“Franconi, of course. He keeps refusing us. We’ve been trying to hire him.”

“He won’t leave the hotel.” Angelo loved it there and they paid him handsomely. Furthermore, being the head chef in an established hotel such as the Fifth Avenue was a feather in the cap of any chef. Going to a new venture, like a supper club, was a step backward.

“Do you know that for certain?”

“Absolute certainty.”

Kit stared off into the distance, his eyes vacant. “Damn.”

“There are other chefs,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but none that can cook like Franconi. He’s the very best in the city, possibly the country. Do you think he’d sell us a few of his recipes? Then we could still be associated with his name without hiring him.”

“I don’t know. He might.” An idea began to brew in the back of her mind, a devious plan where everyone came out ahead. “Out of curiosity, which recipes are you most interested in?”

“Well, the ducklings à la bigarade, of course. And the chicken dish, the one with the rice.”

“Poulardes à la Portugaise,” she supplied. “What else?”

“The lobster thermidor.” He stroked his jaw with his free hand. “I’d have to think about it, I suppose, but six or seven main courses and a few desserts should do it.” He grinned at her. “This is fantastic. I can’t wait to tell Preston that we’ve got an in with Chef Franconi.”

“I haven’t agreed to help you yet.”

His happiness faded as he studied her face. “And what would it take to convince you to help us?”

Alice didn’t answer, instead letting the silence drag out. He was a smart man; let him figure it out.

His brows slowly rose and his lips twisted into an impressed smile. “Oh, I see. Well done, Alice. It seems you’ll get those lessons, after all.”

“Really? You’ll do it?”

“If Franconi agrees, yes. I assume you’ll need to talk to him once we’re back in the city.”

“Not necessary.”

“Don’t we need him to agree to share the recipes with us?”

“Yes, he’d need to agree, but the recipes are here.” She tapped her temple.

“You’ve memorized Franconi’s recipes?”

Yes, as she’d made most of the chef’s dishes many times before, including the ones Kit wanted to buy. “Nearly all of them, actually. I will cable him this afternoon to arrange a price.”

“Excellent. So, you’ll spend the day tomorrow writing them down for me and, in exchange, I’ll give you some tips on how to appeal to whichever man your heart desires.”

That sounded . . . abrupt. She didn’t want tips. She wanted to be transformed. After all, her future depended on it. She had to convince him to do more than jot down a few hints.

No, this wouldn’t do.