Fortune's Just Desserts by Marie Ferrarella Page A

that. “I think you are being unfair. But that is between you and your conscience.” The chef drew in a breath, as if preparing to terminate this little sidebar of a meeting. “Now, if you have nothing else to share with me, I have a student waiting,” he said glibly, gesturing toward Wendy.
    He turned his back on Marcos and crossed back to the stove and Wendy. “All right,” Enrique said in a cheerful voice, a tone that no one in the kitchen could recall ever having heard from him before, “let me see what you have managed to come up with.”
    Marcos turned on his heel and left the kitchen.
    Needing to clear his head, he kept on going until he reached the front doors. He pushed them open and went outside. Maybe some fresh air would help.
    It didn’t.
    The thoughts that were ambushing him inside the kitchen did the same when he was outside. He couldn’t seem to shake them or leave them behind.
    Terrific, he thought darkly.
    Frustrated, Marcos dragged his hand through his hair. Just what kind of power did this flighty girl have over people? He’d never seen Enrique so docile, so friendly before.
    The thing about the chef was that he was equally surly to everyone, making no distinction between people who struggled to hold body and soul together and those who were comfortable or even wealthy. Just what was there about Wendy Fortune that made everyone else respond to her positively?
    Everyone but him, anyway.
    And why, he wondered, reflecting on what Enrique had said to him, did she keep getting under his skin? It went beyond what he’d referred to as her air of entitlement.
    Marcos found himself growing unduly agitated every time he heard the first strains of that smoother-than-molasses Southern drawl.
    Marcos frowned.
    He didn’t like what Enrique had implied. He’d always thought of himself as being hardworking and,above all, fair. Maybe he was too much of the former and not enough of the latter with Wendy.
    That was another thing to hold against her, he suddenly realized. Ever since she’d shown up, he found himself second-guessing himself and overanalyzing his every move. Wendy Fortune had definitely shaken up his world—and he didn’t like it.
    The wind picked up, making the newly sprouted leaves on the trees rustle madly.
    One thing was for damn sure, he wasn’t going to solve anything out here, engaged in a mental Ping-Pong game with himself.
    Blowing out a frustrated breath, he pulled open the massive front door. Avoiding the kitchen—and the sight of Wendy—Marcos went straight to his office and closed the door.
    It was only when he started crossing to his desk that he noticed it.
    A tall, slender crystal parfait glass delicately set on a dessert plate, an extra-long spoon placed invitingly beside it. Some sort of light, creamy white confection was inside the glass, topped off with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.
    A peace offering of some sort from Enrique?
    He didn’t think that an apology was part of the man’s makeup—he doubted that the man had ever so much as once entertained the idea that he might be even marginally wrong about anything —but maybe this was the chef’s way of doing it.
    Pulling out his chair, Marcos sat down and thenlooked at the parfait glass. More specifically, the dessert within the parfait glass. Cool and tall, it was a thing of beauty, a feast for the eye.
    Now, he thought, let’s see if it’s a feast for the mouth, as well.
    He drew the parfait glass close to him, sank the spoon in through the whipped cream and scooped up a taste of the concoction beneath it.
    Marcos’s eyes fluttered shut, an automatic response to the pleasure that permeated through his entire mouth as the flavors registered with his taste buds.
    It was light, tantalizing and possibly one of the best things he’d sampled in a long time.
    Intrigued, Marcos attempted to identify the different components that