Falling for Her Rival

SIX


Puree

Lara Dunham. That was her name. Not Lara Smith.

And she was a liar.

Even as Finn processed that thought, he wanted to dismiss it. Yes, Lara had lied to him and everyone else here, but her motives were different than his ex-wife’s and that had to count for something. Didn’t it?

But betrayal, even one not intended for him, still left a sour taste in his mouth. As irritated as he was, however, he also was curious. Why had she done it?

Answers, unfortunately, were not forthcoming.

After Lara’s unmasking, all hell pretty much had broken loose on the set. Men and women dressed in conservative attire arrived en masse. Lawyers and the folks who ran the business side of things, Finn assumed. None of them had looked pleased with the new development.

At the producer’s urging, the studio was cleared and Tristan sent the contestants to the greenroom to wait. That was where they were now, making do with stale coffee and the hard Danishes left over from that morning.

Where the greenroom had been unnaturally quiet earlier, it was alive with speculation now.

“I wonder if they’ll bring back a contestant from one of the preliminary rounds,” Flo pondered aloud.

“I smell a lawsuit coming from the chefs who got eliminated in the early rounds she competed in,” Angel said.

On and on it went until Finn, tired of their theories and conjecture, broke his silence.

“We’ll find out soon enough. There’s nothing to do now but wait.”

“Missing your girlfriend?” Ryder grinned like a Viking who’d just plundered his first village.

Lara wasn’t Finn’s girlfriend and he wasn’t missing her...exactly. But the barb struck a nerve nonetheless. Something had passed between them starting at their first accidental meeting, a stubborn spark of attraction that had continued to burn even after they’d learned they were quasi-adversaries, both after the same thing. Her lies should have snuffed out that spark for good, but knowing that they were no longer on opposing sides had him keyed up, confused.

What was going to happen now? The question echoing through his head had nothing to do with the competition. And, yeah, that irritated him.

“I just don’t see the point in speculating.”

“Well, I do.” Then, to no one in particular, Ryder said, “If you ask me, they’d be smart to go ahead with just the eleven of us.”

“They can’t do that.” Kirby’s reply was met with a couple of nods and murmured agreements.

“Why the hell not?” Ryder challenged.

“I...” Kirby shrugged before running a hand through his hair, leaving his mangled locks more disheveled than before.

Ryder continued. “Don’t tell me someone at the network didn’t know who Lara really was. Someone got paid off to let her into the finals.”


Angel and some of the other chefs were nodding, but Finn wasn’t buying it. The surprise all around had been too genuine to be manufactured. And the cover-your-ass efforts the network was currently employing underscored that fact. Lara had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Of that much, Finn was certain.

So, he tuned out Ryder and the rest of the contestants, and sat in the corner of the greenroom nursing a cup of coffee that had grown bitter and cold.

Finally, nearly four hours after the debacle in the kitchen had unfolded, Tristan stopped in to tell them that the judges had been sent home and filming would not take place after all. In fact, the competition would not resume for a week, possibly longer, while everything was sorted out.

“What’s going to happen to Lara’s spot?” someone asked.

“We’re not sure. We’ll have answers for you as soon as possible,” Tristan assured them. “In the meantime, use the time off to relax, and, as a token of our appreciation for your patience, we are giving you all tickets to a Broadway production. Stop by the reception desk and see Evelyn for details.”

Only one person could answer Finn’s questions, and it didn’t look as if he would be seeing her again. He knew her true identity now, but he didn’t have her number. Nor did he know where she lived. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Officially, of course, Tristan hadn’t confirmed that she was off the show, but her own father wanted her gone, so it seemed a done deal. Besides, Finn figured the network couldn’t allow her to stay on without risking having viewers think the outcome was rigged and not bothering to tune in. As it was, the lawyers were no doubt earning their keep trying to figure out a way to prevent this from blowing up in the network’s face.

Liars and cheats.

Finn had had his fill of both. Still, when he saw Lara outside, waiting for a cab, his pulse quickened, and before he could decide if it were wise, he closed the distance to where she stood.

“Rough day?” he inquired once he was within earshot.

She started at the sound of his voice. When she turned, the expression on her face was a combination of regret, embarrassment and that guilt he’d spied a time or two already. At least now he understood its source.

“Let’s just say I’ve had better. No one is very happy with me right now. Not the network, not the people affiliated with the show and certainly not my father.”

“Did you expect them to be?”

“No.” She swallowed. “I suppose you’re not all that pleased with me either.”

“Gee, Miz Smith,” he drawled, “what gave you that impression?”

“If it counts for anything, I didn’t like lying to you, especially about my name.”

Did it count? Finn had been the casualty of too many lies in the past to be sure.

“But the end justifies the means?”

“I guess I thought so. But I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, especially where my father is concerned.” She reached out and her fingers grazed his arm. Her touch was light, the effect on his skin akin to that of a cattle prod. “I am sorry, Finn.”

He nodded stiffly, still on the fence. Wavering or not, though, he had to ask, “Why did you do it? It’s none of my business, and you don’t have to tell me, but I can’t help being curious.”

“Why did I enter the contest?”

“Yeah. You had to have known that, sooner or later, you would be found out. I mean, Clifton Chesterfield is your father. So...why?”

“The million-dollar question.” Her smile was sad and about as forthcoming as her answer. The laughter that accompanied it was humorless.

Finn reached into the front pocket of his pants and pulled out the change from the coffee he’d purchased on his way over that morning.

“Sorry. I’ve only got six bucks and some coins. It’s enough to buy a decent cup of Colombian and one macadamia-nut-and-dried-cranberry biscotto.”

She blinked. The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips. “Are you offering to buy me a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

Smile aborted, she started to turn away. Finn caught her arm. “I think you should buy me a cup.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Why?”

Why indeed? Rather than mention that he found her attractive and wouldn’t mind spending a little more time in her company, he went with the most obvious answer.

“I bought the last one.”

“Isadora’s?” she asked.

“Is there any place else?”

* * *

Lara had planned to go home and drown her sorrows in a hot bubble bath, maybe while drinking a couple of glasses of wine and indulging in some dark chocolate. Coffee with a side of sexy man held a lot more appeal. As for having to pick up the tab for the beverages and biscotti, that seemed a small price to pay.

Half an hour later, they were seated at the same table they’d occupied the previous week waiting for the same young woman to bring them their order.

Lara had stalled long enough. “So, I guess you’re waiting to hear my reasons for entering the contest.”

“That’s right.”

Fair enough, she thought. But she replied, “A little background first. My father and I...we don’t have an ideal relationship, as you probably noticed.”

Finn nodded. “It was kind of hard to miss. Has it always been that way?”

“Not as bad as it is now, but I’ve never just been his daughter. I’ve always felt like a blob of dough he’s been kneading to get just right before he puts it in the oven.”

“And you’ve rebelled,” Finn said, apparently recalling her earlier remark.

She nodded. “Dad pushed me into the culinary arts from the time I could walk. I knew the difference between searing and sautéing by the age of four, and made my first béchamel when I was six.” Her tone turned wry. “My father thought my white sauce was too thick. He threw it out and made me redo it three times before he was satisfied.”

“That’s rough.”

“He’s a hard man to please.”

She frowned at the memories that accompanied her words. While other kids had been outside learning to ride their bikes or playing in the park with friends, she’d been in the kitchen, either at their home or, more often than not, at the restaurant. Never could she recall earning her father’s unqualified praise. Every compliment was tempered with criticism.

Your pork is well seasoned and grilled to perfection, but the portion is too small and the plating is sloppy.

Comments such as that one, which she’d received for the Father’s Day dinner she’d made him when she was twelve, still rang in her head.

It was no wonder Finn’s brow creased in confusion when he said, “Yet you wanted to work for him. For that matter, you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for the mere opportunity to labor in his kitchen.”

Lara didn’t mention that as executive chef she would have been at the top of the pecking order. The point was moot. And Finn was right. She had gone to a lot of trouble.

But she couldn’t help pointing out, “You want to work for him, too.”

Finn’s broad shoulders lifted. “I’ve worked for demanding restaurant owners and chefs before. I once worked for a guy who threw an entire pot of mashed potatoes at my head because a customer complained they were too lumpy. A lot of people in our industry are temperamental and exacting. Besides, working at your father’s restaurant is a means to an end in my case. I don’t plan to make a career at the Chesterfield. A year—two, tops.”


“A means to an end, hmm?” Didn’t that sound cryptic? And much more interesting than her current family drama. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her palms. “Do tell.”

“Nice try.” But he shook his head and asked point-blank, “Why do you want to work for your father?”

“Well, like you, I saw it as a means to an end. I’m not sure I planned to make a career of it either.”

“How can you not be sure?”

“It’s complicated.” The waitress arrived with their coffees and biscotti. Lara took a sip of the steaming beverage before telling Finn, “My father had a heart attack last year.”

He blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not common knowledge. Anyway, it was a mild one, but it served as a wake-up call, especially for me.”

Indeed, if Lara had learned anything over the past year, it was that life was short and time was marching on. Her parents were getting older. Their health wasn’t what it once was. And the unresolved baggage she’d been carrying around since childhood had grown so heavy, so unwieldy, that it had left her all but immobilized.

“He was in the hospital for less than a week. From what my aunt has told me, he’s supposed to be working fewer hours, eating healthier, getting more exercise. And the doctors want him to lose weight, of course. He’s done none of the above, although he finally agreed to hire an executive chef.

“So, when I heard about the opening, I approached him about coming to work in his kitchen. I love cooking and I’ve missed the restaurant business, but also, I wanted to mend fences. As you saw, my father and I are not close.”

“What about your mom? Are you close to her?”

“We’re...getting there,” Lara replied. “She recently moved back to New York from Phoenix.”

“They’re divorced.”

“Yes. My father had a mistress.”

Finn’s expression turned so hard Lara clarified immediately, “I’m talking about the Chesterfield. My mother always referred to the restaurant as the other woman. Dad spent most of his time there—days working up new menus, nights either in the kitchen or the front of the house schmoozing with guests. It’s where he spent all of his weekends and every holiday of my childhood with the exception of Christmas. The Chesterfield was closed on Christmas Day. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure he would have spent that one there, too.”

“Long hours are to be expected. You know that. Especially for someone who both owns the restaurant and runs the kitchen. That’s the nature of the business.”

“I don’t buy that,” Lara replied. “At first, yes. But twenty years after Dad opened the Chesterfield, even when he had other capable chefs on his payroll, it was the same. He wouldn’t even take a vacation.

“He and my mother argued a lot because of his priorities. Number one was the restaurant. Always the restaurant. She thought his family should come first.”

Lara, who felt she fell far down on the priority lists of both of her parents, agreed.

“How old were you when they split up?” Finn asked.

“Oh, I was an adult.” Lara’s lips twisted briefly into a frown. “I’m not sure she did me any favors by sticking it out that long. We were a broken family long before she left and they called it quits.

“I was in Europe, studying under one of Dad’s protégés, when she packed her bags. By the time I got back, she’d moved clear across the country.”

Lara swallowed, recalling how gutted she’d felt at the time. She might have been an adult, but that hadn’t kept her from feeling abandoned, and, yes, she’d taken that out on her dad, too.

“I’m sorry.”

Finn’s quiet compassion made her throat ache. When he reached across the table and brushed his fingertips over her arm, it was all she could do to hold back her tears. She hadn’t felt this vulnerable, or this connected, in a long time. The vulnerability in particular didn’t sit well. So, she worked up a look of nonchalance and, on a shrug, replied. “It’s ancient history. I’m over it.”

A pair of gray eyes regarded her intently. Even though Finn didn’t say anything, she got the feeling he knew that she was lying. She looked away first.

With her gaze on the pedestrians marching along Forty-Eighth Street, she said, “Anyway, I can’t say I blame her for being tired of playing second fiddle to the restaurant.” Lara had been tired of it, too, which really had been the point of her rebellion. “In fairness to my father, Mom was no picnic to live with either. She was and remains a frustrated writer.”

“Is that another way of saying she is unpublished?”

Lara snorted out a laugh and nodded. “To my knowledge, she hasn’t ever finished a manuscript. She just keeps polishing the first few chapters of the same one she started writing when I was in high school. It’s about the murder of a prominent chef,” she added drily.

“Maybe it’s a good thing that she’s never finished it, then.”

The smile that accompanied his words had one tugging at her lips in response.

“Maybe.” She exhaled. “Anyway, we’ve all pretty much lived separate lives for several years. I was already starting to regret the rift with my father when he had his heart attack.”

“Adversity has a way of bringing families together.”

His wry expression made it seem as if he was speaking from firsthand experience, but he was making a winding motion with his finger, urging her to go on, so she didn’t ask.

“When my mother heard about it, she had second thoughts, not only about the estrangement between me and her, but the rift between my father and me. She didn’t overtly encourage it, but she said things, both before and after the divorce, that put my dad in a less-than-positive light.”

“So, she suffered a crisis of conscience, realized life is too short to hold a grudge and encouraged you to make amends.”

“Something like that.” Lara dipped the biscotto into her coffee and took another bite. “She was the one who encouraged me to sign up for the show after my previous attempts to reconnect with my dad went nowhere. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“So, you don’t have any brothers or sisters, I take it.”

“Nope. Just me, the lucky only child.”

While her parents hadn’t done the greatest job in the world of raising her, the fact remained that they were all she had.

“That’s rough. I’ve got a couple of sisters, both younger.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “While we were growing up, I thought they were a pain in the ass, but now that we’re adults, I’ve come to appreciate them.” His tone turned thoughtful. “They have a way of showing up when I need them the most.”

“That’s nice. I have a friend like that,” Lara replied, thinking of Dana Heartland, who lived in an apartment just down the hall. “She’s like a sister, in many ways. And she’s been after me to make up with my father, too.”

Finn leaned forward in his seat. “Is your relationship with your dad so strained that you couldn’t just, I don’t know, pick up the phone and call him?”

If only it were that easy. She shook her head, sad again.

“I burned a lot of bridges over the years.”

“Still...” Finn looked doubtful.


“You saw him today. Every attempt I’ve made to contact him has been met with pretty much the same result. He’s had me thrown out of his restaurant. He even had security escort me from the hospital when I tried to visit after his heart attack,” she admitted with no small amount of embarrassment. “He hangs up when I call. He’s told mutual friends that he doesn’t have a daughter.”

Finn muttered an oath. “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah, well, I deserve it,” Lara admitted quietly.

But Finn shook his head, gray eyes narrowed in fierce disagreement. “No. No one deserves that kind of treatment from their own father, Lara.”

She swallowed as his face grew blurry in her vision, and she hugged Finn’s words close, wanting to believe them even though she knew she had given her dad plenty of reasons over the years to sever all ties.

* * *

The upbringing Lara described was sad, tragic even, and the polar opposite of his own. For Finn, childhood had been happy and relatively free of drama despite those two younger sisters he’d mentioned. Sisters who, like the rest of his family, had been there to pick him up after betrayal and divorce had kicked the foundation out from beneath him.

Across the table, Lara’s eyes were bright and focused on her coffee. She blinked rapidly, doing her damnedest to hold it together, and made a show of using her index finger to pick up errant crumbs from the scarred Formica tabletop. Her attempt at nonchalance wasn’t fooling him one bit. The day’s events had taken an emotional toll.

She hadn’t entered the contest only to make reparations with her father. Oh, Finn didn’t doubt that Clifton’s heart attack had prompted some soul-searching and remorse on her part. Facing mortality did that. But she had another reason, too. One she hadn’t mentioned and might not even realize was driving her.

Lara Dunham wanted her father’s approval.

After all, what kid, even as an adult, didn’t crave a parent’s endorsement?

Finn knew what his folks’ praise and encouragement had meant to him over the years. Not only had they scrimped and saved to send him to culinary school, but they’d also taken out a second mortgage on their duplex in Queens to help him open his restaurant. Over the years, their pride and support had never wavered—not when Finn married Sheryl despite their reservations, nor when she’d raked his reputation over the coals by claiming ownership of his recipes. Hell, especially then, he’d been able to count on them. They’d remained firmly in his corner, and were there today, always ready to root him on.

Given Lara’s glum expression, he decided it was time to change the subject. He still had more questions he wanted answered. Indeed, his curiosity, among other things, was far from satisfied. But another time, another place.

She needed some cheering up, and while coffee and biscotti were a good start, he knew another way.

“Hey, we’ve got the afternoon free. Want to spend it together?”

“Doing what exactly?”

Her lips puckered ever so slightly as she asked the question. Finn lost his train of thought and nearly suggested an activity far more intimate than the one he had been considering.

Another time, another place, he reminded himself.

“Ever fly a kite?” he asked.