Falling for Her Rival

FIVE


Let marinate

“How did the other night go with your client?”

It was Friday and nearly time to knock off after a second long day of taping interviews that would air both on the television program and the show’s website. Other than a couple of hellos, these were the first words Lara had said to him since coffee on Wednesday.

Finn didn’t think she was ignoring him. The contestants had been kept extremely busy the past couple of days. And some of the taping they’d done had taken them away from the studio for several hours with their own camera crews.

Besides, after that bit of awkwardness at the coffee shop two days before, they’d left things on a friendly, flirty note.

He still wanted to give his forehead a thump over the question he’d asked her. Of all the things he could have had her clarify for him, her single status had topped the list?

Way to be subtle and smooth, Westbrook.

He wouldn’t claim to be recovered from his divorce, even if he had moved on personally and was trying to do the same professionally. He doubted a person got over a betrayal like the one Sheryl and Cole had dealt him, first with their affair and later by cheating him out of his business.

But Finn felt good, relieved even, knowing he could feel again. Even so, he remained a little off-kilter over his attraction for Lara.

She was wearing her hair back today, pulled into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck. The look could have made her appear no-nonsense or girlish even. But sexy? It was just Finn’s bad luck that was how she struck him. He’d had a hard time concentrating whenever he’d caught a glimpse of her in the studio.

He’d always been a butt man, with legs coming a close second in terms of the body parts that drew his eye on a woman. In Lara’s case, he liked everything, even her neck, which was long, slender, graceful and, thanks to the hairdo, accessible, as well.

“Finn?”

He realized he was staring. “Um, dinner. It went well. She had me prepare lamb chops for her guests.”

“How many were there this time?”

“Seventeen. It was an intimate gathering for a change,” he added wryly.

“Perhaps you should have gone into catering.”

“Watch it, Scissors.”

“I was a rock last time,” she reminded him.

Finn shrugged. “Either way, you’re getting nasty now.”

But they both were smiling. Their gazes lingered as the silence turned conspicuous. She broke eye contact first.

“So, what are your plans for the weekend? And just so you know, I’m asking out of idle curiosity only. If I were standing next to Angel or Flo right now, I’d hit them with the same question.”

“And if you were standing next to Ryder? What would you hit him with?”

“Funny. So?”

“Nothing too exciting. I’ll probably just hang out in my apartment, watch a few movies, maybe catch up on episodes of my favorite sitcom on my DVR.” She paused and cast Finn a sideways smile. “Oh, and cook amazing dishes under ridiculously tight timelines to get prepared for Monday. You?”

That streak of sass would be his undoing.

“The same. Except for the entertainment. Sitcoms are too fluffy for my taste. I’m more of a crime-drama guy. As for cooking, I have a job Saturday night.”

“Oh? Is your client having another dinner party?”

“Actually, this is for someone else.”

“Moonlighting, hmm?” Her brows lifted, disappearing into her bangs. Finn was sorely tempted to brush the hair aside. Her face was so pretty, he wanted to see all of it.

“I’m allowed.”

“Yeah?” She made a humming sound. “That’s interesting.”

“How so?”

“I would have thought the setup with your Sugar Mommy was monogamous.” Her lips twitched.

He chuckled, enjoying himself. “It’s an open relationship. We’re free to see other people.”

The silence was back. This time it was more potent than moonshine.

“Chefs!” Tristan called as he came onto the soundstage where they’d been taping their interviews.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The sound of his palms slapping together shattered the mood as effectively as fingernails down a chalkboard.

“How many times has he done that today?” Finn asked quietly.

“I think that makes six.”

“Feels more like sixty.”

“And every time he does it, he makes me feel like I’m about eight,” she murmured.

“Before you leave today, don’t forget to turn in your chef coats,” Tristan reminded them. “They will be here, pressed and waiting for you, first thing Monday morning.”

All of the contestants had received identical crisp white jackets with their names embroidered in black thread on the left side of the chest. Finn noticed that Lara kept running her fingers over the stitching. In fact, she was doing it now. The gesture seemed born of nerves, which made sense. But there was something else going on, an undercurrent that he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“The last bit of peace before a full-fledged war breaks out?”

He meant it to be teasing, but she didn’t smile. “Finn, no matter what happens, I—”

He stepped closer and stopped her words by laying a finger over her lips.

“See you next week. Bring your A game. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

The contestants who arrived at Sylvan Studios early Monday morning seemed different from the ones Finn had said goodbye to the previous Friday. As they huddled in the greenroom they were quieter, more introspective. Even Ryder was keeping his head down and his caustic comments to himself.


Finn was leaning against the far wall next to the coffeemaker, sipping from a disposable cup, when Lara arrived. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, but other than that, he didn’t say anything. Even when she crossed to where he stood and poured herself a cup of coffee, he remained silent.

Now was not the time for friendly chatter, much less sexually charged banter. It was game day and they were wearing their game faces. Someone, perhaps one of them, would be sent packing soon.

It was nearly two hours before they filed into the kitchen studio dressed in their white chef coats. They’d been routed through makeup and wardrobe, and wired for sound. This marked the first time the contestants had been back inside since the previous week, when they’d been allowed one hour to acquaint themselves with their workstations. Today, the studio brimmed with people—dozens of camera operators and their various assistants, gaffers working the lights, boom operators positioning the microphones.

The ovens had been preheated. Water boiled in pots on all of the contestants’ stoves. The oil in the deep fryers was at temperature. The pantry and refrigerator were fully stocked. Everything was ready, even if the contestants weren’t.

Garrett St. John was on the set. The host’s perfect smile looked even whiter against his tanned complexion. Someone from makeup was doing a touch-up, blotting at his suspiciously prominent cheekbones.

Finn glanced over at Lara. “Looking a little white there, Scissors. Maybe you need to sit down.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “Never better.”

But her lips pinched together after saying so. It was to his advantage that she was nervous. Finn knew this. Nerves might cause her to make mistakes, leave out an ingredient or fail to plate her dish in time. He was here to win. He fully intended to win. But...

“You can always sit out this round. Meet me at Isadora’s later. I’ll buy you a coffee and biscotto.”

His taunt did the trick. Her spine stiffened. When she glanced his way, some of the color had come back into her cheeks.

“You wish, Paper.” She clasped her hands in front of her before turning them inside out and pretending to crack her knuckles. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

* * *

She owed Finn.

He could have used her nerves against her. He’d talked her down from the ledge instead. Yes, she owed him. But gratitude wouldn’t keep her from winning.

Fifteen minutes later, she was ready, poised like a runner in the starting blocks, waiting for the red light to blink on and filming to begin.

It didn’t.

Instead, Tristan came on the set. He clapped his damned hands.

“Chefs, your attention for a moment, please. Before we begin the competition, I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise?

Generally speaking, Lara didn’t mind surprises, but the excitement gleaming in Tristan’s eyes gave her pause. This was something big. She sensed a game changer coming.

Apparently so did Finn.

“What the hell?” she heard him mutter half under his breath.

“I know you’re eager to get started, but this will only take a minute. We have someone very special who wants to meet all of you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

She chanted the denial in her head, even as Tristan pulled the rug out from under her feet by announcing, “Clifton Chesterfield, the owner of the landmark restaurant you are all hoping to run, is here today. Please give him a warm welcome.”

“No!” Lara grabbed the edge of the prep table, willing herself to remain upright even as her meticulously laid plans crashed and burned around her.

He couldn’t be here now. She hadn’t proved anything yet.

“Are you all right?” Finn asked.

Dimly, she was aware of his hand on her waist, the pressure both welcome and reassuring. But she was too busy trying not to hyperventilate to reply.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” she finally managed.

She’d counted on that. Her father was a busy man. He wasn’t supposed to come by the studio until the field of twelve contestants had been narrowed down to three. Tristan had confirmed that for Lara when she’d asked about it after surviving the preliminary rounds. Now that she was here, she planned to be one of the finalists, at which point, no matter what happened, she figured she would have proved herself.

“It’s his restaurant. Why wouldn’t he be here?” Finn sounded confused.

Before Lara could think of a reply, her father strode into the studio. Clifton hadn’t changed much over the years, although his auburn hair was shot through with silver at his temples, and it looked a little thinner on top. The beard was new. Neatly trimmed and accompanied by a mustache, it framed his face and served to camouflage his full cheeks. It, too, was streaked with gray. The lines that fanned out from his eyes were deeper than she remembered, as were the ones that bracketed his mouth, but her father would be turning sixty-five this year. He might like to believe himself omnipotent, but even he couldn’t stop time.

Or heart disease. The attack he’d suffered a year ago had been mild, but according to her aunt, the doctors were clear that he needed to change his lifestyle if he intended to live to a ripe old age.

In the meantime, he was shoring up his legacy. He was choosing not only his successor, with this competition, but potentially his heir. Her heart sank. She’d planned to earn his approval by competing. That wasn’t likely to happen now.

“Greetings, chefs,” he called out in the booming voice she remembered from her childhood. “I hadn’t planned to make your acquaintance until later in the competition, when only the best of the very best would still be here, but I had a little free time in my schedule today and I wanted to surprise you.”

In lieu of the maroon chef’s coat he wore while presiding over the Chesterfield’s kitchen, he had on a suit that was impeccably tailored to accommodate both his height and his substantial girth. Lara swallowed and fussed with her bangs, wishing they were longer and could hide her from view. But she knew her moment of reckoning was coming soon.

“I wanted to see for myself the caliber of the candidates the network pulled together from across the country. So, you twelve chefs think you are up to the Chesterfield’s exacting standards?”

He folded his arms over his chest as he spoke and scanned the room. His laserlike gaze touched briefly on each competitor, assessing them. When he got to her, he blinked twice.

“Lara?” The disbelieving tone lasted only a moment. In that scant second she wanted to believe he was happy to see her. The prodigal daughter returning to the fold. Then disbelief gave way to something darker. Oh, this look she remembered well. Irritation. Anger. Disappointment. No fatted calf would be killed to celebrate her homecoming.

Clifton shouted at Garrett, “What is the meaning of this? What is she doing here?”

“I—I don’t understand,” the host stammered.

Her father glanced around. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

Even as Garrett stepped out of her father’s line of fire, Tristan was stepping forward.

Poor Tristan. He didn’t have a clue about what was going on, so he argued, “I’ve tasted some of her dishes myself. I can assure you, she knows what she’s doing. She wouldn’t have gotten this far in the competition if she didn’t. She had to beat some amazing talent to be standing where she is.”

The younger man’s words were balm to her battered soul. Under other circumstances, they would have been enough to dispel any doubts. But with her father glowering at her in much the same manner as he had the last time they’d spoken in person, it was impossible to feel completely reassured.


“I want to know what she is doing here,” Clifton demanded a second time.

Lara glanced at Finn, who had yet to remove his hand from the small of her back. Taking comfort from that, she swallowed and stepped into range of her father’s legendary temper, hoping to calm him down before he got too irate. Elevated blood pressure wasn’t good for a man with his medical problems.

“I’m here to compete with everyone else for a chance to run your kitchen.”

He snorted. “You had your chance. You threw it away.”

“Yes, I threw it away,” she admitted. She tipped up her chin. Her father respected strength. Groveling would get her nowhere.

“Yet you have the nerve to show up here now.”

“I didn’t just show up,” she argued. “I’m here to compete. As Tristan said, I earned the right.”

“A food stylist?”

Her father’s tone was a verbal slap that left her stinging. Finn’s hand, meanwhile, tightened. Was he recalling his own derogatory tone from the other day when they’d discussed her profession?

“She did, Mr. Chesterfield.” Tristan nodded so vigorously he reminded her of a bobblehead doll. “I can attest to that. Lara Smith won all of the challenges required of the contestants in order to be here. She made it to the top twelve on her own merit.”

“Except that she isn’t Lara Smith.”

“Excuse me?”

“Good God!” Clifton thundered. “You really don’t know who she is?”

The set was alive now with murmured speculation. The gazes of not only the contestants, but everyone from the members of the sound crew to the lighting technicians to the lanky young men who were hauling around the camera cables—all were trained on her. And then there was Finn, standing quietly at her side, hand still on her waist. But for how much longer?

For someone who had never cared to be the center of attention, Lara was now. While she might wish for privacy for this unhappy family reunion  , she’d known she would be giving up that luxury when she’d tried out for the show.

“Her name is Lara Dunham,” her father continued. “Before she married the bastard food critic who had the nerve to give my restaurant the one and only two-star rating it’s ever received, she was Lara Chesterfield.”

“Chesterfield!” Tristan squeaked. He was a small man. Under her father’s penetrating glare, he seemed to shrink.

Although it was unnecessary, Clifton declared, “She’s my daughter.”

Finn’s hand fell away at her unmasking. Along with everyone else, he stared at her. Gaped, really, the way one did when viewing a particularly nasty car accident.

“Lara Dunham,” she heard him say as if testing out her name on his tongue. She liked hearing him say it, even if he did so in a hushed tone that rang with accusation.

Her father’s was demanding. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I think my presence here says it all,” she told him with more dignity and calmness than she actually felt.

“You don’t belong here,” her father replied.

“I beg to differ.”

“You had your chance. You blew it.”

She wouldn’t argue with him on that score, but she needed to make one thing clear. “I’m not asking for a chance to run your kitchen based on who I am. As you said, I blew it. I’m asking for a chance to compete for the executive-chef job like everyone else. It’s what I’ve been doing.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “I can confirm that the judges have shown no favoritism. She’s gotten to this point on merit and merit alone. No one knew who she was.”

“I won’t have it!”

“Sir—”

“No!”

With that single syllable, she knew that her hopes were dashed.

“Stick a fork in her. She’s done.” Even as a whisper, Ryder’s gravelly tone was unmistakable.

The guy was a jerk, but that didn’t make him any less right. She’d been outed as Clifton’s daughter, exposed as a liar who had entered the contest under a fraudulent name. She might have hoped for a different outcome, but that didn’t change the facts. She was off the show.

“Excuse me,” she said.

She would not cry. Not here. Not in front of the other contestants. And especially not in front of her father, whose hostility was as painful as his lack of faith in her abilities. Head held high, she started for the door.

“I guess we know who the first to be eliminated is,” Ryder said as she passed his workstation. His tone mirrored her father’s when he sneered, “The food stylist.”

“Quit being an ass,” Finn snarled.