Manaconda(6)

“Bless you.” He pointed to the left. “Right through there.”

I tucked my iPad into my wide, slim purse, and took off for the bar area. I stopped at the bar and smiled at the bartender that was readying for the insanity of the night. I hadn’t quite thought my plan through before leaving the manager of the hotel. I glanced back over my shoulder and he was gone.

Of course he was. I was taking care of his problem.

Two of the waitstaff were laughing as they opened the door. I watched them key in a code. When the bartender disappeared around the corner, I rushed to the door. It took two tries to get the digits right for the code, but then I was in.

Clanging pots, shouts, laughter, and the most amazing scent of garlic blasted my senses.

Many of the people who lived in Los Angeles had spent time in the food industry, but not me. I’d worked my way up by picking up orders, doing errands, and being indispensable. But I knew my limitations. Cooking was definitely one of them.

I followed the laughter to the main part of the kitchen. Subway tiles lined the hallway, and a ruthlessly clean cement floor opened up into stainless steel-encased chaos. A few people were doing food-related things. I was so out of my element. There was a lot of chopping going on, and the sharp scent of onions permeated the back of the kitchen.

Near the stove there were a bunch of men clustered around someone.

I don’t make sucker bets, but right now I’d bet fifty bucks that it was Hunter. So much for that saying that a chef rules his domain. Or in this case, it was a rockstar playing at chef. And he had everyone’s attention.

My stomach growled the closer I got to them. I’d been rushing around all day and grabbing lunch had fallen by the wayside. The hiss of something hitting a hot pan made the group laugh.

“Guess that’s hot enough, huh?”

The deep voice made my toes curl. I’d heard that voice on a dozen radio shows today. I’d found my man for sure.

“That’s it. Good. Snap your wrist—perfect.” Another man’s voice was instructing.

I slowed to a stop and peered between a pair of white chef jacket-clad shoulders. Hunter was standing in front of a huge stove dancing between three different pans. A blue shirt swayed like a tail from his back pocket, leaving him in a white ribbed tank with a crimson apron around his hips. His left arm was sleeved in black ink ending in skulls and roses reaching for his neck. Rosary beads in a dark walnut color shifted under the white cotton.

Instead of a chef’s hat, he wore a slouchy knit hat that fell too far down his forehead. He looked up as a graceful arch of mushrooms flipped over in the pan. Dark fringed gray eyes zeroed in on me.

“Watch it, Jordan.”

“What?” Hunter blinked and pulled the pan off the burner. A pop of flame fired up into the sky. “Dammit.”

“I thought you had it that time.” A shorter, lanky man with blue-tipped blond hair laughed. He swung the pan’s handle away, and twisted knobs on the front of the stove. Blue tips turned toward me. “Way to distract my boy here.” He sighed. “Good thing he didn’t singe his eyebrows off.” He slapped Hunter. “Photo ops wouldn’t like that.”

“Fuck off, Tristan.”

Blue tips—Tristan—laughed. “How did you get back here, sweetheart?”

“I’m here for him.” I pointed to Hunter. “And I’m not your sweetheart.”

Tristan laid his hand on his chest, a smirk spreading across his too-attractive-for-his-own-good face. “Apologies.”

Charm. A lot of it. God save me from guys that thought a pat on the head and a sweet nickname would save the day. Usually it was because they were too lazy to remember a name. My last client had used that trick. Oh, he mixed it up with baby, girl, and darlin’, but they all meant the same thing.

You’re not worth remembering.

Wow. I was definitely riding the bitch train today. I pasted my professional smile on my face. No time for that line of thought.

Hunter lifted the bottom of his apron and wiped his hands. “Don’t mind Eves. It’s the red hair. It stuns him stupid. You should see how he reacts to Wyatt.”

No, I wasn’t going to laugh. Even if that was at least a semi-original comeback.

Hunter absently pushed at his beanie. “Do I know you?” He frowned. “Did I miss an interview?”

“No. I’m your handler, Mr. Jordan.”

His eyebrows shot up, and a dimple dented his left cheek. “Well, that’s a new one.”





3





Hunter





I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of “handler” but I was willing to hear the lady out. Because there was no doubt this woman was a lady. She was no fan—at least no fan that I’d ever met. I’d chatted up a handful of professional women over the years, but none had ever quite held themselves like her.