Page 25

Food Battle the Second

“V ery well. I’ll consent to witness one of these food battles,” Scarlet finally conceded. They had been sitting around her kitch en island.

“Really?” Helena asked, clapping her hands together i n delight.

“Have you ever known me, child, not to be a woman of my word?” her boss said dryly. She sat with them now, wearing a long sweater the same color as her name over black slacks with a glittering black shawl draped over her shoulders. She may have had a shower, but her hair was perfectly dry and styled simply, its waves cascading around her lovely face. There was not a scrap of makeup on her, and yet she was one of those women who looked as if she had been done up in a salon all the same.

She slipped another bite of the Food of the Gods from the plate to her mouth, the morsel delicately balanced on the flat of her fork. Satisfaction burned in Rafferty’s chest as the dessert disappeared and her lips allowed a small smile as she chewed. He had gotten the rec ipe right.

“I must say, Mr. Lares, I should hire you as my personal chef and forgo all this competition nonsense,” she said, holding her fingers up to block the view of her chewing as she spoke.

“But that is part of the attraction. Like… someone sponsoring a race car driver. He’ll be your chef and represent Scarlet Promotions. It’s excellent publicity for both of you!” Helena declared, her eyes shining with the energy of the idea.

Scarlet exchanged a glance with Rafferty, a kinship he didn’t realize they shared, an understanding about the drive and dedication of Helena.

The other woman plucked up her cloth napkin and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “Like I said, I am willing to go see what all this is about, but it is just that. I’m going to see. I am not agreeing to anything else yet.”

“That’s plenty. Let me go find your coat, and we’ll get going,” Helena said, standing up to do just that.

“What, now?” Scarlet exclaimed, her eyes glancing at the overly large, ornate clock ticking away on the wall. It declared they were approaching five in the afternoon.

“Yes! There is an event tonight, not too far away. You can see for yourself the potential here. And if we hurry, we can still enroll Rafferty into the competition.” With that, Helena was gone, off to get the aforementioned coat. His and Helena’s were draped over one of the stools at the island counter, read y at hand.

“Is this truly what you want as well?” she asked, leveling her ga ze at him.

“Yes,” he replied, letting his hungry grin take over his face. She needed to see the truth right now. “Oh, ye s indeed.”

The same familiar shiver washed down his spine as Rafferty entered the newest arena. It was taking place in the same hotel they were staying in, in one of the ballroom/convention halls attached to the space. Not their most lavish spaces by any means. The industrial carpet they walked on spoke to that, but it had plenty of space. The venue made the token effort of covering the various tables with black ta blecloths.

As in the gymnasium, each cooking station was set up with essentials, including a few more appliances, such as grill surfaces and stand-alone hot pads with four surfaces. A supply table of ingredients waited on the far side, cooks preparing to cook their dishes were walking through making selections. From the sheer volume, it seemed there was more than enough to make three dishes. A larger crowd of audience members moved through the cooking stations, which had been spread out in the space randomly. There truly seemed no pattern to it, and Rafferty won dered why.

“This is certainly interesting,” Scarlet noted, as a handsome young man in a plum purple chef’s uniform and a ponytail walked by.

“Something’s wrong,” Rafferty said, noting that many of the chefs and cooks were standing in clusters talking urgently. Many had their arm s crossed.

He spied Eleanor amongst the closest group and decided she was the safest person to ask, being she was the only one he knew. Leaving Helena with Scarlet, he approached his rival.

Her frown deepened when she sp otted him.

Unable to resist, he adopted a swagger, a bad habit from the kitchen s of yore.

“What’s happening?” he asked as if they were ol d friends.

She huffed, then relented in a low, growly voice. “They changed the whole format. I’d blame your sugar mama, but it was apparently just decided for the pleasure of Mr. Tirrell. I guess all the Richie Riches think they can bu y us now.”

“I think I’m out,” one of the other cooks she had been talking to said, slapping off his own toque as he turned to go to his station to gather up h is things.

The others continued to stand around, unsure of what they wan ted to do.

“What are they demanding?” Rafferty looked back a t Eleanor.

But it was a chef with a white coat with black piping who answered. “They went from three round s to one.”

“It’s an endurance round now,” a gray-coated cook with an orange handkerchief instead of a toque interjected. “The one to get the highest number of plates served in the allotted t ime wins.”

“One dish and you have to make as many of them as you can,” the white-coated chef c omplained.

“They have a whole event going on next door, and we need to feed them all, for free. I’m working for free ,” the gray-coated cook complained, gesturing as he spoke with his thi ck accent.

“Technically for the prize money,” the first one said.

“Oh, okay, thank you. They want me to work my ass off, after I’ve been working all day in my real job, for the chance of winning some chunk of change. It ain’t even enough to make a damn bit of difference. You know what? I’m following that guy. I’m out.” And gray-coated cook st ormed off.

“I mean, he has a point. I do this to relax and have fun,” the white-coated cook said.

“You were complaining just last week that the challenges were getting rote,” Eleanor pointed out, switching her crossed arms to planting her fists on her hips.

“Yeah, but…” white-coat waffled just as Helena walked up.

“What’s going on?” she asked, tugging at Rafferty ’s sleeve.

“They’re changing the format,” he whispered back. “One round, cook one dish and clear the most plate s to win.”

“Oh?” Helena wrinkled her nose. “That’s int eresting.”

“Well, most people are rebelling against change,” Raffe rty noted.

“Are you coming, Eleanor?” the white-coated chef asked, eyeing Rafferty with the wariness one gave an outsider.

“No. I’m in. I paid my fee, and I’m going to take their challenge,” she said, turning to march back to he r station.

“That’s so Eleanor,” the white-coated chef said, shaking his head. “We went to school together. She would be chef of her own kitchen by now if she wasn’t so… whatever she is.” He glanced at them. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that she ever does anything wrong. It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s just… she never quite does anything right, either, despite he r talent.”

As white-coat walked off, Rafferty could feel Helena’s aura bristle, like it had become porcupine-like and the energy of it was sticking him on the side facing her. Leaning in despite the prickles, he whispered in her ear. “Be careful.”

Immediately, the prickles retreated. Helena closed her eyes as she breathed in deeply, tucking her demonic thorns away. “Sorry, sorry. That sort of thing… it just pisses me off,” she said vehemently at the ch ef’s back.

She glared daggers at the white-coated chef’s back. The man flinched and came to a stop. As he started to turn, Rafferty turned Helena away as well, their widening eyes a mirror of eac h other’s.

“What did I do?” she asked in a squeak y whisper.

“No idea, but keep walking,” Rafferty coaxed, nudging her arm to rei nforce it.

Thankfully, they encountered Scarlet, who was talking with another man in a suit. As they approached, she paused and gestured for them.

“Ritchie, let me introduce you to my protégé Helena. And this is her boyfriend, Rafferty Lares. This is an old friend, Richard Tirrell.”

The well-dressed older man cocked his head to one side as he looked Rafferty up and down. “This is the one who did your spread at the Winter R ose Ball?”

Scarlet stiffened at the mention of the cursed event but didn’t let her smile crack. “Yes, he was, as a matter of fact.”

“Excellent. Best meal I’ve had in ages,” the man named Ritchie declared, offering his hand to Rafferty to shake.

Rafferty shook, but the hairs on the back of his arms rose when he did so, and a familiar revulsion rose in the back of his throat. A nobleman who thought very highly of himself but has nothing of real character. Only his entitlement, Rafferty thought. He disliked this sort immensely. They were always asking for substitutions and special off-menu items, even if it was the ki ng’s menu.

“Too bad it got overshadowed by all that demon business. I don’t give a damn one way or another. Don’t give a damn if it’s not politically correct. All these cowards running away from my Scarlet and her cute little business, it’s ridiculous. Who hasn’t had a light brushing with the demonic before, really? We’ve been friends for too many years, Scarlet. Weak in the spine they are.”

An awkward silence washed over them, but Mr. Tirrell just plowed right through it. “I’m looking forward to whatever it is you plan to cook today,” he continued, turning to survey the room. “Maybe we should just forgo this whole thing, and I hire you on the spot as my own personal chef. What do you say to that?” He turned back and grinned with the satisfaction of a man who believed he had made an offer that couldn’t b e refused.

Rafferty offered his own sharp grin, not knocked off-center in the slightest. “I must apologize to you, sir. I just took a position in Ms. Scarlet’s household. I’m not the sort to drop a position once I’ve said I’d take it.”

“Ms. Scarlet?” Ritchie asked, turning back to the younger woman, who smiled indulgently, showing no signs of correcting Rafferty’s pr esumption.

“It is what I insist all my staff call me. Ms. Kovacs was my mother, as you remember,” she said.

Ritchie blinked, his courtier smile sagging as if he was struggling to reconcile his old friend with the young woman standing before him now. “Right. Right,” he agreed, reforming the smile to full brightness. “Gosh, yes, the original Old Battleaxe. You’ll have to forgive me. Your change is really throwin g me off.”

Scarlet nodded magn animously.

“To be honest, I like my staff a little more on the pliable side,” he said from the side of his mouth at her, as if he were sharing a great secret. “That’s how I lucked into this sweet situation. I’m hosting a company appreciation next door, and I got this lot to cook for them all for free. All I had to pay for was their ingredients. Saved me a bundle.”

“That is a way to get it done,” Scarlet conceded, her mask not slipping an inch. Helena was doing a poorer job hiding her true feelings about that but managed to slip her fingers around Rafferty’s bicep and squeeze until she ha d control.

Scarlet’s vagueness was all the praise Ritchie needed. “Maybe I’ll go ahead and buy this whole Underground Cooking thing. I can see lots of uses. No need to run another corporate gig again. No offense, of course. Your events were always the classiest, but for things for the regulars like this… And these fools will do it just for a chance at a carrot.”

He continued to chuckle until Scarlet cut in. “Well, that would be unfortunate as I am already in the process of acquiring the com petition.”

Ritchie’s fluffy white eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Oh, are you now?” A look of calculation washed over his face. “Alright, how about this? I’ll wager you for it, ” he said.

“I don’t think this group is yours to be wagering,” Scarlet countered, raising one of her delicately arched eyebrows back at him in return.

“I mean, sure, we could do the whole outbidding each other, calling in favors, greasing palms, the whole nine yards. God knows, they took my money straight into their own pockets readily enough to set this up.” A gambler’s face washed over his expression, both delighted and aroused by his idea. “But that would be awfully boring. We both know I would win anyway. But this… this would be fun. You have your champion.” He nodded at Rafferty, then scanned the room, stopping inevitably on Eleanor. “And I’ll h ave mine.”

“Does she work for you?” Hel ena asked.

“No, but she will be in a minute.” With that, Ritchie sauntered off to go speak t o Eleanor.

“That ass,” Helena hissed under h er breath.

“This may be a little unorthodox, but I wouldn’t disparage it. You’re about to get everything you want, Helena,” Scarlet scolded just as softly, giving her a knowing look when her protégé me t her eye.

“So you’ll go for my idea?” the truly younger wo man asked.

“We’ll see. First, our champion need s to win.”