A Catered Romance Read online

  “Protest all you want,” Maureen said, “but I know you well. As for Taylor, when she heard you were home, she hightailed it back here as fast as her pretentious little stilettos could move. She still wants to get her well-manicured hooks into you. I thought you had a thing for her once.”

  He shrugged. “We dated for a little while in school. I outgrew Taylor a long time ago.”

  “Well, she’s apparently never outgrown you.” Maureen relaxed in her chair and grinned like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary and had another one stashed away. “I’m going to sit back and enjoy the show.”

  “What show?” Tom glared at his sister.

  Her smile grew wider. “You want Mary Beth. Taylor wants you. What does Mary Beth want?”

  <><><>

  “Kendrick and Company Caterers and Party Planners.”

  Mary Beth smiled at the clipped British voice coming from the reception area. Their new secretary added a touch of class to the place.

  With a contented sigh, she scanned the gleaming kitchen. Sunlight streamed into the room, reflecting off the stainless steel of the commercial refrigerator. A catchy Beach Boys tune played on the radio.

  All was right with her world. She rhythmically chopped celery, soothed by the familiar weight of her favorite knife.

  She paused, losing her rhythm. Her world wasn’t completely right. She no longer owned her business. But that was just a temporary setback. And then there was Tom. Was he temporary too? Just thinking of him made her heart do a little dance that she quickly squashed.

  He hadn’t been around in the two weeks since they’d closed the deal. Maybe he intended to keep a low profile. That was okay with her—the less she saw him the better. No constant reminders of the past. She could pretend she wasn’t financially dependent on Tom.

  Dependent on Tom. Her chest constricted. She brought the knife down hard on the celery.

  “Trying to kill those vegetables?”

  Mary Beth let out a little scream and jumped back. The knife clattered to the tiled floor.

  She faced Tom. “Must you always sneak up on me like that?”

  He leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest and a grin on his chiseled features.

  “You really need to work on your hellos, Mary Beth.”

  “Maybe you should quit sneaking up on me.”

  “From now on I’ll have Mrs. Hagerty announce me from the other room.” He threw her a devastating smile guaranteed to charm women from eight to eighty.

  All except her, she thought, lifting her chin. So what if he looked achingly handsome with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing muscular, tanned arms sprinkled with fine black hairs. His loosened tie and ruffled hair made him look younger, carefree, vulnerable.

  Oh, no. She looked away. I will not fall victim to his appeal again. Look what happened the first time.

  She retrieved her knife and dipped it in soapy water, then scrubbed it hard, as if she could scrub Tom out of her life.

  “I thought chefs revered their knives,” he said. “You look like you want to harm yours.”

  Mary Beth rinsed the knife and set it on the counter. Calmer now and feeling in control, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and turned to Tom. “Is this a professional visit to check on your investment?”

  “Yes and no.” He stepped into the kitchen. “Curtis keeps me up-to-date on our subsidiaries. I’ve been busy closing another deal. I had a little free time and I thought I’d stop by and see how my two favorite caterers are doing. How’s Mrs. Hagerty working out, by the way?”

  “Barbara’s a wonderful secretary. Thank you for sending her to us. She’s organized and efficient. I think her accent alone has won us customers.” Despite her feelings about Tom, Mary Beth had to admit his financial backing and subtle hints and suggestions, communicated by Mr. Curtis, had brought them new business and taken their company to the next level.

  “Smells great in here,” Tom said, sniffing the air. “What’s cooking?” He walked over to the work counter and lifted the cloth covering the dough Gail had set out to rise. “Homemade bread. One of my favorites. What’s in the oven?”

  “Lamb,” Mary Beth said, opening the oven door to check on the succulent meat. The pungent aroma of rosemary and cinnamon wafted through the room. “We’re making lamb stew, but we like to roast the meat first. It gives the stew a better flavor.”

  “Lamb stew in May?” Tom grabbed a stool from under the center island and straddled it. “What kind of job do you have?”

  Mary Beth tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and leaned against the counter. The clicking sounds of computer keys came from the reception room. Paul McCartney singing a romantic ballad flowed from the radio.

  And Tom sat before her, looking appealing, dangerous, and completely at home in a kitchen. How did he manage that?

  “Mary Beth? Who is the dinner for?”

  Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Evidently.” His crooked grin warmed her like a glass of hot cider on a cold day.

  Clenching her hands, she thrust them into her apron pockets. “We’re catering an engagement dinner tonight for an attorney and her fiancé. It’s a small party. Only six people. The hostess wants lamb stew and homemade bread.”

  Tom frowned. “Why lamb stew?”

  Mary Beth shrugged. “We tried to talk her into something lighter, like angel-hair pasta with shrimp sauce, but she and her fiancé shared lamb stew the day they met, in a ski lodge in the Poconos. They wanted to recreate that.”

  “Kind of romantic,” he said.

  “I suppose so, if you go for that sort of thing.”

  “You’re not a romantic, I take it.”

  “I have no time for romance, nor do I want it. Being a romantic can set a person up for all kinds of hurt.”

  Their gazes locked. Pain flickered in Tom’s eyes. What woman had put that pain there? Jealousy and regret stirred in Mary Beth. She tightened her jaw.

  Breaking the connection, she glanced at the clock. “If I don’t hurry and finish, there won’t be a meal.” She grabbed her knife and began cutting the mushrooms she had set aside earlier.

  “Where’s Gail?” he asked.

  “At Joey’s school for a class party. She should be back soon. Gail usually acts as my sous-chef.”

  “Give me an apron and tell me what to do.”

  Widening her eyes, she looked at him. “You? Cook?”

  He laughed. “Hey, give me credit for not being a complete slacker.”

  She couldn’t help smiling.

  “You should smile often,” he said softly. “You look even more beautiful, if that’s possible.”

  Her face felt hot as the oven. “I’ll get you an apron.” She went to the closet and pulled out a crisp chef’s apron.

  He donned the garment and rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready. What do you need done?”

  She swallowed and stared at him. No man had the right to look that virile wearing a large white apron.

  He frowned. “What do you need, Mary Beth?”

  “Potatoes,” she said, fumbling in a drawer for a paring knife. “I need potatoes.”

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s a start.”

  “Here.” She thrust the knife at him. “Can you peel those potatoes in that bowl over there?”

  “Sure. I’m a whiz at peeling.”

  Mary Beth turned back to chopping the mushrooms, needing the methodical, familiar task to help unravel her tangled emotions.

  “You need all of these peeled?” he asked.

  “Yes, please, unless you’re not up to the job.”

  “I think I can handle this,” he said, chuckling.

  They worked in silence. The sound of her rhythmic cutting was broken by the occasional plop of a potato into the bowl.

  She’d worked in countless kitchens with a multitude of partners, but never had such ordinary tasks like chopping and peeling bee
n coated with the sensuality that crackled between her and Tom.

  Mary Beth absorbed the heady warmth like exotic spices dropped in simmering broth. For just a little while she’d give in to the deep yearnings she’d long suppressed.

  Oldies played on the radio and sunlight warmed the bright room. If she closed her eyes, she would be transported back in time. To chem lab, working as partners with Tom. He made her laugh so hard once they were both thrown out of class. She smiled. It was the only time she’d ever gotten into trouble in school.

  Then there was junior year English. She shook her head at the memory. She had taken her job as tutor so seriously. Tom just wanted to have fun. That was the young Tom...fun, parties, laughter. He gave her a silver bracelet in thanks. She’d worn it every day.

  He had been her friend, had always treated her with respect. Unlike the others, who snickered at her cheaply made clothes and called her cruel names. At the end, Tom had proven to be just like them. She had run home, her heart broken, and thrown the bracelet in her jewelry box, never to wear it again.

  Too bad she couldn’t have discarded her heart as easily. But Tom’s betrayal had strengthened her, made her more determined to protect herself, to control her own destiny.

  “I’m done peeling,” he said. “What else can I do?”

  She shoved old memories aside. Tom was her boss now, nothing more. And someday he wouldn’t even be that.

  “Let me have the potatoes,” she said, turning to him. “I need to cut them up.”

  He hugged the bowl. “I won’t let you kill these like you did the celery.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. He could always make her laugh.

  “Just give me the bowl.” She glanced at the clock. “We’re running out of time. I wish Gail would get back.”

  “What am I…chopped liver? I said I’d help.” He handed her the bowl. “You’re the boss in the kitchen.”

  The timer on the oven shrilled. She handed him two potholders. “You can take the roast out.”

  “Sure, Chef,” he said, saluting.

  Mary Beth rolled her eyes at him and grabbed a potato.

  “You do nice work,” she said, holding up a perfectly peeled, white orb.

  “I aim to please.” He set the roast on the stovetop. “Smells great,” he said, inhaling deeply. “How about if I take a little chunk.” He looked at her, his hand poised over the meat.

  “Don’t you dare.” Mary Beth batted his hand away.

  He laughed, making her smile.

  “I got another smile out of you,” he said. “That’s good.” His intense gaze weakened her defenses.

  “I have to cut these,” she said in a shaky voice. She groped the counter for her knife.

  “What’s for dessert?” he asked.

  “Lemon pound cake. It’s in the refrigerator.”

  He opened the refrigerator and peered in. “Wow! It’s a work of art. Hanging around here could be dangerous.”

  Not as dangerous as being around you. The thought leapt into Mary Beth’s mind. She dropped the potato. It rolled on the floor. She bent to retrieve it.

  “I’ll get it,” Tom said.

  Their heads collided. Mary Beth rocked back on her heels and rubbed her forehead. Tom crouched in front of her, concern in his eyes. He reached out and gently stroked her temple.

  She swayed toward him, as if her body had a will of its own.

  Tom’s eyes darkened. “Mary Beth,” he whispered.

  Fear filled her heart…fear of losing herself, of weakening. She jumped up.

  “I’ll-I’ll wash this off,” she stammered, clutching the vegetable as if it could save her from her response to him.

  She hurried to the sink and turned the faucet on full force. The power of the water almost knocked the potato from her hand.

  Tom cleared his throat. “What else do you need?”

  She needed him to leave so she could be in charge of her kitchen again and not be such a bumbling idiot. What she really needed was to take charge of her emotions.

  “You can fill that with water,” she said, nodding toward the stockpot that rested on the counter.

  She sidled away from the double sink to give him room, not trusting herself so close to him.

  The muscles of his forearms flexed as he held the large pot under the faucet. A hard stream of water splashed into the heavy metal. Seeing him cradle the pot in his strong arms made Mary Beth ache with longing. She wanted Tom’s arms around her, holding her. She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes, fighting for control.

  The spicy scent of his cologne, so like his high school scent, but more subtle and expensive, teased her, provoking memories, and regret.

  “Is this enough water?” Tom asked.

  She gazed into his blue eyes and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  A bemused expression crossed Tom’s features. He held the pot up. “Where do you want this?”

  “Put it on the right back burner and turn the gas on high.” Her voice sounded thin.

  Tom positioned the pot and turned on the heat. Flames licked the bottom of the ironclad pan.

  “What next?” He stood directly in front of her.

  His beautiful mouth was so close. She could just reach out a finger and…

  “You have water on your face,” he whispered huskily. He smoothed his thumb gently along her cheekbone. The warmth of his touch melted her resistance. Need and longing wrapped themselves around her heart.

  Part of her screamed to back away, to protect herself. But Tom’s masculinity reeled her slowly into his net.

  He bent his head toward hers.

  “Hey, you two, what’s cooking?” Gail’s voice boomed from the doorway.

  Mary Beth and Tom jumped apart. Mary Beth dropped the potato. It bounced along the floor, landing at Gail’s feet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I need more money. How do you expect me to live? I have standards to maintain.”

  Mary Beth winced and clutched the cordless phone as her mother’s voice droned on. She could recite Dorothy Kendrick’s litany of complaints by heart.

  “Mom,” she interrupted. “Two weeks ago I gave you enough food money for a month. It can’t be gone already.”

  “I have other expenses. My Green Thumb Ladies Garden Club fees were due.”

  Clenching her jaw, Mary Beth paced the length of her living room. The floorboards of the old Victorian squeaked the protest she couldn’t voice. Give me strength, she prayed.

  “Mom,” she said slowly. “You know money’s tight right now. I can barely pay your mortgage and living expenses. The hospital is hounding me about the bills from your surgery last year. There isn’t extra for frivolous garden club fees.”

  “Well…If you had taken that job at the bank instead of insisting on running your own business, we wouldn’t be in this fix now.”

  Mary Beth breathed deeply and stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at bustling Trolley Square two floors below. How many of those pedestrians scurrying by on the street had a clinging, ungrateful mother who…She bit back her unkind thoughts.

  “I don’t want to be a banker, Mom. I’m a chef. It’s what I do. What I’m happiest at.”

  “Happy?” Dorothy sniffed. “I sacrificed my happiness to put you through that fancy prep school and college.”

  “I got scholarships, Mom. To all the schools.”

  “So, I didn’t make any sacrifices?”

  “I didn’t say you didn’t make some sacrifices. It’s just that things would have been easier had you gotten a job.”

  Damn! Too late. She should have kept her mouth shut. Flinching, Mary Beth held the phone away from her ear and prepared for the tirade to come.

  “My job was to stay home and raise you, and I did that well. Your father’s duty was to provide for his family. He shirked his responsibilities, running off with that woman and gallivanting around the world.” Her mother’s soft sobs stabbed Mary Beth like an ice pick to the heart.

/>   She collapsed onto the softness of her sofa and grabbed one of the silk throw pillows, pressing it to her stomach as if it could blot out years of humiliation and unhappiness.

  Her mother had been screeching this same lament since Mary Beth was eight and Brian Kendrick walked out on them. Born to wealth, a wealth he’d squandered by the time he met Dorothy, Brian had left them for a woman with the money and social standing he’d grown to feel was his right. Her father’s betrayal still made her stomach clench and bile rise in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you sacrificed a lot for me. You even taught me to cook.” The time spent with her mother in the kitchen had brightened her bleak childhood. Mary Beth blinked away tears. “We’re getting on our feet again. Sackett Industries bought controlling interest in our company. Things should be better.”

  “Sackett?” her mother said. “Didn’t you have a crush on that wealthy Sackett boy? If you hadn’t been so darn stubborn and independent, you could have snagged yourself a rich husband. Someone who could take care of you. And me. Why do you think I sent you to that fancy school?”

  Mary Beth squeezed her eyes shut at the bitter accusation in her mother’s voice. Tom. He had betrayed her too. Just like her father.

  “I can take care of myself, Mom.”

  “Just like you’ve taken care of yourself so far,” her mother snapped.

  Mary Beth counted slowly to ten. “Things will get better. I promise. I just don’t have money for extras right now. Why don’t you find a little job for a while? You’re good with plants. Mrs. Price has been after you to work in her florist shop.”

  “I am very good with flowers and greenery,” her mother sniffed.

  “Think about it, Mom. I have to go now. I’ll try to scrape together some money for you.”

  Mary Beth hung up the phone and clutched the pillow closer, bunching the smooth fabric in her fist and rocking back and forth. Never, ever would she be like her mother, so dependent on a man that she couldn’t function when he left.

  An image of Tom pushed into her mind. She had let him get too close the other day in the kitchen. That wouldn’t happen again.