Deadly Intent (33 page)

“I sat him at table two.”

John leaned toward Brady and whispered, “Who is Archibald Gunther?”

“Only the most famous restaurant critic in the country,”
 
I

Brady whispered back. “He used to write exclusively for the New York Times, but he now freelances and has a weekly syndicated column that appears in more than two hundred newspapers. He travels all over the country and only reviews restaurants he deems worthy of his attention, never those recommended by enthusiastic readers.” He punctuated his remark with a snort. “He’s full of himself, scathing when he doesn’t like a particular establishment, and incredibly rude. Some say his goal in life is not to inform the public about outstanding restaurants but to destroy them.”

‘ ‘Why would anyone want to be reviewed by this windbag?”

“Because if he likes your restaurant—which happens, occasionally—he can propel you to stardom as quickly as he can sink you into oblivion. For many, Abbie included, it’s worth the risk.”

“I don’t think I like him.”

Brady laughed. “I know I don’t like him, but in spite of that, it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to jump with joy at the thought that the great Archibald Gunther is here and about to eat the food I’ll cook tonight. I’m excited and scared out of my wits at the same time. Isn’t that crazy?”

John glanced at Abbie and saw that her reaction reflected the same mixture of dread and elation. Her cheeks were flushed as she grabbed the arm of a waiter who had just returned from the dining room.

“Jim, you have table two, right?”

The waiter nodded. ‘ ‘Marsha told me who just came in. Gosh, Abbie, I can hardly believe it. Archibald Gunther.” He said the name with such reverence that John almost laughed. Good sense told him not to.

“Don’t make him wait,” Abbie said, waving him back outside. “Be natural, okay? Address him by his name, since he gave it to Marsha, but don’t gush. Treat him the same way you would anyone else.”

“But he’s not anyone else. He is—“

“Archibald Gunther, yes, I know. Nonetheless, we treat him like a mere mortal, not a god. Now go.”

After a few seconds, she turned to John, who was watching his romantic evening go down the toilet, thanks to Archibald Gunther.

‘ ‘John—“

Gallantly, he bailed her out. “I know. You have to stay. I understand.”

“You don’t mind?”

“I didn’t say that. In fact, I’m about this far—“ he held his thumb and forefinger close together “—from walking into that dining room and punching the great Archibald Gunther in the nose.”

The corners of Abbie’s mouth pulled into a smile. “He weighs close to three hundred pounds.”

John gave a smirk. “Like I would let that stop me.”

She laughed and the tension seemed to ease off her shoulders. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Jim walked back into the kitchen, looking haggard.

“What’s wrong?” Abbie asked. “He didn’t leave after reading the menu, did he?”

“No, but...” He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. “I don’t think you’re going to like this.” He started reading. “He ordered the basil and garlic soup, the lentil salad with duck breast, the veal shank in cider, and for dessert, the roasted figs with creme frafche.”

“I hope he brought his own stretcher,” John murmured to no one in particular, but when he saw the panicked expression on Abbie’s face, he realized this was no laughing matter. “Problems?” he asked.

“No, not really. It’s just that the dishes he ordered are complex and time-consuming. And I let Sean leave early.”

“Who is Sean?”

“One of our kitchen helpers.”

“So call him back.”

“I can’t. He’s halfway to Baltimore by now. By the time he got back, the dinner would be over.”

John did some quick thinking. “Obviously, you need

another pair of hands, so give me an apron and tell me what to do.”

Abbie gave him a blank look. “What?”

“You heard me. I’m offering my services.”

“But you don’t cook.”

‘ ‘No, but I can peel and I can chop and in a pinch I can even whip.” He had already removed his jacket, glad his .38 was strapped to his ankle and well concealed under his pants. He didn’t think that the nervous staff could have taken the sight of a gun at the moment.

Abbie was biting a fingernail. “I don’t know about this. By the time I’ve finished explaining—“

“Take the offer, already,” Brady muttered as he pulled a crate of assorted vegetables from the refrigerator. “Archibald’s waiting.”

Abbie’s hesitation lasted but a second. “All right.” She pointed at the crate Brady had put on the counter. “The onions and potatoes have to be peeled and diced. The green beans cut in inch-size pieces. Those beans,” she said, pointing, “have to be shelled and rinsed. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll give you something else to do.”

For the next hour and a half, the kitchen hummed like a busy beehive as Abbie and Brady sauteed, stirred, strained and poured with a speed and efficiency that made John dizzy. He did his part, half hoping for a smile and a pat on the back for his effort, although he wasn’t offended when he got neither. When he was not needed, he stayed out of the way, content to watch Abbie, who led her team with the hand of a master, encouraging, praising, even laughing occasionally to break the tension.

Whenever Jim came in, all eyes would turn toward him, but each time, the young waiter shook his head. Archibald had not made a single comment. After his dessert was carried out on a special Limoges plate Abbie had taken out

of what she called her “treasure chest,” she collapsed on a chair.

“What now?” John asked, handing her a glass of water, which she took gratefully.

“We wait, a week, two, three, until he decides whether or not he’ll write the review.”

“You mean you went through all this without being sure you’d be reviewed?” John was aghast.

“That’s a chance you take. And of course, there’s always the possibility that he hated everything, will review the restaurant and totally destroy you.”

“Can’t you go and ask him if he enjoyed the meal?”

She gave him a horrified look. “My God, John, that would be the kiss of death.”

“But you’ll be able to tell when you make your rounds, right?”

“I’m not making my rounds tonight. If I did, at this late hour, it would look crass, as if my only purpose was to impress him.” She took another sip of water. “I’ll only go if he asks to see me.”

It was soon clear that he didn’t. The entire kitchen staff huddled at the double doors and watched as Archibald stood up, with the help of his cane, and gave a curt nod to Jim, who was holding the door open for him.

Then he was gone and Abbie almost fell apart. “He hated it,” she said, looking utterly defeated. “He hated everything.”

“I doubt that.” Jim had reentered the kitchen. “He didn’t leave a single morsel of food. And you know what he does when he doesn’t like something, Abbie. He takes one bite, maybe two, and he leaves the rest.”

“He said nothing at all?”

“Not a word. But he gave me a nice tip, not huge, but

nice.” He showed her the credit card receipt. “That’s got to be a good sign, don’t you think?”

“That proves he liked the service, not necessarily the food.” With a resigned sigh, she glanced at the wall clock. “It’s late, people. Go home.”

“Not until we’ve cleaned up,” Brady said.

“I’ll take care of the cleanup.” She looked at John and forced a smile. “Maybe my very understanding date will give me a hand. What do you say, Detective Ryan?”

John bowed. “I’m at your service, Chef DiAngelo.”

Within moments, all four employees were gone and John and Abbie were left to deal with a stack of dirty pots and pans. Abbie walked over to the coffeemaker, which had sustained them all throughout the evening, and poured a cup for John.

“You’ve been a good sport about this.”

John took a sip of coffee, watching her as he drank. “And you were awesome,” he said. “It was like watching a choreographer leading a group of talented performers. Everything was so perfectly synchronized and so beautiful to watch, I’m no longer surprised you’ve become such a success.”

Abbie felt herself blush. “Thank you. And by the way, I was kidding about the cleanup.”

“I wasn’t.” To her surprise, he walked over to the sink, the sleeves of his shirt still rolled up at the elbows, and turned on the faucet. “Come on,” he tossed over his shoulder as she just stood there, not knowing what to say. “You don’t expect me to scrub all those pots by myself, do you?”

She laughed, snatched another sponge from the counter and joined him at the double sink. They worked fast, chatting about the night’s unexpected turn of events, while in

the background, an Andrea Bocelli CD continued to play some of the tenor’s most famous ballads.

When the first strings of Conte Partiro began, John dropped his sponge, dried his hands and turned to Abbie. “Do you tango, Ms. DiAngelo?”

She met his gaze, and in that instant all signs of fatigue seemed to wash away from her. “Is that an invitation to dance, Detective Ryan?”

He opened his arms. “It most certainly is.”

Without a word, she slid into his arms, fitting her body against his, feeling his heat radiate through the thin fabric of her tank top. She no longer felt tense, or worried about Archibald Gunther. The food critic could have been on another planet for all she cared. At this very moment, all that mattered was John, the way he held her, so tightly she could feel the pounding of his heart. Or was it hers?

Eyes closed, Abbie let herself be swept by the music, aware that John’s hand had let go of hers and slipped around her waist. Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and looked up. His proximity made her dizzy, but it was the expression in his eyes, a mixture of playfulness and lust, that had her insides turning to mush.

“You’re doing it again,” she said with a small catch in her voice.

“Doing what?”

Looking at me and not kissing me. “Scrutinizing me.”

“I was just noticing something.” His hand brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Do you know that your eyes actually change color when you’re nervous?”

“What would I have to be nervous about?”

“You tell me.”

Her gaze locked on his mouth and she felt all her willpower dissolve. If he doesn’t kiss me this very instant, she

thought, I’ll scream. Or I’ll kiss him myself. And then we’ll see how Mr. Cool handles—

She never had a chance to finish her thought. Wrapping one hand around her neck, he pulled her to him. She met him halfway, lips parted. Oh, God, she needed this. She needed that strong, hard body pressing against hers, that warm mouth kissing her and murmuring her name, those hands moving up and down her back, pulling her closer, as though he wanted her inside of him.

She wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted. She felt as though she was in another time zone, where nothing mattered but the feelings and sensations she was experiencing in this man’s arms.

“Come home with me, Abbie,” he whispered against her mouth.

Every fiber of her body wanted to scream yes, and nearly did. She let out a small sigh instead. “I can’t. My babysitter needs to go home.”

However close he had come to losing control, he was equally quick in regaining it. “All right.” He hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. “But we’re not finished, you know. Not by a long shot.”

She held his smoldering gaze. “I hope not.”

Thirty-Five

“Uh, Abbie, I feel so guilty about this,” Rose said. “Here you are, a famous, busy chef, and I’ve got you carrying my bed.”

“I’m glad to help.” Panting, Abbie put her end of the twin bed down at the bottom of the stairs and took a few shallow breaths. Now that Rose was moving in with Kat, she had needed a bedroom set, bedding and a few accessories. Knowing she didn’t have much money, Abbie had taken her to a thrift shop she knew on Route 1, where Rose had bought a bedroom set, a lamp and a mirror. To the purchase, Abbie had added a couple of items she no longer needed—curtains for the window, a spread for the bed and a rug to throw over those cold tiles.