A Convenient Scandal Read online

  A plan started to form.

  The producer of Secrets and Sheets had hounded Jeff for years to do a segment on the Spanish mansion and its pirate past. He’d always said no. Why glorify a place that still gave him nightmares? But now, his childhood home could be the only thing that would help him reboot his career.

  “Fine. My crew can film the ceremony in one of the gardens or down on the beach. The reception will be filmed inside the new restaurant. You can’t buy better advertising for the resort.” The press would eat it up.

  “Now that’s thinking big. I like it,” RW said.

  Yeah? Well, hold on because it’s only the first part of the plan.

  Dad didn’t have to know that Jeff was going to dangle the televised wedding to his producer in exchange for something far more important—the final, edited episode of Secrets and Sheets. Jeff wished for the fiftieth time that he hadn’t given the raw footage to the show’s producer. He hadn’t thought to keep a copy and now he was empty-handed against Finn. But not for long. Once Jeff had the recording, he’d release it on every media outlet possible. The blackmail would stop and the world would finally know what Finn had done to his customers, and to Jeff.

  No one attacked the Harpers and lived to tell the tale.

  For the first time that week, Jeff actually smiled.

  * * *

  Michele Cox snuggled next to her sister on the twin bed at the group home and softly read Cari’s favorite picture book. Rosie’s Magic Horse was about a girl who saves her family from financial ruin by riding a Popsicle-stick horse in search of pirate treasure. Michele didn’t know which Cari loved more—the idea that a girl could save the day while riding a horse, or that something as small as a used Popsicle stick could aspire to greatness. Whatever the case, Cari insisted that Michele read the book to her at bedtime every night.

  Tonight, Cari had fallen asleep before Michele got to the part about the pirates. Michele kept reading anyway. Sometimes she needed her own Popsicle make-believe. When she closed the book, she slipped out of the bed carefully so as not to wake her snoring sister.

  Kissing Cari’s forehead, Michele whispered, “Sweet dreams, cowgirl.”

  Michele’s heart and feet were heavy as she went down the hall to the staff station. “I’ll call in and read to her every night,” Michele said to one of Cari’s favorite caregivers. “You’ve got my number. Text immediately if she gets the sniffles.” Cari was susceptible to pneumonia and had been hospitalized several times.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She knows the routine and is getting comfortable here. We’ll take good care of her.”

  The pit in Michele’s stomach deepened. It had taken six months for Cari to learn the ropes at this home. Six long, painful months. What would happen if Michele couldn’t pay the fees to keep her here?

  “Thanks for taking care of her. She’s all I’ve got.” Michele swiped the tear off her cheek.

  “Oh, hon. You go have a good time. You deserve it.”

  Deserve it? No, Michele was the one who’d messed up and lost the money her sister needed. She was heartsick over it.

  She drove to her own apartment, poured herself a glass of wine and plopped down at the table in her painfully silent kitchen. God, she felt so alone. She was the sole provider and caretaker for her sister after Mom had died six months ago. Her father had passed when Michele was only ten. Cari needed services and health care and a chance to be a happy cowgirl, all of which required funds that had been stolen by her so-called partner.

  There was only one way to fix the horrible mess she’d made.

  She picked up the envelope sitting on top of her polka-dot place mats. “Harper Industries,” it said across the top in black embossed letters. Pulling out the employment application, she reread the lines, “Candidates will cook for and be judged by Jeffrey Harper.”

  Her stomach flopped at the thought.

  Michele wasn’t a fan of his show. That playboy attitude of his left her cold. She’d had her fill of arrogant, demanding males in her career. She’d given everything she had to the last head chef she’d worked with and where had that left her? Poor and alone. Because of him, she’d lost her desire to cook—which was the last connection she had to her mother.

  Mom had introduced her to family recipes when Michele was only seven years old. Cooking together meant tasting, laughing and dancing in the kitchen. All her best memories came from that warm, spicy, belly-filling place. While the rest of the house was dark and choked with bad memories—cancer, pills, dying—the kitchen was safe. Like her mother’s embrace.

  As a young girl, Michele had experimented with dishes to make her mom and Cari feel better. Mom had encouraged Michele to submit the creations in local cook-offs and, surprisingly, Michele had won every contest she entered. The local paper had called her “a child prodigy” and “a Picasso in the kitchen.” Cooking had been easy back then because food was a river of color coursing through her veins. Spatulas and spoons were her crayons. All she had to do was let the colors flow.

  But now she was empty, her passion dried up. What if her gift, her single moneymaking talent, never returned?

  If Michele Cox wasn’t a chef, who was she?

  She tapped her pen on the Harper Industries application. Could she fake it? Jeffrey Harper was an infamous critic who publicly destroyed those who didn’t meet his standards. Would he know the difference between passionate cooking and plain old cooking? If he did, he’d annihilate her.

  But if he didn’t...

  The Harper chef job came with a twenty-thousand-dollar up-front bonus. Twenty thousand! With that kind of money, Cari could continue riding therapy horses. Hippotherapy was supposed to be beneficial for people with Down syndrome but Michele had been amazed at how her sister had come alive the first time she’d touched a pony. Cari’s cognitive, motor, speech and social skills had blossomed. But riding lessons weren’t cheap and neither were housing and medical bills. Michele’s rent was two weeks late and she barely had enough money in her account to pay for Cari’s care.

  Her options were slim. If Harper Industries didn’t hire her, the two of them might be living on the streets.

  She signed the application and went on to the final step. She had to make a video answering a single question: Why do you want to work for Harper Industries?

  Straightening her spine, she looked into the camera on her computer and pressed the record button. “I want to work for Harper Industries because I need to believe good things can happen to good people.” Her voice hitched and she quickly turned the video off.

  Shoot. Where’d that come from? She’d almost blurted out what happened at Alfieri’s. “Get it together, Michele. If you spill all the sordid details, they’ll never hire you.”

  She scrubbed her cheeks, took a giant inhale and tried again.

  “I am Michele Cox, the former chef at a five-star restaurant, Alfieri’s, in Manhattan. I will include articles about my awards and specialties but those highlights are not the most important aspect of being a chef, nor are they why I cook.

  “Food, Mr. Harper, is a powerful medicine. Good cuisine can make people feel good. When the dishes are excellent, the patron can ease loneliness with a bite of ricotta cannelloni. That’s what I do. I make patrons feel happy and loved. I can do that for your new restaurant, too. I hope you’ll give me a chance. Thank you.”

  Well. That wasn’t so bad. Before she could change her mind, she pressed Send on the video and sealed the application packet to be sent by overnight mail along with the glowing newspaper articles she’d promised. Today was the day she’d put Alfieri’s behind her and search for her cooking mojo.

  A good person should catch a break once in a while.

  All she needed was one.

  Two

  Michele ran as fast as she could through the parking lot while trying not to break her neck on her high
heels or snap the wheels off her luggage. She’d arrived in Los Angeles yesterday and spent the night at a nearby hotel to be on time for today’s flight to Plunder Cove. The taxi driver had dropped her off in the wrong wing of the airport, making her late. He didn’t seem to believe that a woman like her actually did mean she should be dropped off at the private jet terminal.

  Her heart was pounding out of her chest when she arrived at the guarded gate. “Please tell me...I’m not...too late.”

  “Name,” the guard said.

  “Michele Cox. A jet from Harper Industries is supposed to take me to—”

  The gate opened. “You’re expected.”

  “Over here.” A woman wearing a blue suit waved to her. “Oh, dear. Your cheeks are pink. Come, there’s ice water inside the private suite but there’s no time for a shower. Mr. Harper is ready to leave.”

  Her first thought was A shower in a private suite in the airport? The second was Jeffrey Harper is inside? She could only guess how she looked after her panicked run in the Los Angeles sunshine. No doubt her cheeks were more scarlet than pink. She finger-combed her blond hair and hoped for the best.

  A door opened and Michele found herself in a ritzy lounge complete with cream-colored sofas, hardwood floors, recessed lighting, deep navy curtains, game tables and a cherrywood bar. Five women were chatting and drinking champagne.

  “Miss Cox?” A deep voice called out from the end of the corridor. “I almost left without you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat until she realized it wasn’t Jeffrey Harper. The man was handsome—of the tall, dark, broad-shouldered variety. He was also married, with a shiny new band on his left finger. Other than that, she had no idea who he was or why he knew her name.

  “Sorry!” And...there went the wheel on her luggage. She grabbed the suitcase by the handle and kept hustling toward him. “Thanks for waiting. The International Wing was full of people and—” Her heel broke and she nearly twisted her ankle. “Shoot!”

  “The International Wing? That’s a good mile. You ran that whole way?”

  “Only one?” She struggled to catch her breath. “Felt like two.”

  “Let me take that.” He handed her luggage to an agent while she collected her broken heel.

  She scanned the room. When she saw a beautiful woman speaking French over by the bar, her heart plummeted. It was Chef Suzette Monteclaire, the queen of French cuisine. What was she doing in the Harpers’ private suite?

  “Now that we’re all here.” The man raised his voice above the chatter. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Matt Harper, Jeff’s brother and your pilot to Plunder Cove. Before we get on the jet, do you have any questions?”

  The women looked at each other. A bad feeling slithered into her belly. Michele raised her finger.

  “Yes, Miss Cox?”

  “Are we all applying for the chef job?”

  Matt shrugged. “Looks like it.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought there was only one position open.”

  “Me, too,” another woman agreed. “Why are we all here?”

  A woman in the center of the group chuckled. She had thick dark hair and hooded green eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s a contest. The winner gets to work for sexy Jeffrey Harper.” She winked at Matt.

  “Is this part of his show? I have not seen this on Secrets and Sheets,” a soft-spoken woman said. Michele thought she was Lily Snow, the chef from Manhattan’s upscale Chinese restaurant—The China Lily.

  “He’s creating a cooking show, no?” another woman asked, in a Swedish accent. Her hair was strikingly white-blond. Her large eyes were like sapphires against a milky pale complexion. She was tall, svelte and gorgeous. Everything about her screamed perfection and wealth. Lots of wealth.

  Michele tried to inconspicuously wipe the sweat off her upper lip. Jeffrey Harper was going to turn her misery into a cooking show. Would she be able to pretend she was the chef she used to be not just for him but with all of America watching?

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell this is, I’m only supposed to fly you all into Plunder Cove. If this is not what you signed up for, I’ll give you the chance to back out gracefully. I’ll arrange for a driver to take you back to your terminal and I will pay for your return flight.”

  Seeing all the talent in the room, Michele’s legs twitched to start running back to New York. But she needed this—for Cari, for herself.

  She didn’t move. None of the other women did either.

  “No takers?” Matt shrugged. “Right. Follow me to the jet.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, a stretch limousine filled with six chef candidates turned up a long lane. Beautiful purple-flowered trees lined a wide driveway. Michele had never seen trees like that before.

  “There it is!” One of the women squealed. “Casa Larga.”

  Michele looked through the tinted car window and saw a mansion straight out of a magazine spread. It was way bigger in real life. Imposing.

  The women all started talking at once—something about Jeff’s sister being Yogi to the stars—but Michele could only swallow hard. Why did she think she belonged here with these famous chefs and celebrities? She should’ve listened to Matt Harper and walked away gracefully. On her broken heel with her broken luggage.

  “Jeff is a seriously hot man,” one of the ladies said.

  Michele didn’t disagree but what did it matter? She didn’t want to be hit on. And she didn’t want a playboy or an arrogant critic for a boss. She needed Jeffrey to hire her and stay out of her kitchen. It hadn’t gotten past her that Jeffrey Harper was only interviewing women. Why wasn’t there a male chef candidate in the bunch?

  The limo parked and the women piled out.

  “Welcome to Casa Larga at Plunder Cove,” a woman wearing a yellow skirt said in a voice that was soft, melodious. “I’m Jeff’s sister, Chloe Harper. It’s my job to get you settled inside. You’ll be sharing. Two ladies to each room tonight. Tomorrow...well, we’ll see how it all plays out. Follow me and I’ll give you the tour.”

  They walked through large double doors and into a huge entryway. Michele looked up at the largest chandelier she’d ever seen.

  Chloe continued, “I’ll give you a schedule for when you will be called to the kitchen to cook a meal. It should be a signature dish that highlights what you do best.”

  The woman with the white-blond hair held up a perfectly manicured finger. Michele had learned her name was Freja. “Wardrobe and makeup, first, eh? My fans will be seeing me in Sweden. They can vote, too, no?”

  An avalanche of panic made Michele’s limbs weak. She hadn’t suspected this would be a competition, much less a televised one. She didn’t know if she could cook a masterpiece and if she failed with the entire world watching, her career would be over.

  Chloe looked startled. “This is not a reality show, it’s a competition. At the end, Jeff will choose one of you as his chef. Fans will not be voting.”

  Michele’s heart started to beat normally again until Chloe went on to add, “We’ll have a television crew in here once the restaurant is completed. Whomever Jeff chooses should expect lots of cameras that day.”

  Even knowing that, Michele wanted to be the chosen one. She had to be. This job was the path to financial stability, the only way she knew to make sure Cari was healthy and happy. It was the kick in the backside that she desperately needed. She had to convince Jeffrey Harper that she was the right one for the job. Somehow, she had to get her cooking mojo back.

  * * *

  Jeff stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Matt on the upstairs landing and watched Chloe lead the women through the downstairs corridor. They all had one thing in common—they were fantastic chefs. That’s all he really cared about.

  “You sure about this plan, bro?” Matt asked. “You’re getting married when the restaurant i
s done?”

  Jeff grimaced. “I don’t have much of a choice. That’s the deal.”

  “You and Dad are big on deals. It’s stupid. Marriage is not a business contract. When it’s right, you connect on a deep level, deeper than you’ll believe. Julia touches me in places I didn’t know existed.”

  “Sounds like good sex to me.”

  “Shut up.” Matt socked him in the shoulder. “You should give yourself a chance to find love, man. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Jeff could take all the time in the world, but he’d never find the sort of connection Matt had found with his wife, Julia. Jeff wasn’t wired for it.

  The chefs walked below him, a slow parade of beauty and talent, chatting as they went. They seemed oblivious to him standing above them. He was fine with that. He really didn’t want to make contact until he judged their dishes. Why waste time with small talk if he wasn’t impressed with their culinary skills?

  As the last woman passed by, she stopped and looked up as if she’d sensed him. Her eyes met his. She tipped her head to the side slightly, and the light on the chandelier sparkled like diamonds across her long blond hair.

  She raised one hand.

  He raised his in return.

  She smiled and hell if he couldn’t see her dimples from where he stood. It was the purest sight he’d ever seen. If he had to choose one word to describe her in that moment it would be sparkly.

  All too quickly she turned and hustled to catch up with Chloe’s tour. She was gone two full beats before he looked away.

  Matt thumped him on the head. “Earth to Jeff.”

  Jeff turned to face his brother. “Was she limping?”

  “Did you not hear a word I said? That’s what I was telling you, yes, she’s limping because she broke her shoe running to catch our jet.”

  Jeff was still thinking about her smile. Can’t fake dimples like that, right?

  “She ran at least a mile in those high heels. I don’t know about the other women in this competition, but that one has strength. A backbone.” And then Matt butchered a handful of Spanish words.