Secret Ingredient: Love. Teresa Southwick

table one last time. She was grateful that he was punctual; she didn’t think she could handle clock watching. Her nerves were already stretched as tight as the skin on a stuffed and trussed Thanksgiving turkey.

      I am so ready, she said to herself as she walked through her living room toward the door, where she called, “Who is it?”

      “Alex. Remember me? Your friendly, neighborhood serial killer.”

      She couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the fact that his deep voice raised tingles that chased each other up and down her back. She took the chain off and opened the door. One look at Alex’s worn, button-fly jeans and white shirt, sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, told her she was not ready.

      “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Come in.”

      “Hi,” he answered, walking through the door with a bottle cradled in each arm. “I brought some wine. One white, one red. I wasn’t sure what you’d be serving.”

      “Thanks. But you didn’t have to do that. This is a job interview.” She grabbed the doorknob to steady herself when he grinned.

      “I know. But it isn’t like any interview I’ve ever conducted,” he said.

      “Preparing food isn’t like any other job. You get results on the spot. Or not,” she added.

      “True.” He sniffed. “Your results smell pretty good.”

      “I hope so. Let me show you to your table.” She took the lead, then glanced over her shoulder. “This way, please.”

      They walked the short distance into her kitchen. She took the two bottles of wine from him and set them on the bar while he surveyed her efforts. Then he looked down at her, a slight frown marring his forehead just above the rims of his glasses.

      “There’s only one place setting. You’re not joining me?”

      “Every chef strives to imprint his or her own style,” she said. “I’m going for the mystique. Joining the diner would shatter the atmosphere.”

      And component number one in her recipe for success in working for Alex was to keep her distance. Pretend she was head chef of her own restaurant, where she could make policy. In this case: stay as far from Alex Marchetti as she could. And she had to admit it was a good rule, because already this felt too much like an awkward first date.

      “When I was growing up, there was an unspoken law—never let anyone eat alone.” He rested his hands on lean, jean-clad hips as he met her gaze. “Or maybe you have another strategy. You’re going to poison me and put me out of my second-son syndrome misery.”

      “Right. And I could kiss my cooking career goodbye.”

      “Or me.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “You could kiss me.” He looked as if he would like to take the words back. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad joke. But I’m serious about this. I think we should eat together.”

      “Haven’t got time,” she said. “You have to be judge, jury and executioner. While I’m hostess, wait staff and chef. Please take a seat. Course number one is coming up. I hope you’re hungry.”

      “Starved.”

      As Alex uttered the single word, she caught a glimpse of the dark intensity in his eyes. She swore he was looking at her mouth like a famished man. Flutters started in her stomach and spread to her knees. As if she wasn’t nervous enough! This was the best opportunity she’d ever had. It would be a real feather in her high, white chef’s hat. All she had to do was not mess up. And that was a tall order, because her hands were shaking like a power line in a hurricane. She’d like to know which of the gods she’d inadvertently offended and give him a penance raincheck. This business was hard enough without the extra challenge of serving a flawless meal while under the influence of Alex Marchetti.

      She smiled brightly. “A healthy appetite is a chef’s best friend. I can show you to a table now, sir.”

      He rested his hand on one of the chairs and smiled wryly. “I think I can find it.”

      “You’re not just another pretty face.”

      Before he could see how much she liked his face, she turned away, wishing he was a balding fifty-year-old who didn’t know what hair color to put on his driver’s license. But she’d seen his picture, not to mention the living, breathing man. His dark brown hair was wavy and thick, just begging to be touched. Focus! she ordered herself. In her professional capacity, she’d never had trouble doing that. Except for her one misstep in culinary school. Unfortunately, it was also a stumble of the heart. One she would never repeat.

      Darn it, she wanted this job; she was a good chef. She needed to get Alex’s attention. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she’d have it nailed. The job, not the man, she amended.

      “I prepared a variety of dishes, so you could see the range of my skills,” she said, opening her refrigerator.

      She pulled out a bowl of antipasto salad lavish with greens, cheese and black olives, and a more artsy arrangement of fresh spinach, asparagus and artichoke topped with alfalfa sprouts. Over the first she ladled a combination of spiced aromatic oil and estragon vinegar. She vigorously tossed the mixture, venting some of her nervous energy on the poor, innocent vegetables before placing a portion on a salad plate. On the other she spooned a delicate blend of light olive oil, garlic vinegar and her favorite combination of salad seasonings.

      She set the two choices in front of him, along with a basket of fresh baked rolls wrapped in white linen to keep them warm.

      “Enjoy,” she said in her best professional voice. It would have been more businesslike without the husky quality, which made her sound like a call girl showcasing her attributes.

      “This looks wonderful,” he said, taking the salad fork and testing first one, then the other. He chewed thoughtfully. “It tastes as good as it looks. Both of them.”

      “Good.” She went back into her work space. “I’ve got more courses, so save some room.”

      “Are you sure you can’t sit down and eat some of this?”

      “I’m not hungry. I’ve been tasting everything. A good chef does, you know.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      Bald-faced lies, except statement number three. A good chef was supposed to taste as she went along. Unfortunately, Fran had a knot in her stomach the size of Los Angeles and couldn’t get anything down. If she aced this interview, it would be because her instincts were in tip-top shape and she really and truly was an outstanding chef.

      From the oven she removed a baking sheet and placed the contents on a serving platter. Then she put the next course in the oven for heating. Rounding the bar, she set the platter on the table, then put one of the appetizers it held on his plate.

      “Portobello mushrooms,” she announced.

      He sniffed, then tasted. “Excellent,” he commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever had better.” He finished the whole thing.

      “I’m glad you like it. Entrées will be ready in about ten minutes. I’ll open some wine,” she said, starting to turn away.

      He stood up. “I’ll do it. If you’ll show me the way to the corkscrew.”

      Uh-oh. Red alert. He was changing the rules already. This was her kitchen and he was making himself at home. Familiarity breeds contempt. Down with friendly. Fie on familiar. Cool and distant. Up with professional and businesslike, and what had happened to that, anyway?

      She looked up at him—way up. Clearing her throat, she said, “Do you always open the wine in a competitor’s restaurant, Mr. Marchetti?”

      “Since when are you a competitor? I thought we were on the same team.”

      “I’m