“Assistant,” he said through a smile that was all teeth. “My assistant aided me in a recipe I’ve been proud to call my own for some time now. I think you’ll all recognize the design.” He held up a plate, and cameras obligingly zoomed in. The audience let out a collective “Oooh,” enraptured by what they saw.

Sera was just as riveted.

It was a tiny replica of the Empire State Building, complete with top done up in three separate shades, like the tiers of lights that illuminated the legendary building each night.

Done up, she saw, in triple chocolate mousse.

The bottom fell out of Sera’s stomach, even before Blake continued.

“I’ve employed three types of exquisite chocolate mousse, as you’ll see.” He waved a languid hand. “White chocolate for the tops, with just a hint of cardamom to spice it up.” A flourish. “Milk chocolate for the middle,” he pointed, “and rich, dark chocolate for the base, with a mere soupçon of orange essence to round it out and give it some of the sophistication New Yorkers are famous for.” He kissed his fingers to his lips. “I call it my New York State of Mind.”

I call it poaching your former protégée’s recipe, you sack of sh— Sera thought, but Vanessa’s dulcet voice broke into her blind fury.

“Points for presentation, Chef Austin,” Vanessa granted, like a fairy godmother doling out wishes. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to seeing if the taste can match that spectacular design.

“Now, Chef Wilde,” the hostess said, turning the full wattage of her smile to Sera’s team. Malcolm scowled suspiciously in return, and Sera was still too stunned by what Blake had done to remind him of the cameras absorbing every nuance of their expressions. “We saw you and your assistant working with some ring molds and pastry bags. What have you got in store for us?” She gave Sera a hard glance, as if aware of her distress and wondering at the source.

Pull yourself together, Sera, she commanded her reeling brain. If you win this round, you’ve put the whole contest away. But how can I, her brain responded with a whimper, when I’m basically competing against myself on my best day? The mousse was one of her signature dishes, but she hadn’t considered it for today’s showdown because of the time it took to chill.

Unless you had liquid nitrogen, of course.

Could her own relatively simple dessert top it? She took a deep breath, struggling with her rage and betrayal. Just when she thought Blake had no deeper depths to sink to, no further power to wound, he proved he’d always find a way to crush her.

For one split second, she considered throwing in the towel.

No! Don’t give up. There’s one battle he can’t win, Sera. And that’s class. You can at least be the better person.

Sera breathed in deep, let it out slowly.

“First,” she said with an evenness she dredged from some deep reservoir in her soul, “let me congratulate Chef Austin on a truly spectacular dessert. I’m very familiar with this one, actually, from our time working together in the big city. Hopefully it hasn’t lost any of its original savor.” She sent Blake a smile that was saccharine-dipped cyanide. Then she turned her attention out over the crowd and gave them one that came from the heart. Seeing her friends out there steadied her, reminding her that Blake might be a mean-spirited bastard, but these days she spent her days surrounded by kindness and goodwill. (Well, Malcolm notwithstanding.)

“One of the things I loved most about New York was all the amazing, old-school Italian bakeries,” she continued. “My favorites were always the cannoli, with their just-out-of-the-oven crisp shells and sweet mascarpone or ricotta filling. But I also adored a good cheesecake.” She shook her head ruefully. “There’s just no substitute for Italian-style New York cheesecake, anywhere else in the world. I had a hard time deciding which I wanted to make for you folks today. So I combined the two.” She held up a finger-length cannoli for the audience to see. “These are my cheesecake-flavored cannoli, dipped in chocolate chips and dusted with candied orange peel, powdered sugar, and just a hint of pistachio on top. I hope you’ll like them.”

But she couldn’t exactly hope they didn’t like Blake’s dessert, could she?

While the PAs were passing around plates, she took a taste of his “Empire,” unsurprised to find it was her recipe, down to the smallest measurement. The building-shaped molds, she had to admit, had been a brilliant touch—one she had come up with for the grand opening of one of Blake’s restaurants that had overlooked the city’s most famous skyscraper. She was surprised he’d managed to master the technique.

“Bon appétit, Santa Fe!” cried Vanessa.

Santa Fe dug in.

It was close, especially with the BRBs screeching like a bunch of hopped-up harpies, but Blake’s hijacked mousse trumped Sera’s cannoli.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Pauline shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth so Sera could hear (not that she was having any trouble, with her aunt standing a mere fifteen feet away). “You’ll frost his ass in the next round!”

Sera shuddered, trying to squelch the mental image that conjured.

There was another break while the crew put things in order. Vanessa had a touch-up; the crowd had a few canapés. After a flurry of consoling kisses and hugs, the Back Room Babes (dragging along Asher, whom they’d dubbed an honorary member) took their act outside for a breath of fresh air and a chance to cheer for their girl in front of a wider audience of amused Canyon Road shoppers. Malcolm wandered off toward the bar, and Sera saw him help himself to a belt from the Blue Coyote’s top shelf single malt, shooing the bartender off with a ferocious glare. Sam Everett busied himself stowing the remaining liquid nitrogen.

Sera was left alone with her nemesis.

She tried not to look at Blake, afraid that if she had him in her sights, she’d flay his skin off inch by inch with a dull apple peeler. But Blake had no such qualms. He strolled over to Sera’s side of the counter and helped himself to one of her cannoli. “Delicious,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not as good as my dessert, of course, but I will give credit where credit is due.”

This was so patently untrue that for a moment, Sera just goggled. It took her a few beats to gather a breath. “If you’re thinking of stealing this recipe, too, Blake, I warn you—”

“Oh, Sera.” Blake cut her off, painting his face with an expression of pity. “Sera, Sera, Sera. Still delusional, aren’t you? I’d had hopes the fresh air of this desert backwater might have cured you, but I see you’re still the same paranoid, desperate loser I rescued from obscurity years ago—much to my everlasting regret.” He stopped to crunch another cannoli, slurping the filling with a relish that made Sera want to vomit.

“A year ago, you thought you could humiliate me in front of my staff, cuckolding me with some low-life Latin busboy. You thought you could make a fool of me—me!—and walk away scot-free. And today you’re still trying to prove you’re my equal.” He laughed as though the very idea was preposterous. “Well, it won’t be long now until the world sees exactly what I see: a pathetic, fearful, frozen little failure who’ll wind up dipping donuts in some all-night drive-through before long.”

Once, a speech like that from Blake would have driven her to tears—or the nearest bottle. Now, Sera’s fingers curled into fists, and her vision clouded over with a red mist. “You absolute sh—”

Gonnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggg!

It was a lucky thing someone had rung the damn gong, because as her vision cleared, Sera saw the camera guys were back at their stations, grinning as they recorded footage of her confrontation with the celebrity chef.

Class, Sera. Remember, you’ll win this with talent and class. Don’t rise to the bait. Rise to the challenge.

“Get set, Chefs. Round Three in two minutes!” Vanessa chirped. “We’re all counting on you,” she whispered to Sera out of the side of her mouth.

Thanks, Vanessa. That’s exactly what this situation needed. More pressure.

Sera shook out her hands, rolled her wrists, cricked her neck from side to side. Her second stomped back to his station, breath more than a little boozy from his own relaxation technique. “Ye haven’t lost yer nerve, have ye, lass?” he asked.

“Not hardly,” she gritted.

Malcolm grinned at her through his mustaches. “That’s the spirit!”

“Everyone ready for the final round?” Vanessa trilled.

The audience, flushed and just a bit glassy-eyed from the treats they’d already ingested, gave a lusty cheer.

“All right, let’s see what the chefs have got up their sleeves this time! Remember, the goal is to show who really understands what ‘bliss’ is all about—when it comes to desserts, of course!” She chuckled amiably. “Personally,” she confided, “I’m hoping for chocolate. Nothing like deep, rich, sensual chocolate to satisfy the senses!”

The audience agreed.

The gong sounded again.

For a split second, Sera had a vision of Robbie Markham, laughing as rubber dildos rained down out of her locker and conked her on the head. She saw Blake, smirking as he took credit for her work, mocking her talent as a chef and her worth as a woman, slamming door after door in her face. She saw herself, surfacing from a blackout with puke on her shirt and no idea how she’d gotten home.

And then she looked out into the crowd. There was Pauline, shaking a pair of maracas and chanting her niece’s name like a woman possessed. There were the BRBs, backing her up with hoots and hollers. And there was Asher, standing stock-still in the midst of them, with a look on his face that was unmistakably… love.

I am so gonna win this thing.

“Forget the Wilde-at-Tarte, Malc,” she told the pie maven, a steely glint in her eye. “We’re bringing out the big guns.”

She took a deep breath. “Prepare to drop the O-Bomb.”

She’d never managed it before. The delicate combination of paper-thin dark chocolate; warm, light-as-air passion fruit curd; and tart, tangy raspberry puree was the holy grail of chocolatiers. Something whispered about, rumored, but never seen—at least not in any of the restaurants Serafina had served in. Over the years she’d attempted it only as a hobby, on her off-hours, but the confection had always collapsed like a first-year culinary student’s soufflé. The warm custard always melted the chocolate shell, making a mess on the plate and leaving what looked like a sad, smashed egg where a perfect sphere of sheer, delicious genius ought to rest.

To attempt one now, under these conditions, would be madness.

Sera would make a hundred.

* * *

“Spatulas down, Chefs!”

Sera was coated in chocolate up to her elbows, and she was pretty sure she had a glob in her hair. Malcolm had tied his mustaches in a knot under his chin and tucked the ends into his camo-print apron to keep them out of the way. Sweat beaded his brow, and he was breathing hard. Scowling at Vanessa, he defied the host long enough to stick a syringe full of passion fruit curd into the final chocolate shell, squeezing with a delicacy surprising in a man of his bulk. Sera shadowed him with a syringe of her own, holding her breath as she followed the path of the tiny hole he’d made in the chocolate with her own flavor injection of pure raspberry puree. With fingers that shook just a bit, she lifted the half-dollar-sized dessert and placed it, puncture-side down, on a plate with a teeny dollop of the curd to hold it upright. She squirted a shallow moat of raspberry sauce around the rim, just for fun.

On the counter before them stood ninety-nine more just like it—perfect, glossy dark chocolate spheres of deceptive simplicity, resting upon saucer-sized white china plates, waiting for the single bite that would transmute them from mere comestibles into a flavor explosion that had the power to decide the course of Serafina’s very future.

Swiping a forearm across her brow (and incidentally leaving a streak of chocolate behind), Sera looked up as the final gong sounded. The audience was quiet—rapt as if they sensed the significance of this moment, or perhaps were simply in awe of what the chefs had wrought.

She looked over at Blake’s station. He and Sam Everett seemed a bit the worse for wear as well—and judging by the proliferation of plates gently cupping the bottoms of a hundred individual chocolate ganache cakes, each steaming like a tiny volcano and rising from a lake of crème anglaise, they had a right to their exhaustion.