jeez, what a face that was.
“Well?” she said.
“My car broke down about two miles back.” He gestured over one shoulder. “I need to use a phone.”
So he was headed through town. Good.
“There’s one back in my office. I’ll show you the way.” She shut the door to the walk-in.
“Thanks.” As he stepped forward, he sniffed and grimaced. When he caught sight of the desecrated chicken, he laughed. “So your chef moonlights as an arsonist? Or is it the other way around?”
Frankie found herself measuring his carotid artery and thinking things that could lead to her arrest. While he was making fun of her failure, he was wasting time she didn’t have to spare.
She was holding herself in check and about to lead him out of the kitchen when the door from the dining room swung open. George came back with a full breadbasket in his hand, looking like he was on the verge of tears.
“They’re hungry. Really hungry, Frankie,” he said, staring down at his shoes. “And the Littles don’t want any more bread.”
She tightened her lips in a grim line again. Considering what those two entitled big mouths had tried to do to her over the various inadequacies of their room, she could only imagine what they’d done to George.
Which was totally unfair, she thought. The poor man didn’t deserve to be the salad course. It wasn’t his fault she’d burned the entrée.
“I tried to tell them it wouldn’t be long,” he said.
“I know, George. I know. Why don’t you go get a cookie, okay?” She went over and stared at the chicken, willing it into edible condition while George put the basket down and headed for the pantry.
She picked up a knife and thought she could salvage something. Cut off the black skin, maybe. But then what?
She heard a thud and realized that the stranger had thrown his backpack down on the stainless steel island next to her. Next, he tore off his jacket and tossed it across the room where it landed beautifully on a chair.
Frankie glanced over at the faded black T-shirt he was wearing. It was tight on him, leaving little to the imagination. To get away from the view of his chest, she looked up, way up. His eyes weren’t black after all, they were hazel. Dark green with flecks of yellow.
And they were incredibly attractive, she thought. Could probably melt paint off a car door if they looked at you with passion.
She shook her head to clear it and then wondered why he was crowding her space.
“Excuse me,” she said, holding her ground. “The phone’s through that door and take a right into the office. Oh, and don’t mind the water.”
The man frowned. And then nudged her out of the way until he was standing in front of the chicken.
She was too dumbfounded to respond as he reached into the pack and pulled out a leather package. With a deft flip of the hand, it unrolled to reveal half a dozen knives that gleamed.
Frankie jumped back, thinking she might be the one who needed the phone. To call the police.
“How many?” he said in a voice like a drill sergeant.
“I beg your—”
His eyes were sharp, his tone bored. “How. Many.”
Frankie was aware that no one in the room was moving. Joy was frozen to the spot near the dining room door, George had stopped with the cookie halfway on a return trip to his mouth. They were obviously waiting for her to explode.
She looked at the chicken and then back at the man who by now had picked up a long knife and was poised over the carcass. With that tool in his hand, he was all business.
“You’re a cook?” she asked.
“No, a blacksmith.”
As she stared up at him, the challenge in those hazel eyes was as clear as the bind she was in.
She had a choice. Rely on her skills, which had already resulted in the incineration of a sizable hunk of protein. Or take a gamble on this stranger and his flashy set of knives.
“Two parties of two. One six top,” she said briskly.
“Okay, here’s what I’m going to need.” He looked over at her sister and when he spoke next, his voice was back to being gentle. “Angel, honey, I need you to take one of those pots over there and put it on the gas with two cups of water in it.”
Joy leaped into service.
“George, is that your name?” the man asked. George nodded, happier now that the tension had dispersed and his cookie was finished. “I want you to pick up that head of lettuce and run it under the cold water, stroking each leaf like it was a cat. You got it?”
George beamed and started on his job. By this time, Joy had filled the pot and put it on a burner.
The stranger started in with the chicken, peeling off the skin with deft movements of his fingers and the knife. He worked with such speed and confidence, she was momentarily captivated.
“Now, Angel—” back with the soft voice “—I want you to bring me a pound of butter, some cream, three eggs and all the curry powder you can find. And do you have any frozen vegetables?”
Frankie cut in, feeling ignored. “We’ve got fresh Brussels sprouts, broccoli—”
“Angel, I need something small. Peas? Cubed carrots?”
“We’ve got corn, I think,” Joy said enthusiastically.
“Good. Bring it over and get some twine.”
Frankie stepped back, feeling more panicked now than when things were disorganized and she had no options.
She should be doing something, she thought.
George came back with the lettuce and Frankie was impressed. Chuck, the former cook, had never been able to get him to do anything right, but here he was with perfectly cleaned romaine leaves.
“Good job, George, that’s perfect.” The stranger handed George a knife. “Now cut it up in strips as wide as your thumb. But do not use your thumb to measure. It doesn’t have to be exact. Do it across from me so I can watch you, okay?”
Joy came up to him with the bag of corn and the twine. She was smiling, so eager to please. “Do I put the corn in the water?”
“No.” He lifted his left leg. “Tie it on to my ankle. The damn thing’s killing me.”
Chapter Two
Less than ten minutes later, Frankie took out the salads. They had a dressing on them that the man had whipped up out of some spices, olive oil and lemon juice. George, bless his heart, had cut up the crisp lettuce perfectly and
