Murder for the Halibut (6 page)

Okay, maybe “gourmet casseroles” was stretching it a bit, but the man should be forewarned.

“All the more intriguing. I hope you’ll join me one day for lunch there.”

Grinning, she pulled her hand out of his clasp. “It would be my pleasure.”

When she was sure it was safe, she did a hasty onceover of the middle-aged gentleman
with the warmest brown eyes she’d ever seen. With his salt-and-pepper hair and the
adorable dimple in his chin, he definitely was as handsome as Rosie’s first impression.
Even though Jordan had never actually watched the Cooking Channel and had no idea
how George Christakis stacked up against his fellow TV chefs, she gave the guy serious
hottie points.

She moved around the table to take the center chair, but before she even sat down,
she heard a commotion on the opposite side of the stage. When she looked up, she got
her first peek at the multimillionaire who had made his fortune selling alcoholic
desserts. About six two, Beau
Lincoln had slicked-back dark hair with equally dark eyes and a body that screamed
daily workout. When he smiled, he resembled a young George Clooney.

Dressed in navy slacks and a navy and gray polo shirt, he looked to be in his midthirties.
It was only after he stopped to talk to Wayne Francis that Jordan noticed the petite
blonde behind him. Five one or two at the most, the woman wore a red sundress that
left nothing to the imagination and made one wonder if she had just left the Playboy
Mansion.

Wayne led the couple over to the table. “Jordan and George, meet the other third of
the judging lineup, Beau Lincoln.”

Shamelessly, the new arrival let his wandering eyes explore every inch of Jordan,
his hand clinging to hers all the while and for far longer than she was comfortable
with.

Sheesh! Doesn’t the idiot know his wife is right behind him?

“My job just got a little more pleasant,” he said when he finally released her hand.

After his wife cleared her throat, he must have remembered he wasn’t alone and pulled
her in front of him. “And this is my lovely wife, Charlese.”

Jordan reached for her hand, noticing how clammy it was. “Nice to meet you.”

Wayne reached for Charlese’s arm and pointed to where Rosie and the gang sat about
four rows back. “We’re getting ready to start. Luca will take you to your seat now.”
He handed her off to a steward dressed in a perfectly starched white uniform.

“So, Jordan, tell me about yourself. How long have
you been the culinary reporter at the
Globe
?” Beau asked after settling in beside her.

When Beau inched closer, she moved slightly to her left, toward Christakis. “Just
a few months.”

“Michael said you were a chocoholic. Ever had one of my Sinfully Sweet desserts?”
When she shook her head, his eyes lit up. “Then you must let me come to your room
after the competition. I have a box of freshly baked Kahlúa brownies that has your
name on it.”

Don’t hold your breath.
She wrinkled her brow.
Wait!
Did he just say Kahlúa brownies?

Her attention was diverted when Marsha Davenport strolled up to the judges’ table.

“I couldn’t wait to meet you, Mr. Lincoln. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

Jordan couldn’t miss the way the lady chef stretched across the table to shake Beau’s
hand, giving both her and the entrepreneur a straight-to-the-belly-button view down
her blouse. Even the chef’s apron didn’t hide the attributes she’d no doubt paid a
chunk of change to enhance.

Beau moved away from Jordan and settled back in his chair to take advantage of the
peep show. Jordan imagined him salivating at the tasty morsel in front of him, but
at this point, she was just grateful for the diversion.

“Call me Beau. And who might you be?”

Marsha pretended to be shy and fluttered her eyelashes. “Marsha Davenport. I intern
in Hirasoto’s in Fort Worth.”

“I know that restaurant well,” Beau said. “Like chocolate, Marsha?” When she nodded,
he gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll bring some of my delicacies to your room later so
you can sample them.”

Hey, those are my brownies!

Jordan wondered what the jerk planned on doing with his little Hugh-Heffner-castoff
wife while he plied Marsha with God only knew what kind of “delicacies.”

“I’d like that. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my station, Beau. Hope you like
my salmon.” She stood and walked to where the other chefs were getting ready, making
sure her backside wiggled just enough to cause him to drool a bit more.

Suddenly thinking about Stefano, Jordan giggled to herself. The playing field had
narrowed, and the arrogant chef now had his work cut out for him tonight. Instead
of bragging about how he wouldn’t need the bonus ten points from the fishing trip,
he should’ve been worrying about Marsha and her sexy little body that was already
scoring points with Beau.

“I’m glad to see all of you,” Emily said as she walked up the steps and over to them.
Leaning down, she kissed Christakis on the forehead. “George, I’m so glad you made
it. I owe you.”

“Nonsense, my dear. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. It gets so stuffy in
New York sometimes. It’s good to get out of the city and see how the real people live.”
He pointed to Beau. “Like my fellow judges. I think I will be highly entertained this
week.”

Emily turned to Jordan. “And I’m delighted to have you as well, Jordan.” She stepped
closer to stand directly in front of Beau. “Thank you for agreeing to be a judge also,
Mr. Lincoln.”

Jordan almost felt sorry for Beau, whose tongue was nearly hanging out of his mouth
after his first glimpse of
the entertainment lawyer. He must have thought he had died and gone to Hooter Heaven.

“Jesus!” Jordan heard him say under his breath.

“Are we ready to get this show on the road?” Emily asked without offering her hand.

“Yes,” Jordan replied.

Beau could only nod. Jordan couldn’t help thinking Marsha had just lost out on the
Kahlúa brownies, too.

Emily moved to the middle of the stage and took the mic from Michael’s boss. “Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to what we hope will be the first of many
annual Lone Star Caribbean Cook-Offs. I’m Emily Thorpe, and along with Wayne Francis
and KTLK in Ranchero, Texas, I have the privilege of being a sponsor for this wonderful
event. First off, I want to thank the good people at Carnation Queen Cruise Lines
for their help in putting this together, as well as the talented staff at KTLK for
making it happen. Of course, we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for all of you wonderful
listeners who chose to be a part of this fun cruise with us. So, are you all ready
to see the chefs cook?”

The crowd went wild, all except Beau’s wife, who definitely was not a happy camper
and was sending daggers in Emily’s direction. Had she seen her husband’s reaction
to the dazzling lawyer? And if so, why was she giving Emily the evil eye? Her only
fault was looking gorgeous. She couldn’t help it if Beau was as sleazy as they come
and just as horny.

“Let’s start by introducing the talented chefs who came from all over the Dallas–Fort
Worth area to show off their talents.” The crowd cheered after each name,
rocking the house when Stefano was introduced. “The competition will take place only
on the days we’re at sea so that y’all can enjoy the wonderful islands we’ll visit.
Tomorrow night we’ll begin with appetizers, and then on Thursday when we’re on our
way back to Miami, the chefs will give us their best dessert recipes. We’ve saved
the most challenging part, main entrees, for Friday night, after which the points
will be tallied and a winner crowned.

“Tonight’s Greased Lightning Elimination Round will start us off. Our chefs have each
chosen their own favorite fish to cook, but they’ll have to incorporate every ingredient
from the baskets at their stations in their recipes.”

She reached for an opened basket from one of her assistants and held it up. “Each
basket has identical ingredients chosen by the executive chef on the ship. There are
mangoes, pineapples, crab meat, a few exotic seasonings, and even guava berry liqueur.
The chefs will have thirty minutes to prepare enough for the three judges and the
twenty-five tasters.” She paused to allow the crowd to show their approval before
she continued. “Now it’s time to meet the three people who hold the fate of our chefs
in their hands.”

Emily turned toward Jordan and Beau. “The pretty lady with the great hair is Jordan
McAllister from the
Ranchero Globe
. She writes the popular Kitchen Kupboard column, so we know she’s highly qualified
to pick out great-tasting food.”

Jordan nearly choked on the sip of water she’d just taken.

“Sitting on her right is Beau Lincoln, owner and CEO of Sinfully Sweet, a Fortune
500 company that sells the most delicious cocktail desserts I’ve ever tasted.

“And I don’t think I need to tell any of you who the distinguished gentleman to Jordan’s
left is. Please help me welcome world-renowned chef and owner of the fabulous Chez
Lui restaurant in New York City, George Christakis.”

The man seemed almost embarrassed by all the hoopla. The crowd’s appreciation and
subsequent standing ovation brought a half smile to his face. He stood and waved,
causing another storm of applause.

When the crowd finally quieted down, Emily continued. “So without further ado, let’s
get started. Remember, chefs, one of you will be eliminated tonight, but you’ll still
get to hang out and enjoy a great cruise. The final winner will receive a hundred
thousand dollars, courtesy of Gourmet Kitchens, along with the opportunity to do a
national ad campaign with me for Classic Cuisine.” Her assistant handed her a remote
control. “You’re on the clock,” she said as a huge digital timer appeared over the
chef stations and began the thirty-minute countdown.

The chefs immediately opened the baskets and got down to business. Soon the smell
of cooking fish filled the air as the chefs frantically chopped and mixed, poached
and sautéed—and intermittently sprinted to the back of the stage to grab additional
ingredients from a table laden with fruits and vegetables.

With only five minutes to go, the atmosphere on the stage was near chaos; Jordan watched
the contestants scurrying to and from their stations, as if the clock were a time
bomb. Except for Stefano. In contrast to the other chefs, the cocky Casanova was jovial
as he tasted his dish, added more seasoning, and nonchalantly tasted again.

Maybe this guy was as good as he said, Jordan thought,
watching him take one more bite before setting down his fork.

In a flash, the smile on his face disappeared and his eyes bulged open. Doubling over
the table as though in severe pain, he grabbed his throat and terror flashed across
his face. It took a few seconds for Jordan’s brain to register that he might be in
serious trouble, but then she jumped up and ran toward him.

Before she could reach him, Stefano’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell face-first
into his signature halibut dish.

“Get the doctor!” Jordan screamed. Running behind the table, she reached Stefano at
the same time as Michael. After lifting the chef’s face out of the plate and gently
lowering him to the floor, Michael checked his neck for a pulse.

“Nothing.” On his knees beside Stefano, he began giving him chest compressions.

The nearly two thousand people in the audience were eerily silent, watching as Michael
attempted to revive the fallen chef. The other contestants quietly huddled in a corner,
the meals they’d been preparing still cooking at their stations.

Jordan watched Beau Lincoln meander over to where Marsha stood silently with her competitors.
Apparently, the dramatic attempt to save a man’s life playing out in front of him
was the last thing on his mind. Talking
Marsha into a cozy, after-dinner chocolate fest in his room was probably right up
there at the top, though.

Disgusted, Jordan’s attention reverted back to Stefano just as the ship’s doctor rushed
onto the stage, medical bag in hand and stethoscope around his neck. He bent down
and motioned for Michael to stop CPR while he checked to see if the heartbeat had
returned.

“Continue,” he commanded before reaching into his black bag for a prefilled syringe.
Quickly, he tied a tourniquet around Stefano’s arm, found a vein, and injected the
medicine directly into it.

A steward appeared with a defibrillator, and after charging it, the doctor administered
the first shock to Stefano’s chest. His lifeless body briefly jumped off the floor
with the jolt, then stilled. When the steward knelt down on the other side of the
dying chef and took over the chest compressions, Michael rose and joined Jordan on
the sidelines.

The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know.

“He’s not going to make it, is he?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” Michael responded, clearly shaken. “It doesn’t look too good for him
right now.”