“It’s weirder for us,” Blair said, craning her neck to get a glimpse of him through the French doors. “Did you see the way he looked at us? We don’t know him from Adam. Did he actually call the musician? He could be a murderer.”
Sienna laughed. “A murdering chef who works for my biggest client. Plus, the voice coming through his phone sounded just likethe musician. And he’s too attractive to be a murderer.”
Blair’s mouth opened slightly. “That’s the perfect cover-up.” She looked in at him again and shivered dramatically, then moved to the lounger. “The sky looks gray over there.” She pointed to the horizon. “I’d better get my sun now. Looks like a storm’s on the way.”
Sienna slipped off her cover-up and draped it on the back of the chair again. “I heard most of the storms here are quick. It’ll rush up on us, but I’ll bet it’ll be in and out in less than an hour. And the sun doesn’t set for ages. It’ll be light until after eight.” She stepped into the pool, rolled onto her back, and floated across the water as a seagull squawked overhead.
The quiet shush of the Gulf and the coastal breeze lulled Emily into a state of calm. She leaned back in the chair and tipped her face toward the sunshine, relishing the quiet of her mind. All her problems suddenly seemed far away. Until then, her mind had been full of thoughts about where she would live once the house was sold, if she couldn’t get her apartment back, whether she wanted to stay in Nashville where she was bound to run into Will, or if she should leave the area. But after being at the beach house for a while, it was as if there was some sort of tropical shield keeping all those questions at bay. She welcomed it. The vacation was finally kicking in.
After a while, she stood up. “I’m going in to get my novel. Does anyone need anything?”
Blair rattled the ice in her glass. “I could do with another lemonade, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not bother the murderer.”
Emily laughed. “Okay.” She took Blair’s glass and went inside.
Her vision adjusted to the interior light to find the chef working between a couple of bowls, marinating the snapper. The scent of butter and herbs wafted toward her, making her stomach growl. She set the empty glass on the edge of thecounter, then went past him and up to her room where she dug her book from the pocket of her suitcase. Tucking the book under her arm, she returned to the kitchen to refill Blair’s glass.
The chef glanced at her when she opened the fridge to retrieve the lemonade. She set her novel on the counter, careful not to trespass on his workspace. While he mixed herbs in a small bowl, Blair’s murderer comment floated into Emily’s mind, and she had to fight off a giggle.
His strong hands worked gently, meticulously, his attention focused. Having him in the house with them was awkward when they didn’t even know his name. Especially if there was a possibility that he’d be cooking for them all week. Emily’s years of teaching had taught her how to break the ice with quiet children, and she was sure that if she could just get him talking, the tension would fade away.
“My name’s Emily,” she said as she closed the refrigerator. “Emily Jacobs.”
He nodded, continuing his prep work, dicing tomatoes with a large knife.
While they were at the beach, and the dress code was certainly more relaxed, he seemed less like a fancy butler-type and more like a regular guy she might see casting a fishing rod off the side of a pier with a can of beer in his other hand. His skin was tanned, and the gold flecks in the hair at his temples and the small sun lines around his eyes made him look distinguished. Nothing about him was fussy. She wondered what he looked like when he laughed. He couldn’t be this serious all the time, could he?
She set the bottle of lemonade and glass onto the counter beside his bowl. “And you are?”
Those stormy eyes found hers. “Patrick Owens.”
Her mind pinged with recognition. She offered her most friendly smile, but he’d already resumed his chopping. Theneverything came back to her: The girl selling the magazine to them had said the New York chef was hot, mysterious, shopped at the fish market. Yep, that had to be the same guy. But didn’t he own a restaurant? He was a personal chef too?
“It’s nice to meet you, Patrick.” She unscrewed the cap on the bottle of lemonade. “So do you only work for the rich and famous?”
His hands slowed, but his attention remained on the pile of vegetables on the cutting board.
Emily pretended to be interested in his cooking gadgets, but his career choice aside, she really wondered why he was so standoffish. The shop girl who’d shown them the magazine had said he didn’t talk, but certainly he’d want to make a good impression for his client, right?
The insignia on a plastic measurement-conversion chart caught her eye. She picked it up and ran a finger over a gold seal on the bottom. Embossed in the center was a matte-gold emblem, flanked by small lettering:
JSOC – Culinary Detachment
“Is this from the military?”
“Navy.”
“You were a chef in the navy?”
“Yeah.”
The center emblem depicted a bald eagle clutching arrows and lightning bolts, perched over a globe, and surrounded by Latin words.
She read them aloud. “Silentium Est Fidelitas.What does that mean?”
“Silence is loyalty.” He plucked the card from her hand. “Silence is also my preference. If I’m distracted, I might burnyour snapper.” While he still wasn’t terribly forthcoming, his tone had softened a little. “Dinner will be ready in about a half an hour.”
“Okay,” she said, returning the lemonade to the refrigerator. She picked up Blair’s drink and her novel and headed outside.
