Cooked

By Chanel L. Faye

She has a job to do, and she can't let anything get in her way—not even love…

 

DEA special agent Brittany Townsend's assignment is simple. She's to go undercover at the trendy San Francisco restaurant that's a suspected cover for a drug smuggling ring, and get the evidence she needs to shut them down. Too bad there's nothing simple about her feelings for the restaurant's loyal, charming, and distractingly sexy head chef…

 

Quincy McKnight made a deal with the devil to save his brother's life. Now, his restaurant is a front for illegal activity he could never condone, but must tolerate. His life is way too messy to even consider romantic entanglements. But…there's something about his lovely, whip-smart, new employee that's making him rethink everything…

 

Brittany and Quincy are in danger of losing a lot more than their hearts as this mission plays out. Can their potential romance stand the heat in Quincy's kitchen? Or will their one shot at happily ever after go up in flames?

 

Cooked is a spicy, steamy, lightly angsty, romantic suspense standalone with a guaranteed HEA.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chanel L. Faye
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215279137

Book preview

Chapter One

Crack!

The gunshot hit the cement wall I was using to shield myself. I peered round to see the gunmen ducking from the shots of my colleagues. I sneaked a look from behind the wall to see if I had a clear shot of one of the gunmen. As I raised my gun and twisted my body to get a better aim, I gasped and fell backward onto the cool concrete ground. Fighting against the sharp pain, I took a breath of the filthy air permeating the San Francisco alleyway. Am I shot? How bad is it? Footsteps swiftly approached.

Brittany! Have you been hit? Michael asked as he crouched down beside me, his gun ready to shoot.

I don’t know, I wheezed, frozen on the ground.

With his hand, Michael searched my body for wounds as he lowered his gun. The shrill noise of police sirens echoed in the alley as they pulled up. The gun shots stilled, and footsteps slapped on the concrete to escape the scene.

Michael gave out a breath of relief. You’re good. It hit your bulletproof vest.

I slowly sat up, my hand on my aching lower chest. What happened? Did you arrest them?

Carlos—my former work partner—approached us, putting his gun back into its holster. Michael? Is Brittany hurt? Should we call for an ambulance?

Nah, she’s good. Just had the wind knocked out of her.

Michael and Carlos helped me up and leaned me against the wall. I took in large gulps of air mixed in with the stench of piss and garbage from the large containers lined in the alley.

We arrested three of the El Monstruo Negro guys and a few ran away. But these are low-level guys. I’m not sure what intel we will get from them, Carlos said.

This whole thing was off. It seemed like they knew we were coming tonight, I croaked.

I agree. They were prepared, Michael said with a nod.

Carlos put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Well, let’s go and find out. I’m sure one of these guys will have loose lips.

The blue lights of the police cars reflected against the dark, dirty alley as we walked to the crowd of cars littered with police officers and DEA agents.

***

I opened my apartment door and switched on the light, its warm glow lighting up my sparsely furnished lounge. The keys made a rattling sound when I dropped them in the bowl next to the door. Walking past the couch to the kitchen to pour myself a bourbon.  Gulping it down, I poured another, which I carried to my dark bedroom. Pulling off my black shirt, I stepped toward the long length mirror, my fingers slowly trailing down the purplish-pink bruise on my dark-brown skin near the bottom of my rib cage. Wincing, I sipped my bourbon to ease the pain. Removing the rest of my clothing stepped into the shower.

A knock sounded as I walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel and a shower cap covering my shoulder-length, straight black hair. A small smile crossed my lips as I walked to the door and opened it. Michael stood by the door, leaning against the door panel.

He grinned. Good, now I don’t have to take your clothes off you. He pulled me in and his lips connected with mine. He kicked the door closed and lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him, the towel falling to the floor as he carried me to the bedroom.

***

The four-story DEA offices in Oakland, San Francisco Bay were a dull sandy-brown color with black paned windows. I sat in my off-white cubicle, equipped with a desktop and a printer, typing up the report on what had transpired last night when the phone on the desk rang. I groaned as I saw who was calling.

Ma’am, I answered.

Agent Townsend, my office, now, Supervisory Special Agent Tameka Atkinson’s clipped voice came through the phone. Before I could answer, she’d put the phone down.

Okay, I said as I breathed out a frustrated sigh and stood up to walk to her glass office.

What’s up? Michael asked as I walked past his office, his door open.

I shrugged, cracking my knuckles as I neared Supervisory Special Agent Atkinson’s office. Agents normally got called to her office when they were in trouble. My mind began working overtime trying to find any mistakes I might have made last night.

I gave two sharp knocks before opening the office door to see that my supervisor was not alone in the office. Two white men and a Hispanic woman sat on the chairs facing her desk, wearing plain clothes, but from their stance I could see they were police officers.

I heard about your near-miss yesterday. Are you okay? Supervisory Special Agent Atkinson asked.

Yes, ma’am.

Good. Pull up a chair.

I sat down and waited to hear why I had been called to her office, my fingers fidgeting with the silver necklace around my neck.

She picked up a file on her desk and handed it to me. I opened the file and saw the name: Quincy McKnight with an ‘OPEN’ stamp next to the words ‘case status’. Clipped to the file was a digital picture of a tanned, white-skinned male with turquoise-green eyes, dark-brown hair, and a straight roman nose.

The San Francisco Police Department Narcotics squad has been investigating McKnight for months now with assistance from the DEA. Last night’s interrogation with the perps you guys picked up yesterday gave us information that a significant number of narcotics will pass through his restaurant in the coming months. She paused, and one of the two men took the opportunity to speak.

We need someone to go undercover and give us inside intel of what is happening there. We need to know what, when, and how the deal will take place inside that restaurant. His dark eyes pierced right through me.

And that is where you come in, Atkinson said.

My eyebrows rose in surprise. Me?

Yes. We want you to go undercover. We need someone who knows a bit about running a restaurant, and we know your grandparents used to own one, right?

I cleared my throat. Sadness rolled over me as I remembered my late grandparents and the summers I’d spent with them helping them run the restaurant. Right.

The woman was next to speak. McKnight uses a recruitment agency to find staff for his restaurants, and the agency informed us he is currently looking for an assistant general manager. You’ll be the candidate that the agency puts forward to him.

I nodded as I glanced at the information on McKnight. According to the file, he was a two-star Michelin chef with restaurants across the US, but his restaurant in San Francisco was his flagship one where he was still head chef. The SFPD suspected McKnight worked with the El Monstruo Negro cartel to bring drugs into the US from Colombia. A familiar slow burn of anger simmered inside me when I saw a drug dealer, who had no regard of the impact the drugs had on people’s lives, as long as they made money out of it.

When do I start? I asked, tapping my fingers on my arm, eager to begin the undercover operation and nail McKnight.

Next week. You’ll have a brief interview with McKnight before you start as assistant general manager, Atkinson answered. Take the file and read through it. Tomorrow, the SFPD narcotics team working on the case will meet you. I’ll brief Michael and you’ll report to him every two weeks on your progress. Okay, you can go now.

I nodded and walked out of the office. I took a deep breath, relieved that I hadn’t been in trouble and excited that another bad guy was on his way to being busted.

Chapter Two

I threw all my weight into the punches I dealt to the heavy bag as I worked out my aggression before meeting with McKnight that morning. The narcotics squad had informed me they suspected that nearly 100 kilograms of heroin and 150 kilograms of fentanyl had passed through McKnight’s restaurant in San Francisco. The drugs had made their way to the streets, and who knew how many deaths had occurred because of these drugs making the rounds in the San Francisco Bay Area? Ruining lives and families. That thought alone made me punch the bag hard, moving Manuel with it.

Whoa, what has gotten into you this morning? Manuel said as he steadied his feet.

Manuel had been my boxing trainer for the last three years, starting when I’d first picked up boxing to ease the daily frustrations from work that sex could not take away.

Nothing, I’m just developing those offensive punches that you said I should work on.

Well, take it easy. The bag has done nothing to you.

We moved to the ring to do a couple of boxing rounds before Manuel called it a day. I wiped my sweat with my hand still in the boxing glove.

Are you sure you’re okay? Manuel asked as he helped me remove my gloves.

Yes.

His bushy black eyebrow arched, showing that he didn’t believe me. Normally, I don’t get you in the jabs, but today you were off your game.

My mind is preoccupied with work stuff. He looked at me for a second but decided to let it go, as he knew I couldn’t talk about work. I have to go, I announced. I have a meeting at nine am today.

Okay, tomorrow we’ll work on your cross punches.

***

My hand smoothed back my hair pulled into a high bun. I wore a navy pleated midi dress as I stood outside McKnight’s restaurant. Written in golden cursive lettering on the glass doors of the restaurant was the word Sunflower. I strolled into a black wood and light-yellow décor that emitted an air of elegance. I stood by the door, wondering why it was empty inside the air-conditioned restaurant.

A six-foot-tall man walked through the swinging doors of the kitchen, his head down as he stared at a tablet. I gave a small cough to make my presence known. His turquoise-green eyes looked up, taking in my appearance. A sizzling spark of awareness flowed through me. Goosebumps prickled under my skin, making me shiver in the cool temperature of the restaurant. I frowned at my body’s strange reaction to this man.

I’m guessing you are my nine am? his gravelly voice asked me.

Y-yes, I stammered and then stiffened my back as I heard the nervousness in my voice. My name is Brittany Jones. I’m here for the assistant general manager position. I