Food critic Miranda Wake comes up with a brilliant idea to write an exposรฉ on hotshot chef Adam Temple and his highly popular, trendy Manhattan restaurant, Market. Why should it matter that she really doesn't know how to cook? She'll find out the answer to that when she takes on Adam's bet to work in his kitchen for a month and really get to know the business. Oh, how hard could it be?
Adam and Miranda's relationship heats up in the fast-paced kitchen, promising to reach a boiling point. But Miranda's loyalties are tested when she takes for truth the snide remarks made by a disgruntled employee and includes them in her book. Too late she learns the actual facts, which causes quite a few problems for everyone involved. Will she be able to make amends before it's too late and she ruins several reputations -- hers included?
This playful culinary confection is a lighthearted and entertaining romance that will delight readers. With all the behind the scenes revelations, you'll never look at cooking and meal preparation in the same way again. Steamy and satisfying fare, indeed.
For sharp-tongued food critic Miranda Wake, the chance to
spend a month in Adam Templeโs kitchen to write an exposรฉ
is a journalistic dream come true. Surely Miranda can find
a way to cut the hotshot chef down to size once she learns
what really goes on at his trendy Manhattan restaurant.
Trouble is, she never expected Adam to uncover her most
embarrassing secret: she has no idea how to cook.
As for Adam, well, heโs not about to have his reputation
burned by a critic who doesnโt even know the difference
between poaching and paring. Heโll just have to give the
tempting redhead a few private lessons of his own . . .
teaching her what it means to cook with passion.
EXCERPT
Whatโs your name?โ he asked her.
She tossed her head again, the motion making her sway
a little. Adam looked more closely. Her pupils were blown
wide and dark, and her cheeks were flushed in a lovely
contrast to her fair complexion.
โMiranda Wake, Dรฉlicieux magazine,โ she said
defiantly, as if expecting him to take issue with it.
Ah ha, he thought, somehow unsurprised, even though
heโd always pictured the New York food sceneโs most
notorious critic as being considerably older and more dried-
up looking than this fiery little piece.
Miranda Wake. You are blitzed out of your mind, on
cocktails I designed, mixed with liquor I steeped with my
own hands.
There was something weirdly erotic about it, and Adam
covered the momentary oddness by stepping down and coming
around the bar to shake her hand. The speech portion of the
evening seemed well and truly over, now that the food was
getting out.
โAdam Temple,โ he said, taking her limp, warm
hand. โPleased to meet you.โ
โAre you?โ she asked, confused again, and Adam
smirked. Her fingers were impossibly slender, making him
notice the fine bones of her knuckles, the turn of her
wrist. He wanted to force feed her something rich and
decadent.
โAbsolutely,โ he assured her.
โWell,โ she said, frowning. โWell, Iโm not pleased to
meet you. I didnโt even want to come here tonight.
Restaurants that espouse a cause are trite and pretentious,
and your food is bound to be atrocious.โ She slurred over
the twin shus sounds and wrinkled her nose, working her
mouth as if stretching the muscles around it would help get
it back under her control. โIโve reviewed lots of โlocal
produceโ restaurants, and itโs never been anything more
than a stupid gimmick to cover the fact that the chef has
no imagination.โ
โIs that right?โ Adam said, irritated beyond belief.
Why did she have to be so gorgeous and snotty? โDamn. If
thereโs one thing I hate to be accused of, itโs lack of
imagination.โ
Incredibly, she blushed at that. Fantastic.
โYou know,โ he said, โI donโt think I like the way
you talk about my food without ever having tried it. What
makes you the authority?โ
Her cheeks pinked again, this time probably more due
to annoyance than booze. โIโll have you know Iโm the top
critic at Dรฉlicieux. I get more fan mail than any other
columnist.โ
โYeah, but I bet half of itโs hate mail,โ he baited
her.
โSome,โ she admitted with the careful dignity of the
drunk. โI have exacting standards which few restaurants can
meet.โ
โDonโt your standards usually require you to at least
taste the food before passing judgment on it, sweetheart?โ
โIโฆโ she paused, disconcerted. โYes, of course. But
itโs not my fault I havenโt had any of yours yet. And donโt
call me โsweetheartโ.โ
โSure thing, doll,โ he retorted. โAnd you couldโve
been sampling the wares for the last five minutes if you
werenโt so focused on giving me a hard time. But I
understand,โ he went on. โThe hands-on approach isnโt
really your thing. You spend most of your time hunched over
a computer in a cramped little office, right? All alone in
your ivory tower, while the rest of the world struggles to
meet your โexacting standards.โโ
โIโฆIโฆโ Her eyes were wide and shocked, and her chest
heaved, giving tantalizing glimpses of the shadowy valley
between her breasts as she strained the fabric of her dress.
He sneered. โYou wouldnโt last a day in the real
world. You wouldnโt last ten minutes in my kitchen.โ
That soft, round chin shot up, and she took a step
closer. Her eyes flashed with something, but at this point,
Adam was too ticked to decipher it.
โOh, wouldnโt I?โ
He stepped in, too, until they were toe to toe. โNot
a chance,โ he declared. โIn fact, I dare you. Spend one
day in the kitchen at Market, work with me and my crew. See
what itโs like from the other side. After that, review my
restaurant, rip my cooking to shreds, Iโll take it like a
man. Until then, sweetheart?โ He leaned down close enough
to see just how long and thick her eyelashes were. She
smelled like raspberries and sugar, and something deeper,
more complex.
โKeep your opinions to yourself.โ
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