Hungry for More
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Synopsis
Chef James LaChance has no time for the gorgeous Gypsy who appears at his restaurant with a mysterious agenda. But women inspire his delectable menus, and after one kiss from this temptress he creates his boldest dish ever. With her on his side--and in his bed--his restaurant could earn its third star. But is success worth losing his heart to a woman who has sworn off love forever? Amy Burns is a Gypsy with a gift: she can name a person's One True Love. To keep her mystical power, she can never fall in love herself--a price she's more than willing to pay. Until she meets the sexy chef whose talents in the kitchen are only surpassed by his talents in the bedroom. But is any man worth giving up the only gift she's ever had? As desire leads to passion, Amy must choose between her destiny and the man who leaves her...
Release date: September 1, 2008
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 336
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Hungry for More
Diana Holquist
PRAISE FOR DIANA HOLQUIST
SEXIEST MAN ALIVE
“A humorous tale with lovable characters enhanced by the paranormal.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4 Stars! This sequel to Make Me a Match is a quite entertaining and enjoyable read. The bit of paranormal . . . adds an intriguing twist to this romantic tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A funny, sweet, and tender contemporary romance.”
—DearAuthor.com
“A quirky, humorous, yet thoughtful read.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Diana Holquist has another hit on her hands! Sexiest Man Alive is tender, amusing, and purely fantastic!”
—ARomanceReview.com
“By far the wittiest, smartest, and hottest book I’ve read all year. This book fairly sizzles!”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“An easy, fast-paced romance that proves to be a good escape from reality. Everyone’s search for their One True Love should be so much fun!”
—FreshFiction.com
“A fun romance combining the girl-next-door with movie stars and a hint of magic, this is the feel-good book that is as sweet as hot chocolate on a cool fall night.”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
MAKE ME A MATCH
“4½ Stars! Peopled with charming characters and containing a fascinating, almost believable, paranormal element.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Diana Holquist has a knack for pulling together a great story with romance, humor, and a touch of the paranormal—a story that keeps readers turning pages as fast as possible.”
—BookLoons.com
“Sparkles with humor and heart.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Clever and engaging, the story line is unique and fun.”
—OnceUponaRomance.net
“Diana Holquist explodes onto the romance market with this ingenious tale . . . a fun frolic through love’s twisty maze, with just enough of life’s hard knocks to keep it real.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“Five cups! This was the most heartwarming story I have read in a long time . . . I devoured this book and wanted to beg for more. Ms. Holquist is a gifted storyteller who makes you laugh, cry, and cheer.”
—CoffeetimeRomance.com
“Humorous and entertaining . . . Ms. Holquist does a great job showing the great leaps people will take for love.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A unique romantic comedy that has a heart that will keep you laughing, crying, and sighing until the last page. Holquist has brought readers a great new concept . . . who doesn’t want to know the name of their One True Love?”
—ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
“A funny, lighthearted tale of a match made in the stars.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A laugh-out-loud book that looks at the wild and wacky way in which we screw up our lives . . . the fast-paced, emotion-grabbing Make Me a Match is one story I truly enjoyed.”
—FallenAngelsReviews.com
“If you enjoy stories where character development is right on par with sizzling romance, Make Me a Match will be the perfect match for you!”
—ARomanceReview.com
Prologue
The studio lights were hot and blinding. A bead of sweat slid down Amy’s spine and dropped onto the mike pack duct-taped to the small of her back. Focus on Oprah. Oprah is kindness. Oprah is all-knowing.
Oprah is next to me.
“Three, two, one, go!” The stage manager pointed his finger like a gun, and the ON AIR signs lit up green and glowing around the studio. A breath of silence before the live audience exploded into applause.
“Welcome back.” Oprah smiled warmly as the applause died down. “We’re here today with Amy Burns, the Gypsy who has the power to tell a person the name of their One True Love.” A pause as the cameras switched to close-up. “Ms. Burns, tell us it’s true!” Oprah leaned forward.
Amy nodded as she soaked in Oprah’s warmth. Talking to this woman was like chatting with your One True Love. Not that Amy would know; she never heard the name of her own One True Love. Her sisters called this information gap the central tragedy of Amy’s life. Amy called it irrelevant. Having her own True Love wouldn’t have landed her on Oprah, that’s for sure. You had to get your priorities straight. “I hear the voice of an all-knowing spirit,” Amy told Oprah. “When willing, she can speak the name of a person’s One True Love.”
The audience murmured in appreciation. Some clapped. Some slunk back in their seats, not meeting the eyes of their companions.
“As we all know, Ms. Burns predicted the whirlwind love affair between Josh Toby, People magazine’s sexiest man alive, and his new wife, who happens to be Amy’s sister, Jasmine Toby.”
Now, that was something the Oprahites could rally around. But were they applauding for superstar Josh Toby or for the power of True Love? Despite the lights roasting her, Amy felt the focus shift away from her as acutely as if the whole stage had gone dark.
“Ms. Burns also predicted the storybook love affair between Cleo Chan of the HBO series Agent X and her new fiancé, right here on this stage.”
The crowd went mad for the affair between the superstar and her new beau that had been smeared all over the tabloids for weeks. Amy sometimes rated a sidebar box on the third page. Sometimes, a grainy photo was attached. She sucked in her stomach farther. I’ve got more psychic power in my big toe than Cleo Chan has in her entire bloodline.
Oprah turned back to Amy, if possible more radiant and focused than before. If there was one person in the world who had a slice of True Love for every creature on earth, it was Oprah. Maybe that was her tragedy. “So,” Oprah begged, “give us details. Does your spirit-voice have a name?”
Amy melted under Oprah’s gaze. Or was it the hot-as-hell studio lights? “I call her Maddie, but I made the name up. She never says her name. She only speaks the names of others.”
“And she’s been with you your entire life?”
“On and off.” A tremor of fear raced up Amy’s spine, but she shook it off. These last few years, Maddie had been mostly off. But she’ll show today. She just has to. She always showed when Amy needed her most.
Oprah threw back her head, held out her hands, and flashed her magnificent incisors. “So touch me, baby! Tell me the name of my One True Love!” The audience sat forward as one. “Just don’t tell Steddy, okay?” She winked.
This woman was amazing. She had no fear. Her One True Love could be anyone—man, woman, black, white, drug addict, CEO . . .
Amy took Oprah’s cool, smooth hands in her hot, wet ones. Please, Mads. For Oprah. For America. For me.
Silence. Amy closed her eyes. One last time. I’ll do anything.
She felt a rustling, a disturbance in the energy patterns. Yes. Thank you. I knew you’d come.The warmth that signaled Maddie’s presence rose in her. This was going to be the biggest moment on TV ever. Oprah’s One True Love!
“She’s smiling, ladies and gentlemen. Does that mean you’re hearing the voice?” Oprah asked. The studio was silent with breathless anticipation. Dust particles hit the hot lights and exploded, microscopic portents of the fireworks that would explode when America knew Oprah’s One True Love.
Amy held still, trying to empty herself so Maddie could enter her soul. Talk to me, baby. Talk to Oprah.
The heat intensified within her. First a pinprick, then the warmth of the spirit spread through her like an opening flower. Oh, Mads. Thank you for coming! I love you. I really do. Sorry. I’ll shut up. Go ahead. Give me the big lady’s One True Love.
The voice in Amy’s head spoke in a soft but distinct whisper: “Good-bye.”
Then there was nothing.
When working with a roux, liquids must be added very slowly or the mixture will be lumpy and not properly thickened. Like love, too fast or too cool, and all is ruined.
—JAMES LACHANCE, PROLOGUE, The Meal of a Lifetime
Chapter 1
Three months later
James stirred the melting butter counterclockwise, adding flour with a flick of his fingers, a snow flurry melting on the buttery sea. He watched the flour dissolve in the golden liquid, then handed the wooden spoon to Troy. He checked his watch. Three o’clock. Two hours to opening, three hours to rush, four hours to chaos. “Stir. No. The other direction. Counterclockwise.”
“Why’s it matter what direction I stir?” Troy asked. His question was laced with doubt and defiance.
James glanced at the boy. He was just a kid. Barely fifteen. James knew he shouldn’t be hard on him, but this was a roux, the classic combination of butter and flour that formed the base of French cooking—the base of life. You couldn’t go soft on essentials like this. “You wanna be a great chef, you honor the roux. Do not question the roux. I’m gonna check out front for the wine delivery.”
Troy changed the direction of the spoon with a scowl that made James proud. A great student asked, but a great teacher never answered, because anyone worth his or her balls in the kitchen didn’t give a shit what anyone else said. If Troy was going to be a great chef one day, he’d stir clockwise just to see what happened.
Besides, if James told the kid he stirred counterclockwise for luck, he’d lose face. And you never lost face in your own kitchen. Worse than death.
James passed through his restaurant’s gleaming chrome kitchen, grunting in admiration for Raul’s perfectly seasoned stock, for John-John’s exquisite mise en place, for Craig’s perfectly minced garlic. Each of his cooks told him to fuck off, a chorus in his wake. He loved these guys.
He grabbed a wooden spoon and stuck it into Pablo’s soup of the day. “More salt,” he muttered. Pablo gave him the finger but added the salt. James passed the Guatemalan boys husking corn on overturned milk crates. The corn was shit. He could tell at a glance, feel it in the tips of his fingers as surely as if he’d grown and harvested and detasseled each ear himself. “Throw that garbage to the rats,” he commanded. “Then go across the street to Alma and beg. Roges! Ahora!”
Damn. Lousy corn plus his floor manager, Elliot, just told him that his best server, Roni, had gone AWOL. The night was shaping up to be a nuclear meltdown. A thrill of excitement raced through him. All good chefs were adrenaline freaks; it was in the job description. A meltdown was a test of manhood, of ability. It was all in a night’s work.
James pushed through the swinging doors into the deserted, darkened dining room, thinking about the menu for the night. He was short a first-course special. A delivery of lust-inducing shiitakes had arrived that morning, but they’d keep. Better to use the broccoli rabe that was dying in the walk-in fridge downstairs.
His restaurant, Les Fleurs, was the only two-star French restaurant in Philly (besides Le Bec Fin, the bastards), as rated by Le Guide des Restaurants. That is to say, as rated by God. Two stars meant a six-month wait for reservations and a constant panic headache at the base of James’s skull at the thought of losing even a fraction of one of his precious celestial bodies. Les Fleurs was going to be the death of him. And what a way to go. Bury me in foie gras, white truffles, and red wine. He loved the place like a woman.
No, more than a woman. He hadn’t slept more than four hours a night since he’d opened his doors to rave reviews two years ago. No woman had ever been able to keep him up that long.
The windowless dining room was dark except for a single stream of snow-reflected daylight coming through the front door’s glass panes, a reminder that, to the normal world, dinner was still a long-off event. He flicked on the bar lights, grabbed the seltzer siphon, and shot a stream of ice-cold liquid into his mouth.
“Can’t a person get a bite to eat in this joint?”
He peered into the dimness. A woman stood in the darkness. He could just discern her outline in the shadows. How had she gotten in here? James reached behind the bar and flicked on the overhead work lights, throwing the room into garish display.
Hello.
Her face was a valentine heart, her eyes as black and slanted as a doe’s, her lips a perfect bow. Sparkling snowflakes dotted her tangled hair, blinking in and out like tiny SOS warning beacons. A surge of lust rose within him.
“I’m here for Roni.” Her voice was sandpaper rough.
Right. She must be the temp server to replace Roni. James had overheard Elliot sweet-talking into his cell, trying to steal a server from La Fondue across town to replace Roni tonight. It was standard restaurant practice to pilfer help. No hard feelings. Three weeks ago, the scum at La Fondue had picked Louis, James’s garde-manger, right out from under him in the middle of a Saturday-night rush. All was fair in love, war, and high-priced food.
James watched the woman closely. “Elliot told you the drill? We do a four-table split, under the table for tonight, on the books if this turns into a regular gig, and whatever bonus Elliot promised for jumping ship.” He wasn’t usually involved in front-of-house affairs, but he wanted to keep talking to this woman. Wanted to keep looking at her. In the sedate perfection of the tasteful white-on-beige dining room, she looked like a rosebush in the desert. A mirage.
She leveled her black eyes at him, watching him like a cat. Then, all at once, she swept her knee-length shearling coat behind her, a swish of her tail, and came straight toward him, smoky, dark, full-bodied, and confident. A silver-dollar-sized gold pendant swung between her breasts with pleasing effect. This woman was cayenne in a blush sauce. Hot and smooth.
She dumped her gloves and coat into his arms as she glided past him to the deserted bar. The heat of her body rose off her discarded clothes.
“ Do I look like the coat-check girl?” he asked, intrigued by her boldness. He raised her coat and inhaled her scent. Cinnamon and clove.
She ducked under the bar, looked him up and down, then tossed him a wicked smile. “You look like the coat-check girl’s fantasy lay, Cheffie.”
Her sexy, fuck-me smile almost knocked him off his feet. He put her coat onto the bar and slid onto a stool, watching her inspect his stock. He had dated the coat-check girl once. Maria. He had made a soup inspired by her, a tomato bisque. Spicy, with an acid undertone. But Maria was nothing next to this woman. A soup.
The woman continued to ransack his bar—an act no floor staff would ever dare. For a server from the Fondy, she sure didn’t seem to know much about restaurants.
But he wasn’t sure he cared. She wore a black fitted corset-type thing that cinched her waist, swelling to a stop just below her remarkable breasts. A white, off-the-shoulder peasant shirt spilled out from under the corset, covering her in a thin layer of fabric that did little to hide her black lace bra. Layers of long cotton skirts, some hanging low, some bunched at the hems, cascaded out from below the corset. She could have just exited stage right after the first scene of Carmen. She was shabby but gorgeous.
Wait, she was really shabby. Threads were loose on her shirt, hems undone on her skirts. Dangerously sexy, but no way was she from La Fondue. That was a classy operation, despite its asinine name. Where had Elliot found this woman?
She pulled out two glasses, then plucked the fifty-bucks-a-pour single malt off the shelf. “Drink?”
He shook off her offer. The pendant around her neck fell forward as she poured. It was a gold cross inside a red circle, surrounded by some sort of engraved writing. It seemed to glow, but that was most likely his overheated imagination. It had been a while since he’d been near a woman this sensuous.
Had he ever?
The woman poured two shots despite his refusal. “So where’s Roni?”
“Why do you care?”
She threw back her shot. Considered a moment. Threw back his, too. Then repoured. “She’s not here?” Her voice was flat.
“Why would I be hiring a temp server if she’s here?” He struggled to follow the odd turn the conversation had just taken.
A pause. Something dark clouded her eyes. She licked her lips. “Oh. Yeah. Right. I get it now. That’s what you were yakking about—books and tables. Right. I’m the temp server. To replace Roni.” She dared him with her obvious lie.
A surge of energy spread through him. Okay, more than energy. Lust. This woman had nothing to lose, and she knew it. Down, boy. This was business. They needed a server tonight, and here was at least a warm body.
A hot body.
The sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Plus something else he couldn’t put his finger on. The contrast between her bravado and her shabby clothes threw him. In the split second after the overhead lights had hit her, he had glimpsed something in her eyes that he recognized. But it was gone before he could place it. Or, more honestly, it was still there, but his interest had strayed elsewhere. He tried to keep his eyes off her chest. “Ever wait tables?”
She downed her drink. “For a few weeks. Mexican joint. Got fired for stealing from the register.” She cocked her head and blinked her doe eyes, daring him.
“Did you?” He already knew the answer.
“Of course. Shit job.” She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue a promise.
James checked his cell for a call from Elliot. If he hadn’t looted a replacement server for Roni by now, he wasn’t going to. James’s other servers could handle an extra table each. But an extra set of hands—not to mention an extra set of what was so magnificently spilling over her black corset—would help with Dr. Trudeau, who came every Tuesday night for his one-night stand—consommé, bib salad, and roasted duck served wordlessly by Roni and only by Roni, the beautiful Gypsy with the big black eyes.
Wordless seemed unlikely with this woman, but at least Dr. Trudeau would have these cauldron-deep eyes to stare into as he slurped his broth.
I’ll just have to keep an eye on her . The thought made his crotch jump. An eye; only an eye. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
She seemed to consider. “Amy,” she said finally.
“Hi, Amy. I’m James.” He wondered what her real name was. Well, if she stuck around, he’d find out eventually.
Maybe.
Salade de Tres Fleurs Lobster salad with ginger and tamarind reduction
—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime
Chapter 2
The scotch scorched Amy’s throat, but it didn’t help ease her growing panic. For three months, she’d been searching for her missing spirit-voice, Maddie. Finally, after three well-placed, ever-increasing bribes to a corrupt high-level Gypsy elder in Yonkers, she had gotten word of a young Gypsy waitress in Philly who had mysteriously begun hearing a spirit-voice that spoke names and only names.
The voice just had to be Maddie. Her Maddie. Her voice. And she was getting Maddie back; that wasn’t negotiable. The voice said only names in a woman’s singsong; it appeared just last week out of nowhere; Roni, the waitress, was reportedly good and honest and pure—exactly the kind of Gypsy Maddie would want to inhabit after her obvious disappointment with Amy’s more unconventional ways.
In other words, Roni was Amy’s complete opposite.
Amy couldn’t stand the woman already.
She still had no idea how she’d get Maddie back from this Roni. But the details would come to her; the cons always did.
It was the traveling that was killing her. She was getting too old for this nomadic life. Thirty-four sucked. The long trek to Philly began with a cross-country Greyhound ride from Chicago, her seatmate a two-hundred-fifty-pound man with a bad case of dandruff, and ended with a mile-long slog through the slush in her hole-laden boots.
And Roni was gone. She had missed the Rom by a day.
Amy was so tired and wet and cold, she wanted to cry.
No. She was no weeper. Think. Make a plan. She concentrated on the handsome chef. His ink-black, pin-straight hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck like a nineteenth-century nobleman. His angled cheekbones directed her eyes toward his carefully drawn mouth. In fact, every dark, angled plane of his face pointed toward that tempting, burgundy mouth—which was talking again. “You’ll need different clothes. The floor staff wears uniforms. Black button-down shirt and black pants, but at this short notice—”
Bingo. A plan. “Front me fifty bucks and I’ll match the look. Boring and uptight, right? No problem. I’ll pay you back from tips.” The idea of waiting tables in this stuffy joint made her whole body ache with fatigue. No way was that happening. She’d take this sexy chef’s cash, get a lousy room, and sleep. Just sleep. Then, in the morning, she’d figure out how to find Roni.
The dark, handsome chef fished a roll of cash out of his pocket, and Amy watched him count twenties, her mouth watering at the sight of the bills. How her life had come to this, she didn’t know. Finding Maddie had become a three-month obsession that was getting out of hand. But every day without Maddie, a hole deepened inside her that became harder and harder to fill. It was like Maddie had been a person—a friend, even—which was ridiculous. Amy watched the money—twenty dollars, forty, sixty.
He met her eyes, paused, then unrolled seven more twenties. He pushed the cash across the bar, holding her gaze as he did.
She. . .
SEXIEST MAN ALIVE
“A humorous tale with lovable characters enhanced by the paranormal.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4 Stars! This sequel to Make Me a Match is a quite entertaining and enjoyable read. The bit of paranormal . . . adds an intriguing twist to this romantic tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A funny, sweet, and tender contemporary romance.”
—DearAuthor.com
“A quirky, humorous, yet thoughtful read.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Diana Holquist has another hit on her hands! Sexiest Man Alive is tender, amusing, and purely fantastic!”
—ARomanceReview.com
“By far the wittiest, smartest, and hottest book I’ve read all year. This book fairly sizzles!”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“An easy, fast-paced romance that proves to be a good escape from reality. Everyone’s search for their One True Love should be so much fun!”
—FreshFiction.com
“A fun romance combining the girl-next-door with movie stars and a hint of magic, this is the feel-good book that is as sweet as hot chocolate on a cool fall night.”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
MAKE ME A MATCH
“4½ Stars! Peopled with charming characters and containing a fascinating, almost believable, paranormal element.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Diana Holquist has a knack for pulling together a great story with romance, humor, and a touch of the paranormal—a story that keeps readers turning pages as fast as possible.”
—BookLoons.com
“Sparkles with humor and heart.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Clever and engaging, the story line is unique and fun.”
—OnceUponaRomance.net
“Diana Holquist explodes onto the romance market with this ingenious tale . . . a fun frolic through love’s twisty maze, with just enough of life’s hard knocks to keep it real.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“Five cups! This was the most heartwarming story I have read in a long time . . . I devoured this book and wanted to beg for more. Ms. Holquist is a gifted storyteller who makes you laugh, cry, and cheer.”
—CoffeetimeRomance.com
“Humorous and entertaining . . . Ms. Holquist does a great job showing the great leaps people will take for love.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A unique romantic comedy that has a heart that will keep you laughing, crying, and sighing until the last page. Holquist has brought readers a great new concept . . . who doesn’t want to know the name of their One True Love?”
—ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
“A funny, lighthearted tale of a match made in the stars.”
—RomRevToday.com
“A laugh-out-loud book that looks at the wild and wacky way in which we screw up our lives . . . the fast-paced, emotion-grabbing Make Me a Match is one story I truly enjoyed.”
—FallenAngelsReviews.com
“If you enjoy stories where character development is right on par with sizzling romance, Make Me a Match will be the perfect match for you!”
—ARomanceReview.com
Prologue
The studio lights were hot and blinding. A bead of sweat slid down Amy’s spine and dropped onto the mike pack duct-taped to the small of her back. Focus on Oprah. Oprah is kindness. Oprah is all-knowing.
Oprah is next to me.
“Three, two, one, go!” The stage manager pointed his finger like a gun, and the ON AIR signs lit up green and glowing around the studio. A breath of silence before the live audience exploded into applause.
“Welcome back.” Oprah smiled warmly as the applause died down. “We’re here today with Amy Burns, the Gypsy who has the power to tell a person the name of their One True Love.” A pause as the cameras switched to close-up. “Ms. Burns, tell us it’s true!” Oprah leaned forward.
Amy nodded as she soaked in Oprah’s warmth. Talking to this woman was like chatting with your One True Love. Not that Amy would know; she never heard the name of her own One True Love. Her sisters called this information gap the central tragedy of Amy’s life. Amy called it irrelevant. Having her own True Love wouldn’t have landed her on Oprah, that’s for sure. You had to get your priorities straight. “I hear the voice of an all-knowing spirit,” Amy told Oprah. “When willing, she can speak the name of a person’s One True Love.”
The audience murmured in appreciation. Some clapped. Some slunk back in their seats, not meeting the eyes of their companions.
“As we all know, Ms. Burns predicted the whirlwind love affair between Josh Toby, People magazine’s sexiest man alive, and his new wife, who happens to be Amy’s sister, Jasmine Toby.”
Now, that was something the Oprahites could rally around. But were they applauding for superstar Josh Toby or for the power of True Love? Despite the lights roasting her, Amy felt the focus shift away from her as acutely as if the whole stage had gone dark.
“Ms. Burns also predicted the storybook love affair between Cleo Chan of the HBO series Agent X and her new fiancé, right here on this stage.”
The crowd went mad for the affair between the superstar and her new beau that had been smeared all over the tabloids for weeks. Amy sometimes rated a sidebar box on the third page. Sometimes, a grainy photo was attached. She sucked in her stomach farther. I’ve got more psychic power in my big toe than Cleo Chan has in her entire bloodline.
Oprah turned back to Amy, if possible more radiant and focused than before. If there was one person in the world who had a slice of True Love for every creature on earth, it was Oprah. Maybe that was her tragedy. “So,” Oprah begged, “give us details. Does your spirit-voice have a name?”
Amy melted under Oprah’s gaze. Or was it the hot-as-hell studio lights? “I call her Maddie, but I made the name up. She never says her name. She only speaks the names of others.”
“And she’s been with you your entire life?”
“On and off.” A tremor of fear raced up Amy’s spine, but she shook it off. These last few years, Maddie had been mostly off. But she’ll show today. She just has to. She always showed when Amy needed her most.
Oprah threw back her head, held out her hands, and flashed her magnificent incisors. “So touch me, baby! Tell me the name of my One True Love!” The audience sat forward as one. “Just don’t tell Steddy, okay?” She winked.
This woman was amazing. She had no fear. Her One True Love could be anyone—man, woman, black, white, drug addict, CEO . . .
Amy took Oprah’s cool, smooth hands in her hot, wet ones. Please, Mads. For Oprah. For America. For me.
Silence. Amy closed her eyes. One last time. I’ll do anything.
She felt a rustling, a disturbance in the energy patterns. Yes. Thank you. I knew you’d come.The warmth that signaled Maddie’s presence rose in her. This was going to be the biggest moment on TV ever. Oprah’s One True Love!
“She’s smiling, ladies and gentlemen. Does that mean you’re hearing the voice?” Oprah asked. The studio was silent with breathless anticipation. Dust particles hit the hot lights and exploded, microscopic portents of the fireworks that would explode when America knew Oprah’s One True Love.
Amy held still, trying to empty herself so Maddie could enter her soul. Talk to me, baby. Talk to Oprah.
The heat intensified within her. First a pinprick, then the warmth of the spirit spread through her like an opening flower. Oh, Mads. Thank you for coming! I love you. I really do. Sorry. I’ll shut up. Go ahead. Give me the big lady’s One True Love.
The voice in Amy’s head spoke in a soft but distinct whisper: “Good-bye.”
Then there was nothing.
When working with a roux, liquids must be added very slowly or the mixture will be lumpy and not properly thickened. Like love, too fast or too cool, and all is ruined.
—JAMES LACHANCE, PROLOGUE, The Meal of a Lifetime
Chapter 1
Three months later
James stirred the melting butter counterclockwise, adding flour with a flick of his fingers, a snow flurry melting on the buttery sea. He watched the flour dissolve in the golden liquid, then handed the wooden spoon to Troy. He checked his watch. Three o’clock. Two hours to opening, three hours to rush, four hours to chaos. “Stir. No. The other direction. Counterclockwise.”
“Why’s it matter what direction I stir?” Troy asked. His question was laced with doubt and defiance.
James glanced at the boy. He was just a kid. Barely fifteen. James knew he shouldn’t be hard on him, but this was a roux, the classic combination of butter and flour that formed the base of French cooking—the base of life. You couldn’t go soft on essentials like this. “You wanna be a great chef, you honor the roux. Do not question the roux. I’m gonna check out front for the wine delivery.”
Troy changed the direction of the spoon with a scowl that made James proud. A great student asked, but a great teacher never answered, because anyone worth his or her balls in the kitchen didn’t give a shit what anyone else said. If Troy was going to be a great chef one day, he’d stir clockwise just to see what happened.
Besides, if James told the kid he stirred counterclockwise for luck, he’d lose face. And you never lost face in your own kitchen. Worse than death.
James passed through his restaurant’s gleaming chrome kitchen, grunting in admiration for Raul’s perfectly seasoned stock, for John-John’s exquisite mise en place, for Craig’s perfectly minced garlic. Each of his cooks told him to fuck off, a chorus in his wake. He loved these guys.
He grabbed a wooden spoon and stuck it into Pablo’s soup of the day. “More salt,” he muttered. Pablo gave him the finger but added the salt. James passed the Guatemalan boys husking corn on overturned milk crates. The corn was shit. He could tell at a glance, feel it in the tips of his fingers as surely as if he’d grown and harvested and detasseled each ear himself. “Throw that garbage to the rats,” he commanded. “Then go across the street to Alma and beg. Roges! Ahora!”
Damn. Lousy corn plus his floor manager, Elliot, just told him that his best server, Roni, had gone AWOL. The night was shaping up to be a nuclear meltdown. A thrill of excitement raced through him. All good chefs were adrenaline freaks; it was in the job description. A meltdown was a test of manhood, of ability. It was all in a night’s work.
James pushed through the swinging doors into the deserted, darkened dining room, thinking about the menu for the night. He was short a first-course special. A delivery of lust-inducing shiitakes had arrived that morning, but they’d keep. Better to use the broccoli rabe that was dying in the walk-in fridge downstairs.
His restaurant, Les Fleurs, was the only two-star French restaurant in Philly (besides Le Bec Fin, the bastards), as rated by Le Guide des Restaurants. That is to say, as rated by God. Two stars meant a six-month wait for reservations and a constant panic headache at the base of James’s skull at the thought of losing even a fraction of one of his precious celestial bodies. Les Fleurs was going to be the death of him. And what a way to go. Bury me in foie gras, white truffles, and red wine. He loved the place like a woman.
No, more than a woman. He hadn’t slept more than four hours a night since he’d opened his doors to rave reviews two years ago. No woman had ever been able to keep him up that long.
The windowless dining room was dark except for a single stream of snow-reflected daylight coming through the front door’s glass panes, a reminder that, to the normal world, dinner was still a long-off event. He flicked on the bar lights, grabbed the seltzer siphon, and shot a stream of ice-cold liquid into his mouth.
“Can’t a person get a bite to eat in this joint?”
He peered into the dimness. A woman stood in the darkness. He could just discern her outline in the shadows. How had she gotten in here? James reached behind the bar and flicked on the overhead work lights, throwing the room into garish display.
Hello.
Her face was a valentine heart, her eyes as black and slanted as a doe’s, her lips a perfect bow. Sparkling snowflakes dotted her tangled hair, blinking in and out like tiny SOS warning beacons. A surge of lust rose within him.
“I’m here for Roni.” Her voice was sandpaper rough.
Right. She must be the temp server to replace Roni. James had overheard Elliot sweet-talking into his cell, trying to steal a server from La Fondue across town to replace Roni tonight. It was standard restaurant practice to pilfer help. No hard feelings. Three weeks ago, the scum at La Fondue had picked Louis, James’s garde-manger, right out from under him in the middle of a Saturday-night rush. All was fair in love, war, and high-priced food.
James watched the woman closely. “Elliot told you the drill? We do a four-table split, under the table for tonight, on the books if this turns into a regular gig, and whatever bonus Elliot promised for jumping ship.” He wasn’t usually involved in front-of-house affairs, but he wanted to keep talking to this woman. Wanted to keep looking at her. In the sedate perfection of the tasteful white-on-beige dining room, she looked like a rosebush in the desert. A mirage.
She leveled her black eyes at him, watching him like a cat. Then, all at once, she swept her knee-length shearling coat behind her, a swish of her tail, and came straight toward him, smoky, dark, full-bodied, and confident. A silver-dollar-sized gold pendant swung between her breasts with pleasing effect. This woman was cayenne in a blush sauce. Hot and smooth.
She dumped her gloves and coat into his arms as she glided past him to the deserted bar. The heat of her body rose off her discarded clothes.
“ Do I look like the coat-check girl?” he asked, intrigued by her boldness. He raised her coat and inhaled her scent. Cinnamon and clove.
She ducked under the bar, looked him up and down, then tossed him a wicked smile. “You look like the coat-check girl’s fantasy lay, Cheffie.”
Her sexy, fuck-me smile almost knocked him off his feet. He put her coat onto the bar and slid onto a stool, watching her inspect his stock. He had dated the coat-check girl once. Maria. He had made a soup inspired by her, a tomato bisque. Spicy, with an acid undertone. But Maria was nothing next to this woman. A soup.
The woman continued to ransack his bar—an act no floor staff would ever dare. For a server from the Fondy, she sure didn’t seem to know much about restaurants.
But he wasn’t sure he cared. She wore a black fitted corset-type thing that cinched her waist, swelling to a stop just below her remarkable breasts. A white, off-the-shoulder peasant shirt spilled out from under the corset, covering her in a thin layer of fabric that did little to hide her black lace bra. Layers of long cotton skirts, some hanging low, some bunched at the hems, cascaded out from below the corset. She could have just exited stage right after the first scene of Carmen. She was shabby but gorgeous.
Wait, she was really shabby. Threads were loose on her shirt, hems undone on her skirts. Dangerously sexy, but no way was she from La Fondue. That was a classy operation, despite its asinine name. Where had Elliot found this woman?
She pulled out two glasses, then plucked the fifty-bucks-a-pour single malt off the shelf. “Drink?”
He shook off her offer. The pendant around her neck fell forward as she poured. It was a gold cross inside a red circle, surrounded by some sort of engraved writing. It seemed to glow, but that was most likely his overheated imagination. It had been a while since he’d been near a woman this sensuous.
Had he ever?
The woman poured two shots despite his refusal. “So where’s Roni?”
“Why do you care?”
She threw back her shot. Considered a moment. Threw back his, too. Then repoured. “She’s not here?” Her voice was flat.
“Why would I be hiring a temp server if she’s here?” He struggled to follow the odd turn the conversation had just taken.
A pause. Something dark clouded her eyes. She licked her lips. “Oh. Yeah. Right. I get it now. That’s what you were yakking about—books and tables. Right. I’m the temp server. To replace Roni.” She dared him with her obvious lie.
A surge of energy spread through him. Okay, more than energy. Lust. This woman had nothing to lose, and she knew it. Down, boy. This was business. They needed a server tonight, and here was at least a warm body.
A hot body.
The sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Plus something else he couldn’t put his finger on. The contrast between her bravado and her shabby clothes threw him. In the split second after the overhead lights had hit her, he had glimpsed something in her eyes that he recognized. But it was gone before he could place it. Or, more honestly, it was still there, but his interest had strayed elsewhere. He tried to keep his eyes off her chest. “Ever wait tables?”
She downed her drink. “For a few weeks. Mexican joint. Got fired for stealing from the register.” She cocked her head and blinked her doe eyes, daring him.
“Did you?” He already knew the answer.
“Of course. Shit job.” She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue a promise.
James checked his cell for a call from Elliot. If he hadn’t looted a replacement server for Roni by now, he wasn’t going to. James’s other servers could handle an extra table each. But an extra set of hands—not to mention an extra set of what was so magnificently spilling over her black corset—would help with Dr. Trudeau, who came every Tuesday night for his one-night stand—consommé, bib salad, and roasted duck served wordlessly by Roni and only by Roni, the beautiful Gypsy with the big black eyes.
Wordless seemed unlikely with this woman, but at least Dr. Trudeau would have these cauldron-deep eyes to stare into as he slurped his broth.
I’ll just have to keep an eye on her . The thought made his crotch jump. An eye; only an eye. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
She seemed to consider. “Amy,” she said finally.
“Hi, Amy. I’m James.” He wondered what her real name was. Well, if she stuck around, he’d find out eventually.
Maybe.
Salade de Tres Fleurs Lobster salad with ginger and tamarind reduction
—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime
Chapter 2
The scotch scorched Amy’s throat, but it didn’t help ease her growing panic. For three months, she’d been searching for her missing spirit-voice, Maddie. Finally, after three well-placed, ever-increasing bribes to a corrupt high-level Gypsy elder in Yonkers, she had gotten word of a young Gypsy waitress in Philly who had mysteriously begun hearing a spirit-voice that spoke names and only names.
The voice just had to be Maddie. Her Maddie. Her voice. And she was getting Maddie back; that wasn’t negotiable. The voice said only names in a woman’s singsong; it appeared just last week out of nowhere; Roni, the waitress, was reportedly good and honest and pure—exactly the kind of Gypsy Maddie would want to inhabit after her obvious disappointment with Amy’s more unconventional ways.
In other words, Roni was Amy’s complete opposite.
Amy couldn’t stand the woman already.
She still had no idea how she’d get Maddie back from this Roni. But the details would come to her; the cons always did.
It was the traveling that was killing her. She was getting too old for this nomadic life. Thirty-four sucked. The long trek to Philly began with a cross-country Greyhound ride from Chicago, her seatmate a two-hundred-fifty-pound man with a bad case of dandruff, and ended with a mile-long slog through the slush in her hole-laden boots.
And Roni was gone. She had missed the Rom by a day.
Amy was so tired and wet and cold, she wanted to cry.
No. She was no weeper. Think. Make a plan. She concentrated on the handsome chef. His ink-black, pin-straight hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck like a nineteenth-century nobleman. His angled cheekbones directed her eyes toward his carefully drawn mouth. In fact, every dark, angled plane of his face pointed toward that tempting, burgundy mouth—which was talking again. “You’ll need different clothes. The floor staff wears uniforms. Black button-down shirt and black pants, but at this short notice—”
Bingo. A plan. “Front me fifty bucks and I’ll match the look. Boring and uptight, right? No problem. I’ll pay you back from tips.” The idea of waiting tables in this stuffy joint made her whole body ache with fatigue. No way was that happening. She’d take this sexy chef’s cash, get a lousy room, and sleep. Just sleep. Then, in the morning, she’d figure out how to find Roni.
The dark, handsome chef fished a roll of cash out of his pocket, and Amy watched him count twenties, her mouth watering at the sight of the bills. How her life had come to this, she didn’t know. Finding Maddie had become a three-month obsession that was getting out of hand. But every day without Maddie, a hole deepened inside her that became harder and harder to fill. It was like Maddie had been a person—a friend, even—which was ridiculous. Amy watched the money—twenty dollars, forty, sixty.
He met her eyes, paused, then unrolled seven more twenties. He pushed the cash across the bar, holding her gaze as he did.
She. . .
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