Hungry Heart: Konigsburg, Texas, Book 8 (2 page)

“If you say so.”

Joe shook his head, grinning. “Play nice, Darcy. Maybe you can pick up some pointers on ’cue.”

She frowned.
Pointers on ’cue.
“Anything’s possible.” She glanced back toward the King’s rangy figure as he disappeared into the back of his van.

She was not, repeat
not
, watching his ass.

The King threw three more foil-wrapped racks of ribs into a hotel pan, cursing his own lack of foresight. Hill Country Texans preferred beef ribs, but a lot of these people were from out of town. He should have figured on more pork ribs for this crowd.

If they ran out, he’d try pushing the beef ribs a little harder. He might be able to make some converts. And next time he’d try using his brain instead of his gut.

He carried the hotel pan to the serving line, dropping the ribs into the cooler behind the servers. The foil would keep them warm and let the flavors build a little while they sat in the cooler, and they wouldn’t sit there long enough to do any harm. At least LeBlanc was smart enough to use heat lamps on the meat rather than a steam table. The King would probably have done some screaming of his own if anyone had suggested letting his barbecue steam off its flavor for a couple of hours.

Actually, LeBlanc was a very smart man and a very smart chef. The King knew only too well how lucky he was to have gotten the contract with the Rose. Selling ’cue from the food truck in downtown Konigsburg was his bread and butter, but the contract with the Rose gave him enough to pay his suppliers in advance, which, in turn, guaranteed that he’d get the quality of meat he needed. Nothing like a little cash upfront to make people take you seriously.

He glanced back down the serving line toward the woman who apparently didn’t take him seriously at all. Darcy Cunningham. He’d gotten her name from one of the servers, who’d fortunately been way too busy to think anything was odd about the Barbecue King wanting to know the name of the Rose’s sous chef.

Darcy Cunningham was, in fact, one smokin’ sous chef. He watched her now, dishing up her version of potato salad with grim efficiency. Her ice-blond hair was tipped with magenta and she wore a couple of rings in each ear. He was willing to bet she wore a lot more than a couple when she was off duty. Her black T-shirt was just tight enough to show off her gently rounded breasts and her not-so-gently defined biceps. Chef’s muscles. He could just see the end of a tattoo extending from the edge of her sleeve when she reached forward.

One very tough babe. She might remove his nuts for practice. He wasn’t sure why he found that so hot, but he definitely did.

Probably a sign of declining mental health.
He couldn’t argue with that. Whenever his dick started getting involved, his mental health tended to suffer.

She was still dead wrong about the potato salad, though. Correction: the salad that happened to contain potatoes but wasn’t technically potato salad at all.

He grinned as he returned to the truck. She was right about one thing—potato salad was definitely a side, and his own side dishes on the truck were, in fact, nothing to brag about. He farmed out the potato salad and slaw to a cut-rate caterer in Konigsburg, and he made the beans himself. None of it was exactly blue ribbon quality, but none of the customers complained about it, which the average barbecue worshipper would have done about Ms. Darcy’s stuff. In spades. He shook his head. Feta cheese. Great god almighty. The woman was mental.

Also very cool. Although judging from her reaction when he’d pitched a little flirtation her way, the chances of them getting together for anything more serious than a shouting match were small indeed.

He picked up an empty hotel pan and started back toward his truck. Looked like they’d need more brisket in a few minutes.

“Harris?”

The King managed to keep walking rather than freezing in his tracks, which was his first reaction. He also kept his head down. If he didn’t see whoever it was who was trying to talk to him, he could always plead ignorance later on if he had to.

“Harris? It is you, isn’t it?”

A pair of feet wearing bright pink nail polish and silver sandals appeared directly in front of him. He sighed. The combination of voice and fairly large shoe size told him who it was before he looked up. “Hi, Docia.”

Docia Kent Toleffson narrowed her eyes as she gazed at him from a slight height. Given that Docia was already around six feet tall, the addition of four-inch heels took her up above him. Her glorious red hair was piled on top of her head, which added at least three more inches. She was wearing slim-cut jeans and a tank top that seemed barely able to conceal her bounteous upper story. The King wasn’t sure he’d seen her since her wedding, which was now a good three years or so in the past.

He sure as hell hadn’t told her he was moving to her backyard in the Hill Country. He guessed that was going to get him chewed out right about now.

“Harris?” One red eyebrow arched up. “The Barbecue King?”

He shrugged. “It’s a living. So how are…things?” He tried desperately to remember any news he’d heard about Docia the last time he’d talked to anybody in the family. Of course, the last time he’d talked to anybody in the family was around a year ago, and who the hell knew what had happened to Docia since then?

“‘Things’ are fine,” she snapped. “I’m still married to Cal, I still have my bookstore. The only item you may have missed is the birth of my son Rolf, but that’s a minor detail. What the hell are you doing here, Harris? And why didn’t I know you were doing whatever it is you’re doing?”

No escape. Make the best of it.
“I’ve got a little catering business over by Oltdorf. And a food truck. Barbecue. So you’re part of the…” he searched frantically through his brain for the name of the organization that was holding its convention at the Woodrose, “…the Independent Merchants Association?”

Docia shook her head, her lips moving into a dry smile. “Nice try, Harris, but I’m not letting you off the hook on this one. How long have you been doing this?”

“Around a year.” He gave her what was supposed to be one of his most charming smiles, although judging from Docia’s expression it wasn’t having the desired effect. “I meant to call you, Dosh. Honest.”

“But the time just slipped away.” Docia’s dry smile stayed in place. “So you’re not working for the firm anymore?”

He shook his head. “Not for a while now.”

“How does Aunt Mel feel about that? And Gray?”

“About like you’d expect.” His charming smile started to curdle. “Could we talk about this another time, Dosh? They’re about to run out of brisket on the serving line.” Or they would be if he let Docia go on interrogating him much longer.

She nodded. “We will talk about this another time. At length. You need to come to dinner at our place. Meet Cal and maybe the rest of the Toleffsons, although not simultaneously. And give me enough time to worm all the details out of you.”

“Sure.” He managed one more thin smile. “Looking forward to it.”
Just like I’m looking forward to my next root canal.

Docia threw back her head and gave one of those great hoots of laughter that made him love her. “No, you’re not. Not even slightly. But it won’t be as bad as you think. Trust me.”

“If you say so.” He sighed. “See you, Dosh.”

“See you, Harris.”

He headed back to the van. Being anonymous had been fun. But it looked like the fun might be ending.

Darcy looked across the lawn toward the Barbecue King’s food truck. The spectacular redhead he’d been talking to was striding back across the field toward the dessert table.

Of course he had groupies. Hell, every chef she knew had groupies. Amazing how many women found the ability to throw a piece of meat on the fire an aphrodisiac. She pulled another tray of potato salad out of the cooler, narrowing her eyes as she studied the other trays still resting inside. She’d overestimated how much potato salad they’d need. Or possibly overestimated the demand for potato salad with feta and olives. And DayJohn mustard.

She sighed. She was a chef. She knew only too well about the vagaries of appetite. Sometimes people were willing to take variations on the classics and sometimes they weren’t. But it almost killed her to admit the Barbecue King might be right.

She frowned, shaking her head. He wasn’t right. There was nothing wrong with her potato salad. It just wasn’t what people around here expected. She’d hang on to the recipe and use it again sometime when she was cooking somewhere else. They’d probably love it in Anaheim. Or Las Vegas.

She ignored the slight tightening in her gut at that idea of working somewhere other than Konigsburg. Anaheim would be okay. So would Las Vegas. Or Kansas City. She couldn’t afford to get attached to a place. She needed to move on when the time came, when that
chef de cuisine
offer finally came her way.

She narrowed her eyes at the leftover potato salad again. They might love it in Anaheim but they didn’t love it here and now. And the Rose would be stuck with the excess. Joe would probably find something to do with it, add it to a Niçoise salad or something. Serve it at brunch on Sunday. But she hated to misfire like this.

Damn Texas. Damn purists. Damn barbecue. Damn the Barbecue King.

She glanced across the lawn again to see his lanky silhouette emerging from his van, carrying yet another foil-covered pan of meat. Broad shoulders, slim hips, outlaw hat sloping low over one eyebrow.

Oh yes. Most definitely. Damn the Barbecue King.

Chapter Two

Chico Burnside guided his pickup carefully over the rise in the road. On reflection it probably hadn’t been too smart to take this particular route back from Oltdorf on a darkish night, but he was feeling bored and itchy, and the possibility of a quick climb over some challenging roads rather than a slower slog down Highway 16 had awakened at least a momentary sizzle of anticipation.

That particular sizzle was long gone as he rolled slowly down the hillside, on the alert for potential potholes. He’d serviced the truck a couple of weeks ago, it was running like a champ, and he’d be damned if he’d end up with a broken axle because of his own stupidity. Evidence, if any was needed, that boredom could be dangerous.

It was largely boredom that had sent him off to Oltdorf that night rather than staying around the Faro saloon in Konigsburg as he usually did. He’d told himself he was checking out a new singer at the Oltdorf Hall who might turn out to be someone to book in the Faro’s beer garden. But in reality, boredom had sent him off into the night, and boredom had now gotten him onto this dark, treacherous road. Boredom was one dangerous mother.

The moon emerged from behind a cloud, but it didn’t do a lot of good. The hillside shaded most of the road and his headlights could only dent the considerable darkness now and then. He kept his gaze on the surface directly ahead, following the white ribbon of gravel that unspooled in front of him as he spiraled slowly down the hill. If memory served, there was a long, flat stretch coming up and then a few more curves before he reached the intersection with one of the state highways. A state highway which he’d gladly take home, foreswearing adventures for the time being.

He followed the last curve and then accelerated slightly as he finally reached the flat. A couple more miles and he’d be back on the highway again.

He almost didn’t see the car on the shoulder until he was past it, hidden as it was in the shadow of a pecan. It was actually the person standing at the front under the open hood who caught his attention more than the car. He slowed down, then pulled over carefully, hoping this wasn’t one of the places where the shoulder dropped off to a drainage ditch.

He grabbed the flashlight from under the passenger seat, then stepped into the road, making sure he was as fully lighted by the moon as possible. He didn’t want to alarm the driver, and he knew just how alarming someone his size could be—even in broad daylight. Six-foot-five and two hundred-fifty pounds cast a considerable shadow, even in this weak moonlight. He made a bit more noise stepping on the gravel than he needed to. By now whoever was standing next to the car should be well aware he was walking up the road.

The driver stepped back from the hood slightly as he came nearer. He took a closer look. A woman. He had a brief impression of a blazer and tailored slacks. High-powered executive type.

Great. He really hoped she wasn’t into
shoot first and ask questions later
. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be holding a weapon.

He stopped a few feet away from her, trying to look as non-threatening as possible, which was, of course, completely futile. “Evening,” he called. “Are you having car trouble?”

He heard the woman clear her throat. “Looks like it.” Her voice was a smooth contralto, warm in the softening moonlight.

Yeah, yeah, you’re a freakin’ romantic.
“Mind if I take a look?” He raised the hand with the flashlight, giving her plenty of time to step back.

“Go ahead.”

He stepped to the front of the car, raising the hood a little more so that he could see, and shone the flashlight across the engine. “Nothing obvious. What happened?”

She moved slightly closer. “I had some work out here. When I got back to the car, it wouldn’t start. I’m guessing it’s the battery.”