Liver Let Die Read online

  He shoved a piece of paper across the desk. “So, do you want the job or not?”

  Jordan stared at the contract. Was this her golden opportunity to finally eat something other than bologna sandwiches three nights a week? “How much of a pay increase will I get?”

  His expression never changed, although she swore there was laughter in his eyes. “Let’s look at it as an opportunity to get your name out to a lot of households. Did I mention Loretta’s column is very popular?”

  She sighed. “I guess that means a very small one.”

  “Worse. I can’t pay you anything extra since I have to keep paying her. And you’ll still have to write the personals every day.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to take over this woman’s job and still do my own without compensation?”

  “Pretty much. You’re the first person I’ve offered this to, but if you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find someone who is.”

  Jordan pretended to mull it around in her head. Given she had zero culinary skills, she wasn’t sure which scared her more, writing a weekly column about food or having her name in print for the whole world to see. Okay, maybe not the whole world, but at least the twenty-two thousand plus in Ranchero.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for the contract. “When do I start?”

  He cleared his throat. “Actually, tonight. I need you to run by a new restaurant that just reopened off Highway 82 and write a review.”

  Her hand stopped midway through her signature. “You never said anything about working at night. With my nonexistent pay raise, I can’t afford fancy restaurants.”

  “That’s the good part. Everything’s on the newspaper. The restaurant caters to the Dallas crowd looking for dining by the lake. The locals can’t afford it, so Loretta was looking forward to a four-star meal with all the fixings. That was before she hopped on one of those personal watercraft things, slammed into a buoy on Lake Texoma, and went airborne.” He paused and slid a credit card across the desk. “Your job’s simple. Chow down on a free steak and write about it.”

  Jordan looked away so Egan wouldn’t see her facial expression. “It’s a steak house?”

  “Is that a problem? You’re not a vegan or something, are you?”

  “Ah, no,” she answered too quickly.

  The fact was, she hadn’t eaten steak since her dad forced her to try a rare one when she was a teenager. She still had nightmares of the cow mooing as she bit into it. Ground beef was the only red meat she ate now and even that had to be burned to a crisp.

  “You said it was reopening?”

  Egan walked around the desk and reached for the contract. “Yep. About six weeks ago, one of the owners was killed in an after-hours robbery. The place was a crime scene for a long time, but the new owner is finally reopening with higher-quality food, supposedly.”

  “What’d you say the name was?”

  “Longhorn Prime Rib.”

  She groaned, then coughed to cover it up.

  “Have a great meal on the Globe tonight. The owner knows you’re coming, so introduce yourself when you arrive. The service will be a lot better that way. I’ll expect to see your review sometime tomorrow.”

  Jordan stood and walked to the door, hesitating briefly before exiting. Could she pull this off? She’d need a lot of help and a little luck. When she finally made it back to her desk, she plopped down on the chair, praying that Longhorn Prime Rib served chicken.

  Jordan glanced at Rosie bent over a tray of jewelry. Rosella LaRue was the first person she’d met when she arrived at Empire Apartments three months ago. Fiftyish with long bleached hair worn in braids, Rosie was the last person Jordan expected to befriend.

  The woman who lived in tie-dyed T-shirts and made her living selling handmade jewelry on eBay had taken her under her wing that first day. She’d introduced Jordan to the other residents on the first floor, who had helped carry her meager belongings up the front steps and into her apartment. Rosie even made sure her stomach was full before Jordan fell onto the couch exhausted.

  She turned 180 degrees in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of her backside as Rosie approached with a jade and black necklace.

  “This one is perfect. It’ll bring out your eyes.” She lifted Jordan’s reddish brown shoulder-length hair and clasped the necklace.

  “Isn’t this the one you sold last week for big bucks?”

  Rosie laughed. “I’m waiting for the check to clear before I mail it,” she said, winking. “Think of this as you’re breaking it in.”

  Jordan fingered the chunky stones, thinking they really did dress up the simple black jersey number she’d chosen for her debut as a food critic. “It’s perfect.” She hugged Rosie before turning again to the mirror. “What about the dress? Has all your great cooking settled south of my tailbone?”

  Rosie huffed. “Honey, I’ve still got a lot of work to do to put some meat on your skinny butt.”

  Jordan smoothed the material over her thighs. Rosie was right. After her breakup with Brett, she’d been too upset to eat and had dropped a few pounds. If her mother were here instead of in West Texas, she’d be feeding her carbs every chance she got, just like Rosie was.

  “Put these on,” Rosie said, handing Jordan a pair of earrings.

  “Girl, you’re not going anywhere until we get a look at you,” a voice bellowed from the living room.

  Jordan turned quickly as Michael Cafferty marched into the room, his head nearly touching the top of the doorway. His partner, Victor Rodriguez, a good six inches shorter, squeezed past him.

  “Whoa! You look hot,” Victor said. “Too bad you’re not my type.” He winked at Michael. “You sure you’re really going to a restaurant by yourself?”

  “Hush. She’s already nervous enough to puke.” Rosie spun Jordan around so the guys from across the hall could get a better look at her. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried from Jordan’s apartment, and when she returned, handed her a sparkly black clutch. “Now you’re ready to knock ’em dead.”

  “Thanks, guys.” Jordan swallowed hard as she shoved her lip gloss, ibuprofen, and a few tissues into the small purse. Since she had the credit card Egan had given her, she wouldn’t need her wallet. After pulling out her driver’s license and a five-dollar bill, she shoved the wallet back into her big organizer bag. “I’m ready.”

  “Looking like that, you might even get lucky,” Victor deadpanned. “Then you might not end up an old maid with no sex life like Rosie here.” He bent down and kissed the older woman’s forehead.

  “Speak for yourself, young man. I’ll have you know I have an active sex life.” She giggled. “Well, I will as soon as I run by Wal-Mart and get some new batteries.”

  “Good God, woman. I didn’t want details! I was only …” He shrugged.

  Jordan high-fived her friend. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Victor speechless.”

  “Okay, let’s leave these women to themselves,” Michael said, nudging Victor toward the door. “Too much information going on over here.”

  “Have fun, Jordan,” Victor said over his shoulder, winking. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  When she was alone and ready to leave, Jordan took one final glance in the mirror, wishing she felt as brave as she was pretending to be. Heading down Main Street toward the restaurant, she scolded herself for being so jittery. Worst-case scenario, she’d have to eat a steak. Seeing her name on her own byline would make it well worth it.

  Longhorn Prime Rib was located six miles west on the outskirts of Ranchero. Jordan pulled into the porte cochere, then changed her mind and drove to the back lot to park her Camry, a decision she second-guessed on the long walk to the front of the restaurant. But five bucks was five bucks, and she needed it more than the valet guy.

  She took a deep breath before entering, again hoping she could pull this off. “Jordan McAllister from the Ranchero Globe,” she said to the maître d’.
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br />   After checking his reservation sheet, the distinguished-looking gentleman led her to a table in the center of the restaurant and handed her a menu. “May I get you a cocktail or a glass of wine?”

  Not much of a wine connoisseur, she fidgeted with the napkin he spread across her lap. “What would you suggest?”

  “The Viognier for starters. It’s our finest white.”

  Jordan nodded, smiling up at him.

  “J. T. will be here in a moment to take your order.”

  She opened the menu and nearly choked. The cheapest appetizer was twenty-eight dollars. Good thing she wasn’t paying.

  “Welcome to Longhorn,” a masculine voice said, setting the glass of white wine in front of her. “I’m J. T. and I’ll be your waiter. Can I start you off with an appetizer, or are you ready to order?”

  Jordan looked up. This guy definitely didn’t have to worry about sleeping alone. Tall, blond, with the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, his smile was a whole other subject.

  Jordan stared at the menu wishing she saw nachos and mozzarella sticks instead of oysters and sushi. She leaned closer to J. T. “I’m cutting back on red meat,” she whispered, noting there were no prices listed. “Can you recommend something else?”

  “That’s too bad. The filet here is the best I’ve ever tasted.” He took the menu, glancing both ways before he pointed to an entrée. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t recommend this because it’s way overpriced, and I’ve never tried it myself. This is one of the few items on the menu the chef won’t let us try without paying.”

  “And you think I should try it?”

  “Why not? See that guy over there? He comes in once a week or so and always orders this, never the steak. At that price, it must be worth it.”

  Jordan glanced across the room. The man was alone, sipping a glass of red wine, and he raised an eyebrow when he caught her looking. Quickly, she looked away, her gaze connecting with another man three tables over whose eyes seemed to bore into her. This one was dark and brooding, as if he’d just been told his pony finished fourth. She attempted a smile, but his expression never changed, and she quickly looked away.

  “And you’re sure it’s not beef?”

  After J. T. nodded, she leaned closer to him. “How much does it cost?”

  “Sixty-five dollars without a salad.”

  Sixty-five dollars would buy a lot of bologna, she thought, then remembered she wasn’t footing the bill. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. What’s it called?”

  “Foie gras.”

  Sounded tame enough. “Foie gras it is, then.” She leaned back and sipped the wine, which was so smooth it was easy to forget she was drinking alcohol. “Oh, and J. T., could you bring a salad, too?”

  “Do you want to try the Strawberry-Mandarin Salad? It’s a house specialty.”

  She frowned, thinking that sounded expensive, and she was already splurging on the foie gras.

  Screw it. If Egan couldn’t pay her any extra, at least he could spring for a side salad.

  After J. T. left to fill her order, she gulped a big drink of the wine, convinced she could actually feel the alcohol drowning the butterflies in her stomach. For the first time since she arrived, she allowed her shoulders to relax.

  Scanning the room, her eyes connected with the brooding stranger’s again. He looked to be a little over six feet tall, and even from this angle, she could tell his eyes were light-colored, bringing out the blond streaks in his darker blond hair. Either he had a great hairdresser or he spent a lot of time outdoors. She’d bet money on the latter.

  She raised her glass in a mock salute, and for a split second she saw a smile cross his face before it dissolved into brooding again.

  A sixty-five-dollar entrée, a glass of excellent wine, and eye candy a few tables away. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Bon appétit.” J. T. set the covered dish in front of Jordan and lifted the lid before picking up her empty salad dish.

  Jordan stared at the food. It definitely wasn’t red meat, but it didn’t look like chicken, either. Two slices resembled the dark meat of turkey, drizzled with reddish black syrup that oozed over the sides. Completing the entrée were two small blobs the same color as the syrup, decorated with red berries. They reminded her of the type growing on the hedges in front of her house in West Texas, the ones her mother had always warned were poisonous.

  She gulped. “What exactly is this, J. T.?” She glanced up, hoping he didn’t see through the fake smile and quivering lips.

  He squinted. “It’s a delicacy imported from a small town in Canada. I hear it’s fabulous.” He stared at the plate, hedging. “Let me know how you like it. I may have to break down and try it myself one of these days.”

  “Can you bring some bread?” she asked, resigning herself to an all-out carb fest. Thank heavens she’d at least had the salad.

  As she waited for J. T. to return, she picked up her fork and poked at the soft meat, not quite sure she’d ever seen anything like it before. She glanced toward the man who always ordered it and saw him looking her way, his brow furrowed. She dropped her fork, catching the glass of wine a nanosecond before it sloshed on the tablecloth.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, Jordan steadied the glass and took a sip, wondering when J. T. would return with the bread. Except for the small salad, she hadn’t eaten since the chicken sandwich and Ho Ho at lunch. Her growling stomach was audible reinforcement that it was well aware of that fact.

  Seeing her waiter approach, she had a sinking feeling she’d go home hungry tonight, but there was no way she could eat what was on her plate without knowing what it was. She prayed J. T. wouldn’t tell her this was calf fries or something equally gross. Why Texas cowboys bragged about eating those was beyond her. And why call them calf fries when they were really buffalo testicles?

  Eew!

  J. T. placed the basket of bread in front of her. “You haven’t tasted it yet?”

  “You didn’t tell me what it was.”

  He shuffled his feet a little then cleared his throat, pointing to the blackish red blobs and the syrupy squiggles. “The sauce is made from black currants.”

  “And the meat?” She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know.

  “Fatty duck liver.”

  “Fatty duck liver?” Jordan’s head shot up, positive she hadn’t heard him correctly. Noticing the stares generated when her voice rose a few octaves above normal, she leaned closer to J. T. “Seriously … fatty duck liver?”

  With his face nearly the hue of the berries on her plate, he nodded. “Sorry. I thought it might be fun trying something you’d never order on your own because of the price. Do you want me to bring you something else?”

  Feeling the weight of all eyes in the room, Jordan contemplated her dilemma. She could send the duck back, or she could take a few bites of it, then feign a poor appetite. A glance down at the entrée verified eating it probably was not an option, at least not without serious gagging—or worse. But what kind of message would leaving the duck untouched send about her qualifications? A food critic who preferred a Big Mac over a high-priced delicacy?

  Jordan imagined the owner of the restaurant on the phone with her boss. She’d lose her byline faster than she’d gambled away her first paycheck playing the Sex and the City slot machine on a Louisiana casino boat.

  She made a split-second decision. “No, thanks, J. T. This looks good.” Surely, she wouldn’t go to hell for lying about food.

  Or would she?

  His face lit up. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Maybe another glass of wine,” she replied quickly, thinking it would take a lot more liquid encouragement for her to stomach the duck liver.

  She stared at the plate long after he walked to the bar across the restaurant. The only thing standing between her being stuck writing personals for the rest of her life in this podunk town and seeing her name on her own column was this lousy gourmet dis
h.

  And lousy it was! She picked up the knife and fork and cut off a small portion, suddenly feeling like a cannibal. With her mouth slightly opened, she raised the fork, her eyes tightly closed.

  Just do it, Jordan.

  Bringing the fork to her lips, she tasted the sugary black currant syrup.

  Crap!

  She placed the fork with the uneaten morsel back on her plate. She’d never eaten duck or liver, so what made her think she could suddenly pretend this was a chicken breast? She did a quick scan around the restaurant, and when she was sure no one was looking, she shoved the duck, berries and all, into Rosie’s purse, absolutely positive her friend would kill her.

  Convinced she’d just pulled off the greatest con in history, she tore off an end of the sourdough loaf in front of her and buttered it. Leaning back in the chair, she devoured it before reaching for a second piece.

  By the time J. T. returned, she had polished off the entire loaf. “You liked it?”

  “Loved it,” she lied, hoping the devil wasn’t getting her room ready down yonder.

  “Are you sure? Because I could get you more bread.” His eyes twinkled with glee as he pointed to the empty basket.

  Jordan studied his face. “You saw, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.” He grinned, leaning closer. “I probably wouldn’t have eaten it, either.” He handed her the dessert menu. “Nothing on this menu will end up in your purse, I promise.”

  It only took a few seconds to scan the sheet in front of her and choose the fantastic-sounding Chocolate Decadence Cake. With Huey, Dewey, or Louie stashed in her purse and nothing in her stomach except lettuce, bread, and wine, Jordan savored the rich chocolate treat topped with a liqueur glaze and fresh raspberries. The kind of sensation she experienced eating the sinful dessert usually only occurred after a few margaritas and a good massage.

  She didn’t realize she was moaning softly until she caught the eyes of “Brooder,” as she now thought of him. His facial expression left no doubt he was enjoying watching her eat the dessert. Instead of being embarrassed at being caught, she smiled and licked the remaining evidence off her lips. His return grin told her the gesture wasn’t lost on him. Then her saner self took over, reminding her that although flirting was fun, she had a column to write and no clue what to say.