Chapter 1

1

“No!” Malcolm stared in horror and ran for the door. “Are you insane?”

He yanked the tray from the hand of the stunned server and tossed it with disgust on an already overflowing counter. “Seriously, where did you get that tray from? Who gave you that?”

The server shrugged, blank-faced and unfettered. What did he care? His biggest concern was getting back in the crowd and being seen: mingling, smiling, coercing. Finding someone important and beautiful to leech on to so he could begin draining and drawing power, prestige and potential. It made Malcolm sick.

“No fruit,” Malcolm hissed at the vacant expression of the surfer-styled blond brat that had the nerve to call himself a waiter. “We specifically sat down and discussed this before anything left the kitchen. While you were all sitting there, tying your ridiculous little bowties and making sure your hair was perfect, remember? No fruit, no chocolate. So why, oh, God in heaven why, are you walking past me with a tray of fucking pineapple in your hand?”

Almost nonexistent eyebrows rose up an unlined forehead. “Dude, do you need, like, a pill or something?”

Malcolm fought, and failed miserably, at containing the sneer rising on his face. “Dude,” he hissed back. “Do you, like, need this job or not?”

“All righty then.”

Malcolm’s spine stiffened at the voice behind him. He clenched his fists at his side. He didn’t lift his eyes to catch those of the man who clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Reynolds was a damn good personnel manager. However, he annoyed the hell out of Malcolm with his can’t-everybody-just-get-along attitude.

“You.” Reynolds pointed at the server. “Go get another tray and get back out there.” He tightened his grip on Malcolm’s taut muscles and forced Malcolm to turn towards him. “And you relax. What is with you lately?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and shrugged out of Reynolds’ hold. “Other than the total lack of consideration any of these morons give to the people that are paying their salaries?”

Reynolds frowned. “Don’t be jealous of the pretty boys, Mal. Worry about your own job and I’ll worry about the rest of them.”

“Then keep your eyes open!” Malcolm glared back at the impatient look Reynolds offered him before grabbing the tray of fruit skewers and dropping the entire thing in the large garbage bin at the end of the prep table.

Ridiculous, he thought to himself, storming back towards the grill and taking a quick peek at the shrimp searing underneath it. Nobody gave a damn about what they did anymore. Nobody tried. He watched the shrimp begin to blacken, counted to four and then yanked the baking rack out of the machine. “Prep!” he called, spinning with the finesse of a dancer and dropping the hot tray in front of his harried prep girl. “Quickly now,” he told her. “And if I see another mess like that last one of these that went out, you’re fired. And I don’t give a damn what Reynolds says about it.”

He snagged one of the sizzling creatures in fingertips that barely felt the heat, skewered it on a plastic pick and laid it in the middle of a lined silver plate. “Circular items get laid in circles. Curl them out from the center. This isn’t your local fish market, Pina. These men spent more on this one event than you will be worth your entire life. Show a little flair for God’s sake.”

Pina laughed out loud; one of the few people in Malcolm’s kitchen that didn’t get upset with his temper. “Malcolm love, flair is not my specialty. You got the exclusive on that. Comes with the preference.”

“So not only are you blind artistically you are a sexist witch now?” He reached forward and began to adjust the food she was setting down. He nodded at the plate and waved over a server. “The nineties called, Pina. They want their orientation stereotypes back.”

She offered another chuckle, grabbed a towel and curled her nose at him while she wiped butter from her fingers. “If you don’t want to be stereotyped Mal, then stop acting like a dramatic, posturing bitch.”

“Insisting on perfection does not a stereotype make, Pina,” Malcolm said in the drollest voice he could muster.

“No,” she waved her finger. “The drama queen part does.”

She tossed the towel at him and he growled at the display of recklessness. “Why do you still work for me?”

“I’m the only one that can.”

He would have argued. If there wasn’t so much truth to it. From the moment Malcolm had taken the position of head chef A.K.A. kitchen manager at Burgeon Manor, long-term employees had been a rarity. He liked to write it off to the fact that most of his staff were fly-by-nighters as opposed to his overbearing attitude though. The women were there to meet rich, powerful husbands—the men to meet rich, powerful producers. He’d had his fair share of up and coming actors, screenwriters, artists, playwrights, set designers, stylists and publicists all scrubbing shellfish and washing lettuce. It wasn’t their fault for the most part. Burgeon Manor was, after all, well known for attracting the finest of guests and visitors.