Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [113]
He touched her cheek gently with one long finger, before he turned away and said briskly. “I believe a dose of remedial whiskey is in order. I'll call Marc and tell him to meet us in the lounge.”
six
JANE WOKE UP TOO LATE TO HAVE BREAKFAST the next morning, having opted to sleep for a precious thirty minutes more, after her late night. As this was the first morning of her training as cook's help for Sam Brockmeyer and she did not want to be late, she was half running when she came up on deck.
Simon Dominic hailed her cheerfully and fell into step with her. He noted the black eye and cut lip with frank curiosity. “What a shiner!”
Jane made a face at him. “You should have seen the other guys,” she loftily. “I should have known that our little adventure would have been all over the ship by this time. And they say women are gossips!”
Simon grinned. “Well, you can't show up with a fighting cock in your arms, and the three of you looking as if you'd been in a barroom brawl, without exciting a little curiosity.”
“I can't tell you about it now,” Jane said briskly. “I don't want to start off on the wrong foot with Mr. Brockmeyer by being late.”
Simon gave her an understanding look. “I'll see you at dinner and help you lick your wounds. There may be even more of them by then. Brockmeyer is a terror to work for.”
“Don't worry. I cut my teeth on top sergeants,” Jane said flippantly. “You only have to remember to get in the first punch.” Ignoring Simon's answering chuckle, she broke into a brisk sprint in the direction of the kitchen.
She had only a moment to appreciate the stainless-steel cleanliness of Brockmeyer's domain, before a voice bellowed menacingly from the planning desk in the far corner of the room. “You're late!”
This was patently untrue, as could be seen by the large clock on the wall. Jane moved forward serenely to stand before the cluttered desk and forbore apologizing, which the archdemon of the Sea Breeze obviously expected of her.
“Good morning, Mr. Brockmeyer,” she said cheerfully. “I'm Jane Smith. I'm looking forward to working with you.”
Sam Brockmeyer was a tall, lanky man in his late thirties, with a slightly receding hairline and the creased, jowly face of a mournful bloodhound. His soft brown eyes should have been appealing, but there was nothing endearing about the stony glare that the chef was directing at her.
“And I thought they had given me the dregs before,” he said scathingly, his eyes running distastefully over her battered face and diminutive figure, in its oversized garments. “You must be Captain Benjamin's final revenge.”
Jane smiled at him sunnily. “No, actually I'm your reward for being such a brilliant chef,” she said sweetly. “My grandfather hated poor food, and since we often lived in less civilized corners of the world, he had me trained in Paris. Naturally, I'm not up to your standards, but I think you'll find I'm adequate.” She paused. “I think you can teach me a good deal more, and I'm not about to be intimidated by your shouting or slave driving. Do we understand each other?”
Brockmeyer stared at her for a long moment, his face impassive, before saying slowly, “We understand each other, Miss Smith.” He gave her a toothy grin.
In the next four days Brockmeyer appeared to be trying to make her eat those brave words. If Jane had not been absolutely sincere in what she had told the chef, he would have terrorized her, as he had her predecessors. Jane found herself working ceaselessly from six in the morning until nine at night in an atmosphere of turbulence that made a tropical hurricane appear as gentle as a summer breeze. The slightest clumsiness or mistake was met with a virulent diatribe from Brockmeyer's scourging tongue, and he obviously was taking malicious pleasure in singling out Jane for attention.
Jane accepted both the exhausting labor and verbal abuse with a cheerful serenity that frequently brought a look of baffled frustration to the chef 's face. Though only allowed to do the donkey's work to begin