Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter One

      Chicago

      January 2

      Six years with temperamental chefs in kitchens around the world had not prepared Cassidy Preston for this.

      Like fingernails on a chalkboard, the scraping of steel against steel scratched through a blue-gray fog. Smoke swirled within her throat, filling her nostrils with the acrid stench of—porridge? Cassidy wrinkled her nose to block it from her lungs.

      Wincing at the painful din, Cassidy stepped across the littered room and grabbed the battered pot from the man’s hand. She then scanned the kitchen, found and flicked a wall switch. The exhaust fan wheezed to life and the smoke cleared, allowing her to peer into eyes so richly blue she might have been back in Greece, staring into the Aegean.

      “Excuse me.”

      “Certainly.” Long, elegant fingers dropped the slotted spoon he’d been using as a pot scraper. He pressed a hip against the center island, tilted his head to one side. “You’re excused. Now may I have that back?”

      “It’s a saucepan.”

      “Yes, I know.” Amusement bubbled through his words.

      “Which is for making sauces. Cooking. Things like that.” Cassidy slid her nail tip over the charred bottom. “In my experience, saucepans are more effective if you don’t fossilize your meal in them. That way you can use them again.”

      He didn’t respond. Instead he studied her with the lazy, relaxed manner of a man who had all the time in the world to lounge around. And he might well have.

      She didn’t.

      But his silence offered Cassidy time to note his mussed jumble of almost-curls that framed a face made for the stubbled look. The Romanesque nose didn’t diminish his appearance, nor did the dimples at the sides of his mouth. A faint scar on the edge of his chin only enhanced the chiseled jawline.

      He was gorgeous.

      But Cassidy wasn’t here to admire handsome men. In fact, she would only be here long enough to work off her debt to Elizabeth Wisdom.

      He crossed one long, lean leg over the other, stubbed a booted toe against a mark on the tile floor as if scraping one blob of scorched food from its filthy surface would make any difference.

      Cassidy cleared her throat.

      He lifted his head, blinked incredibly long lashes. Said nothing.

      She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

      His eyes danced, amused by her impatience.

      “Tell you what. Since I belong here and you don’t, perhaps you’d better tell me who you are.”

      Cassidy didn’t think he belonged here. Not in a kitchen. Not in that white shirt—silk if she wasn’t mistaken. The jacket—a designer brand for sure. Probably Italian.

      No. He didn’t look like he belonged in this mess.

      But he did look like trouble.

      The tall, rich and handsome kind of trouble.

      “You do have a name, don’t you?” he asked.

      Add sense of humor to his assets.

      “Of course I have a name. It’s Cassidy.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her left ear. “Cassidy Preston. Elizabeth Wisdom sent me. Apparently I’m to be the chef here for the next six months.”

      “You’re the cook?” Sapphire deepened to impenetrable cobalt. The dimples vanished. He unfolded from his lazy stance and straightened. “Oh.”

      Not exactly the welcome she’d expected. He loomed over her, a few inches above six feet with perfect wide shoulders.

      Just right for a girl to tuck her head against.

      Not going to happen. A lying boss and a cheating fiancé had only reinforced what Cassidy had already learned from her father that men were not to be trusted.

      No need for a refresher course.

      “Ms. Preston?”

      Even his voice was good-looking.

      Cassidy blinked back to awareness, shook her head to silence her brain’s warm hum. The straight-cut ends of her hair swung free, tickled her nose then fell right back into place against her jaw, which was exactly what she expected from her hairstyle. If only her life would work out that way.

      Again, the man peered at her with that questioning stare, as if he’d said something and now awaited her response.

      “Uh, yes, I’m the cook. Chef,” she corrected. “Which is how I know saucepans need a little more care than this one’s had. I’ll need to use it. Preferably without charcoal.”

      He shook his head in mock reproof, eyes twinkling.

      “We’re not going to harp on a little burn, are we? At this rate, we’ll never get anything done.”

      She cast a dubious glance at the mess surrounding them.

      “You’ve actually done something here?”

      “Breakfast. Before that I was assessing.” His left eye wrinkled into a rogue’s wink while his lips curved upward in a lazy grin. He ambled toward her with the supreme confidence of a man fully in control of his universe. “It might not look difficult but it’s really draining, trust me.”

      Trust him? Not with those daredevil eyes.

      In spite of that resolution, Cassidy’s breath logjammed as a whiff of his cologne tickled her nostrils. She’d always been a sucker for citrus. Ignoring this man was not going to be easy.

      “Um—”

      “I’m Tyson St. John. Ty to my friends. I am, or will be, the director of this place when it’s up and running.” He thrust out one hand, grasped hers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Cassidy Preston. Will it cause you grief if I suggest the saucepan is beyond repair?”

      The touch of his skin against hers ratcheted up Cassidy’s respiration. Her knees turned to chicken noodle soup. Score ten for that killer smile.

      Was this what they called charisma?

      He cannot be trusted.

      The warning that had carried her safely through the past popped up and jerked her back like a safety harness. She could not trust him.

      Cassidy fought free of his magnetism. Why couldn’t her new boss have been a sweet, chubby old man with bow legs and a face like a prune?

      Her fingers tingled. She glanced down. Their hands were still melded together.

      “Are you all right?”

      Define all right. She had to survive six months of him. Judging by her overreaction,