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silly schoolgirl nervousness by ignoring the chef. “You guys do know Trey Gold has threatened to shoot the entire staff of the hotel if we don’t get you to the theater posthaste?”
    Rocco glanced up, his dark curls hanging in his face. His dreamy look reminded me of the face of a child lost in his imaginings. “What time is it?”
    “Way past pumpkin time.”
    Gail seemed oblivious to all of us, her fresh face creased into a frown. “So, you would make a plate of osso bucco with the cranberry wild rice?”
    “ Oui .” Jean-Charles pursed his lips as he thought. “A simple poached pear salad with goat cheese to start, perhaps? Something savory, something tart . . .”
    “Something sweet,” Gail chimed in. “Perfect. Paired with a smooth pinot noir?”
    “Nothing too heavy, though,” Jean-Charles agreed, a smile playing with his lips. “You have good instincts. The plate will be pleasing; the meal, satisfying.”
    “Excuse me,” I said, pretending to be perturbed. “Playtime is over. Time to earn your keep.” I motioned to the Jerseyites. “You two better skedaddle—you’re holding up the show. Dane, could you deliver them to Mr. Gold, personally? He’s out for blood.”
    The Texan glanced between Jean-Charles—who stood wiping his hand on a white towel that hung from his waist—and me, then nodded. “Come on, guys. You’ve got a lot of folks chasing their tails.”
    “I am sorry,” Jean-Charles said after the trio had left. “When I create, time loses meaning.”
    “Especially when you have a rapt audience and a skilled accomplice.”
    He tossed me a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look and rewarded me with a Gallic shrug and brilliant grin. “He is very talented, Rocco. And Gail has a gift for menu design, pushing the boundaries slightly while keeping things comfortable for modestly educated palates.” He pulled a stool next to the stove where he continued to work while he talked. “Sit. Stay with me.”
    I didn’t need a second invitation—the aromas were enough, but the Frenchman was an added delectable. Straddling the stool, I reached for a bottle chilling in a cooler on the counter and poured us both a glass of wine. I held the glass up and swirled its contents. “Not a Bordeaux, something lighter.” I held it to my nose, inhaling its fresh, fruity bouquet. “A Syrah?”
    “Hmmm, from the Oregon AVAs.” He peeked under the lid of a pot, dipped a spoon in, and then blew on the steaming liquid before tasting. He shrugged but said nothing as he took the wine glass. After sniffing and swirling, he took a sip, held the liquid in his mouth a moment, and then swallowed. “Nice, but not nice enough for the price point.”
    “Your call.” I wasn’t about to question his heretofore-impeccable taste. We could quarrel over costing-out his restaurant, but the food and wine were his sole province. “How did you happen to corral the runaways?”
    “They corralled me. I was working on some menu ideas for the new restaurant, and they wanted to help. They are a good pair, those two. But they do not yet know they are in love.”
    “They entered a game show to win a wedding.”
    Jean-Charles stirred something in a saucepan that started my mouth watering. “ Non .”
    “What is that?” I leaned forward, breathing deeply of the delicious aroma. “And what do you mean, non ?”
    “A red wine reduction with a special addition I am trying.” He took a sip of wine as he leveled those baby blues on me. They held a smile that made my heart do a somersault. My heart was apparently playing hooky from the School of Teddie. “And non , they entered the contest to get to Las Vegas and our restaurants.”
    “I see.”
    “And Rocco is going to teach me how to make his grandmother’s secret marinara sauce.” Jean-Charles actually looked thrilled.
    “I thought you stuffy French-types were above something so mundane as tomato sauce.”
    Seeing that the level of wine in my glass had dropped an inch or