to her hotel, Fontaine Ciel, but was the attention worth the stress Ashton had heaped on those in charge of making the restaurant a success? Carlo Perrault, the restaurant’s manager, wasn’t sleeping and had grown irritable these past two months. Harper was grinding her teeth at night. The headaches induced by this behavior had forced to her seek medical help. She now wore a mouth guard when she went to bed. Slipping the awkward plastic device into her mouth, she would lie on the mattress and wish she had some idea what happened to Ashton’s initial enthusiasm about the restaurant.
The longer the filming of The Culinary Wanderer had gone in Indonesia, the more difficult she’d found working with him to be. They’d had to postpone Batouri’s launch date twice because of scheduling conflicts with his travels for his wildly popular television series.
Which was why Harper refused to delay again. The restaurant’s black floors were polished. The chandeliers had been hung from the high cove ceiling. Their light illuminated the white napkins and crystal wine goblets on the black tables. Ten days earlier the painters had completed the metallic gold treatment on the three wide pillars down the center of the room. Near the fully stocked bar, the assistant manager was putting the waitstaff through their paces.
But for two things, Batouri was ready to open. Two key things. It lacked a head chef and a menu.
And seeing that Ashton’s go bag wasn’t in its usual place, it looked as if that menu was going to have to wait. Harper glanced at her watch. It was exactly four in the afternoon. She’d told Ashton the interview would happen at three to make certain he arrived on time. Playing these sorts of games wasn’t in her nature, but she was at her wits’ end in dealing with the celebrity chef.
She dialed her assistant. Mary picked up on the second ring.
Harper got straight to business. “Did Ashton Croft call to say he’d be delayed?”
“No.”
“And his plane was supposed to land in Las Vegas at one?”
“Yes, I confirmed his itinerary this morning.”
Damn the man. Two weeks ago Ashton had promised Harper his full attention starting today. She should have known better. “Thank you, Mary. Let me know if you hear from him.”
“Sure thing.” Harper was on the verge of disconnecting the call when something Mary said caught her attention. “...in your office.”
Carlo Perrault emerged from the kitchen, a scowl on his handsome face. The forty-six-year-old restaurant manager was known for his composure, but even he was showing signs of stress at all the things that still needed to be done. “We have a problem.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. Who did you say was in my office?”
“Your mother.”
“My mother?” Surprise kept her from guarding her tone. Aware of Carlo’s scrutiny, Harper turned her back on him and stepped away to give herself some semblance of privacy. “Did she say what she was doing in Vegas?”
“No, but she seems upset.”
“Just upset?” Harper mused.
Penelope Fontaine wouldn’t have left her elegant condo in Boca Raton to fly two thousand miles to visit Harper unless something was seriously wrong. And if it was, why had Penelope come to Harper? Usually Penelope took her problems to her father-in-law, Henry Fontaine.
“You once mentioned she smokes when she’s agitated,” Mary said. “She’s starting her second cigarette.”
“She’s smoking in my office?” Harper pinched the bridge of her nose. She wanted to insist Mary tell her mother to put out the cigarette, but knew that would be asking too much of her assistant. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“You can’t leave,” Carlo protested. “Croft has started the interview without you.”
“Great,” she muttered. “How long has he been here?”
“Long enough to taste everything Chef Cole has prepared.” Carlo’s dour expression was enough to tell Harper that this interview was going the way the other seven had.
“Mary, looks like I am going to be a while. Get my mother settled in a suite and I’ll visit her as soon as I’m done here.” Harper hung up and turned to Carlo. “If he messes this interview up, I’m going to kill him.”
Carlo offered her a tight nod of understanding.
The hostility in the two male voices hit her before she’d reached the food pass area.
“There’s nothing wrong with the sear on these scallops,” one of the men protested, his tone both arrogant and simmering with hostility. “And the sauce is not under seasoned.”
“It’s obvious the only thing worse than your culinary skills is your wretched palate.”
Pain stabbed Harper’s temple as she recognized the voice of the second speaker. Ashton Croft had been interviewing head chefs for two months, rejecting one after another for failing to live up to his exacting standards.
Harper snapped her vertebrae into a stiff line and stepped into the meticulously organized, stainless-steel kitchen. As was her habit, her gaze swung immediately to Ashton. He dominated the room with his presence. Tall and imposing in his chef whites, he stood glaring at Chef Cole, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest.
He hadn’t yet noticed her, hadn’t turned his Persian-blue eyes her way, hadn’t noted her slight breathlessness. His passion for food sent his innate charisma soaring. She cursed the hero worship that she couldn’t completely squash despite her professionalism. She was unequal parts frustrated with the restaurateur and enamored of the dashing adventurer.
His travels fascinated her. Some of the things Ashton had eaten made Harper shudder, but he boldly consumed whatever he was offered. She’d spend her entire life knowing exactly where she was going, and the way he allowed random opportunities to push him into unexpected and sometimes startling discoveries both unnerved and captivated her. Watching his television shows had made her realize just how safe her world was. And a seed of restlessness had sprouted inside her.
With effort Harper ripped her gaze from Ashton and turned her attention to the other chef. Taking in the interviewee’s blazing eyes and clenched fists, she donned her most diplomatic expression and entered the war zone.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” She stepped into the middle of the clash with calm authority. She wanted Chef Dillon Cole to run Batouri’s kitchen. He was an excellent chef as well as a strong, organized leader. Harper restrained a weary sigh. Of all the candidates, he’d been Harper’s first choice for head chef. It was why she’d saved his interview until the last. This close to the restaurant’s already delayed grand opening, she had the leverage she needed to force Ashton’s hand. “I stopped by to see how things are going.”
“Taste this,” Ashton commanded, pushing the plate in her direction without ever taking his eyes off Cole. “Tell me if you think it’s up to Batouri standards.”
The first time he’d done this she’d been flattered that he wanted her opinion. After the third candidate had been rejected, she’d realized he was merely using her to drive home a point. If someone with no culinary experience could taste the inferior quality of the
