книгу.
Alex scanned the sheets, giving her a chance to scan him. As he concentrated, frown lines appeared between his dark brows. He had a well-formed nose and a nice mouth. Very nice, she thought with a little shiver. His cheeks and jaw sported a five o’clock shadow. Incredibly male with just a hint of danger, she decided. But the wire-rimmed glasses debunked that impression pretty quickly. His wrists were wide, dusted with a masculine covering of dark hair, and his hands, with their long fingers, looked lean and strong.
“Very impressive,” he said.
“Yes, indeed.” She gave herself a mental shake and, with an effort, switched gears back to business. She cleared her throat. “They seemed to be happy with my work.”
He set the last letter on top of the folder. “With a health-conscious consumer public, the fat-free muffin mix is very timely. So is the frozen vegetable stir-fry.”
“Not to mention the recipe booklet for the dried soup mix,” she reminded him. “I included hints to cut fat and calories.”
“I see,” he said, looking at her. Was that appreciation in his eyes?
Maybe. But that didn’t dismiss his vague tone. She would bet her double boiler that he had mega-reservations about hiring her.
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in your voice?” she asked.
“You have no experience in entrées.”
“Not as a consultant, that’s true. But as my résumé states, I was trained at a prestigious culinary school. Making entrées was part of the curriculum. I know which ingredients freeze well.”
Alex met her gaze. “I was hoping to find someone with more—”
“Seasoning?” she questioned when he hesitated.
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Frankly, yes,” he said.
Tamping down her disappointment, she asked, “How long have you been looking?”
“Awhile now,” he admitted. “Casually at first, because I was fleshing out the idea and brainstorming the ad campaign. I had a verbal agreement with a chef, but he bailed out on me when he got an offer for his own restaurant. So when I found myself back at square one, I started looking at our own personnel in the restaurants, without pressuring anyone.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “No dice.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“I was hoping to land a well-known name in the business, but that went nowhere. I also talked to culinary schools. I interviewed some students who came highly recommended.”
“Apparently that didn’t go well?”
He shook his head. “Either they were starstruck, with ambitions of working at world-famous restaurants in New York, or their specialties leaned toward froufrou and artsy.”
“Not on the same wavelength?” she asked, adding a dollop of understanding to her tone.
“That’s putting it mildly.” He leaned forward and folded his hands, resting them on his desk.
She tried, but couldn’t summon sincere sympathy. Not when she wanted this job so much. She couldn’t help feeling grateful that he was having a difficult time filling the position. It boded better for her.
“I hate to say this, but it sounds like you don’t have a lot of choices left,” she said.
“You noticed.” He sighed as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Look, Fran, I worked through lunch and I’m starving. What would you say to an early dinner? The very first Marchetti’s Restaurant my father opened is across the street. Would you care to join me?”
Part of her wanted to say, “Lead me to the linguine.” The other part said her presence here at all was the main ingredient in a recipe for trouble. But she needed a job. And this assignment was leaps and bounds better than grill and taco bar positions. Her only concern was Alex Marchetti. He didn’t seem like the type who would turn the project over to even the most experienced chef, which she was not. That meant he would be a hands-on employer. Shivering at the thought, she reminded herself his hands wouldn’t be on her. This was work, not personal. The business of cooking had been personal once and she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t ever let it be again.
This instant and powerful attraction to a man had never happened to her before. She was guessing, but felt it had something to do with the fact that Alex had dropped by without warning last night. She hadn’t had time to erect her defenses. He’d slipped past her fortifications before she could arm herself against his arsenal of looks, laughs and loads of sex appeal.
But she couldn’t let a little thing like that stop her. If she was the type to run from confrontation, she would be a teacher today instead of a chef.
“A business dinner would be fine, Alex. I’d like very much to check out Marchetti’s menu.”
“You’ve never been to one of our restaurants?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He stood up. “It’s time we rectified that.”
“Hi, Abby.” Alex gave his newest sister-in-law a kiss on the cheek.
He and Fran had just entered the restaurant. As assistant manager, Abby happened to be filling in for the hostess. He didn’t miss the look on Fran’s face. Her expression registered surprise, disapproval and a distinct “Do I really want to work for a guy who kisses his employees?”
“A table for two, Alex?” Abby asked, smiling politely at Fran. Her blue eyes glittered with curiosity.
Alex had always thought the penchant for meddling was an inherited Marchetti trait. Apparently it was passed on through marriage, he realized as his blond sister-in-law gave Fran a thorough once-over. But in all fairness, Abby wasn’t accustomed to seeing him with a woman. And there was something about Fran—a sparkle, a sense of fun humming through her, a subtle sexiness.
He cleared his throat. “A quiet table please, Ab. We have business to discuss,” he added quickly. Squash the rumors before they got started. No sense fueling the family gossip mill. The meddling Marchettis needed no challenge or encouragement.
“I have the perfect table,” Abby answered.
He looked at Fran, the doubtful expression in her eyes reminding him he hadn’t made introductions. “Fran Carlino, I’d like you to meet Abby Marchetti. She and Nick have been married…” He stopped to think how long it had been.
“Six months, and we’re still on our honeymoon,” Abby stated with stars in her eyes. “But who’s counting? It’s nice to meet you, Fran.”
“My pleasure,” Fran said, visibly relaxing.
“I’ve got a corner booth, quiet and secluded.” Abby led the way through the romantically lit, almost empty restaurant. “You picked a good time to come in, Alex. The dinner rush hasn’t started yet.”
“Good.”
His sister-in-law seated them. “I’ll send the waiter over. Enjoy your dinner. Good to see you, Alex,” she said, then she was gone.
He knew she’d wanted to say, “Good to see you with a woman.” He wished his family would get over worrying about him being alone. They would have a field day if he told them that visions of Fran kept popping into his mind. Followed quickly by a nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong. He pushed that thought away. He wished his caring but misguided relatives would find another charity case. He’d been taking care of himself—alone—for a while now. And he’d been doing a pretty good job of it if he did say so himself. That reminded him of something Fran had said that he’d wondered about.
Alex looked at her across the table. “Before we talk business, would you mind explaining the remark