Double Take. Leigh Riker

dripped from her fingers.

      The room spun around her and Cameron stared down at the knife she’d dropped on the counter. Her new employer’s personal assistant looked at the accident scene. And swallowed.

      “I can’t believe I was that stupid,” Cameron said, her assurance seeming to come from a distance. This was all Ransom’s fault, she wanted to think. Ven… I’ve decided he was…warning you. She hadn’t slept at all last night after Ransom left but had startled awake at every sound. It was only the afternoon but she felt bone-tired. “You’d think I never attended culinary school, or learned how to cut an onion without dicing my own finger.”

      Grace Jennings paled another shade. She wrung her hands. “Should I call 911?”

      “No, of course not.”

      “Then let me get the first-aid kit.”

      While she was gone, Cameron grabbed a towel. Her heart was thumping, but she breathed deeply to get it under control. It wasn’t only Ransom who troubled her. She couldn’t seem to do her job today without thinking about her father.

      After holding the two fingers that she’d clipped with the sharp blade under cold running water, she accepted a pair of bandages from Grace, who still looked as if she was about to faint.

      Cameron hoped she wouldn’t pass out herself. She hadn’t seen Grace leave the kitchen of Emerald Greer’s large coop apartment, hadn’t heard her come back. Grace moved like a ghost. Or Cameron felt too shocked by her own negligence on top of her anger at Ransom to register anything but pain. Her fingers began to pulse with it.

      “Hand me that bowl of zucchini, please.” She was still shaking but hoped Grace didn’t notice, Emerald Greer either if she happened to appear at just the wrong moment. Cameron shot a glance at the kitchen doorway but with relief found it empty. She added green squash to the other fresh vegetables sautéing on the industrial-style range, and another enticing aroma wafted upward into the warm, moist air.

      Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to work. But activity seemed preferable to pacing her apartment all day, fretting. Or remembering Ransom.

      He wasn’t easy to forget. Or to ignore, for that matter. She tried to think objectively. Broad shoulders, lean build, long legs, well-muscled arms and strong hands…he had a powerful physique, but so did other men. Ransom’s masculine appeal didn’t stop there. Her first sight of him last night might have stolen her breath, not to mention her will. His sensual mouth and piercing blue eyes could melt any woman’s defenses. But Cameron didn’t intend to let him—or his masculinity—slip under her guard.

      With swift, abrupt motions she stirred the mixture in the pan. “If this doesn’t tempt the boss from her exercise room, I don’t know what will.”

      “Emerald hates vegetables.”

      “I’ll change her mind. Ratatouille Provençal has never failed me before.”

      Brave words. Cameron wasn’t that sure about Emerald. Neither was Grace.

      “She’ll change your mind first,” Grace said.

      Cameron’s hand throbbed. She didn’t exactly regret her decision to work for Emerald Greer. Time in the celebrated but injured tennis star’s kitchen bought Cameron a valuable client—and time she hadn’t expected to need to calm her nerves about Ransom.

      To her fury, he hadn’t given up as easily as she thought last night. He’d obviously followed her to work this morning, his footsteps echoing hers. Briefly at first, she had let her paranoia kick in again until she realized—this time—who walked behind her. A couple of weeks in this well-appointed setting couldn’t hurt, the money either, but Cameron refused to call it hiding out.

      The money.

      Ransom was wrong. Let him dog her trail if he liked. No one but him was after her.

      “Now the yellow squash,” she said, tipping pieces into the pan. Fresh garlic had gone in first with salt and pepper then a splash of red wine. She added the onions that had led to her accident.

      “How did your other clients go today?” From her perch on a stool at the center island, Grace brushed wispy brown bangs from her forehead. “Two, you said,” clearly trying to distract them both.

      “A psychiatrist on West End Avenue and that dress designer in the Village. I saved time by making both of them similar menus. Did all my shopping at once—” She broke off. “Don’t let me bore you with Fulton Market. But that veal saltimbocca…”

      “You leave everything in the refrigerator when you’re done?”

      “For some clients, a week at a time. Three meals per day, seven days.” It usually took Cameron six hours at each of their apartments to cook and fill the containers. Today, she’d taken only four and hurried to leave time for Emerald. “I put their prepared foods in the fridge or the freezer. I don’t usually cook in-house for someone like Emerald and stay to serve.” She was being well paid to do so, however, and then there was Emerald’s upcoming wedding, a top story in all the newspapers. She stifled a yawn. “The doc wanted a huge fruit salad, the designer likes pasta. Everyone has favorites.”

      Grace looked wistful. “Wish I could afford your services.”

      “It’s not expensive. You’d be surprised. You will be surprised when I give you my bill for Emerald.” She stirred the vegetable mixture then added a waiting bowl of quartered tomatoes. Cameron would catch up on her sleep later, and the pay she earned was only part of her concerns. “After I cook for my clients, I clean their kitchens. That’s the worst part.” She held up her chapped hands. “If you can recommend a good dishwashing liquid, let me know. I do all the pots by hand. Are you staying for dinner, Grace?”

      Sometimes she did, Cameron had discovered, sometimes not. It depended on the workload Emerald gave her, Grace claimed, but Cameron suspected the decision depended more on Emerald’s mood. Cameron had quickly learned that her newest client was not only a celebrity, she was a very difficult woman.

      Before Grace could answer, Emerald entered the kitchen, still sweating from her workout with Ron, her personal trainer. Cameron’s exercise program consisted of her nightly walk home. Emerald wore hot-pink tights and a crop top today. Oh, and a frown. When the front door closed in the distance, Cameron remembered hearing raised voices earlier from the fitness room. So Ron wasn’t staying. Emerald cast a glance at the sink where the bloodstained towel lay.

      “What happened in here?” She turned to Grace. “Attacking our new chef? What did she suggest—skim milk and dry toast?”

      Despite Grace’s obvious embarrassment, which made Cameron uncomfortable, too, she decided the high color in Grace’s cheeks improved her looks. With her mousy brown hair and almost colorless eyes, she normally appeared bland, even invisible. Grace seemed to define the old term spinster, and even the little mole beside her mouth had more color than her drab beige clothes, which failed to hide Grace’s plump yet small-boned figure.

      Cameron’s heart went out to her. She checked the pan of salmon fillets poaching on another burner. “It was my fault. I honed my knife too sharp.”

      Grace looked thankful for Cameron’s intervention, but Emerald quickly dismissed the incident in favor of her own problems. She seemed to be Grace’s opposite, a classic blue-eyed blonde in contrast to Grace’s brown on brown, always outspoken compared to Grace’s softer tones. In the overhead light a huge diamond flashed on Emerald’s hand.

      And a collage of recent media coverage went through Cameron’s mind.

      Emerald was engaged to Theodore Kayne, a Wall Street success story who’d made his fortune buying up midsized companies then turning them into giants in their consumer specialties. Rich wasn’t the word for him.

      “We’re still waiting to hear from that French bakery?” Emerald asked Grace as if she couldn’t wait another second for the answer. She slid onto the stool beside her. “Their quotes for the wedding cake and the groom’s