Love in the Morning (15 page)

“I think we can tell people around here about it. It's Desi's award too—he deserves to know we won.” Clark picked up another piece of pizza.

She nibbled on a bit of pepperoni. Not bad at all—tasted like the real thing, in fact. “Will they announce it formally before the big party thing? Will they print it in the paper?”

“The paper may or may not print it, depending on how much space they need to fill. The people who run the contest will print a special edition of the magazine, the one they put in the hotel rooms around town. But they may wait until after the big Gala so they can use pictures from it along with the pictures of the finalists.” He picked up his drink.

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then her shoulders clenched tight. “Pictures? Of us?”

He nodded. “I'm thinking we could do them in the kitchen. It looks good—all that stainless steel and tile. Should give us a nice professional vibe. Or maybe in front of the buffet, except I don't know when they want to take the picture. We might not have any food left.”

“Pictures.” Her pulse sped up. She could feel the beginnings of a headache at the back of her skull.
Pictures.
That everyone in town would see—along with all the tourists who stayed in the hotels and picked up the hospitality magazine. The odds of somebody recognizing her had suddenly escalated to almost inevitable.

She took a deep breath, trying to get her heart to stop beating so fast. She could always stand in the back. And wear a chef's beanie. And keep her head down. There was no reason for people to recognize her. Except that with her long run of bad luck it seemed pretty certain that they would.

It seemed her one triumph over the past couple of months had turned out to be a booby prize after all.
Oh, well played, fate.

“Lizzy?”

She glanced at him. He was staring at her, eyes narrowed. The shadows in the room seemed to emphasize the bones of his face, like a Grand Inquisitor. She was so screwed—and not in a good way.

His jaw firmed slightly. “What's up?”

“Um…nothing. I just hadn't heard about the pictures, that's all.” She picked up her drink, taking a quick swallow.

“Only that's not really it, is it?” He was watching her more closely now. No hint of a smile there. She had a feeling that promise of future sex had been indefinitely postponed.

She licked her lips, reaching for her drink again.

“What's going on, Lizzy? I've got a feeling I need to know.”

He sounded so reasonable, so practical, so
nice.
All of a sudden she felt even shittier than she had before. She should tell him. She really should. “It's nothing…” She paused. She'd been going to say it was nothing bad, but that was clearly a lie. If it hadn't been bad, she wouldn't have been acting this way.

“It's nothing illegal,” she finished.

His eyebrows went up as he went on staring. After a moment, he shook his head. “That's not exactly reassuring.”

“I know. I…” She bit her lip, suddenly feeling miserable. How had she managed to screw everything up so quickly?
The hell with it.
“I had some trouble back in California. I was involved with a reality show and it went bad. I ended up getting a lot of awful publicity. That's why I lost my business. I'm just really…nervous about publicity now.”

He stared at her, his expression blank. “Well, geez—that wasn't exactly what I was expecting you to say.”

She gave him a slight smile. “What did you expect?”

“Aw, hell, I don't know.” He dug his fingers through his hair. “Maybe that you were involved in a bank robbery or something.”

“Nope. Nothing that exciting.” She managed to finish her piece of pizza, although her stomach wasn't exactly cooperating.

He was still watching her, but he no longer looked suspicious. Just sort of confused. “Will you ever tell me all the details?”

She shrugged. “Maybe sometime. I have to sort of work it out for myself first.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Okay. I'm willing to leave it at that, I guess.”

“Thanks.”
Bullet dodged.

He shook his head. “You still need to be in the picture, though. You're the winning chef, after all.”

Pictures. Still.
She reached for her beer.

Chapter Fifteen

The crew from the magazine was due to take the pictures a couple of days after Clark had passed on the news about the contest. Those were days during which Lizzy intended to spend a lot of time in bed with Clark. She figured her chances of being recognized as a notorious purveyor of food poisoning had gone up sharply, and she intended to enjoy herself until, once again, her luck ran out.

The whole
enjoying herself
part would have been a lot easier if she could have pushed Clark into the category of sex partner without any other relationship to worry about. The impossibility of doing that became obvious during their third night together.

She'd decided to cook for him, since she had a fully equipped kitchen at her disposal. Of course, she didn't have time to go to a real grocery store between cooking breakfast and prepping breakfast for the next day, but she managed to make it to the small corner market down the street. They had enough in stock for her to make a very passable meatloaf and roasted potatoes, along with some frozen peas. It wasn't exactly gourmet, but she could guarantee that it would be tasty.

Clark sailed through two pieces of meatloaf, along with several potatoes and a large portion of peas. Then he put his fork down, smiling across the table at her. “This is the best meal anybody's ever cooked for me. Thank you.”

She managed to keep her gaze on her plate so that he didn't see her blush. “Your mom didn't cook?”

His smile turned dry. “I don't think my mother ever set foot in a kitchen in her life. Except maybe to hire the people who ran it.”

Lizzy frowned. Cooking was almost a competitive sport among the Apodaca clan. Her aunts still made tamales every Christmas—arguing constantly over whose masa was better than whose. “Oh.”

Clark gave her an even dryer smile, one that was hardly more than a flexing of his lips. “Yeah, I come from one of those families.”

Lizzy shook her head. “What kind of family do you mean?”

“More money than God and a social code that would put renaissance Venice to shame.”

“Oh,” she repeated. He'd never struck her as the rich-kid type. Apparently she was wrong. “You're from New England, right?”

“Connecticut. That's sort of New England. Although the part where I grew up doesn't have much in common with the pilgrims.” He took another bite of meatloaf, then closed his eyes as he chewed. “Wow.”

“It's just meatloaf.” Her cheeks warmed again.

“Honey, when you've eaten as much institutional meatloaf as I have, this is flat-out amazing.” He grinned at her again.

“Institutional meatloaf?” She frowned. “What's that?”

“You know, schools, dorms, all of that. Meatloaf that's more filler than meat.”

“Right.” She gave him a tentative smile. “You mean like your high school?”

“Yeah, only it was prep school.” He shrugged. “Same thing, I guess. I lived at a lot of different schools. The food always sucked. Everywhere. What about you?”

“High school cafeterias were lousy. And a few cafeterias at college too. Although food at culinary school tends to be pretty good. It's got to be—you get graded on what you turn out.”

“Ah, now there's a thought—a school cafeteria run by aspiring chefs. Did they let you serve up haute cuisine?”

She shrugged. “It wasn't exactly a school cafeteria, more like a restaurant that was associated with the school. Mainly breakfast and lunch. We got a workout, though. We had to turn out a special every day and the
chef de cuisine
was the one who decided what the special would be. That's where I learned to do
pan perdu.
We should try that sometime.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“French toast. The real thing, though. French toast the way the French make French toast.”

He grinned again. “You could get lost in that sentence if you're not careful.”

A tickle of pleasure started somewhere around her heart. That grin of his was quite a thing. “I'll make it for you—you can see how you like it.”

“If you make it, I'll like it. Guaranteed.” He cut off another bite of meatloaf.

She watched him eat with a rush of pleasure, almost forgetting the food on her own plate.
Oh careful, Lizzy. You know this is all going to crash and burn.

Most probably it was. But she could still enjoy it for the few remaining moments she might have.

The day the photographer was due to arrive she tried to decide just what to wear for the picture. She could tie on an oversized apron and a chef's beanie that might disguise her identity more effectively. And that would probably be a good thing to do. But somehow her sense of professional pride got in the way. If she was going to be photographed for a magazine, she was going to look like the chef she was—or the chef she used to be, anyway.

She pulled her hair back in the usual elastic band, perching her black beanie squarely on her head. She'd brought her chef's jacket with her from LA as some kind of last nose-thumbing at fate—she'd never expected to wear it again. She buttoned it now with a sense of purpose, then glanced in the mirror next to the dining room door, drawing herself up straight.
I am a pro. Do not mess with me.

She'd definitely felt that way once. Maybe it was time to feel that way again. Past time really.

Desi wore his white apron and a grin so wide it almost split his face. He picked up the pan of muffins he'd pulled out of the oven earlier. “Where do these go?”

“Let's arrange them on a plate. We'll put them next to the omelet and the hash.” Clark had suggested they include a selection of their breakfast food in the picture. Maybe people would be more interested in the food than in her.

She plated the omelet carefully, letting the mushroom filling spill out around the edge in a savory circle. She could hear male voices in the dining room, Clark and somebody else, presumably the guy who'd take the picture. She took a deep breath.
I am a pro. Do not mess with me.

Goddamn right!

*****

Clark watched the photographer get everything set up. He hadn't originally planned on being in the picture himself, but without him it was just Lizzy and Desi, which looked a little sparse for an award-winning breakfast buffet. He really needed to see about hiring another kitchen assistant for her along with Desi and Marco.

They'd placed a high table in front of the buffet line with the dishes they'd chosen for the picture lined up at the front. The three of them would stand behind the table, maybe each holding up a dish for display.

Clark had really wanted to put Lizzy front and center, but he had a feeling she wouldn't go for that. At least she was wearing her chef's outfit. She looked…sexy as hell, if he were honest. Of course he was beginning to think she'd look sexy as hell no matter what she had on.

He'd given up on considering the question of what Lizzy was hiding. The explanation she'd given him had holes big enough to drive a truck through. Still, he assumed she'd fill in the blanks eventually, and he was willing to wait until she was ready. Because what they had at the moment was good. Very good, in fact.

He liked her. He liked talking to her. He liked eating whatever she cooked. All in all, Lizzy Apodaca made him happy. The rest of her story could wait.

The door to the dining room opened behind him and he turned, ready to tell whoever it was that the dining room was closed until breakfast tomorrow. But it was Lauren who threaded her way through the tables toward him wearing her usual dress-for-success gray suit that still showed a sizeable portion of thigh.

He managed not to grimace. He had a feeling Lizzy wouldn't feel great about having Lauren watch her being photographed. On the other hand, since Lauren represented the resort, he couldn't exactly boot her from the dining room. He gave Lauren a smile, although he couldn't vouch for its authenticity. “What's up?”

She shrugged. “Thought I'd drop by and make sure the pictures were going okay. We're almost done—just two more after you. They want to go to press by the end of the week.”

“Okay.” He turned back to where Lizzy and Desi were taking their places at the table. The photographer had already sprayed the omelet and hash with vegetable oil to make them glisten. The muffins had been placed on a bright blue platter that complemented their golden brown tops.

Now the photographer moved Lizzy behind the omelet and Desi on the other side behind the hash. He beckoned to Clark. “We're ready for you.”

“Right.” He strode up to the table and let himself be placed in the middle.

The photographer moved the lights again, getting a better angle on the food. Clark glanced out at the dining room and frowned.

Lauren was watching Lizzy, her forehead puckered in concentration, her eyes narrowed. Clark frowned harder. Had she heard about the two of them? Surely Lauren wouldn't be jealous. They hadn't had that much going on between them when they'd been together, and there was nothing between them now.

“We need a smile, Mr. Denham.” The photographer sounded slightly annoyed.

Clark managed to smile, but he was afraid it looked as phony as it felt. Still, with any luck readers would be concentrating on the food rather than him. Or possibly on Lizzy—she was a lot more photogenic than he was.

The camera flashed several times, and he managed to keep his smile in place.

“Okay.” The photographer squinted at the screen on his camera. “Looks like we've got a couple we can use. I'll send you a copy when we make the final decision.”

Clark nodded, only half-listening to him. Lauren's forehead wasn't puckered anymore, but her smile wasn't much better. She looked like she'd just stolen a particularly nice chocolate truffle from some baby's fingers.

He narrowed his eyes, glaring in her direction. “Anything else?”

She shook her head. “No, that's probably enough. I'll let you know when the page proofs come back.” She glanced once more toward Lizzy, her unpleasant grin widening. “Pleasure meeting you.”

Lizzy looked a little confused herself. “Oh. Sure.”

Clark longed to ask her what the hell was going on, but he was pretty sure that wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in front of Desi and the photographer, let alone Lizzy.

Lizzy turned toward him as the photographer broke down his equipment. “Is that all you need from me right now?”

Clark's pulse took a quick jump. He could think of several things he needed from her. But once again, he wasn't about to talk about them in front of Desi. “No, I think that's it. For now.” He felt himself smiling almost against his will.

“Okay. We'll get back to doing the breakfast prep for tomorrow.”

He watched her walk toward the kitchen, followed by Desi. He should probably have tried to set something up with her for tonight. On the other hand, they'd been together for three nights running. It might be a good idea to have a night off, if only because she managed to crawl out of his bed at four thirty in the morning every day. He figured by now she might be ready for a break.

He actually did have things that needed doing in his office—he usually did. Late in the afternoon he heard the ding that signaled a new email. He opened his mailbox to find a message from Lauren. His stomach tightened. Maybe he'd been waiting for this all afternoon without realizing it.

He clicked on the file.

Hey Clarkie:

Nice photo shoot today! Never saw your chef before—guess she doesn't get out much. You should take a look at
Lovely Ladies of LA,
season 2, episode 11. I think you'll find it very…enlightening. Of course, if your chef has told you about it already, you probably won't need to see it.

Kisses,

Lauren

His stomach stayed knotted. What the hell was she up to now? And what did it have to do with Lizzy? Probably nothing. He probably wouldn't bother to watch the damn show. Probably.

He held out until after dinner, growing more annoyed by the moment. His frozen chicken parmesan tasted like cardboard. His beer was swill. Obviously, until he'd cleared this up and watched the damned show, nothing was going to work for him. He opened his laptop and downloaded the episode.

His first reaction, five minutes in, was that the
Lovely Ladies
title had to be ironic. They were the least lovely women he'd ever seen, and as for being “ladies”, that wasn't even in the ballpark.

The women yelled constantly, sometimes at each other but sometimes at their spouses and relations and others who might pass for friends. When they weren't yelling, they were involved in conversations that were so inconsequential that he found his interest drifting. It continued to drift until one of the women started planning some kind of party. She kept claiming that her cousin was a caterer who'd give her a special deal on the food. Her husband, assuming the man she was living with had actually made the mistake of marrying her, told her to go ahead.

Clark's stomach began to tighten again. He was already pretty sure he knew who the caterer was, but he figured he'd better hang around to see it all. He needed to know just how bad things had been—and considering that Lauren had wanted him to watch it, he figured the situation had been about as bad as it could get.

Lizzy showed up halfway through the show. She was introduced as Annalisa, cousin to the screechy woman whose name was Teresa. She looked heartbreakingly young, although he was guessing the show hadn't been shot all that long ago. Apparently whatever had happened had aged her overnight.

The party took place in Screechy's house. There were a lot of guests, most of whom were apparently on the show themselves. They were also screechy, although Teresa's decibel level seemed to exceed everybody else's.

Compared to the acres of flesh on display in what he assumed were designer gowns, Lizzy's dark suit made her look glamorously austere. She stayed in the background, keeping track of the waiters and the hors d'oeuvres. Clark couldn't take his eyes off her, which meant he missed most of the dialogue between the guests and the hostess.