Flawless

Chapter 2

2

LANCE LED VERENA into the back of the kitchen where the staff was finishing clean-up for the night. “We have a limited menu at night for room service,” he said. “Most of the kitchen is clean and we have a skeleton staff at night.”

He walked ahead of her, nodding to a few employees that Verena guessed were sous chefs, line cooks, and servers. Drawing up a wooden stool to a stainless steel counter, he waved his hand. “Mademoiselle, your throne.”

Before she sat down, Verena ran her finger across one of several large, gleaming knives on the table. “These are amazing.”

“And razor sharp. Be careful, we have a lot of dangerous tools in here. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” He pointed to an array of thin scars on his hands.

She tried not to stare. He was missing half of the third finger of his right hand. “That must have hurt.”

He grinned at her and flicked up his finger. “Just kidding,” he said, chuckling. “Old chef’s joke. But you could perform surgery with these knives.”

Verena smiled at his silly comment. He clearly liked to entertain people. Lifting her silvery skirt, she slid onto the stool and watched him gather the professional tools of his trade.

He brandished a copper skillet. “Anything you won’t eat?”

“Hmm, maybe a Big Mac.”

“I don’t blame you.” He looked up at her and paused, fixing his golden amber eyes on her. “May I get creative?”

“Sure.”

Lance placed the copper sauté pan on a cooktop, poured in a small measure of olive oil, and adjusted the gas flame. He reached for a bunch of fresh green herbs—oregano and basil, she noted—and selected an impressive knife. Wielding it with expert ease, he began to chop with speed and precision. The blade tapped in staccato rhythm against the cutting board. As he chopped, the fragrant leaves spilled forth their aroma. Verena breathed in, savoring the culinary magic.

While she was impressed with his confidence in the kitchen, she was mesmerized by his fluid movements. The kitchen was his domain, just as the skincare salon was hers.

He whipped out a copper saucepan and turned on another flame. Next came whipping cream and sprinkles from stainless steel bins—shallots and garlic—followed by cracked peppercorn. Then, several taps and shakes from a collection of stainless canisters were delivered in rapid, measured paces. Tap, tap-tap, tap. The tendons in his muscular forearms rippled as he worked.

Verena had never seen a professional chef at work, and she was captivated by his natural body rhythm and skill.

He glanced up at her. “You’ll eat fowl, won’t you?”

Jolted from her thoughtful gaze, she said, “Sorry?”

“Fowl, as in birds. I’ll bet you like squab.”

A smile danced on her lips. “Of course, I’m game.”

“Usually I’m the one cracking the jokes.” Grinning at her, he tossed more fresh herbs and ingredients into the mixture. He crossed the kitchen and opened a stainless steel refrigerator door. A moment later, he had his prized squab and set to work trimming and dressing the dish.

“Hey, boss,” one of the workers called out as he gathered soiled towels. “Need a hand?”

“No, I’ll take care of this special order,” Lance said with a wink.

Verena cupped her chin and leaned on her elbow, watching with rapt attention. “You really enjoy your work, don’t you?”

“What’s not to love about it? Feeding people great food makes them happy. And everyone has to eat.”

He lifted a corner of his mouth in what Verena was quickly recognizing as a nearly ever-present grin. Many of the men she met were intent on being smooth and sophisticated, or forever youthful in a way that could only work in Los Angeles—and especially in Hollywood. Lots of men in L.A. seemed to be on the verge of an important, too-good-to-be-true deal or professed to know someone who knew someone who could make their dreams come to fruition.

She’d heard it all at her salon—every story one could imagine. The incessant chatter was enough to make her head hurt at times.

And then there was Derrick—and his senior partner, billionaire Thomas Roper—who exuded the kind of power only derived from marshaling great sums of money. They were the dealmakers. Everyone with a dream of overnight riches seemed to pursue them. However, that wasn’t why she’d dated Derrick.

In the beginning of their relationship, he’d been so attentive and focused on her. He told her she was the only one who had ever truly touched him. She also admired his business acumen—he’d had far more experience than she had in structuring business deals and raising money. His thoughtfulness toward her younger sisters had made an impression. With Mia’s tenuous health, Verena’s younger twin sisters were her responsibility and prime concerns for her.

Yet this man before her, who clearly derived such pleasure from preparing a meal for a woman he’d just met, seemed much more genuine, authentic, and relaxed in his skin. She was intrigued.

“How did you learn to cook like this?” she asked, trailing her fingers along the counter’s cool stainless steel surface.

“I’ve always loved cooking,” he said as he arranged ingredients. “While other kids watched cartoons or played video games, I watched cooking shows on television. After my mom went to bed, I’d sneak into the kitchen. Later, I went to culinary school in San Francisco. Even worked in Europe for a while.” He paused and gazed straight into her eyes. “Someday I’d like to have my own restaurants and food lines. I have a plan, and I’m saving for it.”

“Saving? Or just trying to find investors?” She realized she sounded jaded.

“Saving,” he replied firmly. “I make my own way.”

Verena felt her cheeks flush. Lance was sharing his most precious goals, she realized, and it touched her. She liked listening to him. His voice was as rich and smooth as the cream he poured into the saucepan.

“Do you pick up hungry women by the pool like this every night?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It was none of her business. What difference did it make to her?

But he didn’t take exception to her remark, or if he did, he didn’t show it. He shrugged. “Usually, I clean up and leave, but it’s been a busy week. We’re short-handed, and I’ve had to do more cooking than usual.”

When she looked quizzical, he added, “I’m the executive chef, which means I have general management duties.”

Verena nodded knowingly. “That explains the smoking.”

“Yeah, I’m not proud of it,” he said. “Picked up the habit a couple years ago in Europe. Last year I quit for the first few months, and then wham, something set me off again. But I promised myself that this year would be different. I can’t afford to kill my taste buds.”

She liked what she was hearing. The sauce in the skillet sizzled and popped. “Hmm, smells good.”

Lowering the flame, he asked, “Are you staying at the hotel or here for an event?”

“I’m a local,” Verena said. “I was at the Women in Pink event.”

“That’s a great organization. And a beautiful dress,” he added. “Which looks quite amazing on you, by the way.”

Verena shivered with pleasure. She’d wondered if the silver silk dress that Fianna had designed just for her was too much, but its slim simplicity seemed the perfect backdrop for the iridescent South Pacific pearls that had belonged to her mother.

“I’d seen you near the pool,” he said. “You seemed deep in thought.”

“I was.” Thinking of Marvin and her looming troubles, Verena shook her head.

Lance adjusted the simmering flame. “We have a few minutes until the liquid is reduced.” He leaned forward to tuck a wayward wisp of wavy blond hair behind her ear. “Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.”

The compassion in his eyes drew her in. “I run a skincare salon,” she began. “It was my parents’ business and my grandparents before them. I’ve opened a chain of salons, and I’m in the middle of an aggressive international expansion plan for our product line.”

He studied her as he listened. “You’re having difficulties?”

“If you own a business, it’s always something. Products, employees, financing, government regulations.”

“So true. Well, I’m impressed. How long have you been running this business?”

“For the last decade, straight out of high school. My grandparents started it in the late 1940s. I love hearing my grandmother talk about the old days.”

Lance started to ask a question, but another young man came around the corner. “Excuse me, boss, but I’m ready to leave.” He shifted from one foot to another.

“Glad you reminded me. I’ll get your check, John.” To Verena he said, “Excuse me for a moment, but hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” His face lit with an easy smile.

Verena watched Lance leave the room with his employee. What an interesting man. Not a bit like Derrick.

Lance’s quick smile reminded her of her grandfather Emile, who was so good-natured. As a child, she had loved listening to the stories her grandparents told. After the Second World War in Europe ended, Emile and Mia had moved from Switzerland to America. Emile had made their journey sound so exciting. They’d realized the fulfillment of their youthful dreams where the air was fresh, and sandy beaches sparkled under the warm sun.

After they arrived, Emile was soon earning a steady living as a construction superintendent. Compact stucco cottages with Spanish-tiled roofs were springing up in the surrounding valleys for war veterans and their young families.

Mia began to share her skincare formulas with her new neighbors. American women loved her pampering facial treatments and brought friends from Hollywood, Westwood, and Beverly Hills to see her. Mia converted the dining room, but their small cottage soon proved too small for Mia’s burgeoning clientele, so they bought a plot of land on North Beverly Drive in the heart of the village of Beverly Hills.

While Emile and his friends built the new salon, Mia planned the interior, fashioning it after fine salons in Switzerland. She imprinted a grand initial “V” on everything from tea towels to teacups. Ladies loved the European ambiance, and the Valent Salon quickly became a favorite destination.

Verena still loved hearing about the early days of the salon.

“All the biggest stars came to the salon,” Mia often told her. She pointed out their guests in movies and on television, and she took her young granddaughter to the salon on weekends. Mia loved to reminisce as she led Verena through powder pink treatment rooms that smelled so fresh and clean.

Mia also pointed out patron photos on the walls. “Here’s Grace Kelly. What porcelain skin she had. There’s Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood…I always told those girls to stay out of the sun. And here’s Doris Day. She was such an animal lover.” Contemporary stars and models had their photos displayed, too.

In her private office upstairs, Mia kept a photo of Verena’s father, Joseph, when he was a towheaded little boy. But Verena’s favorite was a photo of her parents’ wedding with her mother in a voluminous white wedding dress.

Verena adored her grandmother Mia, who some people mistook for her mother because of her pale blond hair and smooth, wrinkle-free skin. Mia would smile, tell them about her special formulas, and assure them that they, too, could have beautiful skin. Being helpful and sharing her passion was a natural part of who Mia was.

As a teenager, Verena had observed, listened, and learned, but she’d never dreamed that she would have to shoulder the demands of the business so soon on her own.

Lance rounded the corner. “How’s the sauce?”

Pulling herself from her memories, she peered at the simmering pan. “Looks nicely reduced, just as you said. And it smells delicious.”

Lance picked up a spoon, stirred the sauce, and checked the squab. Satisfied, he turned back to her. “You were telling me about your grandparents.”

She nodded. “Before they left Switzerland, my grandmother created many of the natural products we continue to produce and sell today. Her father was a scientist, so she learned her craft in his laboratory. When I was a little girl, she taught me that any woman can be beautiful. To this day she believes that beauty begins with the way a woman treats herself. And she’s right. I can always tell if a woman is tired or has a poor diet.”

“How?” Lance asked.

“Everything shows on the face. Alcohol, cigarettes...anything that’s toxic will affect the skin. And the sun is extremely damaging.”

“Guilty as charged,” Lance said, tapping his sunburned nose. His tone was teasing, but he was clearly impressed with her knowledge.

Verena laughed. “A few minutes of sun for your skin to absorb vitamin D is actually beneficial and keeps bones strong.” Touching his cheek, she quickly assessed his skin. “Your skin looks healthy. Just don’t forget sunscreen.”

“Can you help me find one that’s not too greasy?” As he spoke, he placed another saucepan on the burner and added a handful of tiny vegetables.

“Of course. I’m working on a new men’s line.” For a moment, she imagined the pleasure of running her hands over his supple bronzed skin. She cleared her throat and went on. “From the time I was a little girl, my grandmother shared her skincare secrets with me. She still has some personal formulas that must be made fresh with each use, so we can’t produce them commercially yet. Some of my fondest childhood memories were of Mia and my mother teaching me about skincare treatments in Mia’s private facial room.”

Mia always made her feel special by gently cleansing Verena’s skin and instructing her on each step and each product, explaining its benefits and how to use it for the best results.

Verena looked up at Lance, who seemed transfixed by her story. The way he stared at her made her chest flutter. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but even then, all those years ago, Mia was training me to take over the business.”

“Are your parents in the business, too?”

There it was. The question she always dreaded, the question that always changed the way people treated her. By now, she could forecast the pity in their eyes. She just wanted to be treated normally. But she’d probably never see Lance again, so what did it matter what she said? She swallowed and glanced down at her fingernails, smoothing them out of nervousness. “No, not anymore.”

She thought he looked quizzical for a moment, or perhaps she was imagining it.

After pouring cognac into the sauce, he said, “And now for the show.” He touched it with a match, sending flames toward the ceiling.

“I’d set off the fire alarm if I tried that,” Verena said.

Lance stirred the sauce quickly to thicken it, and then announced, “Ready to plate.” He worked quickly to arrange the squab with sauce, petit haricots verts, and pearl onions on a plate.

“Voilà,” he said with a flourish of his hand. He placed the dish in front of her. Silver utensils and a linen napkin followed. “Wine?”

“Love some.”

He pulled a bottle from a shelf. “Chef’s choice,” he said, uncorking it and pouring two glasses. “To you, Verena,” he said, giving her a glass and holding his high in a toast. “May you never go hungry again. Please, begin.”

She took a forkful, savoring the delicate flavors.

“And?” He leaned forward, clearly curious as to her reaction.

“Delicious. My compliments to the chef.” Maybe it was the sauce, or the fact that she was famished—or maybe it was the way he looked at her—but Verena thought the dish was one of the best she had ever tasted.

“Leave room for dessert,” he said.

While she ate, they continued talking about food and skincare, laughing at little jokes, and sipping wine. Lance leaned on the counter beside her, pointing out the best morsels and explaining how the ingredients melded together for a unique flavor.

They were laughing when the kitchen door burst open.

“My God, Verena,” Derrick said, anger etched on his face. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The security guard said he saw you go in the back door. What are you doing here?”

“Eating.” Verena calmly wiped a corner of her mouth. “Lance is the executive chef, and he’s prepared a meal for me. What are you doing here?”

“You already had dinner.” He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Lance, who just grinned at him over the top of his wine glass.

“No, I didn’t. You know I don’t eat much before I get up in front of an audience.” She took another bite, chewing slowly. The nerve of him to track me down. His possessiveness was one of the reasons she’d broken up with him.

Derrick’s face clouded, and his dark hooded eyes flashed. “We need to talk. You’ve eaten, now let’s go.”

She gestured to her plate, refusing to be bullied. “I’m not finished, and I’m not going anywhere with you tonight.” In her peripheral vision, she saw Lance step toward Derrick.

Derrick huffed. “I’ll call you tomorrow for lunch.”

“I have an extremely busy day tomorrow,” Verena said, keeping her voice even.

“You have no idea,” he said. “Instead of sitting here in a kitchen, you should be worried about how you’re going to keep your company afloat without Marvin Panetta and National Western Bank.”

“That’s enough,” Lance said. “The lady’s not interested. You need to leave my kitchen now.”

With one last stony stare at the pair, Derrick turned and stomped out.

Verena was appalled by Derrick’s rudeness. In her position as the head of her company, she didn’t accept bullying behavior, and she certainly wouldn’t accept it in a relationship—current or past. Not anymore.

She swung back to Lance, who stood taking it all in. “I appreciate that. Now, how about that dessert you promised?”