time that he hadn’t given the raw footage to the show’s producer. He hadn’t thought to keep a copy and now he was empty-handed against Finn. But not for long. Once Jeff had the recording, he’d release it on every media outlet possible. The blackmail would stop and the world would finally know what Finn had done to his customers, and to Jeff.
No one attacked the Harpers and lived to tell the tale.
For the first time that week, Jeff actually smiled.
* * *
Michele Cox snuggled next to her sister on the twin bed at the group home and softly read Cari’s favorite picture book. Rosie’s Magic Horse was about a girl who saves her family from financial ruin by riding a Popsicle-stick horse in search of pirate treasure. Michele didn’t know which Cari loved more—the idea that a girl could save the day while riding a horse, or that something as small as a used Popsicle stick could aspire to greatness. Whatever the case, Cari insisted that Michele read the book to her at bedtime every night.
Tonight, Cari had fallen asleep before Michele got to the part about the pirates. Michele kept reading anyway. Sometimes she needed her own Popsicle make-believe. When she closed the book, she slipped out of the bed carefully so as not to wake her snoring sister.
Kissing Cari’s forehead, Michele whispered, “Sweet dreams, cowgirl.”
Michele’s heart and feet were heavy as she went down the hall to the staff station. “I’ll call in and read to her every night,” Michele said to one of Cari’s favorite caregivers. “You’ve got my number. Text immediately if she gets the sniffles.” Cari was susceptible to pneumonia and had been hospitalized several times.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She knows the routine and is getting comfortable here. We’ll take good care of her.”
The pit in Michele’s stomach deepened. It had taken six months for Cari to learn the ropes at this home. Six long, painful months. What would happen if Michele couldn’t pay the fees to keep her here?
“Thanks for taking care of her. She’s all I’ve got.” Michele swiped the tear off her cheek.
“Oh, hon. You go have a good time. You deserve it.”
Deserve it? No, Michele was the one who’d messed up and lost the money her sister needed. She was heartsick over it.
She drove to her own apartment, poured herself a glass of wine and plopped down at the table in her painfully silent kitchen. God, she felt so alone. She was the sole provider and caretaker for her sister after Mom had died six months ago. Her father had passed when Michele was only ten. Cari needed services and health care and a chance to be a happy cowgirl, all of which required funds that had been stolen by her so-called partner.
There was only one way to fix the horrible mess she’d made.
She picked up the envelope sitting on top of her polka-dot place mats. “Harper Industries,” it said across the top in black embossed letters. Pulling out the employment application, she reread the lines, “Candidates will cook for and be judged by Jeffrey Harper.”
Her stomach flopped at the thought.
Michele wasn’t a fan of his show. That playboy attitude of his left her cold. She’d had her fill of arrogant, demanding males in her career. She’d given everything she had to the last head chef she’d worked with and where had that left her? Poor and alone. Because of him, she’d lost her desire to cook—which was the last connection she had to her mother.
Mom had introduced her to family recipes when Michele was only seven years old. Cooking together meant tasting, laughing and dancing in the kitchen. All her best memories came from that warm, spicy, belly-filling place. While the rest of the house was dark and choked with bad memories—cancer, pills, dying—the kitchen was safe. Like her mother’s embrace.
As a young girl, Michele had experimented with dishes to make her mom and Cari feel better. Mom had encouraged Michele to submit the creations in local cook-offs and, surprisingly, Michele had won every contest she entered. The local paper had called her “a child prodigy” and “a Picasso in the kitchen.” Cooking had been easy back then because food was a river of color coursing through her veins. Spatulas and spoons were her crayons. All she had to do was let the colors flow.
But now she was empty, her passion dried up. What if her gift, her single moneymaking talent, never returned?
If Michele Cox wasn’t a chef, who was she?
She tapped her pen on the Harper Industries application. Could she fake it? Jeffrey Harper was an infamous critic who publicly destroyed those who didn’t meet his standards. Would he know the difference between passionate cooking and plain old cooking? If he did, he’d annihilate her.
But if he didn’t...
The Harper chef job came with a twenty-thousand-dollar up-front bonus. Twenty thousand! With that kind of money, Cari could continue riding therapy horses. Hippotherapy was supposed to be beneficial for people with Down syndrome but Michele had been amazed at how her sister had come alive the first time she’d touched a pony. Cari’s cognitive, motor, speech and social skills had blossomed. But riding lessons weren’t cheap and neither were housing and medical bills. Michele’s rent was two weeks late and she barely had enough money in her account to pay for Cari’s care.
Her options were slim. If Harper Industries didn’t hire her, the two of them might be living on the streets.
She signed the application and went on to the final step. She had to make a video answering a single question: Why do you want to work for Harper Industries?
Straightening her spine, she looked into the camera on her computer and pressed the record button. “I want to work for Harper Industries because I need to believe good things can happen to good people.” Her voice hitched and she quickly turned the video off.
Shoot. Where’d that come from? She’d almost blurted out what happened at Alfieri’s. “Get it together, Michele. If you spill all the sordid details, they’ll never hire you.”
She scrubbed her cheeks, took a giant inhale and tried again.
“I am Michele Cox, the former chef at a five-star restaurant, Alfieri’s, in Manhattan. I will include articles about my awards and specialties but those highlights are not the most important aspect of being a chef, nor are they why I cook.
“Food, Mr. Harper, is a powerful medicine. Good cuisine can make people feel good. When the dishes are excellent, the patron can ease loneliness with a bite of ricotta cannelloni. That’s what I do. I make patrons feel happy and loved. I can do that for your new restaurant, too. I hope you’ll give me a chance. Thank you.”
Well. That wasn’t so bad. Before she could change her mind, she pressed Send on the video and sealed the application packet to be sent by overnight mail along with the glowing newspaper articles she’d promised. Today was the day she’d put Alfieri’s behind her and search for her cooking mojo.
A good person should catch a break once in a while.
All she needed was one.
Michele ran as fast as she could through the parking lot while trying not to break her neck on her high heels or snap the wheels off her luggage. She’d arrived in Los Angeles yesterday and spent the night at a nearby hotel to be on time for today’s flight to Plunder Cove. The taxi driver had dropped her off in the wrong wing of the airport, making her late. He didn’t seem to believe that a woman like her actually did mean she should be dropped off at the private jet terminal.
Her heart was pounding out of her chest when she arrived at the guarded gate. “Please tell me...I’m not...too late.”
“Name,” the guard said.
“Michele Cox. A jet from Harper Industries is supposed to take me