Laughing, she nodded, her whole demeanor relaxing with each passing minute. Success. He might get this job yet.
He tightened his grip on the fruit, grateful it was perfectly ripe. “Did you grow this?”
“I sure did.”
“It’s a beauty.” Turning the avocado in front of his face, he examined the color—this was a Florida-style version of the fruit, with a smooth rind and a bigger body. Not great for guacamole-style dips, but perfect for blending into something silky smooth. “From
“More fake French?”
“I know just enough to be dangerous.” He stepped over to the basket and picked up an onion and a lemon, his mind whirring with the recipe and the genuine desire to make the best soup she’d ever had. “Can I have a bit of caviar, or will it break the bank?”
“I’ll get it.”
He watched her walk away, drawn to the sway of her hips and the bounce in her dark hair. And really drawn to the change in her. What had Lacey said to her? Whatever, he didn’t want to question his good fortune. All he had to do was cook another dish or two, send her off to call the fake references that Henry’s team would handle, and the job was his.
Unless she wanted to take their flirtation to the next level, asking questions and trying to develop a friendship. Then he’d haul ass and fast. He couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone, ever.
He was still thinking about how to navigate those waters when she came back with a small container of caviar, leaning her hip against the stainless steel to watch him work.
“Why didn’t you mention you were a chef the other night?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Who could ask when I was so busy getting tongue-tattooed?”
He smiled at the memory. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t. Not one bit.
“’Sokay. I’m still…” She casually touched her breastbone but didn’t finish her thought.
“Recovering?” he suggested.
“Grateful I didn’t let you—uh, sweep me away and do, you know.”
He knew. He chopped some onion with a deft, quick swipe of the knife. “Why would you be grateful?”
“Because now we’re going to work together.”
“Yes,” he agreed, liking that line of thought, and not only because it meant he was getting the job. “Better to not
“Of course,” she agreed, although her reply lacked true enthusiasm.
He couldn’t forget that the woman wanted way more than a chef. Was that why she was giving him a second chance?
He glanced around the pantry shelves. “Don’t suppose you have any sambal?”
“For avocado soup?”
Yes, for avocado soup he’d learned to make in Singapore. Which would beg some serious questions, like, Where’d you learn to cook like this? “Never mind, don’t need it.”
He’d never admit to three years in Singapore, especially since his time there ended so badly; according to all records outside of the UK Protected Persons Service, he had “died” in a car accident on his way out of town, after being recognized as Ian Browning. Thanks to the brilliant minds in UK witness protection, his death made the papers, and he hoped that was enough to keep the bounty off his head and killers off his trail. As long as they believed Sean Bern/Ian Browning was dead, he could stay alive and wait for his chance to get his children back.
If it ever got out that he was still alive and living under yet another name in yet another country…
He didn’t want to think about the consequences. He’d bought one more life, and he knew what to do with it. Lie low, remain distant, stay uninvolved, and, for God’s sake, don’t mess around with someone who wanted to run a bloody DNA test on him.
He popped the top of a food processor and started dropping in diced avocado. “Got any dry vermouth, by any chance?”
“And here I was hoping for something made of all-garden-grown ingredients. Caviar and booze isn’t exactly farm-fresh.”
Shrugging, he squeezed lemon. “But they are organic. Your organs need vermouth.”
Smiling, she pushed away from the table and headed around the corner. “It’s back here with the wine.” After a second she returned, placing the bottle in front of him.
He nodded thanks. “If you hate my soup, I make a mean martini.”
She relaxed again, watching him work. “Speaks French, makes martinis, kisses like a trained professional. Where does this man come from?”
And, just like that, it was time to start the lies.
He didn’t answer immediately, pretending to examine the quality of the lemon leaves he’d use as a final garnish.
“I didn’t get a chance to study your resume,” she pressed.
“Where’d you learn to cook?”
“I’ve worked in a lot of kitchens in a lot of places,” he said vaguely.
“Yes, I remember: You’re on the run.”
His head shot up with a spike of adrenaline in his veins. “Excuse me?”
“You told me in the bar you’re always running. So how do we know you’ll stay here?”
“You don’t,” he said honestly. Fact was, he was one phone call away from a disappearing act. But that phone call might take a week, a month, or…well, they didn’t have that much more time, did they? Once the kids turned four, the possibility of getting Sam and Shiloh back dropped to next to nothing. “But while I’m here, I’ll be the best damn chef you can find.”
“We need someone who’ll stick around.”
He splashed the vermouth into the processor, weighing his answer and dividing his gaze between the food and the woman in front of him. “I won’t walk out in the middle of a dinner rush, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not what I’m asking. Will you stay into next year? And beyond?”
Well, that depended on some stranger in Canada he’d never met and his government liaison’s mood and a few hundred other things he had no control over. “I’ll do my level best. How’s that?” He stabbed the food processor’s On button with a little more force than necessary.
“Do you have a short fuse, Mr. Brown?”
“I don’t have a short anything, Ms. Galloway.”
She flushed slightly. “And you can’t flirt your way through the truth.”
“I’m not flirting and I am telling the truth.” Or as much as he was able to, which was precious little. “Can I cook in peace or do you want to interrogate me some more?”
“Interrogate?” She straightened, angling her head in surprise. “I know this is some kind of game of evasion to you, but to me this is a job interview. Questioning is not interrogating.”
A game of evasion? He was torn whether to bark in anger or ask how she’d already sniffed that out.
He couldn’t do either one. All he could do was answer her questions with lies, transparencies, and clever twists of the truth. “Of course. Knock yourself out.”
“How many years have you been cooking?” she asked.
“Since I was young.”
“A non-answer. How old are you?”
He glanced up, surprised at the bluntness. “Is that legal to ask?”
“I don’t know, but why won’t you answer?”
She was right; not answering would only wave a red flag. Anyway, he’d changed his identity, not his age. “Thirty-six. How about you?”
