Big Bad John (Bigger in Texas Series) (21 page)

By R.G. Alexander

From Samhain Publishing

Chapter One

Lemons.

The secretaries, who always knew everything before anyone else did, had given her a going away fruit basket overflowing with colorful mangos and apricots, star fruit and red persimmons—but the lemons so perfectly summed up her last four years with the local, top-rated cooking show that they were all she could see. She pursed her lips. Only sour grapes would have been more apropos.

“Stop moping, Truly, dearest. You’ll get wrinkles. Get out of the car. Please? You’re going to love this place. You’ll thank me later. I promise.”

“I told you, Robert. Don’t call me that in public. TS. My name is TS.”

No it wasn’t.

Truly sighed and allowed her now
ex
assistant to take her hand as she stepped out of the silver BMW she would no doubt have to return to the dealership when she wasn’t able to make next month’s payments.

Her name
was
Truly. Her middle name was something she’d been trying to forget since she was old enough to pronounce it. The story of her parents falling in love during a drive-in showing of
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
had been pounded into her brain. Along with years of awkward introductions, bad jokes and worse pick-up lines.

Robert thought her name was wonderful, and perfect for her career in culinary PR. Obviously the television studio didn’t agree. More to the point, the head of programming didn’t agree. “Bastard.”

Robert’s lips formed a smirk behind his slender goatee, knowing exactly who she was talking about. “I think you’re being too kind. I wouldn’t be a good assistant if I didn’t know exactly why he fired us. You turned him down didn’t you?”

Truly sidestepped a puddle in the parking lot, unwilling to meet his gaze. “What are you talking about?”

Robert tugged on his ear, drawing attention to the diamond earrings lining his lobe. “I knew it. Truly, you and I both know that man is a walking, talking stereotype. There isn’t an intern or wannabe host who hasn’t learned about his more indiscreet tendencies the hard way. I’m surprised he waited so long to have a go at you.”

“You don’t know as much as you think you do. Besides, he needed me. His pocketbook took precedence over his…baser needs.” Until recently.

Truly shrugged, but inside she was seething. It wasn’t what Robert thought. Clive hadn’t come on to her. He’d made it clear that she wasn’t his type at every possible opportunity, thank God.

She’d always known she was safe from his type of harassment. Not only was she fantastic at her job, but she also wasn’t blonde, submissive or remotely stupid. Which was the kind of women he gravitated toward.

Clive leaned toward anorexic toothpicks and that did
not
describe her. She loved food and it showed—in her breasts, in the ample hips and thighs that remained in spite of all her hard work at Zumba class. And regardless of the money she spent at the salon, her hair took every opportunity to kink around her like a frizzy, red halo. A fact her boss never failed to point out. But at least it kept him at arm’s length. He’d respected her business sense, her aesthetic. He always took the credit for her ideas, of course, but he told her at least once a week that he didn’t know what he’d do without her. And for a while it was enough.

Until she’d witnessed the mighty hunter forcing a poor intern to do his bidding last week and got in the way.

She’d known the kind of man he was. He cheated on his wife. Often. He made risqué comments whenever he could get away with it, but she hadn’t believed he would ever go that far. And she’d had to do something about it. Truly had taken the crying woman out of his office and, within hours had gotten her transferred, with a glowing referral, to the news department. Out from under Clive’s control.

He hadn’t said anything to her about it. Hadn’t even acknowledged his breach in protocol. She’d thought he’d been too embarrassed. She was wrong.

Fired.

She’d never been fired in her life. And she’d worked in some horrible dives during college. It just wasn’t fair. She was the one who’d thought up the popular morning show that put their station on the map. She was the one who caught The Food Network’s eye and turned it in their direction, ever so briefly, bringing one of their famous cooking stars to the set to share the stage with her chef.

Hell, she’d even
found
the star of the show at a local farmer’s market.
Brunch with Laura
was her baby, and she’d lost it all because she wouldn’t play Clive’s reindeer games. Or more specifically, she didn’t look the other way while he tried to play his game with that innocent girl.

Of course when she’d confronted him after being asked for her I.D. pass and credit cards by station security, he’d thrown out a list of trumped up charges. She’d offended guests—her promotional work had failed to keep the ratings up, etc. All bullshit. All because he hadn’t gotten his way.

Her initial instinct was to sue the jerk, and get the intern to sue him too. The thought was quickly followed by an image of Clive’s sweet, though misguided, wife and two young children. She’d grown to love them. The kids called her Auntie T for crying out loud. How could she put them through that? How could she not?

“Jackass.”

“Darling, people are going to think you’re socially challenged if you don’t stop randomly swearing out loud. Come inside. This place serves the best food I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something. I was hoarding my little secret to further my own career, but I think we can safely say this is an emergency.”

She glanced up at the hand carved wooden sign above the door. The Iron Horse. She let Robert guide her inside, took one look around and did something she’d never done before. She snorted. “What were you trying to keep secret? That you’ve only been pretending to have good taste? That you’ve joined a motorcycle gang?”

It was a dump. Or, on closer inspection, a diner carefully decorated to look like a dump. Dark wood paneling everywhere, small Formica tables dwarfed by a long bar cluttered with condiments. And everywhere pictures of men on bikes. Old black and white pictures in front of garages. Customers in front of the restaurant. The walls were covered. All that was missing was a pool table and the smell of sawdust and vomit. She supposed this was the perfect place to celebrate the end of her career with foodies. In a cheap burger joint.

Robert slid out a plastic chair with a torn, slippery cushion. “I know that look on your face. I predict by the end of this meal you’ll have to apologize. And when I say apologize, I mean I’ll get a nice little gift bag with my favorite champagne and a new company credit card to replace the one Clive’s secretary cut up this morning.”

Her brow furrowed. “Robert, I don’t know what you think wi—”

A young male voice tinged with belligerence interrupted her. “A little early for lunch, aren’t you?”

Truly pursed her lips and looked up at the adolescent server. He couldn’t be more than thirteen. The mop of hair on his head may not have seen a brush in a week, but it was certainly colorful. Bright orange with streaks of black. Or was it black with streaks of orange? What kind of look was he going for, half-tiger?

“Tell them it’s me, and that I couldn’t wait. We’ll have the full treatment. Give us two specials and some ice tea.”

Truly turned back to glare at the smug Robert as the boy stomped huffily toward the kitchen. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the menu.”

“You don’t need one. Besides they rarely use the few they have. Most of their regulars get what they want.”

She huffed. “When you said you’d take me to lunch I thought we were going somewhere classy. I went all out for your birthday, buster. The least you could do is pamper your ex boss.”

He lifted one pierced eyebrow. “I told you about my recent credit card tragedy, right? Anyway, stop being such a bitch, dearest. You’ve always had an open mind. Give it a chance.”

She sniffed and crossed her arms, nodding grudgingly. Fine. She’d give it a chance. But after this he was off her Christmas list. No more spa days for Robert. Or her for that matter.

Damn, all she wanted was a good long sulk in her fuzzy pajamas with a pint of Cherry Garcia. She wasn’t fit for company right now, and no two-star greasy spoon was going to change her mood.

Two hours later she knew she’d have to eat her words. And if they tasted anything like the four courses she’d just gorged herself on, she’d enjoy every minute. She closed her eyes, inhaling the aroma of her after dessert coffee and moaned.

One eyelid lifted at Robert’s knowing chuckle. He knew. How could he not? From that light, delectable Caprese salad to the decadently sinful hazelnut foam with white chocolate shavings that had her groaning aloud in pleasure—it was heaven. Not at all what she expected when she walked into this hole-in-the-wall. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a meal so much.

She set down her cup and opened both her eyes. “Okay. Tell me. Is this a practical joke? Did you bring the chef from the ski resort over here to pull my leg?”

Robert shook his head. “I swear. It’s no joke. Besides, that old bastard couldn’t cook like that on his best day, and you know it.”

It was true. “Then who?”

“I’m going to soccer practice. So you should give me my tip now.”

Truly jumped in her seat. That boy was fast, sneaky and rude.

And he wasn’t alone.

“Just for that, you overgrown Thundercat, I’m keeping your tips for the rest of the week and buying your baby brother a new toy. A loud one. Now apologize to the nice customers and get to practice.”

The voice belonged to a drool-worthy man dressed in tight jeans, a black T-shirt and unbuttoned chef whites. Gerard Butler had cooked her dinner? She must be dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had
that
fantasy.

“Damn—I mean, darn it, Uncle Nate. I’m sorry.” The boy looked down at Truly and Robert. “I’m really,
really
sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Truly nodded absentmindedly, unable to tear her attention away from the chef-
cum
-hunk of sizzling man meat. He looked more like he’d just tumbled out of bed after a night of exhausting but satisfying sex than out of the kitchen. The dark shadow of stubble on his jaw and carelessly ruffled charcoal hair with just a few strands of gray at his temples only enhanced that illusion.

Robert stood. “Nate, good to see you again. I have someone I really want you to mee—”

Nate held up his hand, his chocolate brown stare still fixed on the tween. “One more chance, Justin. Only one. Come in an hour early tomorrow to scrub the kitchen floor and help Louis with morning prep.”

The young boy’s shoulders dropped had Nate lifting dark eyebrows. “I mean it, boy. Spawn of my sister or not, if you want to see a penny of that paycheck you’ve been spending in your head, you’ll be here without complaint.”

“Yes, Uncle Nate.”

The bell above the door rang as he rushed out without another word, and the restaurant fell silent.

Truly watched as the man ran a frustrated hand through his silken hair and turned to his two customers with a grimace.

“He told me you were here, Bob. Good to see you again.” He gestured toward the door. “Sorry about that. Justin is at that stage where he thinks cynical and rude are synonyms for mature.”

Bob?
Truly smirked at the red-faced Robert, watching as the two men shook hands. Nate-the-hot-chef glanced in her direction for a moment, his jaw tightening before he looked away, dismissing her.

That one, silent rejection was suddenly more disturbing than Clive’s years of harassment. It was more than she could stomach for one day. The food may have soothed her anger at being so summarily ejected from her work, but how many insults was a grown, educated woman supposed to take?

“Maybe rudeness runs in the family.” She muttered the words under her breath, but when he turned back to her so quickly, his gaze heavy-lidded and dangerous, she knew he’d heard.

“Bob, you should warn your girlfriend about the dangers of insulting a chef in his own restaurant.”

Damn, how could a threat sound so…delicious? “Robert,
you
should warn the
chef
of the dangers of insulting someone who knows every food critic and food inspector in town.”

Robert chuckled and held up his hands. “Time out. I think I should make introductions before this goes any further. Nate, this is TS Larkin, creator of
Brunch with Laura
, one of the most popular local cooking shows in Denver. TS? This is Nathaniel Grange, co-owner and one of the exceptionally talented chefs at The Iron Horse.”

Surprise filled Truly at Nate’s reaction, or lack thereof. There wasn’t a chef in the state who didn’t trip over themselves when they found out who she was. She’d learned long ago that the only thing the egotists wanted more than to be admired in their restaurants was to be admired on television. Though few of them had the photogenic ability to carry it off. Unlike this man.

The man who didn’t seem remotely impressed by her credentials.

Nate shrugged. “TS, is it? Well, I’m honored to have such a…
prestigious
guest at our humble establishment.” He smirked. “My grandmother watches your show all the time. When she isn’t watching The Weather Channel, that is.”

She tasted blood on her tongue, and realized she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from responding to his baiting. She’d dealt with arrogant chefs before. Why was he getting to her? She didn’t care if he thought the show she created was boring. His idea of riveting television probably started with a pizza delivery and ended with a money shot. He was, after all, a man.

Another voice, sexy and slow, stopped her from saying something she’d probably regret later. “Bobby? Is that you, man? Did you bring the looker?”

Truly turned and nearly swallowed her tongue. Two men had come through the kitchen door, dressed very similarly to Nate. Frustrated actors? Out of work models? They couldn’t be chefs. Men who looked like this didn’t choose culinary school as a rule. They became arm and eye candy for rich, bored housewives.