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through.”

    “It won’t.” Eva had to fight for a calm, even tone. “I promised him I could make it happen, get the RSC on the Cooking Channel, and I will.”

    “Well. That’s good, then.”

    Rolling her eyes at her friend’s bland reply, Eva said, “It will be good. I know you’re not into it, but I think Dad’s right. This is the way to take the competition to the next level, and it’s my chance to finally make the RSC look more like my mother’s vision of it.”

    Claire snorted. How did she make even that noise of disdain sound elegant? “This version of the next level involves ridiculous grandstanding, fistfights, backbiting, and all those other lovely reality show staples.”

    Eva’s stomach clenched in automatic denial. “No way,” she protested. “We’re going to keep it classy. The show is going to be all about the food, all about the craft and technique of some of the most talented chefs working today. And the more popular the show is, the more of those chefs we can help.”

    Claire sat silently for a long moment as the engines throbbed to life, filling Eva’s head with white noise.

    “I hope you’re right,” Claire finally said, her gaze searching Eva’s face.

    Eva, who also very much hoped she was right, turned on her most brilliant, confident smile—the one that banished the doubts from every potential restaurant investor and made the local health inspectors blush.

    “Come on, you know I’m going to pull it off. It’s the RSC! My family’s thing. I’m not going to let it go to pieces, or turn to shit, the very first year Dad lets me get involved with it.”

    Suddenly Patrick the flight attendant appeared at Eva’s elbow like a wonderful magical sprite, holding a tray of long-stemmed champagne flutes.

    Eva accepted her mimosa with a conspiratorial wink, and passed one to Claire.

    “Drink up, ma chérie, ” Eva said, purposefully using her ugliest American accent to make Claire grimace, then laugh. “We need the fortification before the RSC starts in earnest.”

    Clinking the cheap glasses together put a little sparkle back in Claire’s brown eyes. “Yes. Here’s to overcoming challenges.”

    “And to throwing down some challenges of our own.”

    Tipping her head back to let a sip of the tart-sweet cocktail slide down her throat, Eva enjoyed the blend of dry sparkling wine and sweet orange juice. This early in the morning, the sugary alcoholic goodness gave her a bigger lift than the air under the plane’s wings.

    Somewhere back in coach, Daniel Lunden was sipping a plain old ginger ale, surrounded by giddy passengers swilling down their mimosas. She pictured him glaring at them, those brows drawn down tight over his brooding blue-gray eyes as he silently condemned them for letting her buy their forgiveness with brunch drinks.

    Eva drained her glass and licked the sharp taste of anticipation from her lips.

    “Let the games begin.”

Chapter 3

    Chicago didn’t look at all like he’d expected.

    Blinking up through the cab window at the short, squat high-rise office buildings—high-rise? Medium-rise, at best—Danny contemplated the stainless-steel gray of the October clouds and wondered why he felt so unsettled.

    Apparently he looked as weirded out as he felt, because his brother clapped him on the back hard enough to send him sprawling against the car door, if Danny hadn’t already been bracing himself against the freaky vertigo of seeing so much sky stretching over the tops of the buildings.

    “Buck up, Danny,” was Max’s helpful advice. “Chicago’s a great town. You’re gonna love it.”

    Danny shrugged, leather-jacketed shoulders squeaking against the cracked vinyl of the taxi’s backseat. Even the cab looked all wrong, drab gray instead of bright orangey yellow. “We’re not here to love Chicago. We’re here to cook. It doesn’t matter what city we’re in—once we’re in the kitchen, we could be anywhere, and the only sight I want