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bracelets jangling. “Adam’s supposed to be busing tables, but since Joe’s had tee many martoonis, the poor kid gets to play galley slave for a night. I better give Betsy a hand, too, now that it’s slowed down out front.” She shrugged. “They call me the maitre dee, but sometimes I feel more like the maitre do. See ya.” She elbowed her way through the kitchen door.
    Lina rose and, once again, flung her napkin on the table.
    Joy frowned. “What are you going to do?”
    “Attempt to pry my foot out of my mouth. Get the check.”

Chapter Two

    “Who brought the Glenfiddich?” Eric asked. He had one eye on the sizzling pear slices and cherries he was tossing in a skillet, and one eye on Cookie, who was occupied with pouring whiskey over ice in two old-fashioned glasses. The Cookhouse didn’t have a liquor license, which suited him just fine, but the staff readily provided setups and mixers for those diners who brought their own spirits.
    “Stu Cathcart,” Cookie answered. “I told him God will smite him for contaminating single-malt Scotch with ice, but would he listen?”
    The fragrant aroma of cooking fruit filled the kitchen, competing with the glazed duck and roasted potatoes and, yes, scorched lamb chops Provencal. At the central work island, Tommy and Deirdre chopped, measured, and mixed in surly silence. Eric had finally managed to get the two teenagers to suspend hostilities, but it was a fragile cease-fire.
    Thirteen-year-old Adam was scouring a pot at the big steel sink. After months of pleading by the boys, Eric had finally relented and permitted them to help out on Saturday nights, when The Cookhouse operated as a restaurant, and during the cooking classes and private parties that constituted the bulk of the business—provided the boys kept their grades up. Watching his son sweating and muttering over his work, Eric wondered if the kid was having second thoughts.
    “I’ll teach Stu how to take his whiskey neat,” he offered as he moved to the center work island to slice a puff pastry shell and arrange the two halves on a dessert plate. “Just stick a straw in that bottle and hand it over.” A muscle in his jaw twitched.
    The maitre d’ grinned and placed the glasses on a drinks tray. “Wait till quitting time. It’s embarrassing when the chef starts belting out bawdy drinking songs.”
    He returned to the stove, keeping a death grip on the towel-covered handle of his skillet as he snapped his wrist to toss its contents. He stared fixedly at the leaping fruit, but what he saw was the sanctimonious expression on the face of Joy’s friend.
    Lina.
    Just who did she think she was, to mouth off at him like that in front of a roomful of paying customers?
    He asked, “You really think anything could make this night worse?”
    “Probably not.” Cookie sailed out with the drinks.
    Hearing the door reopen immediately, Eric turned, expecting to see Betsy—
    And nearly lost the panful of fruit in midtoss.
    Perhaps the night could get worse after all.
    Lina stood just inside the doorway. Something about her air of self-assurance—the way she spared only a cursory glance for her surroundings before meeting Eric’s gaze—caught him up short. Most customers exhibited some degree of wide-eyed awe in his sanctum. Not Lina.
    Any other time he might have been intrigued, but at the moment he didn’t have the mental energy necessary to sustain a sense of curiosity.
    He had just enough mental energy to notice that Lina’s short, figure-hugging dress was the same striking color as her eyes.
    Sapphire blue.
    To the youngsters working with him, a customer visiting the kitchen was nothing new. Three pairs of eyes regarded Lina with polite indifference. Three young faces returned her tentative smile. Then the kids bent to their tasks once more.
    Squaring her shoulders, she delicately cleared her throat. “Eric—”
    Betsy barreled through the doorway, nearly colliding with her. “The pears?” She plucked