Roxanne Claire: Barefoot by the Sea

In the meantime, Ian considered this second problem, who wasn’t nearly as unsettling as Tessa, simply annoying.

“What’s your problem, kid?” he asked.

“Kid?” He huffed out an arrogant breath. “The name’s Marcus Lowell and, at the moment, I’m the chef de cuisine in this kitchen.”

Ian huffed. “Chef de kindergarten, maybe.”

Marcus narrowed his nearly black eyes, set his jaw, and squared narrow shoulders. “Fuck you, man.”

A punch of déjà vu, harder than anything this boy could throw with his fist, slammed at Ian’s gut.

Aaron. This kid was Aaron Shaw all over again. Something frighteningly close to hate fired through every nerve ending in his body at the thought of his young, stupid, punk of a brother-in-law. If it weren’t for Aaron Shaw, Ian wouldn’t be standing here, pretending to be someone else, desperate for a job he really didn’t even want.

Fact was, he still hated Aaron Shaw, even though the kid had died by the same hand that killed Kate. He blamed Aaron for Kate’s death. Aaron had run to his sister’s house for protection after getting mixed up with the worst of a Brixton gang. Dumb as a rock, the kid didn’t know the gang leader, Luther Vane, was one tube stop behind him, wielding a knife.

A familiar black anger spilled through Ian’s veins as he leaned closer to Marcus. Anger that had gotten his ass thrown out of Singapore. Right now, he didn’t care. “Get the hell out of my face, you little prick.”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen, asshole.”

Tessa walked in right then, stopping short as she heard the exchange.

They backed away from each other, Marcus looking guilty, Ian fuming as he waited for the “thanks but no thanks” announcement.

“Marcus, why don’t you check the dining room and bus whatever hasn’t been done yet?”

“Bus?” His lip curled at her.

“Chef Brown needs to work alone.” She gestured toward the kitchen, giving Ian a chance to notice that she’d cleaned up a little. Fixed her hair, added some gloss to her lips.

Well, that was good news. Maybe Lacey had exerted her influence or played the “owner” card, because she’d been mightily impressed by his kitchen skills. He had to do that one more time with Tessa.

“So, what would you like me to make?”

She hesitated for a moment, looking around as a way to avoid eye contact. Finally, she met his gaze, an embarrassed smile in hers. “Well, for starters, not a baby.”

He choked a laugh, grabbing the humor with even more optimism. “Not on the menu, huh?”

She crossed her arms protectively but didn’t look away. “I want to apologize for the other night.”

He shook his head, a sudden rush of affection and appreciation warming him. That couldn’t have been easy. “No, not at all. You were honest, I presume. I’m the one who should apologize for taking off like a spooked raccoon.”

The expression made her laugh, lighting her amber eyes and revealing the gorgeous wide smile that had first attracted him. Within a heartbeat, the tension was gone.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” she admitted.

“Never say never,” he quipped, picking up an avocado. “How about I wow you with some soupe de l’avocat avec une caviar quenelle ?”

“If I had any idea how to speak French, sure.”

He flipped the avocado like a baseball. “Don’t worry, neither do I. I made that up to impress you with my avocado soup with a dollop of caviar. But won’t it look good on the menu?”

Laughing, she nodded, her whole demeanor relaxing with each passing minute. Success. He might get this job yet.

He tightened his grip on the fruit, grateful it was perfectly ripe. “Did you grow this?”

“I sure did.”

“It’s a beauty.” Turning the avocado in front of his face, he examined the color—this was a Florida-style version of the fruit, with a smooth rind and a bigger body. Not great for guacamole-style dips, but perfect for blending into something silky smooth. “From le jardin du Tessa.”

“More fake French?”

“I know just enough to be dangerous.” He stepped over to the basket and picked up an onion and a lemon, his mind whirring with the recipe and the genuine desire to make the best soup she’d ever had. “Can I have a bit of caviar, or will it break the bank?”

“I’ll get it.”

He watched her walk away, drawn to the sway of her hips and the bounce in her dark hair. And really drawn to the change in her. What had Lacey said to her? Whatever, he didn’t want to question his good fortune. All he had to do was cook another dish or two, send her off to call the fake references that Henry’s team would handle, and the job was his.

Unless she wanted to take their flirtation to the next level, asking questions and trying to develop a friendship. Then he’d haul ass and fast. He couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone, ever.

He was still thinking about how to navigate those waters when she came back with a small container of caviar, leaning her hip against the stainless steel to watch him work.

“Why didn’t you mention you were a chef the other night?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Who could ask when I was so busy getting tongue-tattooed?”

He smiled at the memory. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t. Not one bit.

“’Sokay. I’m still…” She casually touched her breastbone but didn’t finish her thought.

“Recovering?” he suggested.

“Grateful I didn’t let you—uh, sweep me away and do, you know.”

He knew. He chopped some onion with a deft, quick swipe of the knife. “Why would you be grateful?”

“Because now we’re going to work together.”

“Yes,” he agreed, liking that line of thought, and not only because it meant he was getting the job. “Better to not you know when we’re on the payroll.” He finally looked up from the chopping block, in time to see disappointment dim her eyes.

“Of course,” she agreed, although her reply lacked true enthusiasm.

He couldn’t forget that the woman wanted way more than a chef. Was that why she was giving him a second chance? Be careful what you say and do, Ian Browning. Your life—any and all of it—is not yours to give anymore .

He glanced around the pantry shelves. “Don’t suppose you have any sambal?”

“For avocado soup?”

Yes, for avocado soup he’d learned to make in Singapore. Which would beg some serious questions, like, Where’d you learn to cook like this? “Never mind, don’t need it.”

He’d never admit to three years in Singapore, especially since his time there ended so badly; according to all records outside of the UK Protected Persons Service, he had “died” in a car accident on his way out of town, after being recognized as Ian Browning. Thanks to the brilliant minds in UK witness protection, his death made the papers, and he hoped that was enough to keep the bounty off his head and killers off his trail. As long as they believed Sean Bern/Ian Browning was dead, he could stay alive and wait for his chance to get his children back.

If it ever got out that he was still alive and living under yet another name in yet another country…

He didn’t want to think about the consequences. He’d bought one more life, and he knew what to do with it. Lie low, remain distant, stay uninvolved, and, for God’s sake, don’t mess around with someone who wanted to run a bloody DNA test on him.

He popped the top of a food processor and started dropping in diced avocado. “Got any dry vermouth, by any chance?”

“And here I was hoping for something made of all-garden-grown ingredients. Caviar and booze isn’t exactly farm-fresh.”

Shrugging, he squeezed lemon. “But they are organic. Your organs need vermouth.”