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he clarified, “I’m going to win.”

      Another time she might have found such self-assuredness sexy, especially when paired with smoky eyes and a devilish grin. Since it ran counter to her own plans, however, she told him, “In your dreams, Paper.”

      Finn chuckled. “I was right about figuring you for a rock. But the only thing I’m dreaming about right now—” His gaze flicked to her lips and he hesitated before clarifying, “The only thing I can afford to dream about is being the last chef standing in this kitchen.”

      “That makes two of us.”

      “Try a dozen of us,” scoffed the young man standing to Lara’s right.

      She’d forgotten about him—she’d forgotten about all of them—as she and Finn had engaged in a quiet battle of words that carried an undertone of flirting.

      Kirby Something-or-other. From where she stood, she wasn’t able to make out the last name on his badge. She pegged him to be in his early twenties. His shaggy hair stuck out at odd angles and gave the overall appearance of having been hacked off with a meat cleaver.

      “That doesn’t mean we can’t all be friendly, y’all.” The speaker this time was a middle-aged blonde whose waist was as thick as her Southern accent. Her badge read Flo Gimball.

      “That’s right. We can be friendly. Course, it won’t change anything. I’m going to win,” boasted a gravelly-voiced man who sported a shaved head, gauged ears and a five-inch-long goatee.

      Thanks to two full sleeves of tattoos, he would have looked right at home in a biker bar. Rebel that he was, he wasn’t wearing the name tag he’d received from the security desk in the lobby, but the Gothic lettering on the side of his neck spelled out Ryder. Lara assumed it was his name—whether first, last or otherwise, she couldn’t be sure.

      “Right,” she muttered half under her breath.

      Sorry, but she couldn’t see Ryder in her father’s kitchen. For starters, Clifton wasn’t a fan of body art, which was probably why she had gotten a yin-yang symbol the size of a half-dollar inked on her lower back as soon as she’d turned eighteen. Her dad had been livid when he found out. She’d been smug and secretly pleased to have gotten his attention. Now, every time she wore a bathing suit, she just felt stupid.

      “You got something to say?” Ryder asked in a voice as gritty as cornmeal.

      The guy easily stood six-six and carried his fillet knife in a sheath attached to his belt. Fish and prime cuts of meat probably weren’t the only things he used it on. Lara gulped, a purely reflexive action that she regretted immediately when the huge man grinned as if he could smell her fear.

      “Down, boy.” Finn surprised her by stepping between them. “Pick on someone your own size.”

      Ryder’s laughter chewed through the silence that followed Finn’s valiant admonition like the rusty blade of a chain saw.

      “I musta missed the memo that said we’re competing in pairs. What, pretty boy? Are you gonna be her sous-chef?” Ryder taunted.

      The barb earned snickers from some of the other competitors.

      Lara appreciated Finn’s gesture, but she couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak. Stepping around him, she told Ryder, “Actually, I do have something to say, but I’ll let my food do the talking on Monday.”

      For that matter, she hoped that whatever she prepared in the allotted time would speak volumes to the trio of judges, which would include a different celebrity chef each week.

      “Should be pretty quiet, then,” said a statuesque brunette whose name badge read Angel Horvath.

      Her overinflated lips curved into a smile that was too menacing to be perceived as friendly, and Lara was left with the impression that it wouldn’t be smart to turn her back on the woman—or any of her fellow competitors, for that matter.

      That included Finn, their kiss in the cab and his recent act of gallantry notwithstanding. They all had the same objective: winning. As Finn already had pointed out, that made them adversaries.

      Tristan had returned for part of the exchange. He clapped his hands together again in a gesture that Lara was already starting to find annoying.

      “Hey, chefs. I have no problem with trash talk. In fact, undermining another contestant’s confidence can be a good strategy. But save it for the cameras, please. We have too much to do over the next couple of days to waste time on your egos.”

      Lara cast a sideways glance at Finn. The easygoing smile he’d sported was gone, replaced by an expression more in keeping with the intensity she’d spied earlier in his gaze. His game face, she thought, and experienced a flicker of disappointment that they hadn’t met under other circumstances.

      THREE

      Mix well

      The competitors had one hour, not a minute more, to familiarize themselves with their surroundings. Finn had to restrain himself to a brisk walk when Tristan finally released them to go find their workstations. He wanted to run like a couple of the other chefs were doing, but he knew better. Haste in a kitchen was often met with disaster. So he moved quickly, but safely as he searched for his name on the white placards affixed to the stainless-steel vent hoods.

      Finn had spent his entire adult life in and around professional kitchens—some of them better equipped and better run than others. For a while, he’d presided over his own in a restaurant dubbed Rascal’s, which he’d owned with his wife and best friend. Ex-wife now. And former best friend.

      He was at home amid pots, pans and appliances, but he wasn’t exactly in his element here.

      Finn hadn’t admitted it before, but he shared Lara’s trepidation about cooking in front of a slew of cameras for a television audience that ultimately would not taste his creations. He had no problem preparing his signature dishes in a crowded restaurant kitchen where well-ordered chaos reigned, but this was different. So much in the Cuisine Cable Network’s kitchen was unknown, unaccounted for and just plain beyond his control.

      It came down to a hand of cards. Literally. At the start of each competition the host would deal three oversize cards. One specified the amount of time the chefs had to cook. Another gave the course they had to prepare—appetizer, entrée or dessert. The final card revealed the identity of the celebrity judge.

      And then there was the plainspoken and pretty Lara Smith.

      If the first blow of attraction had landed like a sucker punch, the second, when he’d stumbled upon her in the waiting room, had delivered the knockout.

      Wouldn’t it just figure that the first woman to arouse his interest—and then some—since Sheryl had buried a knife in his back would be one he was competing against for the chance of a lifetime?

      Priorities, Westbrook, priorities, he silently admonished.

      Sex and his social life rated lower on the list than getting back what he’d lost. And thanks to Sheryl and Cole, he’d lost everything.

      Of course, all of the chefs here were determined to win. But it was different for Finn. For him, it went deeper than bragging rights and securing a coveted position with a paycheck to match. Being crowned the Chesterfield’s executive chef wouldn’t be a stop as much as a stepping-stone. He needed it to launch his comeback.

      Nothing and no one would stand in his way.

      He found his station and smothered a bemused laugh. So much for putting distance between himself and Lara Smith. They would be working side by side.

      At the moment, however, it wasn’t her side that had Finn’s attention. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the oven. It was all he could do to hold back a groan at his first unrestricted view of her butt. Overall, she was too slender to be considered voluptuous, but her rear had a definite curve that filled out her fitted pants nicely. If she liked to sample her cooking, as chefs

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