Some Like It Hot

THE RESTAURANT KITCHEN was hot, but sous-chef Melanie Marchand was hotter. Thick seafood gumbo simmered on a back burner of the stove. The spicy scent of sweet paprika, cayenne pepper, garlic and onions permeated the air. Dozens of potatoes baked in a five hundred degree oven, while in the convection toaster, fat loaves of French bread turned a buttery golden brown. Chez Remy was in full swing as Mardi Gras season heated up. Overhead, the ceiling fan was on the fritz, spinning lazily for a few minutes, then abruptly cutting out. Tendrils of dark hair escaped from Melanie's ponytail and perspiration plastered them against the nape of her neck. She pressed the back of one hand to her damp forehead in a useless attempt to stay her irritation. She'd just glanced up at the daily menu posted on the dry-erase board by executive chef Robert LeSoeur, and noticed that the innovative dish she'd scribbled down the night before had been slashed through with a bright red Magic Marker. Grrr. She gritted her teeth. Without even a simple FYI, he'd axed her new specialty dish from the carte du jour, making her feel overlooked and insignificant. The way she'd often felt growing up as the youngest of four sisters. Charlotte was the smart one, Renee the pretty one, Sylvie the funny one. Melanie had just been the baby. Her cooking skills were the only way she'd been able to distinguish herself. Purposefully, Melanie squared her shoulders, strode to the stainless steel commercial refrigerator and, with her biceps straining, dragged out the forty-pound turkey. She was making the dish whether Robert liked it or not. He couldn't fire her. Her family owned Chez Remy, the elegant restaurant housed inside the Hotel Marchand, a four-star establishment tucked away on one of the original blocks of the French Quarter. Ignoring the round-eyed stares of the other cooks, she hauled the turkey over to the prep area. After removing the giblets, she lubed it up with extra virgin olive oil. The cooks kept glancing from Melanie to the crossed-out menu item posted near the stove, and back again. They recognized mutiny in the offing, but had the good sense not to comment on it. Although Jean-Paul Beaudreau, who had worked for her family since she was a small child, grinned and murmured something in his native Cajun dialect about the sexy appeal of a tempestuous woman. Humph. She wasn't tempestuous. She just wanted her voice to be heard. Either LeSoeur simply enjoyed provoking her or the stubborn man needed to be fitted with a high-powered hearing aid. She picked up the oversize bird, now prepped for cooking, and marched it over to the rotisserie. "It's too big." Robert's voice was a cool caress against her heated ears. Melanie started, but did not look up at her nemesis because her insides had turned to mush. Mentally, she steeled herself against the unwanted sensation of sexual attraction by not missing a beat. She kept right on trying to jam the bird into the oven as if Mr. Hot Body himself was not hovering behind her. "Did you hear what I said?" A bead of perspiration trickled down her throat. She wasn't about to concede that he was right. Melanie kept working it like Cinderella's ugly stepsister trying to stuff her big fat foot into that delicate glass slipper. I will make this fit. I can't let him win. Okay, she was competitive. So shoot her. "If you're determined to do this, then at least let me help so you don't end up hurting yourself," Robert said softly, and stepped dangerously close. Who did he think he was fooling? He didn't want to help. He wanted to take over. He thrived on control. She could easily imagine him in the armed forces--a general barking out orders to his troops. Melanie hardened her jaw. She would not allow this guy to steamroll her. "Buzz off," she said flatly. HWilde, Lori is the author of 'Some Like It Hot', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373389438 and ISBN 0373389434.