“You’re wicked with that knife.”
“Knife skills are one of the best weapons in a chef’s arsenal,” Remy said.
Remy found the same comfort of working in the kitchen with Staci as he did in his own kitchen back home. But that didn’t surprise him; he’d always known he was meant to be a chef. He just wasn’t sure he was meant to follow his father’s and uncles’ culinary vision.
Staci distracted him and that intrigued him. He’d had affairs before—he was too passionate and his sexual drive was too high for him not to. But he’d never allowed himself an affair with another chef. It seemed to him that life was best served by keeping his personal and professional lives separate.
Now, he wasn’t sure. He watched her dip her spoon into the sauce she was preparing and that tiny pink tongue of hers darted out to lick it. In his mind, he moved closer to her and tested the sauce, not from the spoon but from her lips.
“Want a taste?” she asked.
He snapped back to the present and nodded. He wanted way more than a taste, but that would be a good place to start. She held the spoon out to him but he took her wrist and drew her closer to him.
Her lips parted and her tongue darted out again, this time to wet her lips. Her pupils dilated and there was a rosy flush that climbed up her face.
“Delicious …” he said.
Dear Reader,
I’m obsessed. Not about anything naughty but about televised cooking competitions. I can watch them from the US, the UK and Australia and I do. I love the subtle nuances of each of the different shows. And I admire how, no matter what the country, the competitors are fierce. I can’t get enough of watching the interaction of the contestants and wondering what if …?
What if one of the contestants was the son of a famous chef? What if he lied about who he was and what if, as happens in real life, he falls for a woman while living this lie? These are the seeds of the story that became Sizzle.
I hope you enjoy it!
Happy reading!
Katherine Garbera
About the Author
KATHERINE GARBERA is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty books, who has always believed in happy endings. She lives in England with her husband, children and their pampered pet, Godiva. Visit Katherine on the web at www.katherinegarbera.com, or catch up with her on Facebook and Twitter.
Sizzle
Katherine Garbera
It’s funny how you can know someone her entire life and still be surprised by how much you still enjoy hanging out with her years later. This book is dedicated to my sister Donna. Love you, DD.
Special thanks to Kathryn Lye for insight in the early stages when I was going down a wrong path.
1
STACI ROWLAND RAN THE LAST block and a half to the Hamilton Ramsfeld kitchen and studios. She was late, more than late she was on the verge of blowing the chance of a lifetime—the chance to be on Premier Chef. And the chance to win half a million dollars and have her own television cooking show. The chance to get back into a Michelin starred kitchen and prove that all the raw young talent she’d had hadn’t been wasted.
She was running late because she was a little short of money this week, which was her own fault because she’d blown every cent of her disposable income on a new set of knives for this competition. Gas prices were high and she hadn’t been able to afford a tank of gas from San Diego to Santa Monica so instead she’d had to bus it.
Now sweat was dripping down her back, she was overheated and the knives she carried in her left hand were starting to feel as if they weighed a ton. She ran through the front doors of the building, air-conditioning immediately starting to cool her damp back. She glanced at the empty reception desk.
“Damn,” she said, under her breath, rushing to the desk to find a clipboard with a list of names, including hers and instructions to take the elevator to the fourteenth floor. She pushed the elevator button and opened her purse to search for the letter she’d received from the Premier Chef producers, hoping it had an exact room number on it. The bell pinged and she stepped into the elevator car, catching the toe of her shoe on the lip of the gap, which sent her sprawling forward.
Staci cursed as she tumbled through the air expecting to hit the floor and instead hit a warm solid person. She heard his curse as a stream of cool liquid washed over both of them. She glanced up, an apology on her lips, and froze as she stared into a pair of Caribbean blue eyes. She tried to push herself free but her hand slipped on his arm and he gripped her waist to keep her upright.
“Oh fudge,” she said. “I’m just not having a good day.”
He was tall and, she could tell from the way he was holding her, well built with a muscled chest and strong shoulders. His jaw was square with an almost bullish set to it and when he looked down at her with those brilliant blue eyes of his, they were frosty. Not frosty enough to dry the sweat dripping down her back but she felt a definite chill. Great, she thought, it was as if the universe was conspiring to ruin her day.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s cool,” he said, his southern drawl washed over her senses and she did a double take. He had casually ruffled dark black hair that curled over his forehead. His body was lean and muscular not typical of every chef she’d met. And she had no doubt that he was a chef. “Maybe next time you should look where you are going?”
“Thanks, I hadn’t thought of that,” she shot back. Not in a mood to be sweet and cheery since she was overheated and as the liquid dried on her skin it felt sticky. “What were you drinking?”
“Sweet tea,” he said.
Of course he was since his voice was all Southern plantations and magnolia trees she wasn’t surprised. She brushed her hands over her clothes and shook her head. “Someone up there really hates me.”
“Up there?” he asked, reaching around her to push the button for the fourteenth floor.
“The universe or heaven or whatever you like to call the fickle fates,” she said, tucking a strand of her short hair behind her ear.
“Why are you blaming an unseen power when you are clearly running late?” he asked. “If you’d been here on time none of this would have happened.”
“Touché,” she said.
Silence grew between them and Staci tried to just let it be, but she hated quiet … always had.
“Are you here for the competition?” she asked. It was an educated guess, but one she suspected would be confirmed since he held a bag of chef knives in one hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I hope you are better in the kitchen than you are in the elevator.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen me at my best in the elevator,” she said with a wink. Then holding out her hand to him, she introduced herself. “I’m Staci Rowland.”
“Remy … Stephens,” he said. His handgrip was firm and his hand was warm in hers. His hands showed signs that he’d been a chef for a while with burn marks and nicks that had long since scarred over. If his hands were any indication the man could cook.
She stared at his face perhaps a little longer than she should, unable to look away from the beard stubble on his face, which gave him a rugged sexy appearance. When she glanced back at his eyes