Island Heat. Sarah Mayberry

right now, sorry—got a boat to catch.”

      “This won’t take a minute. I wanted to talk about Danique and the little one.”

      Ben ground his teeth together. Eva, he wanted to say. Her name is Eva. Danique and I named her because you were too busy covering your ass to be bothered.

      “I really don’t think now’s the best time—” he tried again, but Monty just talked overtop him.

      “I know you’ve been helping Danique out with making ends meet, paying for the little one’s odds and ends, medical bills, whatever. I just wanted to make things square with you now that things have been sorted out.”

      Ben was gripped with an icy anger as he saw Monty pull out his checkbook. “Like I told Danique, I don’t care about the money,” he said, turning away.

      “Stop being so bloody noble, Cooper. Everyone cares about money. It’s what makes the world go ’round.” Monty laughed loudly at his own joke, and Ben was hard put not to knock the other man’s too-white teeth down his throat.

      “I’m not everyone. Forget about it. I did it for Eva and Danique.”

      He started to walk off, but Monty stepped in front of him, his smile fading. Suddenly Ben could see the edge that had helped Monty become a multimillionaire by his mid forties.

      “I don’t like being beholden to anyone,” Monty said. “You looked after my girls for me, and I appreciate it, but I want to put an end to it now.”

      Ben reached for the last shreds of his patience as Monty signed a check with a flourish and tore it free from the book. The check hung in the air between them as Monty offered it and Ben refused to take it. Shaking his head and smiling to himself, Monty folded the check neatly and tucked it into the front pocket of Ben’s white linen shirt.

      “You young guys crack me up,” he said.

      Ben walked away without comment. It was either that or give in to the frustration coursing through him and land one on Monty’s overtanned face. Not caring if the other man was out of sight or not, he stopped at the nearest garbage can to tear the check into confetti. He didn’t want a cent of Monty’s money. He wanted his daughter back—and that was never going to happen.

      The encounter left him raring for a fight. He didn’t consider himself a bad-tempered guy, but the whole situation had left him feeling cheated and angry, and now Monty had pushed all his buttons, offering him money as though that was all it would take to rectify the situation.

      By the time he was crossing the gangway onto the Dream he was in a foul frame of mind. Suddenly the prospect of seeing Tory Fournier was a lot less amusing than it had seemed a few days ago. He was in no mood for her cool superiority. In fact, if she gave him one hint of attitude, there was every chance he’d let rip with a few home truths. He smiled grimly to himself as he navigated the corridors toward the cuisine arts center. Perhaps a damned good screaming match with his old school buddy was just what the doctor ordered.

      Then he walked in the door of the cuisine center and stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t given it a lot of thought, but somehow he’d figured that time would only have honed Tory’s hard, sharp edges. Back in school, she’d been distant, intense, composed. He’d expected more of the same from the twenty-nine-year-old version of Tory.

      But the woman jotting down notes at the counter of the demonstration kitchen looked anything but sharp or hard. She was wearing a pair of stylish, tailored checked chefs pants with a bright red tank top, and he saw that her hips were more softly curved than he remembered, her breasts fuller. Her hair was shorter, a riot of curls that teased at her neck and jawline. Her face in profile was gentler, prettier than he’d sketched it in his memory.

      All in all, she was totally unexpected. He frowned, feeling a dart of unease.

      Before he could pinpoint the cause of his discomfort, she lifted her head and caught sight of him.

      For just a second they stared at each other, taking stock. Then he saw about a million security cordons clang into place behind her eyes as she straightened and swiveled to face him head-on.

      “Ben.”

      “Tory.”

      A small muscle flickered in her jaw as he used the shortened version of her name. She’d invited him to call her Tory on their one and only date, and he waited for her to revoke the privilege and instruct him to call her Victoria. He knew the exact moment she decided that there were bigger battles to fight—she broke eye contact with him and her face smoothed into an unreadable mask.

      “You’re early,” she said, reaching for the white chef’s jacket lying on the counter nearby.

      “Yep,” he said.

      He was aware of her gaze darting up and down his body once, very briefly, as she shrugged into her coat and buttoned the quick-release closures with dexterous hands.

      “Probably just as well. We’ve got our first demonstration before lunch. I wasn’t sure what you were planning on cooking, but I’ve prepared a general talk on spices and jerk mixes.”

      “I’ll be demonstrating some local recipes,” he said unhelpfully. He wasn’t going to make it easy for her. She didn’t deserve it.

      She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a hip against the counter. “That’s it? You’re not going to tell me any more than that?”

      “I’ll jot down the ingredients for you, if that’s what you’re after,” he said, shrugging.

      He slung his toolbox up onto the bench and started to unpack his knives. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her straighten.

      “If you have a problem working with me, you shouldn’t have said yes,” she said crisply.

      Trust her to get straight to the heart of the matter. She never had been one to back away from confrontation.

      “I said yes because a friend was in a bind. But beyond that, I don’t have a problem working with you, Tory. In fact, the way I see it, I owe you a debt of gratitude.” He began opening drawers and inspecting their contents.

      “I beg your pardon?” she asked, clearly suspicious.

      As well she might be.

      “If you hadn’t sent me on that wild-goose chase to New York, I would never have met Signor D’Sarro. And I wouldn’t be where I am today,” he said.

      That got her. She opened her mouth to ask who Signor D’Sarro was, but she shut it again without saying a word. She hated being behind the eight ball. He remembered that about her very clearly. It was one thing that obviously hadn’t changed.

      Spotting the rolling pin, he pulled it out of the bottom drawer and transferred it to the top drawer, along with some wooden spoons, the citrus zester and the garlic crusher.

      “What are you doing?”

      “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m setting the kitchen up so I can work.”

      She huffed out a breath. “I already had it set up the way I like it,” she said stiffly.

      “Tough,” he said, shrugging again.

      She reached out and snatched the rolling pin from the top drawer before he could close it. “A little common courtesy wouldn’t go astray,” she said. “I have been working in this kitchen for two days, you know.”

      “Who’s the guest chef here, you or me?” he asked, turning to face her.

      God, he wanted her to fight back, he suddenly realized. He wanted her to say something so incendiary, so provocative that he’d have every excuse in the world to tap into the bellyful of anger that had been growing inside him ever since Danique dropped her bomb.

      “We’re supposed to work together, share this kitchen,” she said, sidestepping his question.

      “I repeat, who is the guest