Island Heat

It was Ben’s turn to stiffen in his seat, and she felt a surge of triumph. See how he liked it when the shoe was on the other foot.

“There was one girl in our year level who, through no fault of her own, had gained the reputation for being standoffish. They called her the Ice Queen, didn’t they, Ben?” Tory tilted her head to one side as though she were genuinely asking him to verify her memory of events.

He nodded minutely and avoided her eye. “I believe that was it.”

“Anyway, the guys started a book on who could be the first to get the Ice Queen to melt, if you know what I mean,” Tory explained.

David smirked, but Lt. Williams frowned.

“How charming,” she said. “I hope no one collected.”

“Unfortunately she was a little gullible. I understand she wasn’t very experienced with men, so when this one student turned on the charm, she was pretty much putty in his hands.”

“Let me guess—she found out about the bet, didn’t she?” the lieutenant asked, looking really angry now.

“Yes,” Tory said. “But not until afterward.”

There was a small pause as they all absorbed this.

“How humiliating,” the other woman said in sympathy.

“Yes,” Tory said again, more quietly this time as she remembered the stinging hurt she’d felt when she’d overheard Ben’s friends laughing at her and talking about the bet.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben shift in his chair and open his mouth as though he was about to defend himself. She waited for him to dare try it, but he obviously thought better of the impulse.

“Wow, and I thought the world of journalism was cutthroat,” David said.

The arrival of dessert distracted both of their dining companions for the next few minutes, and Tory smoothed her napkin in her lap and absolutely refused to look in Ben’s direction. She couldn’t believe he’d brought up their personal history like this in front of everybody. And she couldn’t quite believe that she’d taken a shot back at him, either. She wondered if anyone realized that they’d both been taking veiled jabs at each other beneath their apparently innocuous anecdotes. She’d tried very hard not to react to what he’d been saying, but she wasn’t certain she’d succeeded very well.

At last she risked a sideways glance at Ben. He was looking at her, she realized. They locked eyes for a split second, then broke contact simultaneously.

Concentrating on her dessert, Tory willed the evening to be over.

AFTER DESSERT, COFFEE and liqueurs were served, the captain invited his guests to move away from the formality of the table and take advantage of the couches and occasional chairs nearby. Ben heaved a silent sigh of relief as he at last moved beyond the range of Tory’s perfume.

He’d had worse dinners—but not many. The meal itself had been fine—parts of it excellent—but being trapped next to Tory for two hours had been a new and exquisite form of torture. Every time he’d let his guard down and his gaze wander, he’d found himself studying the swanlike line of her elegant neck or the golden curls teasing at her delicate ears. Several times during dinner he’d heard her low, melodious laugh as she’d talked with the woman on her right, and the hairs on his arms had stood on end.

Then there was the little game of tit for tat they’d played. He was still trying to come to terms with the hurt he’d heard in her voice when she’d talked about their date. And that damned stupid bet…

“More coffee, sir?” a waiter asked, and Ben shook off his preoccupation and held out his cup.

He’d never been the kind of person who dwelled on the past. Besides, she’d gotten her own back. More than gotten her own back, in his opinion.

Glancing up, he saw that Nikolas was crossing the room to join him.

“Captain,” Ben said with a half-assed attempt at a salute.

“Maître d’. Sorry, no, it’s something else, isn’t it?” Nikolas pretended to be confused. “Chef de something or other?”

“Close but no cigar,” Ben said drily.

Nikolas grinned, his teeth very white against his olive skin. “How did you rate Dominique’s efforts tonight?” he asked, his gray eyes intent.

He prided himself on setting a good table, Ben knew.

“Her sauces are excellent. The fish was very fresh and beautifully cooked.”

Nikolas made a low sound of agreement. Neither of them mentioned the slightly soggy berries in the dessert.

“And how are you finding working with Ms. Fournier?”

“Tory is also very good at what she does,” Ben said easily.

“Helena swears by her cookbook. She’s fallen in love with your spicy Caribbean food.”

“If Helena is interested in trying real island food, I’ll give her some local recipes to try,” Ben said.

Ever astute, Nikolas picked up on the reserve in Ben’s tone.

“You don’t like Ms. Fournier’s cookbook?” he asked with the quirk of a dark eyebrow.

“It’s fine. It’s just not authentic, that’s all.”

“What do you mean it’s not authentic?” an all-too-familiar voice demanded.

Ben turned to see Tory standing behind him, Helena at her side.

“I was bringing Tory over to meet you,” Helena said to her fiancée, obviously trying to smooth over the awkward moment.

But Tory wasn’t about to let his comment go. “Well? What’s not authentic about my book?” she asked again.

Her cheeks had flushed a becoming pink, the color flattering against her creamy skin.

“For starters, have you ever visited half the places you’ve written about?” Ben asked.

“No. Have you ever visited France?” she countered.

“No.”

“Yet I bet you dare to serve a bouillabaisse in your restaurant, right? And I bet there are a host of other recipes cherry-picked from half a dozen other countries around the world on your menu.”

He nodded. “That’s true.”

“I researched my book meticulously and I worked with dozens of expat islanders in New York. I may not have the same beach view you have from your restaurant, but I know what I’m talking about.”

“If I’m willing to concede that my bouillabaisse might not hold its own against a local offering in Marseille, will you concede that as a born-and-bred islander I might just have the edge on you?” Ben asked.

Her chin came up and her hand rested her hip. Despite how annoying he found her, a part of him couldn’t help admiring her chutzpah. Did this woman never admit defeat?