A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Read Free Page B

frowned. ‘Blimey, it’s like being tackled by a sack of potatoes.’
    ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
    She still didn’t let go. She daren’t.
    ‘What about our pots and stuff?’ he said, his eyes still following Oliver Stafford whose over-inflated ego was being smoothed by his boss. Bling Broadbent’s peachy complexion glowed with inner light as she tossed a contemptuous sneer in Honey’s direction.
    ‘My, my. Taking defeat lying down and with your legs open. Well that’s par for the course from what I hear.’
    Honey struggled to her feet. Now it was her turn to lunge.
    ‘You bitch  …’
    Now it was Smudger’s turn to hold her back.
    Stafford made a flamboyant gesture of dismissal. ‘Bad chefs make bad losers!’
    Honey felt her skin tightening. She looked hastily around her. She’d put the knives away, but what about the steak mallet? A whack in the middle of the forehead and – hey presto! No more pesto from that chef!
    Smudger was frighteningly calm, the kind of silent calmness that happens before a storm. She had to get him outside before the storm broke and he flattened Stafford’s nose. She grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, Smudge. Let’s get going.’
    She tried pushing him. He was like a rock, totally immovable. He pointed an accusing finger at the other chef. His voice was steady. ‘That prize was mine. You robbed me, Stafford. I know bloody well you did. But I’ll get you; mark my words if I don’t!’

Chapter Two
    Emma Pearce stifled a yawn. She’d been on reception duty at the Beau Brummell since three that afternoon. It was now close to 11 p.m. but tonight she’d had to stay.
    Oliver Stafford, the hotel’s head chef, had emerged victorious over a number of other excellent chefs in today’s competition and celebrations were still going on. The sound of laughter, popping champagne corks and the reassuring clink of glasses as toast after toast was proposed filtered from the lounge bar. If past performances were anything to go by, they’d still be at it in the early hours.
    Sighing and stifling another yawn, she eased her right foot out of her sensible shoe and rubbed it against her ankle. Her feet were killing her. The night porter was late but would be here soon. She couldn’t wait. There was no point in asking Mrs Broadbent if someone could stand in for her. Mrs Broadbent expected her staff to stay until relieved – like tired, loyal troops holding an important bridgehead against the enemy.
    A blast of air came in as the main reception doors swished open.
    Emma prepared to plaster on a smile before raising her head and welcoming the late-returning guest. Instead her jaw dropped.
    Well over six feet, the man towered over her. His teeth were sparkling white. His skin a dark brown. It was the way he was dressed that made her jaw drop.
    ‘Good evening, Miss. I have come to see my wife and claim my half of this hotel.’ Adopting a wide grin, he tilted back his head and looked around. ‘It is very nice, yes?’
    Emma tried to retract her gaping jaw. She couldn’t possibly say a single word until she did. Was she dreaming? She blinked hoping that if she was she’d wake up at home in bed and quickly fall asleep again. It wasn’t just that the man was exceptionally tall. It was the way he was dressed – similar to that Eddie Murphy film about an African chief searching for a bride in New York. What was it called? She couldn’t think of it. She was too busy taking in the animal skins, the finely dreadlocked hair and the myriad white and yellow coral beads in the huge collar he wore around his neck.
    Suddenly it came to her. ʻOh. Youʼre a kissogram! Sorry. I wasnʼt expecting …ʼ
    ‘No. Not kissogram. I am the real thing. You see my tribal outfit? It is Masai. Do you like my spear?’
    Emma’s eyes widened, giving the spear a brief glance as she tried to regain her voice. ‘I …’
    Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
    ‘So where is she?’ asked the man, his dreadlocks