“The next time you call one of your fellow cooks garbage, you will find yourself scraping dishes and hauling garbage in this kitchen until you remember how to use kinder words. Is that clear?” She met his gaze, holding it for what felt like an eternity. The smell of seared duck liver was rich and fatty in her nostrils. It was the most high-stakes game of chicken she’d ever played. What if he challenged her, right here in front of Michel? What would she do? She forced herself to not budge. She was his superior in this kitchen, and she had Etienne’s backing. Surely, Cyril would not challenge the hierarchy of the kitchen. It simply wasn’t done. Cyril’s eyes narrowed in contempt. Georgia didn’t even blink.
After a long moment, he broke the glance, shooting a narrow, spiteful glare at Ismael, then looked back down at the sizzling pan in front of him and expertly flipped the duck liver over, his lip curled in disdain. He gave the barest of nods in acknowledgment. As she turned away, she heard him mutter a string of crude insults in French, all aimed at her. She pretended not to hear. Wiping her damp palms on her kitchen whites, she stepped away and took a moment to collect herself. Her hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” Ismael whispered gratefully as he passed her with the pistou.
She nodded and took a deep breath. “You’re welcome.”
Then she straightened her shoulders and plastered a confident smile on her lips, relieved that she’d narrowly averted disaster and restored order in the kitchen. She was also grateful that her sense of taste seemed to be functioning normally this evening. There was no guarantee these days that it would. Inthe past few months, her ability to taste ingredients in Technicolor, the intuition that guided her creative genius, had begun to falter. It was unpredictable. She’d go for days at a time with everything humming along like normal, then pop a whole raw clove of garlic in her mouth and strangely taste nutmeg and cinnamon, or even more alarmingly, sometimes she could taste nothing at all. She would eat a spoonful of caviar or bite into a Valencia orange, and instead of tasting the brine of the sea or the candy-sweet acidity of the citrus, it was like drinking water or crunching ice. Completely blank, devoid of flavor.
Those moments terrified her. She’d been to the doctor and even a seen a few specialists on the sly. There had been a battery of tests. No brain tumor, nothing abnormal. The results were clear. Physically, she was fine, but Georgia knew something was very wrong. Each day, her concern grew stronger, like a fist tightening itself in the hollow space inside her rib cage. She had no idea what was happening to her, but she was desperate to figure out the problem and find a way to fix it. Her lifelong dream depended on it.
2
Three hours later,the dinner rush was in full swing. Every table was filled, and the kitchen was operating with brisk efficiency and precision.
“Ismael, be careful with the amount of sauce,” Georgia cautioned as she spooned a bit of browned butter sauce off the house-made bacon, ricotta, and chicken ravioli. “Let the pasta shine.”
“Yes, Chef. Of course.” Ismael nodded deferentially. She gave him a quick smile, taking the sting from her correction.
Michel had left some time ago. Georgia wasn’t sure when. She’d glanced up and he’d been gone. Etienne had disappeared too, saying something in passing about a quick meeting with Manon, the restaurant’s new pastry chef. But he hadn’t returned, so Georgia was continuing to oversee the kitchen until he came back. She was, on the whole, feeling good about what Michel had witnessed. She’d handled the kitchen with poise and confidence. Even that nasty interaction with Cyril had smoothed out quickly.
Suddenly, Damien, La Pomme d’Or’s head waiter, burst into the kitchen. “We have an emergency!” he cried breathlessly.
“What?” Georgia looked up, startled. “What’s wrong?”
Damien wore an expression of barely controlled panic. “It’s Antoine Dupont,” he hissed, gesturing frantically toward the dining room. “He’s here. Tonight. Amelie is seating him now!”
“Antoine Dupont? Are you sure?” Georgia froze, spoon inhand. The entire kitchen stopped, awaiting his reply. No one breathed.
“Positive.” Damien wrung his hands. “He is trying to disguise his identity with a false mustache, but he is as round as a wine barrel. And that nose. I am positive it is him. Amelie agrees with me.”
“Merde,” Georgia murmured softly in French, looking around for Etienne. What in the world was taking him so long? Where was he? La Pomme d’Or’s star chef needed to know that at this very second, Antoine Dupont, arguably Paris’s most preeminent restaurant critic, was in the dining room. A negative review from Dupont could spell trouble for any restaurant that displeased him, regardless of Michelin stars. In the Parisian restaurant scene, Dupont’s word was gospel, and he was notoriously difficult to please.
Unfortunately, Etienne was nowhere to be seen.
“Okay,” Georgia addressed the kitchen staff who were awaiting her instructions. She adopted a calm and capable air although her heart was pounding. “Nothing changes just because Antoine Dupont is one of our guests tonight,” she assured them. “We will continue to do what we do for our guests every night—make delicious food as always. Don’t worry about impressing Antoine Dupont. If we all do our jobs, everything will be okay. We’ve got this.” She clapped her hands briskly. “Now back to work!”
The kitchen immediately sprang back into action, everything orderly but with an underlying frisson of tightly controlled panic. Satisfied that things were stable for the moment, Georgia set off hastily in search of Etienne. He needed to know Dupont was here. He needed to be in charge of his own kitchen in this pivotal moment. Etienne was a brilliant chef, but sometimes frustrating to work for. Or to be in a romantic relationship with, forthat matter. Handsome as sin with a sulky mouth and dark, melting eyes, he had just been voted Sexiest Chef in Paris, a title no one could really argue with, but he was prone to mercurial moods and could be intense and demanding. This was not the first time he’d disappeared during the dinner rush, but it was the first time he’d done so while a renowned restaurant critic had been seated in the dining room awaiting his dinner. The stakes were considerably higher.
Cyril glanced up from the stove as Georgia passed by.
“Looking for your boyfriend?” There was an ugly undercurrent to his tone. Georgia hesitated, then nodded.
“Check the refrigerator. I hear he’s been spending a lot of time there recently,” Cyril suggested. His eyes were cold as he gazed at her. Georgia frowned, her confusion tinged with a hint of foreboding. What in the world would Etienne be doing there? But she headed down the short hallway that housed the restaurant’s walk-in refrigerator at the end. As she neared it, Georgia heard a peculiar rhythmic thumping noise coming from inside. Puzzled, she reached for the handle, noting with surprise that the heavy metal door was ajar just a hair. That was odd. She wrenched it open.
“What in the...?”
What she saw inside left her speechless.
Amid wheels of cheese and hanging legs of cured ham, stood Manon, the restaurant’s new pastry chef, pressed up against a metal shelf of chilled butter with her blouse unbuttoned down to her navel. And wedged between her creamy thighs was Etienne. His mouth was pressed again Manon’s neck, his eyes closed. Manon gave a little shriek and Etienne glanced up. He met Georgia’s eyes, his own widening in sudden horror.
“Georgie...” His pet name for her. He stumbled back,struggling with his fly, and put out a hand as though to stop her.
Swearing in French and laughing, Manon fumbled to button her blouse. “I told you someone would find us,” she scolded him.
Georgia slammed the refrigerator door shut and pressed her back against it, standing wide-eyed and stunned for a long second. There was a buzzing in her head, loud as a swarm of bees. She could not stop picturing what she had just seen. Manon. Etienne. His lips against her neck, the silky length of her thigh wrapped around him, both of them locked in a lovers’ embrace. She splayed a hand across her chest, pressing against the tightness coiling there, the pain sharp as the point of a paring knife.
“Oh, Etienne,” she gasped, “what have you done?”
