Marianne Rimaldi scooped a scant teaspoon of the Grand Marnier chocolate ganache and drizzled it atop the single bite of chocolate truffle cheesecake. The perfect final bite for the meal she was creating.
A glance at the competition clock.
Two minutes.
She plated three more desserts for the judges. The television cameras filming Kate’s Kitchen from Hell hovered close by—two on her, two on her competitor as the final seconds ticked away. One glass-eyed lens had an angle that showed her the cameraman wasn’t focused only on the food.
Precisely according to plan.
Marianne needed victory on America’s most popular cooking show, which meant winning over at least two judges. More than that, she lusted after Kate’s Kitchen “Blazing Knife” stamp of approval on her career, which required all three judges' nod of approval on all three courses.
She’d made it through the five runoff contest episodes, one by the skin of her teeth. But now in the final? Winning was not enough. She lusted after that three-vote knife and the prestige that it came sheathed in. For a shot at that, she applied other…ingredients.
The heat of the competition kitchen—the flaring burners and blinding stage lights—simply forced her to pull at the cross-shoulder buttons of her confining chef’s jacket, which now hung half open. She wore a loose-necked satin blouse beneath, no bra. She’d chosen an emerald green to contrast with the fire-red of the winner’s jacket that she intended to be hers at the end of the show. It also stood out well against her unadorned ash-black jacket of a contestant, but she wanted the red.
However, mere party tricks wouldn’t work on the show’s main judge.
Marianne had to capture Kate Stark’s approval. With her, nothing counted except the food itself.
Kate Stark, the blue-eyed, black-haired goddess of television food on the nation’s most popular cooking network. She’d founded the show and served as its perennial judge. Always front and center on the panel. That she also owned the entire network only added to her aura of ultimate power.
Deep inside Marianne didn’t want to merely win Stark’s vote, she wanted to impress the hell out of her. She’d sell her soul to the Devil if needs be; this was Kate’s Kitchen from Hell after all.
Don’t think! Focus on the food…but don’t forget the theater.
Marianne’s slight build made the least view down her blouse a revealing one. Bent over her dessert plates, the satin draped away from her body allowing a deliciously cool ripple of fresh air to course along her front. Her build might be far less substantial than the one that had made Mom such a success on the wrong side of Hollywood, but she’d certainly watched her mom and learned what sold. It had been an educational upbringing, if not a typical one.
Three judges.
Two of them were easy.
Zania, the guest taster, sat in the role of the every-person’s palate so necessary for engaging an audience. She gave the viewers someone to identify with, among the professional chefs. Of course, her palate was the only thing on Zania not extraordinary.
She was the hottest new Hollywood starlet—who Marianne suspected to be a closet butch. It wasn’t too dangerous a bet because Zania’s mother worked the same side of Hollywood as Marianne’s and word got around about what truly happened after the bedding was rumpled in erotic film.
During her intro, Tinsel Town’s hot new box-office draw had announced she was centerfolding for Playboy next month in the same sultry breath as promoting her new tight-leather, sci-fi thriller movie. Marianne knew that anyone who pegged Zania as an airhead had a nasty surprise coming; she absolutely knew how to market herself. In every way.
However, hints to the actress of possible woman-on-woman bonding that would allow Zania to prove exactly who was the ultimate female among women offered definite possibilities for leveraging the star’s vote. It looked as if she’d bought into Marianne’s careful seasoning of her performance with hints and suggestions.
Marianne’s own tastes, however, were for the second guest judge; the professional chef.
Harold Merritt, with his Michelin-starred Chicago’s Merritt restaurant, was both distinctly handsome and notoriously single. Win or lose, she’d make a point of chatting him up after the show. That broad chest and short dark crewcut gave him a deliciously tough look; she could find many uses for him outside the kitchen, or in it—two bodies, a touch of olive oil, or maybe chocolate sauce…
A careful peek from behind the screen of the jet-black dyed bangs of her blonde hair revealed both Zania and Harold’s attention remained fixated on the monitors of the show’s live feed rather than gazing benignly over the competition kitchen floor. Their attention remained precisely where Marianne wanted it. On her.
Kate Stark posed a different problem.
The Number One slotted television chef on any network, not merely the one she owned—also watched the monitor, but with a slightly amused smile that Marianne would pay good money to understand. Kate’s startling blue eyes, aquiline nose, and straight black hair brushing her shoulders and framing those well-defined cheekbones, also made her one of the most attractive faces on television, cooking or not.
She was a notoriously deadpan judge, at least on this show, so that wry smile must mean something.
For good or ill, Marianne would not find the answer on this side of the judge’s table.
The camera judiciously, or injudiciously, spying down her jacket, pulled back, ready to seek another shot. To maximize her own airtime over the competition, Marianne accidentally dribbled a large dollop of the orange-chocolate ganache onto the back of her hand. She licked it clean as if too hurried to wipe it away, making sure the camera could see the pleasure on her face at the success of her own work. The guy behind the lens stayed focused on her.
Damn! She’d nailed the ganache. Marianne would win on taste alone. But she’d have to play the meal presentation carefully, spiking the odds even further in her favor with both of the two guest judges.
The competition buzzer sounded as she shaved the last of the zest of a blood orange using a nutmeg rasp. Even as Marianne held up her hands to show she was done, the camera focused in on the cloud of orange dust, sprinkling through the air like snowflakes.
Her shiny dark green satin blouse made a perfect backdrop, which had somehow slipped out of another button. Somehow…because she’d enlarged the buttonhole last night to ensure that it popped free when she raised her arms.
Nailed it.
She had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself.
Light-headed.
She needed to eat.
Her normal technique of shrugging it off didn’t work. Even lowering her arms and subtly bracing herself against the table didn’t help clear her head.
Her hands were shaking.
Her hands never shook.
