curved into a smile that was too menacing to be perceived as friendly, and Lara was left with the impression that it wouldn’t be smart to turn her back on the woman—or any of her fellow competitors, for that matter.
That included Finn, their kiss in the cab and his recent act of gallantry notwithstanding. They all had the same objective: winning. As Finn already had pointed out, that made them adversaries.
Tristan had returned for part of the exchange. He clapped his hands together again in a gesture that Lara was already starting to find annoying.
“Hey, chefs. I have no problem with trash talk. In fact, undermining another contestant’s confidence can be a good strategy. But save it for the cameras, please. We have too much to do over the next couple of days to waste time on your egos.”
Lara cast a sideways glance at Finn. The easygoing smile he’d sported was gone, replaced by an expression more in keeping with the intensity she’d spied earlier in his gaze. His game face, she thought, and experienced a flicker of disappointment that they hadn’t met under other circumstances.
THREE
Mix well
The competitors had one hour, not a minute more, to familiarize themselves with their surroundings. Finn had to restrain himself to a brisk walk when Tristan finally released them to go find their workstations. He wanted to run like a couple of the other chefs were doing, but he knew better. Haste in a kitchen was often met with disaster. So he moved quickly, but safely as he searched for his name on the white placards affixed to the stainless-steel vent hoods.
Finn had spent his entire adult life in and around professional kitchens—some of them better equipped and better run than others. For a while, he’d presided over his own in a restaurant dubbed Rascal’s, which he’d owned with his wife and best friend. Ex-wife now. And former best friend.
He was at home amid pots, pans and appliances, but he wasn’t exactly in his element here.
Finn hadn’t admitted it before, but he shared Lara’s trepidation about cooking in front of a slew of cameras for a television audience that ultimately would not taste his creations. He had no problem preparing his signature dishes in a crowded restaurant kitchen where well-ordered chaos reigned, but this was different. So much in the Cuisine Cable Network’s kitchen was unknown, unaccounted for and just plain beyond his control.
It came down to a hand of cards. Literally. At the start of each competition the host would deal three oversize cards. One specified the amount of time the chefs had to cook. Another gave the course they had to prepare—appetizer, entrée or dessert. The final card revealed the identity of the celebrity judge.
And then there was the plainspoken and pretty Lara Smith.
If the first blow of attraction had landed like a sucker punch, the second, when he’d stumbled upon her in the waiting room, had delivered the knockout.
Wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to arouse his interest—and then some—since Sheryl had buried a knife in his back would be one he was competing against for the chance of a lifetime?
Priorities, Westbrook, priorities, he silently admonished.
Sex and his social life rated lower on the list than getting back what he’d lost. And thanks to Sheryl and Cole, he’d lost everything.
Of course, all of the chefs here were determined to win. But it was different for Finn. For him, it went deeper than bragging rights and securing a coveted position with a paycheck to match. Being crowned the Chesterfield’s executive chef wouldn’t be a stop as much as a stepping-stone. He needed it to launch his comeback.
Nothing and no one would stand in his way.
He found his station and smothered a bemused laugh. So much for putting distance between himself and Lara Smith. They would be working side by side.
At the moment, however, it wasn’t her side that had Finn’s attention. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the oven. It was all he could do to hold back a groan at his first unrestricted view of her butt. Overall, she was too slender to be considered voluptuous, but her rear had a definite curve that filled out her fitted pants nicely. If she liked to sample her cooking, as chefs were wont to do, she worked off the extra calories later. When his libido started to fantasize about exactly how, he swallowed hard and reeled it in.
She glanced over as she straightened, and smiled.
“We meet again,” he said in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment over being caught ogling her butt.
The bright lights teased streaks of copper from her otherwise auburn hair, and idly he wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared.
“That reminds me. I never properly introduced myself.” She rubbed the palm of her right hand on the thigh of her pants before holding it out. “I’m—”
“No need.” A handshake? Really? They’d already kissed. “Besides, I know who you are.”
“Y-you know?” Her eyes rounded at that and her face paled to the point he thought she might pass out.
It was a curious reaction. She didn’t only sound surprised but, well, guilty.
“You’re wearing a badge with your name on it,” he pointed out.
“I... A badge. Right. I’m wearing a badge.” She laughed awkwardly as she patted the rectangular sticker affixed to a chest that, in his estimation, was neither too large nor too small, but just the right size. She motioned to the prep table that they would be sharing. “It looks like we’re going to be working together.”
The idea, like the woman, was way too appealing for his peace of mind, so he clarified, “We won’t be working together, Lara. We’ll be competing against each other.”
“Adversaries,” she said, parroting what he had said earlier.
“Yep. And as I already told you, I intend to win.”
She notched up her chin, not appearing to be cowed in the least by his bravado.
He found her arrogance a surprising turn-on when she replied in a haughty voice, “You keep telling yourself that, Paper. You just keep telling yourself that.”
* * *
Smooth.
Lara patted the badge even as she wanted to give her forehead a slap. She supposed the fact that she was so lousy at lying was a testament to how rarely she did it. Deceit did not come naturally to her. No, that would be her mother.
Even with her father—especially with him—Lara had always been truthful. Blunt and tactless, yes, but truthful all the same.
At least Finn was no longer staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was going about his business, as should she, since they had only an hour in the kitchen studio.
Satisfied that the oven and stove-top burners worked, Lara turned her attention to the prep table. While all of the contestants had their own ovens, the tables, which ran parallel to them, were ten feet long and intended to accommodate two chefs. All of her preparations, including plating the finished
