On the Steamy Side Read online

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ON THE STEAMY SIDE

  Louisa Edwards

  Copyright © 2010 by Louisa Edwards.Excerpt from Just One Taste copyright © 2010 by Louisa Edwards. All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, NY 10010. EAN: 978-0-312-35646-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2010

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by

  St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,

  NY 10010. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my parents, Jan and George,who gave me my adventurous palate and alwaysencouraged my vivid imagination and passionfor the written word.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my stellar agent, Deidre Knight, and the smart, savvy ladies of the Knight Agency, whose advice and support are indispensable. To my incomparable editor, Rose Hilliard, for her championship through the launch of this series. Also to Jeanne Devlin, my tireless and energetic publicist, for her incredible work and help. These women all routinely go so far above and beyond the call of duty that it’s hard to imagine what my career would look like without them. I suspect it would be pretty bleak. So thanks!!

  The first draft of this book would never have been finished without the cheerleading (and butt-kicking, when I needed it) from a very special group of women: the Queens of Peen. You know who you are, and you know I appreciated every second of it. Extra thanks go to my duo of muses, Kristen Painter and Roxanne St. Claire—you make every day of sitting alone in front of my computer feel like a party! I adore you guys.

  My family gets special mention for this book because many of the dishes mentioned come straight from my childhood. My mother even helped perfect the already-perfect recipe for Delmonico Pudding, which appears in the back of the book! Other recipe-testing thanks go to the lovely Megan Blocker, home cook par excellence and food blogger extraordinaire.

  And, as always, the biggest thank you of all to my husband, Nick, who never flags, never wavers, and never complains when I serve him frozen pizza for the fifth night in a row while I’m on deadline. Beta reader, sounding board, best friend, and love of my life all wrapped up in one tall, delicious package. I’m truly the luckiest woman in the world!

  It’s wonderful to have so much support and help as I write—if this book is any good at all, it’s thanks to all of you. Any mistakes are mine alone.

  PROLOGUE

  Trenton, NJMay 1995

  Black caps launched into the air, gold tassels flying, and everyone around him broke into ecstatic cheers.

  High school was over, life and its myriad possibilities stretched out in front of them like a wide, open highway—and all Devon felt was dread.

  Time up. No more excuses. He had to tell his dad today.

  Pushing past his jubilant classmates, Devon kept to his tried-and-true method of avoiding unwanted attention. He kept his head up and looked neither right nor left, and moved with unwavering purpose, as if on a mission of life-or-death importance.

  He ignored the occasional glances he caught from the corners of his vision, as well as the familiar catcalls and kissy noises.

  After a dozen years in the Trenton public school system with these knuckle-headed losers, Devon was immune to moronic comments about his looks. Nicknames like “Pretty Boy” and “Baby Face” had long ago lost all power to faze him. He never flinched, never blushed, never showed weakness.

  But was that enough for his old man?

  Devon spotted his family clustered stiffly under one of the gymnasium’s raised basketball hoops. Angela Sparks smiled when she saw Devon, and raised one hand to wave at him. She looked older than the other moms, even though she wasn’t. Still, underneath the worry lines and graying hair was the source of Devon’s overblown, inconvenient looks.

  Devon’s younger brother, Connor, shot him two thumbs up, then made the code signal for “Mom and Dad are driving me nuts, so I’m sneaking off.” Devon jerked his head once in agreement. He didn’t need any more of an audience for this, anyway.

  Connor grinned and said something to their dad, who grunted and waved him away. Phil Sparks was never anything but gruff, although Devon easily read the quiet pride and satisfaction in the man’s eyes as he followed Connor’s exuberant jog across the gym floor to join his buddies.

  That look, accompanied by a complacent “boys will be boys” shrug, was never aimed in Devon’s direction. Never had been, never would be. It was one of the main ways Devon knew there was something about him that was just … wrong.

  As a rising junior, Connor would be the starting quarterback next year. He played football in the fall and baseball in the spring, and excelled at both. At sixteen, he was already as tall as Devon, and the accident of genetics that cursed Devon with perfectly symmetrical features, vivid blue eyes, and the much-loathed long lashes had bypassed Connor entirely. Not that he was ugly or anything, just normal. Average.

  In short, Connor was everything Devon wasn’t. For instance, Connor was a nice person; too annoyingly nice for even Devon to despise.

  Devon, on the other hand, was the opposite of nice.

  He was also the opposite of average. Who the fuck wanted to be mediocre? Most of his graduating class did, as far as Devon could tell. They wanted nothing more than to go to Rutgers, get a boring desk job, get married, and die.

  Devon already knew. That kind of life wasn’t going to be enough for him.

  “Hi, guys,” Devon said, projecting his best nonchalant, devil-may-care attitude. “You caught the show, huh?”

  Angela’s eyes brightened, the deep, electric blue of them sparkling with rare happiness. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she said and clasped him close in a quick, hard hug.

  Phil frowned. Big surprise there. “For God’s sake, Devon. You couldn’t comb your hair before you went up on stage? You look like somebody dragged you through a bush backwards.”

  Yeah, Devon wanted to say. But if I’d slicked my hair down you’d have complained I looked like a brown-nosing nerd, so what’s the point?

  He managed to hold his tongue, though, because he had bigger issues than his hair to tackle, and he wanted to get it over and done with in the middle of this crowd where there was a slight chance his dad would be too embarrassed to go all out and explode.

  “We are so proud of you,” his mother j
umped in, ever the peacemaker, and Devon smiled at her. He was grateful for the lie, or at least for the affection that prompted it.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Phil snorted like a startled racehorse. “Speak for yourself. For me, I can’t see being proud of a kid too lazy to take advantage of the work and sacrifices his parents made so he could go to a good school and get into a good college.”

  And there it was. The opening Devon had been waiting for and dreading in equal measures ever since he got his letter from the Academy.

  “I know there wasn’t anything listed in the program,” Devon said, swallowing down the nerves that wanted to make his voice shake and fade. “But I actually do have some plans for next year.”

  “What? You get a football scholarship when I wasn’t looking? Oh, wait. That’s right. You wouldn’t even try out for the team.”

  Unwilling to be sidetracked into the old, old argument, Devon persevered.

  “I did get a scholarship, but not for football.” He set his jaw and lifted his chin until he gave the illusion of staring down his nose at his father, even though Phil Sparks was a good three inches taller.

  It was an effective expression. Devon knew because he practiced it in the mirror. Phil’s glower deepened.

  Deep breath in. “Dad. Mom. I got accepted to the Academy of Culinary Arts with a full scholarship.”

  And then he braced himself for impact.

  “Oh, honey,” Angela said, darting a glance at Phil. Whose face suddenly appeared to be carved from stone.

  “My son,” he said thickly, pushing the words past his clenched teeth. “Going to school to learn how to cook.”

  “Now, Phil,” Angela said, hands fluttering. But Devon didn’t want her getting in the middle. For once, for once and fucking all, he wanted to have it out with his father.

  He got right into Phil’s face, tension shooting down his back and vibrating his bones. “Yeah, Dad. I want to be a chef. What about it?”

  “It would be a fine career if you were my daughter. But come on, Devon, what am I supposed to tell people? That my son is going to school to learn how to bake pies with a bunch of fairies? Why don’t you just get a job styling ladies’ hair at the beauty parlor, then you can really make your old man a laughingstock.”

  “Right. Because that’s what matters, Dad—what the neighbors think, or the guys down at the union hall. I’m sure you’d like it better if I stuck around the neighborhood and started working for you, snaking toilets and grouting showers. Real appealing.”

  Phil’s face went red. “It was good enough to put food on the table and clothes on your ungrateful back.”

  Direct hit. Score one for Devon.

  Part of him wanted to take it back, knew he was crossing the line, but he couldn’t. If he faltered for even a second, he was done for.

  Brazening it out the only way he knew how, Devon said, “I want more than that, Dad. I want to be somebody.”

  “Sure,” Phil scoffed. “And you’re gonna get famous slinging hash in some diner? Or better yet, gonna make somebody a nice little wife someday. Shit. You got no clue how to be a man.”

  A hideous combination of rage and tears surged into Devon’s throat and threatened to choke him. He wanted to scream at his dad, tell him how hard he’d fought to be admitted to the Academy, the most prestigious culinary school in the country. Tell him what an honor it was and how many graduates of the Academy went on to open their own restaurants to critical acclaim and enormous success.

  But it wouldn’t make any difference. Cooking wasn’t ever going to impress Phil Sparks. The fact that his son loved it, and was actually gifted at it, was nothing more than an embarrassment.

  With a superhuman effort, Devon stomped down on the emotion and locked it away, deep inside. All he allowed onto his face was a twisted half-smile.

  Rocking back on his heels, he said, “What I know is that ten years from now, I’m going to look back on this conversation from the Jacuzzi in my Park Avenue apartment and laugh my ass off. I’ll be rich and famous and successful, and I will have done it al on my own.”

  Phil ground his teeth, the sound audible even over the chatter and squeaking shoes of four hundred recent graduates and their families.

  “Damn straight you’ll do it all on your own. I’m not supporting this foolishness. You want to throw your life away in some kitchen, throw away all the hard work your mother and I have done to give you better options than that, go right ahead. But don’t expect any help from me.”

  Devon laughed, shocking himself with the bitterness of it. “I gave up expecting anything from you a long time ago, Dad.”

  And then he kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his brother, and walked out of the school without a backward glance.

  He was finally on his own for real.

  Devon told himself it was nothing new, he’d been alone in every way that mattered for years—but it felt different, somehow.

  Well. He’d get used to it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lower East Side, ManhattanSeptember 2010

  “I’ve got fantastic news! Prepare to congratulate yourself, yet again, on having the intelligence, and the money, to hire me.”

  Devon Sparks squinted through the dark miasma of illegal cigarette smoke and the humid press of sweaty, raucous bar patrons to see his publicist, Simon Woolf, wrinkle his nose and give the stool beside Devon’s a swipe with a cocktail napkin before perching on it.

  “You look uncomfortable, Si,” Devon drawled, amused. “You disapprove of my taste in dive bars?”

  Devon caught Simon’s derisive sneer as he looked around Chapel and the dingy, smoke-filled underground room they were in. Propping his elbows on the scarred oak bar, Devon cocked his head and watched his personal publicity shark move his ever-present PDA fussily out of the way of a few crumbs scattered around the bowls of bar mix, popcorn, and wasabi peas.

  Simon ought to see the place when the real after-hours crowd came out—kitchen crews coming off service, off-duty cops, and ER docs mixed with punk musicians and the avant-garde theater crowd.

  Holding himself rigid to keep from brushing elbows with any of his fellow bar patrons, many of them pierced and tattooed and leathered up, Simon didn’t appear to appreciate the democratic nature of the scene.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t have met at your place.” Simon’s aggrieved tone had Devon rolling his eyes and holding up a hand to the bartender. Christian was an old friend; ex-employee, actually. He’d know what to fix Simon.

  “Order something,” Devon told him. “You look like you could use it. And you know exactly why we’re meeting here.” Devon had just finished a grueling season of the show, culminating in a week-long shoot at a chain fondue restaurant where no fewer than seven idiot servers had spilled molten cheese or chocolate on him. “I’m fucking exhausted, and I wanted a drink.”

  A silky note of malicious amusement threaded through Devon’s tone as he continued, “And you agreed because it’s your job to do whatever the hell I say.”

  After the week he’d had, it was a balm to Devon’s soul to be back in the position of dealing with underlings who could be relied upon to twist themselves into pretzels to avoid pissing him off.

  The premise of Devon’s show was that he went into unfamiliar professional kitchens for a single night and cooked any type of food, for any size restaurant, with tools and a staff he’d never worked with before. The tag line of the show was Anything you can do, I can do better.

  The producers had sent him all over the place, from banquet halls serving shrimp cocktail to hundreds of guests, to tiny, hole-in-the-wall corner joints. It was the Cooking Channel’s top-rated program, watched by millions across the country. It was big enough to have spawned a series of spoof sketches on Saturday Night Live.

  The fact that Devon was sick to death of it was his dirty little secret.

  “No, it’s my job to keep you in the superstar stratosphere to which you’ve become accustomed,”
/>   Simon corrected, peering suspiciously at the martini glass Christian set before him. “What is this?” he asked, taking a tiny sip. Which turned into a longer guzzle. “Hey, it’s actually not bad.”

  “Not bad,” Devon snorted. “Hey, Chris, you hear that?”

  The bartender cut his dark gaze to Devon, straight, hippie-length brown hair swinging against his shoulders.

  “I sure did, and boy, do I ever thank him for the kind words,” Christian drawled, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat to Simon. Devon wasn’t sure his publicist caught the sardonic edge Chris gave to the gesture.

  Simon took another sip, brows drawn in concentration. “It’s clear like a martini, but it has a more complicated flavor, something I can’t place.”

  Devon sat back on his barstool. This ought to be good.

  “White peppercorn-infused vodka, junipero gin, dry vermouth, ouzo, and a dash of white crème de menthe. I call it a Fuck Off & Die.” Christian smiled, wide and insincere, before moving off down the bar to take another order.

  Simon gaped after him for a moment, then shrugged and took another drink. Devon sniggered into his glass of straight Kentucky bourbon—yeah, it was that kind of night—and Simon gave him a cross look.

  “What? It tastes better than it sounds.”

  “It would have to,” Devon said. “Come on, spill. What’s so important you braved the perils of the Lower East Side to come and meet me? I know you’re not here for Adam’s going-away party.”

  If there were anyone Devon considered a friend, it was his former executive chef, Adam Temple. The other reason Devon had chosen Chapel for his post-shoot decompression was that Adam and his one true love were about to leave the country for an extended vacation. Tonight was Adam’s big sendoff. There was an outside chance it would be amusing.