The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,2

amoral twinkle in his eye.

But he pursued her, relentlessly, and Elena had fallen. Fallen to his genius as much as his beauty, fallen to his supposedly undying adoration of her, the mark of a man who lived on his charm.

Now she would pay the price. This silent Sunday morning, she folded her apron and put it on the pass-out bar, then went to the staff room, changed from her chef’s whites and clogs into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt tie-dyed in soft pink and orange, with tiny dancing skeletons on it. A gift from one of her sisters last Christmas, to remind her of home. Packed everything from her locker into the duffel she carried to and fro, and finally went out to the dining room for one last look.

The Blue Turtle had been her home for three years, the menu a loving union of Dmitri’s old-school French methods and Elena’s Santa Fe roots. Vancouverites, adventurous eaters that they were, adored the exotic fusion. The restaurant was a success in a very crowded market, and was attracting international press attention.

This was her home, not some faraway town. A blister of fury zapped from the base of her spine through the top of her head. Bastard. How dare he banish her like this?

Luis raised his chin. “Vaya con Dios.”

Elena nodded. Hiking the duffel over her shoulder, she swallowed the hollow sense of loss and headed out to the softness of an early Vancouver morning. For a long moment, she stood there on the sidewalk with a hole in her chest, trying to think what to do.

How depressing to lose yet another home. Another and another and another. She had grown fond of this one, had thought perhaps it might be the one place. Her place.

Now what?

Across the street, English Bay lay like a mirror in the fresh opalescence of morning. A storm gathered in the distant west, sending a gust of rain-scented wind over her face. She shook loose the hair on her shoulders, and tried to bring her mind to something practical. What could she have for breakfast? There was some fresh spinach, perhaps a hunk of cheese, some pear salad left from the night before.

A man suddenly stepped out of the doorway, and, startled, Elena took a step backward to let him pass. There was an air of confidence about him, something both severe and sensual. Very dark glasses hid his eyes. A thin, hip goatee circled his mouth. She admired the spotlessness of his black jacket, the jeans he wore casually beneath it. Strong thighs, she noticed, relieved to discover Dmitri had not entirely killed her pleasure in the opposite sex.

The man gave her a nod. “Good morning.”

She inclined her head. A silk scarf, ribboned with faint orange and pink stripes, looped around his neck. Elegant. Smart. Maybe he was French. “Bonjour,” she said with a faint smile.

To her surprise, he paused. “Are you Elena Alvarez?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Sorry,” he said, tugging off his hat and sunglasses in a single fluid gesture. He had the uncanny grace and coloring of something supernatural—a vampire, perhaps. Tumbles of black hair fell down on a pale, finely boned face. “I’m Julian Liswood.”

“Ah.” The owner of the restaurant. He carried a newspaper under his arm—he must have seen the article. Elena brushed her hands together—finished. “Dmitri already fired me, so don’t bother.”

His lips, the only pool of color in his face, quirked. “On the contrary. I came to Vancouver to speak with you. The commis in there told me you had just left. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

He studied her face. “You’re quite blonde,” he commented. “For someone named Alvarez.”

“Does that figure into the discussion?”

A flash of a smile crossed his mouth. “No.”

Elena waited. He wasn’t what she’d always imagined, either. The face was not beautiful—that high-bridged nose and sharp cheekbones—but the hair was good. His eyes were steady and very dark and intelligent. It was hard to tell how old he was, but she knew he’d made his first movie when she was in high school. A decade older than she? He didn’t look it. Behind them a wind swept closer, bringing with it the sound of rain.

“Will you let me buy you breakfast?” he asked. “We’ll talk.”

“I’m a chef, as it happens, and my apartment is not far away.” She hoped he would offer her a job. “Why don’t I cook instead?”

“Sadly, I do not have enough time. I have to fly to LA this morning to pick up