“For weeks.”He shrugs.“I needed to understand your life.Your patterns.Your attachments.”His voice warms, making me sick.“It’s amazing what people reveal without meaning to.”
I grip the edge of my seat.“And Reyes?How did he get involved?”
“Oh, him?”Chef waves a hand.“We shared some drinks back when he visited your father’s manor.I remembered he had a vacation home outside Austin.Something about wanting to be near his niece, the artist.And then, of course, Chef Charleston.”His lips curve into something smug.“An old friendship goes a long way.”
My stomach drops.“Chef Charleston talked about me?”
He nods.“Says you’re highly gifted in the culinary arts.Of course, I already knew that.”He shifts his gaze lecherously.“Among other things.”
I swallow back nausea.
“He also happened to mention,” Chef continues, “that your classmate Jordan had a crush on you.Perfect scapegoat, really.Once I began sending the little gifts, it was obvious everyone would look straight at him.A convenient tragedy.”
My blood runs icy.Jordan.God.
“I watched him,” Chef says, “and I found out about Eagle Bellamy’s drug overdose because he was on the prayer list at Jordan’s church.Very moving.”
I widen my eyes.“So you weren’t responsible for Eagle’s OD?”
He lifts his brows slightly.“No.Must have been someone else.”
Someone else.
A new thread of terror weaves into my bones.
Chef stands.“But enough business.”He lifts a small porcelain plate and sets it in front of me.“Your amuse bouche.”
The dish is beautiful—infuriatingly beautiful.
A miniature white corn arepa, crisp at the edges, topped with a soft quail egg with a micro herb garnish.Beneath it, a whisper of guasca-scented potato cream that sends a flash of Bogotá into the air.Ajiaco broth and damp mornings and everything I’ve ever lost.
My throat tightens.“Is it poisoned?”
Chef looks almost offended.“Of course not.I’ve poisoned men before.Your father’s enemies.Ugly, unpleasant deaths.Foam, convulsions, the slow collapse of a body fighting itself.”He shakes his head.“No grace in it.Eventually I saw it in your father himself, after someone had him poisoned.Completely undignified.He would have been mortified.I would never inflict that on you.”
Cold needles prickle my spine.
“Then what,” I whisper, “do you intend to do with me after this meal?”
His grin spreads.“Eat, Daniela.”
I stare at the tiny dish.My heart thunders.But I lift the arepa with shaking fingers, bring it to my mouth, and take a bite.
The flavor blooms instantly—sweet corn, rich yolk, the earthy guasca threading through creamy potato.Bogotá on a plate.Home and danger mixed so closely I can’t tell them apart.
I hate him for it.I hate that even now, even here, he can make something exquisite.
Chef eats his own amuse bouche.When he finishes, he reaches forward and lights the first candle.
“One course down,” he says softly.“Four to go.”
My pulse pounds like a warning.
