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  Assessing the situation in a blink, Eva dropped her Chanel purse safely to the left of the door and prepared to wade into the fray.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Lunden snarled at her as he strong-armed his flailing opponent away from Eva. “Stay out of this.”

  “Like hell,” Eva said, ducking a flying fist. “I run restaurants for a living. You think this is my first kitchen brawl? All right, boys, that’s enough!”

  She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, loud and shrill. The sound guaranteed to bring a New York taxi screeching to a halt in front of her made the Limestone chefs freeze in their tracks long enough to realize their boss was in their midst.

  The only one who didn’t seem to notice or care about her presence in the kitchen was the big guy in the middle of the fight. Eva was close enough to the center of the action now to see the mindless rage, layered over with something sharper, like pain or fear, clouding Muscle Man’s dark eyes. With his chin-length hair lashing around his face and his warrior’s stance, he looked absolutely wild, like a bull skewered with a Spaniard’s sword.

  Eva didn’t allow herself even an instant of hesitation.

  Just as he drew back his meaty fist for another right hook, Eva stepped directly in front of him and tilted her head back to look him in the eye.

  “Enough,” she said as firmly as she could, doing her level best to radiate calm and confidence in spite of the fact that her palms were slick and clammy with nervous sweat.

  Vibrating with anger, every visible muscle clenched, the big chef blinked down at Eva, fist still pulled back and ready to strike.

  “Come on, Beck,” Lunden said into the silent tension. “Whatever it is, let it go for now. We can figure this out, but only if you calm down and let us help you.”

  Shuddering like a wounded bear, Muscle Man, aka Beck, lowered his fist. His massive shoulders drooped, and Eva let out an unobtrusive sigh of relief, adrenaline still flooding her veins. She felt as if she’d averted disaster, and, glancing around the kitchen, it seemed the feuding chefs had managed not to destroy any of the ovens, blast chillers, or salamander broilers.

  Thank God they hadn’t knocked over the liquid nitrogen tank in the corner. That would’ve been a bitch and a half to explain to the insurance people.

  “This meathead attacked me,” slurred a voice from around Eva’s knees. She looked down to where Ryan Larousse, Chicago’s brightest young culinary prodigy—and hottest-tempered chef—sat pressing an open palm to the swelling line of his lower lip. One of the Limestone chefs reached a hand down, and Ryan scrambled to his feet. “I want him thrown out of this kitchen, and I’m definitely pressing charges. That psycho should be in jail!”

  Before Eva could do anything to calm the troubled waters, Daniel Lunden jumped right on in and started splashing around.

  “Hold on just a minute there, Gloria Allred. No one’s going to jail.” He pushed through the crowd to stand at his teammate’s side. Eva wished he didn’t look so damn sexy while stirring up trouble and making her life harder, but it was hard to deny that the sight of him, all alpha male and inflexible, beautifully lean arms crossed over his chest, got her thinking decidedly and deliciously inappropriate things about handcuffs.

  “I know my boy, and Beck isn’t some hotheaded kid out looking for action.” Lunden sneered that bit, giving Ryan Larousse a once-over that made the younger chef flush as red as the blood trickling from his split lip. “If he jumped your skinny ass, you damn well did something to provoke him.”

  Having dealt with Ryan Larousse before, Eva had no doubt that this was true. Still, in the interests of fairness. “Ryan? Is this true?”

  The quick slide of his gaze told her everything she needed to know before he replied with a surly, “No way. We were just talking. I mean, what the hell.”

  Beck remained as silent and immovable as a monolith, except for the rapid rise and fall of his rib cage as his breath returned to normal. Tilting her head to one side to get a different angle on him, Eva said, “Beck. Anything to add?”

  The crackling flames had died away from Beck’s expression, so Eva wasn’t surprised when his only response was to stand there stolidly, meeting her gaze without blinking.

  Lunden didn’t like it much, though. “Come on, Beck. Tell her what happened, so we can sort this thing out.” Casting a frustrated look at the third member of the East Coast Team, he said, “Win, you were here. What went down?”

  Win straightened up guiltily, unhappiness in every curve of his wiry body. “I don’t know,” he admitted reluctantly. “I mean, we came in, introduced ourselves, tried to figure out where you two had disappeared to, and started shooting the shit about the other teams in the competition. Trading stories, getting background info.” He shuffled from one foot to the other. “You know how it goes.”

  Oh, Eva knew, all right. Whenever a bunch of chefs got together in one room, the first thing that happened—after the requisite dick measuring, of course—was gossip.

  The restaurant industry was fairly small and tight-knit, even across state lines. Lots of chefs were nomadic, traveling to new cities chasing opportunities in new restaurants, and they tended to all know one another, or at least know of one another.

  And from the way that little sweetie pie Win was blushing, Eva could guess at one other component of the gossip.

  Some chefs’ conversations sounded a lot like they could’ve been overheard around the watercooler at the offices of TMZ or Star magazine. The only kind of stories those chefs considered worth trading had to do with who’d slept with whom, and how good—or bad—the sex was.

  Eva happened to know that the East Coast Team wasn’t the only one with a female chef.

  “So who is she?” Eva asked, watching Beck closely.

  He didn’t move. Not by the flicker of an eyelash did he betray a reaction, but Eva knew she was right.

  The dawning realization in Win’s wide eyes as he darted a glance at his stoic teammate was just the cherry in the Manhattan.

  “Okay, it sounds like this was all a big misunderstanding,” Daniel Lunden said, spreading his open hands in front of him and giving a big, hey-we’re-all-buddies-here smile. “Sorry things got out of hand, but you know, it’s a competition. Tempers are high, we’re all feeling the pressure.” He quirked a brow at the hulking Beck. “And hey, the show hasn’t even really started yet. Just wait until there are cameras all over the place and twenty-five chefs sharing one kitchen! This was nothing compared with the clusterfuck that’s going to be. No need to borrow drama when tomorrow’s going to bring enough of its own. Am I right?”

  Eva caught several of the chefs—the ones who’d had to put up with Ryan Larousse the longest, probably—nodding. The tension in the room had broken like a stick of dry pasta, brittle and weak in the face of Lunden’s charisma.

  She had to admire his style—from kissing the stockings off her in the elevator to defending his teammate to keeping the peace.

  Or almost.

  “No fucking way,” Ryan spat. “This isn’t over just because you say it is, Lunden.”

  “Actually,” Eva said mildly, taking one casual step forward to interpose herself between Ryan and Lunden, “it’s over because I say it is. Come on, Ryan. You wanted to stir some shit and, congratulations, you made shit soup. It’s not my fault if you’re unhappy with the way the dish turned out.”

  From the corner of her eye, Eva could tell Ryan wasn’t the only chef gaping at her in astonishment.

  Yes, fellas. The lady knows how to swear. Get over it.

  “That’s pretty stand-up of you, Ms. Jansen,” Win said. His tentative smile made Eva want to smile back, but she squashed the urge. They weren’t getting off so easily as all that.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Lunden added, although his jaw was so tight it looked as if it must’ve hurt to get the words out. “I think it’s time for us to go. We’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  Interesting. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t the only one
defending his pack. Or maybe he just wasn’t used to it. A little shiver of anticipation tightened everything in Eva’s body for one luscious instant.

  There were so many intriguing layers to Daniel—that name, so formal, didn’t seem to suit him—Lunden.

  He was like an artichoke, she mused, watching him skillfully extricate his boys from a roomful of men who’d been doing their best to kill them not ten minutes before. Lots of tasty layers.

  And Eva couldn’t wait to peel all the way down to the heart of him.

  So close. They were so close to getting out of this mess with no harm, no foul, but just as his hand touched the door, he heard, “Not so fast.”

  It was Eva.

  Turning slowly, he arranged his features into his best pleasant expression, eyebrows arched over innocent eyes, slight smile stretching his mouth.

  What now, damn it?

  Eva stood in the center of the kitchen, surrounded by men who were taller than her and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

  It said something about her that Danny had felt no compunction leaving her alone in the midst of all that raw, seething, thwarted aggression. Ryan Larousse might be a violent little punk who resented the hell out of authority, but he was no match for Eva Jansen.

  Holding up one scarlet-tipped fingernail in a silent command for them to wait, Eva turned away from the East Coast Team and focused her high beams on the Limestone chefs.

  “You boys have better things to do than pick fights in my kitchen, I’m sure. And since you know the layout, you’ve already got the advantage on the rest of the teams. So unless you’re in here booby-trapping the place—yes, Larkin, I said booby, try to keep it together—I suggest you head up to the rooms we’ve so graciously provided for you, and get some rest. I expect great things from you tomorrow. Go!”

  They went.

  Danny watched the scarred, tattooed gang of kitchen hooligans march past and tried not to envy them.

  Ryan Larousse, clutching one hand to his lividly bruising chin like a drama queen, gave Beck a nasty stare on the way out. Beck, back to doing his normal impression of an oak tree, didn’t appear to notice. Not for the first time, Danny wished he could borrow a little of the guy’s invincible poise.

  “Now,” Eva said when the other team had gone. “I don’t need to know what this was about—since I know Ryan, I can make an educated guess. And as he’s technically my chef, I’ll apologize for him.”

  Approaching the unapproachable mountain that was Beck could be unnerving at the best of times. When he was like this, sweaty and disheveled and strung wire-tight from a fight? Put it this way: Eva’s quick, fearless stride right up to him earned her some respect in Danny’s book.

  She held out her hand, head tilted way back to be able to make eye contact with Beck. “For whatever he said about her, however he mocked what she means to you, I’m sorry.”

  Danny still had no clue how or why she’d gotten the idea that this whole scuffle was over a woman. That seemed way out of character for gruff, unsentimental Beck—but instead of setting her straight, Beck actually took her hand and said, “Thanks. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”

  She nodded, dropping his hand but never his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you should probably let your teammates know, so they can watch your back and keep this from happening again. Because Ryan is not the type to let up on something once he knows it bothers you. And I don’t need to know what that is.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes went flinty. “But I do need to know that a fight like this isn’t going to happen again. Not while I’m in charge of this competition.”

  Danny held his breath for Beck’s response. The guy had proven himself unpredictable today, after all. But he shook his head, shoulders back and straight like a prisoner at a parole hearing. “I get it. I take full responsibility. It won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t.” Eva’s voice was gentle again, and she smiled as she leaned down to scoop up her shiny leather satchel with the big interlocking C’s on the side. She slanted a glance at Danny. “I’ll be watching you carefully to make sure of it.”

  “Well, bye, see you tomorrow, Ms. Jansen,” Win chirped abruptly, his delighted gaze darting back and forth between them as he grabbed Beck by the sleeve and started towing him toward the door. “Danny, take your time. No rush!”

  Danny winced. The little shit must’ve watched Yentl on the plane or something.

  And then he was alone with Eva Jansen for the second time in a single hour, and honest to God he wasn’t sure his heart could take the stress.

  “I like that,” she said, running the tip of her pretty, pink tongue along her plump Cupid’s bow of a bottom lip. “It suits you.”

  Dazed, wondering if he’d missed something crucial to the conversation while zoning out on the many uses to which he’d be happy to put her tongue, Danny said, “What does?”

  “Danny.”

  How did she manage to make the name he’d been called since kindergarten sound like pure, filthy sex?

  Shutting down that thought, hard, Danny attempted to get his brain back on track. “Thanks for being so cool about the fight. We’re here to compete, period. Everything else is just meaningless distraction.”

  Arching her brow and giving him a who-are-you-trying-to-convince look, Eva said, “This wasn’t the first time Ryan Larousse crossed a line. But he’s a brilliant chef, so up till now we’ve put up with it.”

  Slinging that purse up onto her shoulder, she sauntered past him, hips twitching and fucking mesmerizing in that tight little skirt.

  “A couple pieces of advice?” she offered languidly over her shoulder. “Keep your eye on Ryan. He’s a prick, but he is talented, and after today he’ll be very motivated to kick your ass in the competition.”

  “Already planning on it,” Danny said. “What was the other piece of advice?”

  Flashing him a sultry grin that made his heart kick at his rib cage, she said, “Don’t discount meaningless distractions—sometimes they’re just what the doctor ordered.”

  And then she was gone, leaving a cloud of perfume and a very conflicted pastry chef behind her.

  Chapter 7

  “Which one is Ryan Larousse again?” Max asked out of the corner of his mouth as they trooped into the kitchen, fumbling with the wireless microphones the production assistant in the hall had handed out. “Man, I can’t believe you guys got into a scrap. You should’ve waited for me!”

  “It wasn’t fun,” Danny said for what felt like the hundredth time. “It was stupid and pointless and could’ve gotten us disqualified from the competition.”

  What he held back, for the hundredth time, was the observation that Max would have been there if he could tear himself away from sucking face with his new girlfriend long enough to actually lead the team he was supposedly in charge of.

  Or maybe Jules was supposed to be in charge. Who could keep track, at this point? Danny felt the Rising Star Chef title, the competition, his family’s restaurant, and his father’s legacy slipping out of their grasp, and while he was clinging desperately with his fingernails, Max and Jules were billing and cooing in their love nest like a pair of mated swans.

  Or something.

  It was possible Danny had some issues to resolve, once this whole thing was over. But see? he wanted to say. I’m a fucking professional, damn it. I put my personal shit aside until the cooking is done, because that is what it means to be a freaking chef.

  And people thought pastry chefs were wimps. They had no clue.

  “Aw, Dan-the-Man. You never would’ve let that happen to us,” Max said, with his usual cheery disregard for the limits of Danny’s supposed superpowers.

  Jules gave him a sympathetic look, but before she could say anything Danny gritted his teeth around a smile. “Maybe we’d better get everyone situated? I think the judges are going to be in soon to talk to us about the first challenge.”

  “Good idea,” Jules said, standi
ng taller. “Guys, huddle up. Max?”

  Winslow bounded over like a young basketballer moving down center court, Beck following more slowly. Beck had been slow, in general, since the fight the day before, and it had Danny worried. Not about lingering injuries or anything—Danny hadn’t seen much of the fight for himself, but by the time he’d stepped onto the scene, Beck had been pretty much wiping the floor with that snot-nosed band of jumped-up wannabe badasses.

  But Beck seemed to lack his usual laser focus; the impenetrable fortress of calm surrounding him had definitely been penetrated.

  As Max started his inspirational speech about what a great team they were and how much it meant to him to get to cook alongside such talented blah blah blah, Danny swept the other teams gathering in the kitchen with a critical gaze.

  There were the Limestone guys, competing for the Midwest region, leaning against the stainless-steel countertops along the back wall like a gang of roughneck kids staking out a street corner. Their various black eyes, cut lips, and bruised cheekbones only added to the look. They had the home-field advantage, and they knew it.

  And it was not nothing, that advantage. As Danny took in the massive size of the kitchen, which he hadn’t really had a chance to do yesterday, what with one thing and another, he realized how helpful it would’ve been to have familiarized themselves with the layout.

  Much less to have cooked in it every day for years—to know it better than their own apartments, the way the Midwest Team did.

  Keeping one ear open for the pauses in Max’s speechifying that might signal a cue to nod or cheer, Danny studied the wide, rectangular room. It was set up with five rows of freestanding prep tables, one row for each team. Five large white cutting boards per table interrupted the spotless gleam of stainless steel.

  The back wall, behind the lounging Midwest Team, was all corner-to-corner convection ovens, black and serious looking. A bank of refrigerators occupied the wall to Danny’s left, while a line of gas cooking ranges under enormous ventilation hoods marched along the wall to his right.