Iced to Death Read Online Free PDF

the lid on one of the pots and invited Gigi to have a sniff.
    It smelled heavenly. She shuddered to think of how much butter and cream must have gone into creating such a delicious mixture.
    “Then there’s sirloin steak with green peppercorn sauce, fried potatoes and a gratin of marrow.”
    “Marrow?”
    Declan frowned and bit his lip. “Don’t know what you Yanks call it.” He reached for the handle of the refrigerator, pulled it open, rummaged briefly, then turned around and held out a green vegetable toward Gigi.
    “Oh, we call that zucchini.”
    “Zucchini it is then.” He smiled and some of the shadows disappeared from his blue eyes. “And for afters, there’ll be cake, of course, with a serving of Eton mess.”
    Again, Gigi marveled at how the English and Americans both considered themselves to be speaking English, but so many of the words and expressions were different.
    “Eton mess is basically berries layered with whipped cream and meringue.” Declan explained.
    “Sounds delicious.”
    Declan shrugged. “Let’s hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “I can’t think where Armand has gotten to.” He shrugged. “We’d best get to work without him.”
    Gigi’s nervousness around Declan dissipated with each onion she chopped and pot she stirred. He was strictly professional, keeping watch over everything on the stove and in the oven. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was just a teeny bit disappointed.
    The missing Armand finally slunk in an hour later, smelling of cigarette smoke and beer. Declan gave him a stern look, and the sous chef immediately set about chopping a large batch of fresh mint, a sulky set to his mouth.
    Gigi was barely aware of the passage of time as she provided Declan with his extra pair of hands. They worked together seamlessly and mostly wordlessly, efficiently putting together the feast for Bradley Simpson’s engagement party for his son and future daughter-in-law.
    Gigi had just finished washing and hulling an enormous batch of strawberries when the back door opened and one of Declan’s waitresses bustled in. Several more followed, along with three busboys who immediately got to work setting the tables. The men shouted back and forth about the previous week’s sports scores, drowning out the women’s high-pitched chatter as they readied Declan’s Grille for the party.
    An hour later they heard the front door open. Declan wiped his hands on his apron and went out into the main dining room. Gigi heard the murmur of masculine voices combined with the occasional softer tones of a woman’s. She was sweeping the discarded strawberry tops into the garbage can when the door to the kitchen burst open.
    “Simpsons are here,” Declan said economically. “The rest of the guests will be arriving shortly.” He gestured toward the stove. “Let’s get the first batch of bacon-wrapped scallops into the oven.”
    Although Declan’s expression was bland, Gigi sensed his nervousness. The success of this party meant a lot to him. The Simpsons were very influential in town, and if they were displeased, it wouldn’t be long before there was a
For Sale
sign on the front door of Declan’s Grille.
    Armand slid a tray of the hors d’oeuvres in question into the oven while Declan unwrapped a large piece of pinkish-red fish.
    “Salmon?” Gigi asked.
    Declan nodded as he carefully removed the layers of plastic wrap. “Gravlax. I made it myself.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I used to date this Danish girl. She was a model,” he threw out offhandedly, “and she taught me how to do it.”
    Gigi wasn’t surprised. Declan was definitely the tall, blond, Danish model type, not the average, everyday-girl type. Gigi immediately thought of Pia. Fortunately, her sister was anything but average.
    “The name means grave salmon and refers to the medieval practice of curing the raw fish by burying it in the sand above the high-tide level.” Declan smiled and the dimple in his