No more, Blake. No more. You’re goin’ down.
“Oi! I’m talking to ye, ye arrogant shite,” Malcolm snarled. A vein began to pulse at his temple.
Austin took his sweet time turning to face them. His eyes flicked wearily over Sera’s short frame first, from sturdy clogs to the sparkly snood Hortencia had crocheted for her. Only then did his gaze turn to Malcolm, and Sera saw his eyes widen for a moment before they became hooded with his habitual ennui once more.
“Is this your second, or is it a sasquatch, Serafina?” Blake ogled Malcolm from kilt to hair net. “A bit… hairy… isn’t he? With this one around, you’ll want to check for stray fur balls when you plate your desserts.”
Instead of swinging a cleaver at Blake, as Sera half feared, Malcolm merely planted his hands on his hips and eyed the other man for a moment. “What kind of accent is that yer sportin’, mate?” he asked, a trace of amusement coloring his brogue. “I canna quite place it. Sounds t’me a bit like Brighton—by way o’ Brooklyn.”
Blake’s eyes bulged. His jaw worked furiously. His true origins were a mystery even to Sera, who’d spent more years by his side—and in his bed—than she cared to remember. But it was obvious he didn’t appreciate the Scotsman calling his ancestry—or his mystique—into question. “I won’t stand for being insulted in my own restaurant by some skirt-sporting savage,” he began, taking a menacing step in Malcolm’s direction. Malcolm met him halfway, the light of battle in his eye, issuing a growl that would have done a real sasquatch proud. But before either man could take a swing, Sera stepped between them.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want Malcolm to pummel her ex. She simply wanted to do the honors herself.
All the rage she’d felt through the years—the humiliations Blake had put her through, the dismissive, derisive way he treated her, and the ugly insinuations he’d spread all over town—two towns now—boiled to the surface in a blast of fury that had her face flushing brick red and her fingers balling into fists. Bad enough he’d poured his poison on her. How dare he insult her friend? She wanted to knee him in the balls. She wanted to channel Moe from the Three Stooges and fork him in the eye with two stiff fingers.
Instead, she would show him up, but good.
“Still a bully and a blowhard, I see,” Sera growled through gritted teeth, glaring up at her nemesis. “You might as well skip the convection ovens today, with all the hot air you spew.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave her ex a once-over as dismissive as his own had been, reveling in how freaking great it felt to stand up to her tormenter. “But your bullshit’s not going to hide the fact that I’m still the better chef—and the better person. By the time I’m done wiping the floors with you today, everyone’s going to know it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Everett’s lip twitch before he wiped his face clean of expression.
“I hardly think so.” Blake scoffed, sneering. “You forget: I know what you’re made of, you pathetic child, and I know you haven’t got the sauce to best me. I can’t wait to watch you choke, Sera-frigid. It’s what you’re best at, after all.”
Maybe at one time, but Sera wasn’t that woman anymore. She didn’t freeze up. And she didn’t give up just because some mean, nasty bully pushed her around.
“Let’s get this show on the road, Austin,” she said tightly. “The next time I lower myself to talk to you, it’ll be to accept your concession speech after I kick your ass all over this kitchen.” She looked around for the person she’d been told would be shepherding the showdown—some woman from the Food Channel apparently, whose job it would be to lay down the rules and make sure the contest ran smoothly.
The hostess wasn’t hard to find, seated in one of the restaurant’s semicircular blue velvet booths. Her face was obscured from Sera’s gaze by a team of makeup artists and hair stylists who were buzzing around her like highly paid mosquitoes, making sure every lock was coifed, every lash lengthened. Her dress—a clingy red spaghetti-strap number more appropriate to a sultry Miami night than a chilly December day in Santa Fe—fit her with almost embarrassing intimacy, delineating a physique that spoke more of long hours in the gym than at the dining table. Blonder than Gwyneth Paltrow’s blondest day, tall and statuesque, she was everything Sera wasn’t as a woman.
Sera’s wrath-born bravado wilted like radicchio over a high flame. Wow. It’s like we’re not even the same species, she thought. And then the woman rose to greet her, and Sera realized that wasn’t quite true. They had one thing in common.
They’d both bedded Blake Austin.
True, the last time they’d met, the blonde had had her mouth full, but Sera couldn’t fail to recognize the woman who’d sent her off on her final bender. Add one of my old chef’s hats and put her on her knees, and… yup, that’s the chick that was blowing Blake right before he blew my career to shreds.
Sera’s heart sank as the woman shed her entourage and drifted over to greet them, her walk willowy as a finishing school graduate’s. By contrast, Sera felt like some uncouth barbarian. A short, uncouth barbarian.
Of all the hostesses on all the reality cable shows, why did it have to be her?
“Let me introduce a dear old friend of mine, Vanessa Hurley, host of Hot Chef!” drawled Blake, slinging his arm familiarly about the TV star’s rather bare shoulders as she came to stand beside them.
To her credit, Sera noticed Ms. Hurley eased away from Blake’s embrace, looking uncomfortable.
Then again, she appeared equally queasy at the sight of Serafina.
Does she remember me from that night? Sera wondered. She seemed rather… preoccupied at the time, but if she can multitask as well as she… Sera mentally shook her head to dispel the image that lingered there. “Pleased to meet you, Vanessa,” she said, swallowing bile. “I’m a big fan of your show.” Actually, she avoided it like E. coli, but the blonde didn’t need to know that.
The look of unease had disappeared from the hostess’s eyes so completely that Sera had to wonder if she’d imagined it in the first place. “That’s awfully sweet,” said Vanessa, offering a smile so sincere Sera could easily understand how she’d made it on TV. This lady could sell barbeque sauce to the Neelys. The TV host stuck out her hand for Sera to shake. It was cool, her grip firm with just the right amount of pressure. “I’m pleased to meet you, too. Good luck today, Serafina.” Was it Sera’s imagination, or had her grip tightened for just a moment, like she was trying to tell Sera something?
I don’t have time to worry about subtext, Sera reminded herself. I’ve got a dish of whoop-ass to whip up.
“Let me show you where you’ll be stationed and explain a few of the rules my producers may not have gone over with you on the phone.” Still talking, Vanessa led Sera and Malcolm away from Blake. Sera was glad to follow, though she was so busy running through potential recipes in her head she heard only a little of what was said. As they set their things down on the leftmost of the two identical workstations, Sera scanned the prep area—digital scales, good; sheet pans, good; pastry bags, excellent. She’d brought her own sugar spinner, favorite molds and chocolate melting pots, not wanting to rely on the Blue Coyote’s resources—or on Blake to apportion them fairly.