With a Little Help (7 page)

She straightened, reaching for the dishes he'd placed on the counter. “What part of ‘no' don't you understand?”

His provocative grin washed over her. “The part that's saying ‘later.'”

Frustration made her raise her voice. “I am not saying ‘later'—or anytime at all.”

“Your voice may not be, but the rest of you is all invitation.”

She tried to stand straighter, but it was difficult when so much of her felt boneless from being in his arms. The need to melt against him and continue where they'd left off was like a hunger, but she was not giving in. The conflict fueled her anger. “And the doctor is always right, isn't he?”

Nate leaned against a counter and folded his arms. “This has nothing to do with my job.”

“It has everything to do with it. Can't you see? You've decided you want me, and you think it's only a matter of time before you get your way. What I want doesn't count.” She arranged some cookware in the dishwasher.

“Of course it does.” He sounded heated now, the teasing tone morphing into a barbed sharpness. “But short of throwing away years of medical and surgical training, and taking a job you approve of, I don't know how to get past your damned prejudices.”

LEDs flashed as she chose a program, the jumping lights matching her thoughts. “You don't have to. You don't have to be anything but who you are,” she insisted. “And let me do the same.”

“You really believe you can have no future with a doctor, don't you?”

She swabbed an already spotless counter with a cloth, her hand trembling. The tiny movement plunged like a knife into his heart. “I know I can't.”

 

N
ATE REACHED OUT AND PUSHED
a strand of hair from her eyes, causing her to suck in a breath. “You know what you experienced in your family. The whole world doesn't operate the same way.” It had with his father, an inner voice insisted. No, his mother had to take some of the responsibility. If she'd truly loved his father, she'd have found a way to work through their difficulties instead of walking away.

“You like order, don't you?” he asked Emma as she tidied up the ingredients she'd used for the meal. The massive refrigerator hadn't held this much food since last Christmas. The hominess of it all threatened to sidetrack him. He should get in here more, cook for himself, make his home more of a refuge. Though he'd still be missing what he suspected was the most vital element. Emma.

“Order makes it easier to get things done. In a commercial kitchen, you have to be able to put your hand on whatever you need in a hurry.”

“How do you know what you'll need?” he asked.

A tiny frown formed between her eyes. “Sometimes I follow a recipe.”

“And if you don't have a recipe?”

“I follow my instincts.”

He picked up the bottle of rum she'd used in the dessert, and replaced it on a shelf. “Do your instincts ever lead you astray?”

“Occasionally.” She pulled a face. “Not long ago, I tried making an avocado and chocolate pudding. Didn't work at all.”

“Yet I had something similar in a restaurant in the U.S., and it was sensational,” he argued. “In the right hands, anything can be made to work if the will is there.”

Emma met his gaze, her eyes huge and liquid. “Why me?” she asked, frustration in her voice. “You can have any woman you want.”

He heard the rest of the question: Why choose Emma when she was determined nothing could come of it?

He refused to think her elusiveness was the main attraction. The medical professionals she knew were probably used to people jumping when they snapped their fingers. He had a momentary glimpse of his staff treating his word as law, the females swooning when he smiled at them. Yeah, right. Grace was more likely to argue a diagnosis with him than swoon, and the rest of his team knew better than to yes-man him if they thought he was wrong. He might enjoy a little deference, but he didn't
need
it to exist.

“Don't bother answering,” she said before he could respond. “Look at it like this. Not having the
object of your desire for once will make you a better person.”

His smile returned. “Oh, I'll get what I want. Not because I can't handle rejection, but because the object of my desire wants the same thing.”

She sighed. “Do you always have to have the last word?”

“Only when I'm right.”

 

H
E WASN'T RIGHT, HE COULDN'T
be, Emma thought. But she wasn't going to get anywhere arguing with him. Like her father and brother, Nate was convinced he knew what was right for her, when he hadn't a clue what she needed.

Or did he? The thought hit her hard. Before tonight, she'd been sure of her ground. Make the business fly, establish herself in the tough world of professional catering. Maybe open a proper restaurant later on. Nearly all her goals concerned her work, she noted. Nowhere in her master plan was a cure for the needs that coursed like a torrent of water through her veins.

“Damn it, Nate,” she said out loud. “You don't know everything.”

He'd placed two cups into a built-in espresso machine and fiddled with the controls. “I never said I did. You only have to watch a patient recover despite a terminal diagnosis to believe in mysteries beyond our understanding.”

Love was certainly among them. “This late, I prefer herbal tea,” she said.

Without comment he set aside one of the espresso cups. While the machine hissed and sputtered, he took a black porcelain mug out of a cupboard and began to hunt, looking smug when he unearthed a box of chamomile tea bags. “This do?”

“I take it you don't have any loose tea.”

He stretched out the string on one of the bags. “Isn't this tea?”

Amused in spite of herself, she nodded. “More or less.” She couldn't resist asking, “Nate, why do you have such an amazing kitchen you never use?”

“You think it's amazing? I'll be sure to tell Mitch Kelso. The design is all his.”

“Mitch Kelso did your kitchen? He created the kitchens of some of the most famous restaurants in the world.”

Nate tapped the boiling water outlet on the machine and made her tea. “Mitch was a patient who became a friend. You'll meet him at my party.”

She waved both hands in front of her face. “Excuse me for having a fan moment. If I could have anyone design my kitchen, it would be him.”

He handed her the tea and took his coffee out of the machine, drizzling a dash of milk into the brew. “What's stopping you?”

“Do you know what he charges?” She blinked. “Of course you do. He did this.”

“He's not doing site work at the moment, doctor's orders,” Nate said. “But he might do some sketches for a friend of a friend.”

“You'd ask him for me?” She felt suspicion cloud her gaze.

“After a recent health scare, I prescribed rest, but he's going nuts without a project to occupy his mind. You'd be doing him a favor.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No strings,” Nate promised. “That's not how I work.”

Tonight had given her more than a taste of how he worked. Still, the temptation was too much. “If you're sure it's no bother, and no risk to him.”

“No to both, as long as he sticks to coming up with ideas.”

“I'll be lucky if I can afford his ideas,” she said. “Thank you, Nate.”

He sipped his coffee, glancing at her over the rim of the cup. “See, we doctors aren't always the bad guys.”

“This is business. Nothing else changes.”

 

S
OMETHING HAD ALREADY CHANGED
, Nate knew, as he watched her steer the tag of the tea bag around to the back of the mug so she could drink what must be a sad excuse for herbal tea. Next time he'd make sure he had the real thing. And there would be a next time. He wished he'd known sooner that his friendship
with Mitch was a key to Emma's heart. Her business heart, anyway. Nate had no intention of letting the other man move in on his territory.

Because whether Emma knew it or not, tonight Nate had staked a claim.

“T
HE ICE CREAM.
W
HAT DID WE DO
with the ice cream?”

“In the chillers, surrounded by ice packs, ready to go into Nate's freezer as soon as we get there,” Sophie said, her expression inscrutable. Emma wasn't fooled by her friend's outward calm. Under stress, she became what she called
über
Chinese.

“The praline shards are in the container next to them,” she added. “You sure you don't want me to drive the van?” Sophie asked.

“You'll need your car to get to your exam tonight,” Emma said. “I'm fine, really. It's only a last-minute attack of nerves. Everything's as ready as it can be.” Her nerves had nothing to do with Nate himself, only with making sure the event ran like clockwork, she assured herself.

She and Sophie had prepared as much of the party menu ahead of time as they could. The last of the fresh ingredients were packed into Emma's white van for final preparation when they got to Nate's house.

“How did the tables look when you checked on them?” Sophie asked as Emma locked up.

“Fabulous. The rented dining tables are perfect, and the motley collection of old silverware and serving dishes looks like they came straight out of the family vault. The linens are fantastic—they remind me of the lacework Gramma Jessie told me her grandmother used to make. Where did you find it all?”

“Chinatown, where else?” Sophie peeled off to her car. “If we're all set, I'll see you at Nate's.”

Emma got in and started the van. She drove carefully so she wouldn't shake anything around too much. Nate hadn't been at the house when she was there earlier, and she told herself she was thankful. Today of all days, she didn't need the distraction.

Things had been bad enough when he brought Mitch Kelso to meet her a few days before. She'd expected to feel tongue-tied around the master designer, but instead it was Nate who put her senses on red alert. With Mitch she was fine. They spoke the language of chefs, making her forget her hero worship in the joy of talking to someone so completely on her wavelength.

She didn't want to think about what he'd charge for the input into her kitchen design. According to Nate, she was helping Mitch by giving him a challenge that suited his present state of health, but she wasn't convinced. He looked slimmer than the publicity shots she'd seen of him, and a little hollow-cheeked. Most people would after the multiple bypass surgery he told her he'd undergone. But to have the chance to
work with such a genius on any terms was worth any price he might name.

Margaret was still in Bali, but Emma hadn't been able to resist calling Carla with the news. Her friend had shrieked over the phone, making Emma promise to introduce her to Mitch or have her supply of Carla's brownies cut off. Recognizing the dire threat, Emma had laughingly agreed.

Carla worked at her current job Tuesday through Saturday nights. Since Nate's party was on a Tuesday, she'd made him a wonderful birthday cake as her contribution. Should be the hit of the evening, Emma thought. The cake had been delivered directly to Nate's house, and Emma had already taken a peek. Thin layers of flourless chocolate cake were sandwiched with chocolate mousse and hazelnuts, the top glazed and decorated with chocolate curls.

In keeping with the theme of the party, Carla had made the cake look homemade, with the layers artistically stacked off center and the glaze flowing down the sides. Emma's contribution was the cake topper. Around an operating table made out of fondant, she'd swirled patient notes written in edible ink, a stethoscope and a heart. The pièce de résistance was an edible figure of a patient in gaping hospital gown balancing on the edge of the cake as if about to topple off. His cartoon-style speech bubble, also in edible ink, read, “I can't be thirty-five. I want a second opinion.”

She and Sophie wore their usual outfits of black chef's pants and white polo shirt with their business logo—a small L, a larger T and a small C for Love This Catering—on the breast, covered by a black apron printed with a tuxedo design. Practical, stylish and memorable. Emma should be on top of the world. Instead she felt as if a million butterflies had set up camp in her stomach.

The pressure of the party didn't fully explain the sensation. A lot was due to Nate himself. While she'd talked kitchen design with Mitch, Nate had stayed in the background. Expecting him to be bored, she'd been surprised when he contributed a few insightful thoughts. At all times she'd been aware of his eyes on her, practically able to
feel
his gaze. Once she'd actually touched her hand to her cheek, swearing he'd reached out to her. When she'd looked at him, he hadn't moved but seemed amused, as if knowing exactly what was going on in her head.

Such thoughts weren't helpful, she admonished herself as she guided the van through the heavy traffic. Tonight she was in professional mode, not mooning over a man who was totally wrong for her. Once she'd done her job, she wouldn't see him again unless they ran into each other at another of her parents' parties. Instead of reassurance, Emma felt a sense of letdown she blamed on having started work at dawn.

By the time she reached Nate's house, Sophie's car
was parked near the back entrance. They'd hired two waiters, a student from Sophie's study group, and one of her young cousins. She was briefing them when Emma walked in. Both wore dark trousers and white shirts, and looked the part, if a bit nervous.

Nick, Sophie's study partner, had done casual waiting jobs before. Jia wanted to work in hospitality. Both were keen enough and their rates affordable. “Do you think they'll cope with the work?” Emma asked.

“We're about to find out,” Sophie said when she'd sent the two men outside with trays of cold canapés for the early arrivals. Sophie rattled off a list of items she'd unpacked from her car. “You were right about this kitchen, it's amazing.” She headed toward the door. “I'll give you a hand unpacking the van.”

Once everything was stored in Nate's fridges and freezer, Emma parked her hands on her hips. “Since we only have an hour before you need to leave, we'll prep the meat loaves first,” she said after a moment's consideration.

Sophie opened containers, while Emma lined up the four dozen beef and veal loaves she'd par baked this morning, as well as the half-dozen vegetarian lentil-and-walnut versions. Covering them with chopped tomatoes and parmesan took little time, then they were set to bake for another twenty minutes. They'd have to stand for an additional ten before
turning out and plating up. Enough time to get the salmon cakes happening, Emma calculated.

Earlier in the day, she'd prepared the mixture along with the polenta and breadcrumbs to coat the cakes. Sophie slipped into place beside Emma and began rolling the mixture into cakes, while Emma coated them and set them aside to rest. Two per serve meant over a hundred cakes. Emma felt her nerves sharpen. Even with a lot of the meal prepared ahead, how on earth was she to manage once Sophie left?

She would just do it. Pulling this off successfully meant getting her name out there with Nate's influential friends. She would be able to upgrade the kitchen all the sooner and the business would never look back. Pleasing Nate had nothing to do with her concerns.

Sophie pressed the back of her hand against her forehead. “What's next?”

“Char grill the salmon cakes and keep them warm. I'll get the rum babas underway then start getting the first course ready to serve.”

The yeast cakes for the rum babas were already cooked. Emma warmed the syrup of sugar cane and rum, and poured it over the cakes, giving them time to soak up the mixture. Chantilly cream would come later, but first she needed to make the truffle dressing for the mashed potatoes. She nodded to Jia when he came in to collect another tray of canapés. At least they were going well.

The potatoes were already roughly mashed. All that was needed was to mix butter with the minced black truffles—black gold as the supplier called them—then incorporate them into the potatoes. An extra splash of truffle oil, heavy cream and seasoning completed the dish.

Several trays of potatoes later, Emma surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. With the meat loaf and slices of the Toulouse sausage she and Sophie had spent the past two days making by hand, she'd defy anyone not to be impressed. She sniffed the rich aroma of nutmeg spicing the sausage. It wasn't always added to the meat. Only the rich could have afforded nutmeg, a fabulously expensive spice in the sixteenth century when the recipe had been created. In southwestern France the sausages were simple farmhouse fare, the reason Emma had wanted to make them as part of the home-cooking concept.

From the van, she'd unloaded two banquet trolleys capable of keeping large amounts of food at serving temperature. They were already filled, and Sophie was almost done with the salmon cakes.

When Emma set to preparing the Chantilly cream, Nate's state-of-the-art mixer caused her a moment's jealousy. “I can't complain about our client's equipment,” she said.

Sophie gave a snort. “You can say that again.”

Emma felt her face heat. “Kitchen equipment.”

“How are you ladies getting on here?”

Nate would choose that moment to make an appearance. Making an effort to meet his gaze, Emma saw amusement and something else—desire? Not when she was in working uniform and flushed from the stove's heat.

He looked great. A deep blue, almost gray designer shirt skimmed his torso, making her hands itch to do the same.

She dropped her gaze, another mistake, because it meant she was staring at a pair of snug military-cut jeans with pockets all over. The man looked more masculine than ever. The floor seemed a safer focus, but there were his feet in Wolverine style boots. She recalled hearing that when a man dated a woman, his feet pointed where his body wanted to go. His feet were pointed right at her.

Emma willed her voice to sound calm. “We're fine. How are the canapés holding up?”

Again, that look of reading her thoughts. “The empty platters should tell you how many compliments you're getting. And your mother wants you to know she and your dad are here.”

Not that she'd have a chance to socialize. “What time do you want everyone seated?”

“They're happy mixing and mingling for now. Say forty minutes.”

“No problem.” Forty minutes was nothing. Fifty first courses, mains and trimmings and desserts. So much still to do.

“I'd be happy to lend a hand,” he offered.

Had he read her anxious thoughts? “This is your birthday. Your job is to play host to your admirers.” Having him in the kitchen with her was fraying her nerves even more.

“There's only one I care about,” he said, too low for Sophie's ears.

Emma wasn't sure she'd heard right, either. “No admirers in here,” she said tautly, “only the hired help.”

“You know I don't think of you in that way.”

“You should start.”

He looked puzzled, then annoyed. “If you need anything, I'll be outside—with my admirers,” he said pointedly.

By the time Sophie left with obvious reluctance, Emma felt as if the night would never end. As fast as she sent the waiters out with loaded trays, they returned for more. But Nate was right. The plates came back almost scraped clean.

While she was plating up the meat loaves and Toulouse sausage, a teenager wandered into the kitchen. His slouching posture and sullen expression suggested he wasn't having as much fun as the other guests. Possibly because most of them were older than he was. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

“I know my way around here.” He opened a refrigerator and started to forage.

Fearing for the food she'd prepared, Emma went up to him. “The kitchen is kind of off-limits for now. If you tell me what you're looking for…”

“I'll just take this,” he said, grabbing one of the rum bottles she'd used earlier to make the dessert sauce.

Before she could react, he'd shouldered his way through another door into the main part of the house. He certainly seemed to know where he was going. She jumped as Nate appeared at her shoulder. “Did Luke come in here?”

The teenager must be Luke, Nate's troublesome half brother. “He went into the house.”

Without another word, Nate disappeared through the door. Emma began to plate up the main courses. Hadn't she reminded Nate herself that she was only the hired help? It wasn't up to her to get involved with his family's problems.

By the time he returned with a face like thunder, she'd sent the waiters out to the terrace with the last of the main courses, and was drawing a breath before starting to plate up the desserts. “Everything all right?” she asked him.

“Couldn't you see Luke's under age? Why the hell did you give him booze?”

“I didn't
give
it to him, he helped himself. I couldn't stop him.”

Immediately, Nate relented. “He's being a royal pain tonight.”

“Maybe because there aren't many young people here.” When she'd checked outside to make sure everything was under control, she'd noticed Luke sitting by himself in the shadows.

“Did you confiscate the rum?” she asked.

“He'd already had a good drink. But it's out of harm's way now.”

“Then you should be outside enjoying yourself. This is your night.”

“It should be.” He sounded unconvinced. Was the fact he was thirty-five troubling him, or was something else wrong? Half of her wanted to go to him and find out what was spoiling his mood. The other half knew she'd never make it through the night if she let herself get sidetracked. Not that she wasn't strongly tempted.

She forced herself to focus on her tasks. Nate hadn't noticed she was working alone. He was too preoccupied with his own affairs, which was probably a good thing. She needed to concentrate on getting through this dinner.