to the Ty Beckett charm. In my book, that makes her a superhero with mystical powers. Dude, you’re toast.”
* * *
GRACE DROVE PAST THE MAIN building, which looked like an Italian villa, complete with a red-tiled roof and graceful fountains out front, and found a place to park. Her hands were shaking from adrenaline. And from too little sleep, she admitted to herself. She was not in top form tonight.
Her father would have been disappointed in her display back at the Jalapeño. Victor Torres Senior had possessed a gift for making people feel welcome. She’d given in to her temperamental side and had been rude to Ty Beckett. What were the chances she could avoid speaking with him for the rest of the night? She wasn’t even sure what she’d meant by her “spying” accusation—it wasn’t as though she’d caught him sneaking into the kitchen wearing a hat and false mustache. But when she’d seen him at the bar, exuding negligent confidence as though he belonged there, as though he rightfully belonged anyplace he felt like being, she’d been intimidated. Which in turn made her angry.
She was putting that behind her now. I am a consummate professional. Should she happen to find herself in Ty’s company, she’d be courteous and simply ignore him the rest of the time.
Right. Because ignoring a face like that would be so easy. Amy had been correct—he was even better looking in person. But what had been more startling was the sense of overwhelming familiarity Grace had felt when he’d looked at her. He reminds me of someone.
Grace gave herself a mental shake. Enough. Her focus needed to be on this competition, not some wandering chef with a dazzling smile and lady-killer rep. She climbed out of the car and followed the path, which twinkled with dozens of tiny white lights. There was enough illumination for her to appreciate the stone bell tower to her left and a beautifully tiled open courtyard. She imagined that later this evening, once food and drinks were served, guests would mill outside and make use of the round iron tables. It was a lovely evening, but the breeze carried a distinct chill. She was glad for the long sleeves that offset the vee neckline of her wraparound dress. Still, the filmy green fabric wasn’t very thick. She should have grabbed the sweater she kept on a coatrack back in the restaurant office, but she’d been flustered when she left.
Once she opened the rounded wooden door that brought to mind stately castles, her stomach clenched in a fresh bout of nerves. Since she had the advantage of being local, knowing her way around town and not having to check in to a hotel that afternoon, she was one of the first contestants to arrive. But the two other chefs she spotted inside the huge room were both renowned in their areas of expertise—desserts and molecular gastronomy, the industry term for those who applied science to cooking in innovative ways. Talking to them was the host for Road Trip, Damien Craig, whom she recognized from myriad television appearances.
Behind her, the door swept open, admitting Katharine Garner and her husband, plus Ty Beckett and his business manager. Knowing that if she continued to stand in the entryway she wouldn’t be able to avoid Ty, Grace made a beeline toward one of the four bars bracketing the room. There, she accepted a glass of an award-winning cabernet blend so richly delicious that she immediately began trying to compose recipes to go with it.
She closed her eyes to better savor a sip, then opened them again as she sensed someone next to her.
“Is it good?” a baritone voice asked.
She turned to smile at Damien Craig, thinking it was a shame he didn’t narrate audio books. He was sort of generically handsome—he’s no Ty Beckett—but he had an incredible voice. “Mr. Craig, nice to meet you. I’m Grace Torres. And yes, the wine is fantastic.”
They stood making small talk about the vineyard, the upcoming festival and how he thought he had the best job in the world, traveling all over, meeting new people and enjoying meals prepared by legendary chefs. By the time he continued on with his social rounds, all of the contestants had arrived. Guests were grouped in clusters around the room, some standing near the large hors d’oeuvres table in the center, others chatting in corners or waiting for their wineglasses to be filled. Ty Beckett stood amid three attractive women. Naturally. One of them seemed to be on the show’s crew, but the other two were chefs. Judging from the women’s smiles and the way blonde pastry chef Phoebe Verlaine kept finding excuses to touch him, they didn’t find Ty less attractive just because he was the competition.
Grace was en route to say hello to Antonio Zavalo, a chef who’d known her father, when Ty unexpectedly fell into step with her.
“We meet again,” he said cheerfully.
“That tends to happen when you follow someone.” As an afterthought, she added a half smile to temper the acerbic words, but he wasn’t fooled.
“Are you always so prickly, Grace, or—” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—is this an act to keep people from knowing how much you want me?”
She nearly gaped at the outrageous comment but decided that would only encourage him. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a protest, she nodded. “Yes. Arrogant chefs who resort to mind games with their opponents are exactly my type.”
The amount of sarcasm dripping from her words would have shamed a lesser man into retreat. Instead Ty’s mischievous smile grew more wicked. “I knew you were crazy for me. Stephen didn’t believe me.”
Grace’s step faltered as she studied his grin. She was experiencing that tingle of déjà vu again. Was he familiar to her because she’d seen him on television? Maybe that was it, although she still felt as if he reminded her of someone specific, someone famous whose identity was right on the tip of her brain.
“Grace!” Meeting her halfway, Antonio stepped forward to pull her into his burly arms for a warm hug. “So wonderful to see you again. How are your brothers?”
“They’re…” Well, one of them was injured physically and the other was injured emotionally. “Oh, how rude of me. Antonio, do you know Ty Beckett?”
“Only by professional reputation.” The older man shook Ty’s hand. “Congratulations on making the semifinal round, to both of you.”
“It’s an honor,” Ty said. “Especially when it means cooking alongside greats such as yourself. I’ve always looked up to you. Of course, I still plan on beating you,” he added unrepentantly.
This was met with one of Antonio’s deep belly laughs. “Cocky. I’d heard that about you.”
“I’m afraid that, in my case, you should believe everything you hear.”
Antonio clapped him on the shoulder. “Hope you aren’t eliminated too soon. I have a feeling working with you around is never boring. Grace, I’ll catch up with you later. For now, I want to try a glass of their port.”
“I do believe he liked me,” Ty said as the other man walked away. “Most people do,” he added pointedly.
“Conformists,” she scoffed. “I’m not into groupthink.” Why was she bantering with him? What had happened to her plan of polite but remote? Face it, remote just isn’t in the Torres DNA.
“Is that why you do fusion food?” Ty asked. “Unique combinations of flavors because you don’t want to be like everyone else?”
“I’m not trying to make a social statement, just being who I am.” When he looked unconvinced, she added, “I have an eclectic background.
