I quickly switched my attention to my enchiladas and beans. Maybe if I started eating, he’d take the hint and leave me alone. Of course, Brett wasn’t all that good at taking hints.

  “Well, well, Roxy Constantine. Should have known you’d be in town for the farmers market. This seat taken?” He raised his eyebrows as he sauntered to my table, then leaned on the chair opposite my seat.

  “It is, actually. I’m expecting a friend.” I gave him a smile that was closer to a grimace, since it didn’t involve much beyond my teeth. It went without saying that my nonexistent friend was not Brett.

  “I’ll join you until he shows up.” Brett pulled the chair out and dropped into it, moving a couple of inches closer to me. He gave me a smile that let me know he didn’t believe the friend story anyway.

  Clearly, we were going to be playing games, whether I wanted to or not. I took another bite of enchilada. “What’s on your mind, Brett?”

  “Just having some polite conversation. How’s the jam business?”

  “Fine. How’s the restaurant business?”

  “We’re doing great. Made it into Colorado Life a couple of weeks ago.” He gave me a self-satisfied smile.

  Brett was the head chef at one of Shavano’s more upscale restaurants. They’d hired him away from a place in Denver where he claimed he’d been head chef. My guess was he’d been a line cook. That’s what he’d been when I’d known him before, when we’d both worked at the same Denver restaurant.

  “I saw that article. Nice coverage of the town.” It had, in fact, been a guide to visiting Shavano, including a listing of almost every restaurant in the downtown area. Brett’s place, High Country, had been one of them. So had Robicheaux’s, as I recalled.

  Brett shrugged. “Every bit helps.”

  “I suppose.” I returned to my enchiladas, sending out heavy go away vibes.

  Brett had no talent for reading vibes. He settled in his chair. “So what are you doing this afternoon, now that the market’s over for the day?”

  I gave him another phony smile. “I’m heading to the farm as soon as I finish lunch. My uncle needs my help this afternoon.” Uncle Mike didn’t need my help for much of anything, but I figured it was as good an excuse as any.

  Brett gave me a smile that was probably supposed to be seductive. It fell short by quite a bit. “Too bad. I was hoping you might stick around for a couple of margaritas. I don’t have to be in the kitchen until six or so.”

  “You drink before you cook?” My eyebrows went up even though I had no intention of continuing this conversation. Going into a restaurant kitchen half-buzzed was a very bad idea, given the incredible number of things that could hurt you.

  Brett’s smirk intensified. “Alcohol just ups the excitement. Smooths out the rough spots. Makes you work more on the edge.”

  It would also increase the possibility of cutting off a finger. Not that I cared. His hands did nothing for me.

  “You could come by High Country tonight, let me fix you dinner. Maybe we could go someplace for a nightcap after.”

  “Sorry,” I said flatly. “I’ve got to fix dinner for my uncle.”

  Brett leaned closer, and I fought to keep from scooting my chair farther away. I didn’t want him to know he was getting to me. “I can show you a good time, Roxy. We both know what you like. Just give me a try.”

  I let myself go still. Ice dripped down my spine at the same time my cheeks flushed hot. Part of me wanted to push my enchiladas in his face, but mostly I wanted him to go away. I was hungry. I wanted my lunch. Of course, right then my stomach felt so tight I wasn’t sure I could swallow it.

  Brett apparently hadn’t noticed any changes in my expression. “Come on, sweetheart, give me a chance here. Let me show you what I can do.”

  “Roxy, there you are.” Susa’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the mostly empty restaurant.

  I glanced up at her, trying to push my frozen facial muscles into a smile.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Susa trilled. “Glad you started without me.” She stared fixedly at Brett. “Maybe you could find another place to sit. We’re supposed to be having lunch.”

  Brett pushed himself up slowly from the table. His smirk was back in full force. “Just stopped to say hello.”

  Susa gave him a token smile, then dropped into the chair he’d just vacated, turning toward the waitress. “Hey, Caroline, can I get an iced tea, please?”

  Fortunately, Caroline didn’t ask why Susa couldn’t drink the iced tea that was already at her table. Susa turned to me, ignoring Brett completely. “So how are you, kid?”

  “Fine,” I managed through my gritted teeth. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  Brett stood for a moment longer, hands on his hips. Maybe he was hoping I’d invite him to join us. Then he shrugged. “Okay, Roxy, see you around. Think about dinner, okay?”

  The only thing I thought about dinner was that it would be a lot better without Brett Holmes around. I watched him head out the door again then blew out a long breath.

  “Are you okay?” Susa had lowered her voice to normal levels, her blue eyes suddenly concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for the save.”

  “You looked like you could use an intervention.” Susa grimaced. “That guy didn’t seem to understand the word no.”

  I almost shuddered. The last thing I needed was another asshole who didn’t understand what no meant. “He’s just a jerk.”

  Susa took her glass of tea from Caroline. “Who is he anyway?”

  “Brett Holmes. He’s the chef at High Country. Started working there a couple of months ago.”

  “Oh.” Susa frowned. “Did you want to go out with him? I’m sorry I butted in.”

  “Lord, no.” I took another long breath. “I don’t want anything to do with that creep.”

  Susa’s eyes widened. “He’s not the one from Denver, is he?”

  I shook my head. “He worked in the same kitchen, though. He knows the story.” Or anyway, he knew one version of it. Not mine.

  Susa narrowed her eyes. “Is that why he was being such a jerk? He thought you really liked being manhandled?”

  “Maybe.” I rubbed a hand over my forehead. Talking about Denver usually gives me a headache. “Or maybe he’s just a jerk in his own right.”

  Susa arched an eyebrow. “Should I get Leon to pay him a visit? Maybe teach him some manners?”

  Leon was one of Susa’s many boyfriends. The one with the tattoos. Regretfully, I shook my head. “It’s not that serious. He just comes on strong. I don’t want to go out with him, but he won’t accept it.” I took another bite of my enchilada, although my heart wasn’t in it anymore.

  “Like you said, a creep.” Susa pushed herself to her feet. “You want to join us? Harry’s trying out a new margarita recipe.”

  I glanced at Harry, who gave me a slightly devilish grin. I should probably have had him toss Brett out on his nose. Maybe next time. “Thanks anyway. I need to get home as soon as I finish lunch.”

  Susa gave me a searching look, but then she shrugged. “If you really don’t need girlfriend time, I guess I’ll go back to my table. Don’t want to leave Sean on his own too long.”

  “Right. Who knows what ideas he might come up with.” I managed another smile. “Thanks, again. We’ll have to get together next week.”

  “Sure, just say the word.”

  Susa ambled along to her date while I considered the last of my enchiladas. I couldn’t eat them now. I’d been looking forward to them all morning, but my appetite had disappeared along with Brett Holmes.

  I did have things to do at the farm—ideas for making better frozen fruit jam and a new recipe for grapefruit marmalade, among other possibilities. And I would make supper for Uncle Mike later on. It was the only cooking I still did these days, outside of making jam and preserves, and I usually looked forward to it.

  I’d do all that as soon as my hands stopped shaking and my jaw unclenched. And my heart unfroze.

  But that would take a lot longer, as I knew only too well.

  Chapter 4

  I guess it figured that I’d be thinking about my life in Denver as I drove to the farm. When I’d first gotten the job as a line cook at one of the trendiest restaurants in town, I thought it was my Big Break. Everybody at my culinary school was envious. When foodies came through Denver on their way to the Aspen Food and Wine Classic, they always stopped off at that particular restaurant to see that particular chef.

  I’d had a couple of internships and met a few chefs who knew their way around a kitchen. I’d actually been offered a job at one of the big new hotels in Denver, where the chef was a young guy just making a name for himself. But then I heard the trendy place was hiring, and I got a three-night tryout.

  It was nerve-wracking and exciting and one of the most intense experiences I’d ever had. At the end of the week, the sous chef pulled me aside and told me the job was mine if I wanted it.

  If I wanted it? Of course, I wanted it. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t seem as excited as I was, but maybe he’d seen enough young chefs come through to think it was no big deal.

  The first couple of months were everything I’d hoped for. I learned a ton from the guys on the line, got used to the flow of adrenaline that came with the evening rush, saw the kitchen slide into the weeds and slide out again. I began to feel like I belonged there, like this was what I was meant to do. I was ready to buy myself a new chef’s coat and beanie, so full of myself I almost burst my buttons.

  It wasn’t all great. There were a few jerks like Brett Holmes who made lousy cracks about the women cooks. I learned to avoid the jerks, and Brett and I didn’t work that closely. But even then he made my skin crawl.

  And then one night the head chef himself showed up to expedite, the guy who’d developed the restaurant to begin with.

  For somebody that important, he wasn’t much to look at. Stocky, dirty-blond hair slicked in a bun, slightly sketchy moustache and goatee. He sat on his stool at the expediter’s spot in front, watching us with cold gray eyes.

  We were all doing our best, us new line cooks. Hoping he might notice us and tell us we were good.

  Yeah, we really were that naïve.

  That evening seemed to go fast, much faster than usual. The kitchen was like a machine, but a machine that put out incredible food. The head chef stayed at his expediting station all night, raising his voice when he needed to but mostly just watching everything. It was one of the best experiences I’d ever had as a cook.

  Well, the early part of the evening had been the best, anyway.

  When things began to die down, we started cleaning up our stations, making a few muttered comments about things that had gone well and not so well. Brett wasn’t there that night, which made things go a little more smoothly. I lost track of the head chef as I worked, figuring he was maybe out front. Most of the other cooks took off, leaving a few of us newbies to do the final cleanup. I’d pulled off my apron and cap, getting ready to leave.

  But suddenly, the chef was right in front of me. “You,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  I swallowed hard. “Roxy. Roxy Constantine.”

  “Okay, Roxy Constantine, come with me. I need your help in the pantry.”

  I followed him across the kitchen, trying not to look nervous. I had no idea what kind of help he needed. I only hoped I wouldn’t screw it up.

  The pantry was off at the rear of the kitchen, a smallish room with shelves on three sides, full of bags of flour and bottles of olive oil and big cans of tomatoes. I followed him inside, waiting to be told what to do.

  He closed the door, and then he grabbed me.

  I was so shocked I didn’t react at first. He pushed me against the shelves and plastered his mouth to mine, all the time pulling at my clothes.

  After a moment, I started to fight, pushing against his chest, trying to get him off me. But he was a big man, close to six feet and heavy. He tore the buttons off my jacket and started to pull down my pants.

  I was yelling by then, telling him no, telling him to stop, to leave me alone. But he ignored me. If I couldn’t get away from him, I knew what he was going to do.

  I wasn’t really thinking at that point. All I wanted was to get him off me and to get away. I remember patting one hand desperately on the shelf behind me until I finally grasped something, picked it up, and brought it against the side of his head with all the strength I could muster one-handed.

  He stopped what he was doing and stared at me with this really odd expression, outraged and surprised all at once. And then he staggered backward, and I saw a thin thread of blood seeping into his dirty-blond hair. I glanced at my hand and saw I was holding a twenty-eight-ounce can of tomatoes, which I promptly dropped.

  I grabbed at my clothes, pulling them up as best I could, and ran for the door. I managed to get my clothes in place as I stumbled through the kitchen.

  I’d escaped the chef, and I’d avoided being assaulted. But actually I’d just gotten caught up in something even worse. It took me a while to figure that out.

  My hair was hanging around my face and I had to hold my chef’s jacket closed because he’d torn the buttons off. My mouth was swollen, and I was pretty sure I’d have bruises on my back from where he’d shoved me into the shelves. I looked like someone who’d been attacked.

  I was a mess, and I was close to hysterical.

  I didn’t see anybody in the kitchen at first—it was late, and most of the staff had left. But then I saw the restaurant manager. I wasn’t sure what he was doing there since he usually stayed in the front of the house, but he took one look at me and put his hand on my elbow to guide me somewhere away from the kitchen.

  I yanked away from him, ready to fight. At that point I wouldn’t trust any man to do anything, and I didn’t want anyone touching me. Smart girl, as it turned out.

  “It’s okay. I want to help. Let me get someone to take you home,” he said quietly. “Do you have a car here?”

  I shook my head. I usually took the bus, but I wasn’t in any shape to catch it that night.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you a ride-share. You can wait in my office.”

  I didn’t wonder then why he wasn’t asking me what happened and why I looked so beaten up. I was too shell shocked. Now, of course, I know why. He didn’t need to ask me because he already knew. He’d seen it before.

  The ride home took forever, but when we got to my apartment building it turned out the restaurant manager had prepaid. Again, I didn’t pause to wonder why he’d done that. I was just glad I didn’t have to try to figure out the tip. I tottered inside the apartment I shared with two other women. One of my roommates was sitting in the living room watching TV. She took one look at me and jumped to her feet to help me onto one of the overstuffed chairs. Then she grabbed the bottle of tequila we kept under the sink.

  I told her what had happened, all of it, including clocking the chef with the can of tomatoes. She told me I’d absolutely done the right thing, and then she offered to drive me to the hospital to get checked out. I said no. I wasn’t hurt, just shaken up. And I didn’t want to talk to strangers right then. Note to anyone who ever finds herself in a situation like this in the future: go to the damn hospital. If nothing else, it gives you another set of witnesses.

  Finally, I went to bed, although I didn’t sleep. I kept replaying the whole thing in my head, trying to figure out if I’d missed something. Shouldn’t I have known what he was up to? Shouldn’t I have been able to stop it before it happened?

  But the chef hadn’t given off any vibes when he’d told me to come to the pantry with him. As I thought about it, I got the feeling he’d wanted me to be taken by surprise, that that was part of his game.

  The next morning, I felt like crap and looked like it, too. The bruises on my back had developed into shades of black and purple. There were scratches on my arms and shoulders where I’d fought him. My head ached like I was coming down with something, but it was basically stress. I was afraid to go to work because the chef might be there. But I didn’t know what else to do. One of my roommates told me I should go to the cops, but I didn’t want to do that either. I just wanted the whole thing to go away.

  I wanted it to be yesterday again, and I wanted all of this never to have happened.

  Surprisingly enough, I got to the restaurant around the usual time. I figured I’d just go to my station and start chopping onions, which always needed to be done anyway. I’d pretend it was a normal day, and that I was doing normal work.

  But the first person I saw when I walked in the kitchen was the restaurant manager, the guy who’d sent me home in the ride-share the night before. I got the feeling he’d been waiting for me.

  He beckoned me over to his office. I was pretty sure nothing good was going to come from this, and I was right. He told me, flatly, that I didn’t have a job anymore. I’d be paid two months’ wages as severance, and he’d give me a recommendation. But all of that depended on me keeping my mouth shut. If I told anyone some wild story about being attacked in the pantry, I’d not only lose my recommendation, I’d lose any chance of being hired at a restaurant in Denver. My reputation would be ruined all over town, and I’d never work there again.

  I stared at him for what seemed like the world’s longest minute, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. It sounded like gibberish.

  “He attacked me,” I said, finally. Surely that had been clear the night before.

  The manager raised a skeptical eyebrow. And then he reminded me I’d attacked the chef, not the other way around. He told me they had a doctor’s report stating the chef had a mild concussion. If I started spreading lies about him, the chef would have the medical reports to support his version.

  That idea was so outrageous, I gaped at the manager. How could he even think that was true? I wasn’t ready to give in yet, in part because now I was truly pissed. “He told me to come into the pantry to help him, then he jumped me. I defended myself. He wanted to rape me.”