Christina Skye - Code Name - Bikini

No, not even close to it.

“I’m fine.” Ignoring the little blur in her vision, she walked past the uniformed doorman, away from the lobby filled with fresh roses and real Chinese antiques.

“Let’s move.” She checked her watch uneasily. As she strode past the gleaming marble lobby, Gina was proud of herself for not glancing back in search of a white uniform.

It took all of her willpower.

THE LOCATION COULD HAVE been worse.

At least there was running water, a decent gas oven and space to lay out her cakes as part of her master class on pastry. But the clock was ticking, and there was icing to finish. When transporting off-site, you never added final embellishment until you were almost ready to serve. Gina had learned that the hard way. Now she had two cakes that needed icing for final display.

Outside the participants were arriving. Stress beat a path down her forehead. “Reggie, where are the edible flowers?”

“Right here, Chief. Your buttercream is on the other side of the table. All three colors, present and accounted for.”

“Yet again you save my butt.” Without a pause, Gina opened the frosting made in the ship’s kitchen that morning and assembled her tools. “Andreas, are you okay with the crème brûlée?”

“Good to go here. The demerara sugar’s in place. They’ll be ready to torch for your first presentation.”

Gina knew that all of her staff were well trained. But the cruise management had insisted that she do the honors. Something about her recognition factor, Gina thought sourly. In an age of media-hungry celebrity chefs, finding time for actual cooking had become harder and harder.

“Andreas, where’s my Hobart mixer?” Gina squeezed icing through a small bag and produced the first of two dozen rose petals to cover a white chocolate fondant–covered display cake.

“Supposed to be in the elevator any second. I called the hotel beverage services ten minutes ago and they said it was down at the loading dock.”

“Call them again.” Gina straightened, frowning. “No. I’m almost done here so I’ll go. I need that mixer for the whole second segment.”

“You sure?”

As she went back to work, icing swirled beneath her skilled fingers and crimson petals bloomed over a white ground. Carefully she dusted edible flowers over the sides of the cake and the iced cake board.

“Whoa, great roses.” Andreas glanced over her shoulder.

Gina didn’t look up, securing a ribbon of lifelike petals across the top of the cake. When you dealt with buttercream, there were always worries, always mistakes. The trick was being fast enough and experienced enough to know how to cover them up. “Almost done here. Have Reggie bring the cake stands.”

She eased the second display cake from its box. The rich lemon batter had been enhanced by a liberal amount of rum, and the cake happened to be the captain’s favorite. Using her turntable, she whisked swirls of white all around the base and then anchored pink hearts cut from marzipan, each one dotted with an edible silver bead.

The result was pretty damned good. She stood back, warmed by a zing of pride.

No matter how many pastries she made, she always felt a glow of pleasure at creating a thing of beauty. She’d never planned to cook for a living. Growing up in a quiet suburb of Sacramento, she’d wavered between being the world surfing champion or a neurosurgeon. Her policeman father had encouraged her in both—right up until the day he’d taken a bullet in the heart during an armored car robbery. After that, life had taken Gina down a very different route.

She centered the cakes on a rolling cart. Behind her she heard Andreas fire up his crème brûlée torch.

Now she had to find that damned mixer.

SHOWTIME, Trace thought.

Staring at the receiving line, he picked out a senator, two congressmen and a whole lot of major-league diamonds. San Francisco society was out in force, it seemed. Ryker’s connections appeared to be solid gold.

There was too much loud laughter and too much jockeying for position next to the most powerful people. Trace glanced longingly at the bar displaying cans of ice-cold beer.

Wolfe appeared beside him, carrying two glasses of cola. “Skoal.”

“Hell, sir, you expect me to drink that?”

But Trace only pretended to complain. He rarely drank to excess, and in a crowd like this it would be stupid to drink at all. You never knew who you were rubbing shoulders with. Any casual remark could find its way to the E-ring of the Pentagon within hours, killing a good career overnight.

He glanced at the door, wishing he had an excuse to leave. Any excuse.

Trace realized that Wolfe was talking to him. “Sorry, sir. What did you say?”

“The senator’s wife just told me that a case of vintage champagne is held up somewhere down in the hotel’s receiving department.” Wolfe motioned toward the door. “You are hereby ordered to go find it. It’s that or keep explaining to people why you look like you hate these events, so get moving. And I want you back before this thing is finished, clear?”

“Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.” Trace scratched his cheek. “But it might take me longer than I think to find that missing champagne. Probably a real mess down there.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Wolfe muttered.

Trace grinned. With luck, he’d be back just in time to say his goodbyes.

THE HOTEL LOADING BAY was deserted, half in shadow.

The mixer was still in its box, wedged in a corner next to a row of folding chairs.

Gina tried to lift the box and staggered back, gasping. She’d forgotten how heavy a commercial mixer could be. And there was no one around to help her move the stupid thing.

On the other hand, there happened to be a forklift parked by the wall, and it was screaming her name.

Gina had spent two summers working in a warehouse, so she knew her way around forklift trucks. She hopped aboard, scanned the controls and gunned the motor. It took her less than a minute to maneuver across the small loading area and center the metal arms. She nudged the mixer into position, raised it four inches, locked the long arms in place and then swung wide.

“You mind watching where you aim that thing? I kind of like having my chest in one piece.”

And it was such a gorgeous chest, Gina thought, staring at her rescuer from earlier that afternoon.

The broad wall of muscle showed off his white uniform and rows of medals to perfection.

“Mind if I borrow your forklift for a few minutes?”

“Yes,” she snapped. What was he doing here? She didn’t have time to be distracted, not with two hundred people upstairs expecting a killer pastry presentation to begin any second. “Sorry, but I’m late. You’ll have to find your own ride. It’s every man for himself right now,” she said grimly.

Wheeling, she balanced the mixer and turned with small, precise movements.

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“Summer job,” she called over her shoulder.

Learning to drive a forklift had been easy. Getting along with the macho male warehouse staff had been the hard part. But she’d held her own and made good money those summers, enough for all her tuition and more. When summer ended, her male coworkers had been sorry to see her go.

She had almost finished her turn when a man’s voice echoed from someplace inside. Abruptly the heavy metal door of the loading bay started to slide shut.

“Hey, stop!” Gina shouted, trying to maneuver back out of reach.

But the door kept right on moving.

In her concentration, she barely saw the Navy officer jump up onto the area under the closing door. “Hold on,” he called over the din of creaking metal. “There has to be a manual override here somewhere.”