The chef blustered for a moment and then stabbed a finger into Jackson’s chest. “Your grandfather hired me. He never had any complaints.”
“I’m not my grandfather.” Those blue eyes were ice-cold, that same mouth that could deliver a smile both sexy and wicked, hard-set and grim. “Go. Now.” His tone made Kayla wish she’d escaped along with Tally, and apparently Darren felt the same way because the bluster left him in a rush. He deflated like a balloon popped at a child’s party.
“I’ll reconsider if you’ll talk to her.”
“You threatened to walk out in the middle of service. I accept your resignation.” The softness of his voice was a contrast to the flint in his eyes, and Darren’s expression was wild.
“No one can reasonably expect me to work with that woman! Do you know what she said to me? She told me to get out of her kitchen because male chauvinist pig wasn’t on the menu.”
Kayla kept her head down and focused on her phone. She mustn’t smile. There was nothing to smile about.
Jackson’s chef was about to walk out and the restaurant was fully booked.
Darren was still blustering. “If you fire her, I’ll reconsider.”
“Élise has a job and a home here for as long as she wants.” Something in the way he said it caught Kayla’s attention, leaving her with the feeling that there was more behind his words, but Jackson was already walking the man to the door and she could no longer hear the conversation.
When he returned, she could sense anger simmering beneath the calm. “You’re going to have to excuse me for a moment while I go and talk to my remaining chef.”
At that moment a young woman with short dark hair emerged from the kitchen. She walked with the energy and grace of a dancer, head held high, eyes gleaming.
Assuming this to be Élise, Kayla braced herself for another explosion, but instead, the woman approached a young couple dining at one of the tables by the window. “You wanted to see me, non? You enjoyed my langoustines.” She spoke with only a trace of a French accent, her movements fine and delicate as she used her hands to illustrate her speech. “You will come back again and I will cook you my pot-au-feu. It is perfect for this cold weather. When you ’ave tasted it you will never want to eat anything else.” She beamed at the dazzled couple and then virtually danced across the restaurant to where Jackson and Kayla were sitting.
“Jack—” She softened the j, turning it into the French Jacques, and he rose to his feet, controlled and professional.
“Élise. Darren won’t be coming back.”
“Vraiment?” Something that looked suspiciously like happiness brightened her eyes. “He has decided he can no longer work with ‘that French bitch’?”
Jackson had clearly decided to be economical with the truth. “I’m going to try to get you some help in the kitchen for tonight.”
“There is no need. The French bitch can manage perfectly, thank you. You just sit down and enjoy your meal with your beautiful friend.” She beamed at Kayla, but Jackson wasn’t smiling.
“You can’t manage on your own, Élise. We’re full tonight.”
“And each person will enjoy the best meal they ’ave ever eaten. I can ’andle it. I will promote Jeff for the night. He is excellent chef de partie. He will be excellent sous-chef. I ’ave—have—” her cheeks dimpled as she corrected herself “—taught him to swear in French so the customers aren’t offended.”
Kayla gave a choked laugh, and Élise looked at her with that bright, direct gaze. “You have ordered your food?”
Jackson picked up a menu, but Élise leaned across and removed it from his hand.
“I will decide. If you want to help me, you could find me one more kitchen assistant. Someone willing, with a good work ethic and strong, because a chef spends long hours on their feet.” She eyed his shoulders and her eyes sparkled. “You are strong. If you are bored being the boss, I can find a use for you.” Without giving them time to respond, she walked back through to the kitchen with that same lithe, catlike stride that made Kayla wonder if she’d had ballet training.
“I like the ‘French bitch.’” She reached for the water that had been discreetly placed on their table while Élise was talking. “Where did you find her?”
“In Paris. She was cooking in a tiny restaurant on the Left Bank.” He hesitated, as if about to add something, but then smiled. “Luckily for me it didn’t work out for her so I gave her a job. She cooked for me in one of my hotels in Switzerland and then joined me here six months ago. She’s a genius in the kitchen and very professional. You might not guess it, but she was upset tonight. You can always tell how upset Élise is by how French she sounds. In the right mood, her accent is virtually undetectable.” He reached for his glass. “Bringing her in was the right thing to do, but it’s shaken up a few people.”
“I don’t see you as a man who would have a problem shaking people up if there was a purpose to it.”
His gaze held hers. “Then you’d be right.”
Even in this moment of tension, the chemistry was still there.
She felt it, pulsing between them, and she knew he did, too.
“Darren didn’t look too pleased.”
“His ego is bigger than his talent. And he and Élise don’t share the same vision for the restaurant. His objective is to feed people. Hers is to serve a meal you will always remember. That’s what I want for this place.” He sounded sure. “I want people going back to New York, or Boston or wherever it is they’ve come from and I want them talking about the Inn at Snow Crystal. I want them planning their next visit and sending their friends.”