Interview
ESTELLE
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fuentes,” I say, realizing a second too late that I practically yelled the words since my ears are still stuffed with earplugs.
His lips twitch as he watches me scramble to remove the spongy plugs, heat creeping onto my neck and cheeks.
“Estelle Signon.” I extend my hand to him.
Three security guards immediately take a step toward us, their hands reaching into their jackets, eyes trained sharply on mine like it’s a bomb.
I start to pull it back, only to feel his large, warm hand engulf mine and grip gently but firmly.
Somehow, that one gesture feels loaded and prophetic, but my brain doesn’t have time to process it.
He takes a step forward, eyes never leaving mine, expression not once deviating from the emotionless mask he’s presenting.
Unless it’s not a mask at all.
Maybe it’s just him.
Cold, calculating, never giving anything away.
He speaks after a silent moment of simply holding my hand until it’s toasty warm. “Miss Signon, I’m pleased you accepted the ride I offered,” he says smoothly.
“Ride is an interesting word to describe it,” I blurt out, then bite the inside of my cheek to keep my mouth shut.
Who speaks like that to a crime lord? Someone with a death wish.
Apparently, that’s me.
His eyes glint with amusement. “Should I apologize?”
Yes, you should. “Of course not. Your terms, Mr. Fuentes. That was made clear to me.”
He nods, though he seems unsatisfied with my answer.
“I’m sure you can understand that precautions are needed in my line of work.”
He knows I must know about him.
Who in California doesn’t?
I don’t say anything. When he releases my hand from its captivity, it somehow feels wrong.
“You will prepare three meals for me as your trial run and make enough for two people.” He hands me a folded paper, and I take it, trying not to make contact with his hand again. “Is two hours enough?”
I unfold the note and read what’s written inside in block letters. “Yes, two hours will be more than enough.”
He nods once. “See you then, Miss Signon. You will find the kitchen is fully equipped with everything you will need. If you require anything else, Ross—” he points at Number Two “—will be happy to make arrangements.”
Number Two—Ross—nods in my direction.
“Got it,” I say.
He gives me one last lingering look before turning and leaving the kitchen, followed by his security detail—except for Ross.
At some point, the goons had taken off their sunglasses. Ross’ dark eyes remain leisurely on me as he stands next to the kitchen door, hands grasped in front of him.
Now that I have a moment to look around, I can’t help but be impressed and excited by the large professional kitchen. I’m in the middle of a sea of shiny steel and marble—and I love it.
I reach for the black apron neatly folded on the counter, bring it over my head, then tie the strings behind my back.
Time to get to work.
**********
The long dining table seats twelve people. It’s made of the kind of wood that looks heavy and old, like an antique. I have no doubt that a man like Carlos Fuentes would pay a fortune for even a simple dining table.
I set the meals on the table—soup bowl filled first—and the rest at the center, near the head of the table where he will sit. The second bowl is to his right, for the person he will be tasting the food with.
Once I hear steps approaching, I stand back and wait.
To my surprise, it’s just him.
His eyes take in the food arrangement without a word.
Perhaps following his instructions to the letter does not warrant a reaction from him.
What is he like when he is disobeyed?
“Miss Signon,” he says, standing behind the seat reserved for the guest, his eyes taking me in, “shall we eat?”
“Of course.” I look around, waiting for a second. “When will your guest arrive?”
He grabs the sides of the chair and pulls it back, still focused on me.
“You are my guest.”
All sane thoughts make a swift exit.
“What—excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He gestures to the chair with a slight nod. “Have a seat, Miss Signon.”
When my legs move, it’s automatic, like a robot; unfeeling and unthinking. When a man like Carlos Fuentes asks you to have a seat, you do.
Especially when you are still in his house, and you have no idea where said house is located.
I sit down numbly, and he smoothly pushes the chair in for me.
Am I on a date?
Is there such a thing as a job interview date?
I think I’m on one.
He sits down at the head of the table and removes the covering from the bowl of steaming creamy chicken soup. My lungs stop working the moment he grabs a spoon, dips it into the bowl, and brings a generous spoonful to his mouth.
This is it.
Make or break.
His expression doesn’t change—not a twitch, or a grimace, not even—
Mr. Fuentes’ eyes close, the spoon and his arm freezing mid-air, and he smiles.
A genuine, dimple-flashing, corners-of-his-eyes-crinkling, honest to God, SMILE.
The breath I had been holding whooshes past my lips shakily.
His eyes lock with mine and he frowns. “Please, eat.”
Still on automatic, I grab a spoon and do as he says. The rich, creamy soup with bits of finely chopped carrots and diced chicken consumes my taste buds.
I have made this a hundred times, but today it tastes different, like a perfected recipe I have been working years on. Which, I guess, it is.
We eat in silence for a minute or two, with only the sounds of metal clinking against porcelain.
“Do you enjoy cooking for yourself?” he finally asks.
“Yes, I do,” I reply.
“And what is it you like to prepare?”
I swirl the spoon in the remainder of the soup. “Onion soup and garlic bread.”
He nods, covers his empty bowl, and slides it to the side. Someone should be here to take it away.
“Don’t you dare.”
My eyes snap up to meet his, expecting to see disapproval from his sharp tone.
Amusement glints in his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You were eyeing the empty bowl like you were ready to pounce on it and disappear.”
Is he teasing me?
Heat spreads in my chest, but I don’t look away. “Guilty.”
He pours water into his glass and hands it to me.
“Oh. No, that’s your glass, Mr.—”
He silences me with a sharp look.
His terms.
I take the glass and mumble a thanks. This man is nothing like any of my previous clients. For one, I shouldn’t be sitting here and eating with him during an interview.
He grabs the tray. “Do you also like your steak rare?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Your plate?”
It takes a full second for me to realize what he’s asking. I hand him my plate, and he fills it with a steak, then smothers it with the mushroom sauce.
When he hands it back, I’m so apprehensive I lose my appetite.
“Eat.”
He’s not even my boss yet, and he’s bossing me around. I suddenly want to defy him.
“What are you doing?” I blurt out just as he is about to cut the steak with a knife.
“I believe I’m about to try this steak.”
“No, I mean right now,” I say, my hand gesturing back and forth between us, “why are we eating together like this?”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t—not this. It’s unusual.”
The knife cuts through the steak and he smears it through some sauce before bringing it to his mouth. I watch him chew slowly, eyes fixed on mine.
Heated.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.
“This is delicious. Eat, Miss Signon,” he says simply, but with an edge that tells me not to argue.
I do.
It is delicious.
Of course it is.
“Tell me about the video,” he says once his plate is empty.
He devoured it—I’m still halfway through.
My hand immediately stills. “The video?”
He nods.
We both know what he’s talking about, so there’s no use playing the fool. Five hundred thousand people may think I’m a reckless fool, and somehow, right now, I only care that the dangerous man looking at me doesn’t think I am.
“Should I try to defend myself?” I return his stare with the same intensity.
“Should you?”
“I shouldn’t have to.” My voice is small, almost choked.
His eyes narrow dangerously.
“I will have them take it down. Would you like that?”
My gut clenches at the offer. This is what I desperately wanted for the last three months. I prayed for it. I did all manner of research into the possibility of having it taken down.
And now, finally, he is presenting me with a choice.
But what will it cost?
“Why?” I ask.
His smile is not one of glee—but of power.
“Because I can.”
“In exchange for what?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Nothing.”
I look down at the steak, considering his offer.
“No.”
Silence stretches infinitely between us, and I wonder if this is how a person gets on a Mafia boss’ bad side—by declining his gift.
His chair pulls back suddenly. I look up and watch him close the short distance between us. One hand grips the back of my chair, and the other flattens on the table next to my plate.
I’m caged.
Trapped.
He lowers his head until our noses almost touch.
Almost.
“You will start tomorrow, Estelle. You are my chef.” Deep green eyes hold mine hostage. “You work only for me.”
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