And the minute he saw me naked, you might ask? He didn’t run, but groaned “Come here, you.” No frozen smiles, no eyes bulging out of his head for the shock of seeing a less-than-perfect body, no nervous swallowing, wondering how he was going to approach the mountain of my body. Just his hands running all over me, caressing me, driving me bananas.
And when he moved to lift me on top of him I cringed, but only for a split second.
“Silly girl,” he whispered as he easily lifted me up against his hard body. He was beyond strong, beyond aroused. I’d never seen anything so big, but I was so ready he slipped right in, and once I got over the shock of how easy it could be, I began to move as he caressed me, clutching at me, and whispering how beautiful I was. I expected to wake up any second alone in my bed at home, but there he was, underneath me, and I saw my whole life flash before me like when you die, only I had skipped that part and gone directly to heaven.
* * *
Two orgasms later, I lay in his arms as he played with my hair. “Will you tell me what happened to upset you so much?” he asked gently.
I shrugged. Did he really need to know about Ira? “Ira and I are divorcing.”
“I know. Are you okay with that?”
I nodded. “It was time. There hadn’t been anything left between us for years. And yet we’d tried so hard, but it didn’t work out. And now Ira’s with the Stiletto Girl. I guess he’s finally got what he always wanted.”
“What do you mean?” Julian asked.
Again, I shrugged. “She sends him sexy text messages.”
Julian chuckled. “I can send you shamefully sexy text messages.”
“Yeah, but I’m not Miss Sexy.”
Julian sat up. “Erica, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. Ira’s the one who doesn’t know what he’s lost.”
“That’s really sweet of you, Julian…”
“I’m serious. I’m so happy you’re here with me. Truly I am, and you shouldn’t let such a clueless guy hurt you like this. ”
I looked up at him. I was the clueless one, because I didn’t have a clue why he was saying such nice things to me. He’d already got me in the sack—what more did he want?
“You’re a gorgeous guy. A former baseball celebrity. Why would you waste your time on me?”
“Erica, you have to stop measuring relationships with people’s looks or jobs. I have slept with beautiful women, and I have slept with less beautiful women, solely because of their personality.”
“And I’m your latest bursting-with-personality-less-beautiful woman,” I concluded.
He took my chin. “No, you’re not. You are very beautiful, with your sparkling eyes and this cute dimple on your cheek.”
“But you could have absolutely anybody.”
He grinned. “I don’t want anybody. I want you,” said my tall, British and delicious baseball warrior.
“Oh, well. In that case—kiss me.”
“Now you’re talking,” he agreed and took my mouth, his tongue sucking my lower lip. “Mmm, you are delicious. Here, I want you to have this. Use it whenever you want—no strings attached,” he said, reaching behind him into a bureau and wrapping my fingers around a small metal object. A key.
I looked up at him. The key to his home?
“Julian, you can’t be serious,” I whispered.
His hand curled around mine. “The alarm code is 190651.”
I buried my face into the hand holding the key. To me it was more than a house key. It was a home key. It was the key to happiness. If only I could use it. I slipped it onto my necklace and beamed at him through my tears.
“Use it any time, day or night, even just to chill out. If I’m not home and you need me, call me and I’ll come,” he whispered.
I looked down at the key. So much for looking elsewhere for a lover. “Thank you.”
“Will you have lunch with me tomorrow? I know a place that serves fantastic shrimp linguine and the most amazing scallops.”
What do you say to a guy that gives you all you need—plus scallops?
Chapter 22:
Juan and the Hooch
“Uhm… Mrs. Lowenstein?” came my senior waiter’s terrified voice behind me, bringing me out of my steamy sex memories, and instantly the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The tone, I had grown accustomed to, but it was the “Uhm” that promised nothing good. I turned around in my swivel chair. “Yes, Mitch?”
“Uhm… we kind of have a problem.”
I sat forward, planting my still sore feet flat on the ground, pinching the bridge of my nose where a major ache was already developing. “What is it, Mitch?”
“It’s, uhm… Juan.”
Juan, my genius, arrogant and extremely lazy head chef. I swore one day I’d sack him.
“What about him? Is he giving you grief again? Send him in and I’ll deal with him.”
“No, Mrs. Cantelli. It’s just that he… isn’t here.”
I shot to my feet, oblivious to the pain in them—aware only of the fact that it was too close to lunchtime and that we were now in the danger zone. The next question was useless and stupid.
“What do you mean, not here? We have twelve delegates from Europe over for lunch in an hour and Juan’s gone AWOL?”
Mitch nodded miserably and squeaked, “I thought he’d arrive. He’s always a little late, but—”
“Mitch, you have to stop defending your colleagues, especially if they are the first to rat on you.” I felt like a bad school teacher. And now we were in shit. And then another stupid question.
“Have you tried calling him at home?”
Again Mitch nodded.
I grabbed my bag and coat. “Have Dieter bring my car up, will you?” I said as I flew out the door and bam into none other than Julian.
Images of him inside me flashed through my mind and I tried to shake them off. What the hell was he doing there?
“Erica, I thought we were having lunch together,” he said as I frantically disentangled myself from him, not without noticing how strong and clean he felt, his white shirt crisp under my panicky fingers.
“Can’t—emergency!” I called back over my shoulder, but then slowed down as I reached the lobby, so as not to make a scene, and also to give my blisters a breather. Our hotel was, after all, a chic one.
“What? Wait! I’ll come with you,” he called, steering me towards his jeep.
This was it. This was my job on the line. I had never screwed up before. I hadn’t monitored my staff. It wasn’t a mistake I could afford. The moment I would slip, as some had wagered, had come. I was screwed. Dead.
And so now I was on my way to Juan’s house to salvage the salvageable. I just hoped it wasn’t what I thought. Last year I had caught Juan guzzling down a secret stash of hooch. On the job. The fact that he’d stolen it from the bar was immaterial. I wanted him, needed him to be sober twenty-four/seven. I should have fired him at the first sign of weakness. Or better, I should’ve killed him.
My heart froze at the thought of him passed out on the floor, and me holding him by the lapels, shaking him like a madwoman, trying to get his secret recipe for Gazpacho Andaluz out of him.
This time I wouldn’t be able to forgive him (unless he was prostrate on the floor with the mortal effect of some rare snake bite). This time I was deep in it. If my twelve European delegates didn’t get their lunch it would be my butt as well as Juan’s.
“He’d better be dead, or else—” I choked. Gone was the broken but horny woman of the day before, replaced by my usual kick-ass efficiency.
“Ira?” Julian asked, glancing at me as I pointed and he turned a corner. Obviously he was still following the thread from yesterday. Boy, he may have been a former baseball star/playboy who thought he knew women, but,
man, he sure didn’t know me.
“Ira? What’s it got to do with him? Turn left here!”
In one second I’d explained the emergency, jumping out of the car before Julian had come to a full stop and pounding my fists on my now ex-chef’s front door (I make it my business to know everything about my staff, including where they live) before you could say “Holy Guacamole.”
Julian went round the back to find another entrance, I presume, or, judging by the look I must have had on my face, to point Juan to the nearest escape.
And then the front door opened and Julian let me in, dragging me by my sleeve to the bedroom at the back. Juan was kneeling by his bed, as if in prayer, sobbing like a baby. And then I froze. Sprawled among the sheets was a young woman, her eyes unseeing, her naked body wracked with deep, broken breaths. The bastard was sleeping behind his wife’s back. I was tempted to leave him there. It would save me firing him, but then I thought of his wife Rita and how she needed his benefits package.
“Call nine-one-one!” I heard Julian say as he dashed toward the woman and pulled off his own belt and tucked it in-between her teeth.
“What the hell are you doing?” I cried as I dialed. “Hello! Yes! Please send an ambulance to 99 Rosecliff Terrace!”
“Ma’am, what’s the problem?” came a disembodied male voice that sounded like it belonged to someone picking his nose.
I looked at Julian desperately and he said, “It’s a seizure.”
I repeated the information to the operator.
The sight of that poor girl made me cringe. Never had I seen someone in such a state, but Julian acted swiftly, like he knew what he was doing. Then she fainted. Or I hoped.
He turned her onto her side and then set her back to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I stared at him as he touched her throat for a pulse, lowered his face to her naked breasts and listened, then began all over again. After a moment he placed one hand on top of the other on her chest and pushed in short, rapid shoves.
Juan still lay sprawled in the corner on the floor, still bawling like a baby. That sure was a deterrent from betrayal to anyone.
“Juan, what’s her name?” Julian demanded, but all Juan could do was hold his head in his hands.
“Juan!” he shouted. “Her name!”
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “I think she said Lola!”
Holy crap. Juan, whom everyone thought was happily married. He even had children for Christ’s sake. Bravo. And he’d even brought her into his own home? What the hell was happening to the world? I should listen to my instincts more often. And now here I was, having to clean up after his marital indiscretions, as if I didn’t have my own problems.
After what seemed like forever, the wail of an ambulance filled the air and in no time paramedics spilled into the house with a stretcher, asking Julian all kinds of questions, which he promptly answered.
“Sir, you may have well saved this woman’s life,” one informed him gravely.
“So she’s going to be okay?” I asked. The poor girl looked really wasted. I cringed at the thought of her mother getting the news. I wondered what would upset her more, the fact that she wasn’t well or that she was sleeping with a sixty-year-old man.
“She’s coming to,” one of the paramedics said as they hauled the gurney into the back of the ambulance and disappeared. Julian turned to me and I sagged with relief. Juan went back inside and threw himself onto the sofa in his droopy underwear. Not a good sight. And to think that this man had served me food.
“Thank you, Julian,” I moaned as I pulled him close to kiss him smack on the mouth. He tasted yummy. Then I remembered my Europeans.
“Crap!” I screamed. “I have to go take care of my twelve guests!”
It was like The Last supper, or at least it would have been for me if I couldn’t pull this off. I whipped out my cell phone and started barking orders at my sous-chef Walter.
“Get Hank in pronto—tell him Juan’s ill and he’s got ten minutes to get his butt to the hotel otherwise it’s his job! And get Marie and Angie to start dicing vegetables! And make sure you pull out the right cut of meat!” Then I hung up and huffed. Julian was looking at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “But the show must go on.”
Julian escorted me back to his jeep and closed the door for me. “Lucky for you I’m a great cook,” he said with a grin.
We barely made it. The delegation was fifteen minutes late, which gave us the time we needed. As it turned out Julian really was a good cook—and fast, too. He expertly cut and marinated the meat and seasoned the vegetables as I ran around giving my staff orders. Still, I didn’t miss his furtive glances at me. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or impressed. This was one side of me he’d never seen. But he, too, was extremely efficient. He worked quickly and quietly except to communicate his timing. Gordon Ramsay would’ve loved him.
“You’re hired,” I beamed, and he smiled and shrugged. “How can I ever repay you?”
He grinned. “There is one thing,” he said.
“Done!” I exulted.
“Seriously. I’d like to learn how to cook Italian food. Would you teach me?”
“You want me to teach you to cook Italian food?”
“I told you—my real mother was Italian and I feel I’ve missed out on so much while growing up. You’re a real Italian. Would you do that? It would mean so much to me.”
It also meant a form of commitment. Would I spend hour after hour while Italian food slowly cooked in my oven, this delicious man standing by my side? Is the Pope an old geezer? He was asking me if I minded having it all. Being happy. All I wanted was to be around him, bask in the heat of his sensuality, laugh at his jokes. Be his woman.
Was that what he’d asked me? Was I his woman? I had his house key, didn’t I? And now he wanted me to teach him to cook Italian food. He wanted to learn my culture, to appreciate it. Ira could never have cared less, but Julian was finding ways for us to spend more and more time together. Was he ready to take me on... in a real relationship? Was he ready for a commitment? Was I?
And what about Tuscany? I couldn’t forgo that, never in a million years. Maybe I was building all this up in my mind. Something that was turning out to be too deep for me. A fling was what I needed, not to be salivating after a guy like Julian. Why didn’t I just take what life gave me instead of trying to have it all at the same time? Because for twelve bloody years I’d missed out on so much happiness, that’s why. And dammit, didn’t I deserve some happiness? But standing before this beautiful man, I didn’t want to ruin whatever this was we had.
I swallowed. “Learning to cook takes a lot of time. Are you sure you can spare it? I mean, you’d be spending hours on end with me.”
“I already spend every night with you.”
I looked up, confused, and he grinned.
“I lie awake at night thinking about you.”
“Sold,” I grinned back, and he leaned over and kissed me. Smack dab in the middle of The Farthington kitchen crawling with my staff. How was that for a commitment?
Chapter 23:
Birthday Suit
(Stilettos and Panties)
The day before my birthday, I decided to give myself a little carefree present— precisely a pair of red stiletto heels and a pair of lace panties, just like Ira’s lover. Only my target wasn’t Ira. If I was indeed going to continue having this fling, I had to set the pace and tone for myself for once. Be in charge. Be able to have sex playfully, not just as a chore as it had been with Ira. No, from now on there would be fun in my (or Julian’s) bed. To hell with my good resolutions about finding another guy. I didn’t want anyone else.
I pulled out my old trench coat to make sure it didn’t smell like moth balls, my heart beating like a schoolgirl’s. I knew it was cheesy, maybe even ridiculous,
but played right it could be fun. I’d always wanted to do something like this but Ira never let me get away with it.
But, if I could start off my relationship with Julian on a sexy, playful note, I’d already have a better relationship than I’d ever had with my husband. If Julian was game, I was home free. And if not, simple—the kids would be very happy at a new school.
* * *
Of course I had some backup clothes in the car, but for now I wrapped the trench coat tightly around me and rang Julian’s door bell. His jeep wasn’t there but I rang all the same, out of courtesy. After all, it was his house. Nothing. I bent to fit the key around my neck into the lock, punched in the code, and, in my birthday suit, stepped over the threshold.
My feet were killing me already with the new shoes. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wear them until he got back? I shrugged out of my coat and looked in the hall mirror, my naked breasts glowing white in the dying light. “You have completely lost it, lady,” I said to the woman in the mirror and burst into hysterical laughter.
I wasn’t a raving beauty but Julian was right—I did have beautiful breasts and my curves were generous. I liked generous. He liked generous. So why was I so friggin’ panicky? Wasn’t this what I’d always wanted?
I found a beautiful chaise by one of the living room windows, a room we’d bypassed on my first visit, and adjusted myself on it like a Hollywood star. Waxed within an inch of my life and as fresh as a rose, I leaned back, my too-tight stilettos dangling from my toes, my long hair all on one shoulder, looking sultry and relaxed on the outside while on the inside I was having multiple mini-strokes by the minute.
There was still time for me to get up and go home. I didn’t have to go through with it. But I really wanted to. At thirty-five, this might very well be my last chance to have sex like a young woman without looking pathetic (if I didn’t already). As a sudden wave of panic washed over me, I bolted back to the mirror, checking my B-side and all the other sides to make sure I didn’t have anything gross on me like a major pimple or wart. Was I really doing this? Damn right I was.
The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) Page 18