Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
NADIA
I'd been meticulous in my cleaning before they arrived. Everything in its place, surfaces sanitized, equipment stored correctly. It was how I always worked. My years in the military applied to commercial cooking just as naturally.
But now, looking at my workspace with fresh eyes, something was off.
I walked through the kitchen slowly. Checked every surface, every corner, every piece of equipment. Nothing obvious. Nothing that would...
There.
Behind the large prep counter, where the health inspector always checked. Where food safety violations would be most damaging.
A wadded-up napkin, stained with what looked like raw chicken juice. Shoved behind the industrial refrigerator, barely visible, was a piece of raw chicken.
Adrenaline shot through me, scorching everything in its path.
The cameras.
I pulled up the security footage on my tablet and rewound to when they'd arrived. I watched the visit through once, then a second time at half speed, waiting to catch the moment.
Samantha's hand was near the counter. Justin drifting toward the refrigerator. Anything. There was no moment. Their hands never left their sides.
Ten minutes in a working kitchen, and neither of them had touched so much as a door frame. Nobody does that naturally. You do it when you've rehearsed it. They hadn't come here to threaten me, or not only that. They'd visited to be recorded as having touched nothing. So I kept rewinding.
I found it at 7:42 that morning, during the produce delivery, while my crew was loading the van and the back door stood propped the way it stands propped every Wednesday.
A figure in generic kitchen whites came in behind the second dolly. No logo, head down, cap brim killing the camera angle. They went to the prep counter, then to the refrigerator. No searching, no hesitating. They knew my layout cold.
Forty-some seconds, entry to exit, and the delivery driver never turned around. I ran it five times. Lean frame, gloved hands, face never visible. It could have been anyone, which was the point.
Then the rest of the design came into focus, piece by piece, the way a briefing does when somebody finally pins the map flat. The trash scattered by my door before they'd ever knocked. A complaint already sitting in the system somewhere — I'd have bet one of my vans on it.
A ghost to do the touching. Two clean executives to stand in frame doing nothing.
An inspector due on schedule to look in exactly two places.
Nothing could be connected to anything. Whoever had built this had built it so that every piece could be held up to the light, one at a time, and come away spotless.
I photographed everything without touching it.
The napkin. The chicken. The trash that had been deliberately spread outside my back door.
Then I carefully bagged everything, sealed it, and labeled it.
Only after double-checking that the timestamps were visible on the footage did I send a copy to Malakai, as he'd asked.
Evidence.
My hands were shaking with rage when I called Daemon.
He answered on the first ring. "Hey, I was just—"
"They came here. Samantha Morrison and some guy named Justin. And while I was busy keeping them away from my prep tables, somebody else had been here earlier."
My voice was surprisingly steady. "There was raw chicken under the front of the fridge and a dirty napkin behind my counter, placed for an inspector to find. I've got a ghost on camera, Daemon. Forty seconds of somebody in whites who knows my kitchen better than my own staff does."
Silence. Then, low and dangerous: "I'm on my way."
"Daemon, I'm fine. I found it before—"
"I'm already in the truck."
He hung up.
I stood in my kitchen, staring at the bagged evidence, and felt something settle inside me. They'd crossed a line. Not just aggressive business tactics or social media rumors. Actual sabotage. Actual criminal activity.
And I had proof.
By the time Daemon arrived, I'd secured the evidence in my office safe and found some calm. The shock had burned off, leaving only icy determination.
He burst through the door as if ready to fight someone. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Better than fine." I showed him the footage on my tablet. "Look at this."
He watched in silence, jaw tightening, hands curling into fists. After I hit pause, he looked at me. "We're calling the cops."
"And reporting what? An unidentifiable person in kitchen whites walked through an open door during a delivery window, touched two surfaces, and left. No face, no logo, no forced entry, nothing taken."
I tapped the screen. "The chicken proves somebody did this. It doesn't prove who. And the two people who actually came to my door today never laid a finger on anything, which I'd bet is exactly what their lawyer would invite the police to notice."
"Nadia—"
"They're going to call in an anonymous health complaint. Probably already have." I met his eyes. "Let them. I'll pass with flying colors because there's nothing to find. The complaint dies, and I add one more piece to a file of things I can prove happened and can't prove came from anywhere."
"That's a risk."
"Of course it's a risk." I touched his arm. "Trust me. I've got this."
He studied my face, then nodded slowly. "What do you need?"
"Tomorrow night. The Business Roundtable dinner." I pulled up the guest list on my tablet, something I wouldn't have done without Sofia leaning on one of the ladies in her church group. "Samantha Morrison and Justin Walters are confirmed as guests of the chapter president."
His expression darkened. "They'll be sitting with him?"
"At the head table." There was nothing warm in my smile. "They'll walk in thinking I’ve failed a health inspection. That they've won."
"But you found the evidence."
"I did. But they don't know what my cameras caught.
" Cold satisfaction settled deeper. "That's the beautiful part.
Their ghost kept his head down, but Samantha Morrison can't be certain of that.
She knows my system is new. She knows somebody walked through my kitchen this morning.
Tomorrow night, I'm going to let her sit at the head table and wonder exactly how much of it I have. "
Daemon's expression shifted to something that looked like pride. "That's my girl."
Thursday morning had my team in full prep mode. The Business Roundtable dinner was bread-and-butter work. Fifty local business owners and community leaders met at the Roundtable offices for a monthly catch-up and gossip. We'd been catering it for three years.
By early afternoon, everything had been packed and transported, and my staff had set up in the large boardroom-come-meeting-hall. I was alone in the kitchen, finishing paperwork, when the health inspector arrived.
"Ms. Becker? Health department. Anonymous complaint."
I didn't bother keeping my face neutral. Instead, I reacted the way I would if reported anonymously to the health department. "Oh, goodness. You'd better come in."
What he didn't know was that I'd seen him arrive on the security camera and had watched him take his time checking the area around the door. So that's how it was going to be.
He was thorough. Professional. There was no mistaking that he was laser-focused on the prep counter, even getting down on his hands and knees to check under the front of the refrigerator. The exact spots where I'd found the planted evidence.
He checked everything as thoroughly as I had. Took photos. Made copious notes.
Twenty minutes later, he looked up from his clipboard. "Everything's in order. You'll receive the formal report within five business days, but I don't see any violations."
Was it my imagination, or did he look supremely pissed off?
"Thank you. I'm surprised that there was a complaint. I pride myself on my hygiene standards. My time in the army taught me that best wasn't good enough."
After he left, I locked up and headed to the Roundtable offices, unable to keep the smile off my face.
My staff had everything under control. Food ready, service positions confirmed. I positioned myself where I could see the entrance and watched members arrive.
The chapter president. The treasurer. Local shop owners, contractors, and professionals. Familiar faces, most of them my clients at one time or another.
Then, fashionably late, Samantha Morrison and Justin Walters walked in.
Confident. Smug. They greeted the chapter president like old friends, laughed at something he said, and took their seats at the head table as if they belonged there.
Because of where I was standing, they hadn't seen me yet.
I waited until the first course was served, until everyone was settled and eating. Then I picked up the tray for the head table.
Samantha looked up as I approached. Froze.
I served the chapter president first. Then the treasurer.
Then I set Samantha's plate in front of her with a flourish.
"Ms. Morrison. Mr. Walters. Welcome to Coogan's Break."
Samantha's smile was tight. "Ms. Becker. Lovely event."
"Thank you. I take food safety seriously." I met her eyes. "I'm sure you'd agree, given your visit to my kitchen yesterday."
Something flickered in her expression.
"Very thorough operation," Justin said smoothly.
"I'm meticulous. Regular deep cleans, every surface, every corner." I smiled pleasantly. "Found some interesting things yesterday during my post-visitor inspection."
Samantha's face went carefully blank.
"Security cameras are wonderful for quality oversight." I adjusted her silverware. "The health inspector seemed satisfied this afternoon. Funny how anonymous tips sometimes lead nowhere."
I saw when she understood. When she realized their sabotage had failed.
"Enjoy your dinner."
I walked away. Behind me, Justin's urgent whisper was loud enough to have the chapter president asking if everything was all right.
In the staging area, Daemon was waiting. He'd watched the whole thing.
"Beautiful," he said quietly.
"Just the opening move." I checked the upcoming courses. "Now they know the trap failed, but with no idea how. Let them spend the next month wondering what's sitting in my office safe."
"They're trapped. And they can't say anything about the food." He fell silent, watching the pair. "Although they're having trouble swallowing right now."
His amusement was such that he had to slap a hand over his mouth to stop the laughter. I was about to do the same when I remembered I was wearing foodservice gloves. In the end, I had to make do with swallowing my giggles.
"Between you and me, I hope they choke." I looked at him. "Let them sit there all evening, wondering exactly what I caught."
He pulled me close and kissed my forehead in a way that had me longing for more. So much more.
"You have no idea what it does to me when you take control like that," he said, his voice low.
"Don't," I warned, my response to his nearness that of a woman, not a girl. "If you're sweet to me right now, I’ll lose it."
His laugh was low and quiet, meant only for me. His hands were at my waist, and I could feel the adrenaline still moving through me, bright and restless, with nowhere to go.
At least not without causing a scene. Damn, I wanted him so much.
"Come here," he said, and before I could ask where exactly here was, he had his hand around mine and was steering me through the staging area and into the narrow supply corridor behind it.
It was dark and smelled of linen and cleaning products and a hundred previous events. Daemon turned me until my back met the shelving and stepped in close, one hand flat against the shelf beside my head, the other still at my waist.
Touching, but too light for my liking.
"Two minutes," he said, his mouth close to my ear. "That's all I need."
"I have a dinner service to run." My protest was weak even to my ears.
"I know." He dipped his head, his lips brushing mine, barely a contact, more a suggestion. "You were extraordinary out there. You know that?"
"Daemon—"
"The way you walked up to her." His voice dropped to something low and unhurried, the tone he used when he had all the time in the world and knew it. His hand at my waist tightened.
"Cool as anything. Like she was nobody. Like you'd already won." His mouth moved to below my ear, where he nibbled my neck, the sensation heading directly south. "Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
My hands hovered near the front of his jacket. I was not pulling him closer. I was absolutely not pulling him closer. Damn it, I’d need to remember to replace my gloves.
"I have guests," I said. My voice came out lower than I intended.
"You do." His thumb found the zipper at the front of my monogrammed jumpsuit and slid it down, ever so slowly, until I slapped my hand over his.
Strange, considering all I wanted was for him to zip that zipper as low as it would go. And then some.
"And in about forty minutes, when this is over." His lips grazed my jaw. "I'll show you exactly what watching you take charge did to me."
There was nothing tentative about the kiss that followed. Deep and long, it left my lips feeling bruised and my body crying out for more.
I was tightening my grip on his jacket when he broke away, leaving me panting with raw need. "That's not fair," I choked out.
"No." I could feel him smile against my cheek. "But you've got three courses to get through, and I want to make sure you're thinking about me for all of them."
He stepped back to give me room, then calmly zipped up my jumpsuit as if he hadn't just dismantled me against a supply shelf in two minutes flat.
"After you," he said.
I went back to my dinner. My hands weren't steady when I replaced my gloves, and neither were my legs. The only steady thing about me was the pulse of need between my thighs. My face was warm enough that I was grateful for the kitchen heat to blame it on.
Through the doorway, I could see the head table. Samantha and Justin sat frozen, barely touching their food. The chapter president kept trying to engage them. They smiled. Nodded. Stayed in their seats.
Because leaving would raise questions they couldn't answer.
Daemon's phone buzzed. He scanned the message and held his phone up so I could read Chase's text.
An anonymous violation was filed Tuesday. They claimed to have witnessed the violations firsthand.
"Filed before the chicken was even in the building." His voice was icy. "Idiots."
"Not complete idiots," I said. "Look at the bones of it.
The complaint comes from a witness who doesn't exist. The planting was done by a ghost nobody can name.
And the two executives drove out here to stand in front of my brand-new cameras, touching nothing, the same afternoon.
Every piece deniable. Every piece at arm's length.
The only mistake they made was the calendar. "
I looked across the room at the pair. "And the calendar is enough to work with."