“Pomegranate, from a tree growing in the garden.”
Pleasure rippled through her. Her grandmother also grew the fruit, and had included some recipes in one of her cookbooks. Emma would have to look them up.
She opened her net book and swiveled the screen toward him. “As I told you on the phone, my business isn’t fully up to speed yet, but I’ve put together a selection of menus that might—”
His phone rang again and he held up a hand to silence her as he took the call. This time he didn’t need to say it was the hospital. He listened intently then unleashed a string of commands. “Do you need me there?” he asked.
If anything was guaranteed to kill her interest in him, leaving her sitting while he took off would do the trick. Once upon a time she’d let herself be guilt-tripped into feeling selfish for putting her needs ahead of someone in crisis, until she realized that there would always be another crisis, and not even the most highly qualified doctor was indispensable. There was always someone to help, whereas she had only one family. The problem was convincing her parents that she had as much right to their time as their patients did.
He put the phone down again. “Coming from a medical family, you’d be used to interruptions,” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
The coldness she couldn’t keep out of her voice made him raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t respond. Instead he scrolled through the document she’d sat up late last night preparing for him. “Impressive,” he said. “The combinations are nicely balanced. Tarte Tatin is one of my favorites. Making it with figs and leeks is an interesting variation.”
She heard what he didn’t say. “But?”
“These options are a bit ordinary.”
Pride made her bristle but she kept herself in check. “Not everyone appreciates the unusual when it comes to food.”
“My guests will. A group of us belong to a private gourmet club that travels the country for new and interesting eating experiences.”
“What kind of experiences?” she asked. Her mother might have mentioned he and his friends were gourmands.
His eyes brightened. “There’s a tiny place in Rosebud on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Only holds twenty people, and everything they serve comes from their own produce or is sourced locally. We flew down there one Sunday, spent a day with the owners, picking ingredients from their kitchen garden, helping with preparation and eating one of the best meals of my life. Another time, we traveled to the outback to eat crocodile meat beside a river infested with them.”
“Hardly a relaxing venue,” she said, wondering how often he’d been interrupted by work calls there.
He leaned forward. “That’s the point. Knowing we were dining on a man-eater in its territory was a real buzz. The indigenous community hosting the dinner obtain all the ingredients in and around the river. They supplied the crocodile meat and showed us how to hunt goannas, dig for yams and climb trees to harvest wild honey.” He brought his fingertips together. “Have you eaten live witchetty grubs?”
She couldn’t suppress a shudder. “It’s not high on my list of foods to try.”
His lopsided grin was oddly appealing. “You should. The texture is soft, and the taste reminiscent of a gamey veal pâté. You hold the grub by the head and kind of suck the meat off.” He mimed the action.
“Are you telling me you’d like live grubs on your birthday menu?”
He shook his head. “Only a few of the group volunteered for that experience. But generally we’re more adventurous with food than most people, so you can pull out all the stops.”
His proposal was a chef’s dream, but she was in no position to take advantage of it while she was still in the throes of establishing her business.
She closed the net book. “I can’t tell you how much this tempts me.” In more ways than one, she thought, wondering fleetingly if she was turning the job down because of the business or him. “In good conscience, I won’t take a job on unless I can do it well. Now I know what you’re looking for, I’m positive I’m not the right person for this assignment.”
“And I’m positive that you are.”
He wasn’t insisting because of her talents, but because he was used to getting his own way. She’d been through similar scenes with her family. His attitude on the phone had shown her how accustomed he was to being in charge.
“Why are you so determined to hire Love This Catering?” she asked. “You must have a lot of contacts in the food business through your group.”
He took his time answering. “You intrigue me. I know your parents and brother professionally, and you’re totally different from them.”
“In what way?” she asked warily, so used to being compared with her family and found wanting that she braced herself automatically.
“You’re an original,” he said, surprising her. “You don’t like being reminded of how you came on to me at the party, but no one’s done anything like that to me before, at least not so ingenuously. The alcohol may have boosted your nerve, but it didn’t put the idea in your head. You saw what you wanted and you went after it. Just as you did when you started your own business.”
“I get my passion for cooking from my grandmother, Jessie Jarrett,” she explained, reluctantly pleased by his appreciation.
He frowned. “I thought all your family were doctors.”
“Dad’s father is an oncologist, but Gramma Jessie is better known for writing cookbooks.”
“I worked with Greg Jarrett Sr. during my residency,” Nate mused. He showed no interest in Jessie’s activities, Emma noted without surprise.
“And the Kenners?” he prompted.
She gave a sigh. “Trudy Kenner met my grandfather when they were both in a civilian surgical and medical team during the Vietnam War. You might have heard of him—Howard Kenner.”
“I’m familiar with his work in antirejection therapy for transplant patients,” Nate said. “Your mother goes by Kenner-Jarrett, but I didn’t make the connection.”
“She’d probably be glad to introduce you.” Emma knew how proud Cherie was of her father. “He travels overseas a lot and we don’t see much of him, but he’s due back in Australia next month.”
“He might be here in time for the party,” Nate observed.
“You never know your luck.” Emma felt cheated. For a few brief minutes, he’d seen her as an individual instead of a member of a medical dynasty, and a misfit at that.
She gathered her things together. “Since none of my menus is to your liking, I’d better get back to the drawing board.”
His hand closed over hers, and it took an effort not to jerk away. “There’s nothing wrong with your menus. I’m sure your clients love them all. And I saw your eyes light up when I asked you to prepare something extraordinary for me, so the problem isn’t the challenge. Something else I said got your back up. What is it?”
“Isn’t my lack of facilities enough reason to turn you down?”
He shook his head. “You strike me as the type of cook who can perform miracles with a campfire if you have to. Something else is bugging you.”
He was bugging her, but she didn’t say so. “I don’t like being railroaded.”
He withdrew his hand. “By a walking ego with delusions of godhood,” he finished for her.
“You said it this time, not me.”
“You were thinking it.”
The