And He Cooks Too

by Barbara Barrett

  She lifted limpid eyes to gaze into his. “You stopping there?”

  “Shh. I’m enjoying the journey.” He slid a hand from her backside to the front mound. She was wet. His fingers reveled in the moist, filmy nest. Such a powerful aphrodisiac. Reese clung to his neck and wriggled against him. “You’re torturing me, Nick.”

  “Thought you’d like that.”

  “I do. But it’s…doing…wild things to me.”

  “Yeah?”

  She lowered her eyes. “You know it does. I…want…need to…finish this.”

  He kissed a spot on the side of her neck. “Me too.”

  Her actions followed her words as her hands went to the zipper on his slacks, undoing it. She was getting pretty good at that.

  He quickly relieved her of her pants and shifted their bodies so that they were lying across one of the massive arms of the chair with their legs over the other. Reese was still on top, but at least his bad ankle was no longer cramping his style.

  She gazed down at him, a mischievous gleam in her dark brown eyes. “Looks like I’m in charge again.”

  “You think?” he breathed out huskily. “Since those new pain pills kicked in, I’m perfectly capable of running this operation.” He entered her and she welcomed him eagerly, straining against him to get closer.

  Aroused beyond rational thought, his animal instincts emerged, fueling his urge to drive deeper, faster. Pure sensation took over, sending him beyond the limits of his physical body.

  Finished, exhausted, they settled back in the chair. “You’re the best medicine,” he told her when at last he could speak. They lay there, too drained to move but satiated.

  “We should dress, clean up,” Reese said, starting to climb off him. “That aide could be here any minute.” She started to disengage herself from both him and the chair, but he caught her by the arm.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to do this, Reese. But that silly keep-our-distance pact has to end.”

  She swung around to face him. “Agreed.”

  “So? What do we do?” He kicked himself mentally for even asking, he should simply be telling her what he was going to do. But he’d never felt like this. He couldn’t get enough of her. He didn’t know where this attraction would take them, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He just wanted it to continue.

  “I’m in free fall, Nick. Joining you as co-host is challenging enough. Joining you in bed is mind-blowing.”

  He started to reply, but she held up her other hand. “But not knowing, testing myself at each step is the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced. No. I take that back. You’re the most exhilarating thing I’ve ever experienced. Despite all the complications facing us, I don’t want it to end, either.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “That camera angle makes Nick look like an invalid,” Leonie protested.

  The invalid leaned into his new cooking partner and whispered so only she could hear. “A week ago she walked off the show. Today, she’d have you believe this was her idea.”

  “A real Queen of Denial,” Reese agreed.

  Their eyes met and locked, sharing the private joke, as they’d shared so many other intimacies of late. Behind the kitchen counter, so that no one else could see, Nick’s hand skimmed her thigh, raising her pulse rate.

  Reese returned a look that attempted to convey, “Later.” Though they’d agreed to keep their relationship under wraps, especially from Leonie, Nick was becoming increasingly more daring. She had to be strong for both of them, she had more to lose.

  Nick emitted a small groan and busied himself realigning the casserole dish before him.

  “He is an invalid, Leonie. At least for now.” Jasper’s biting words crackled over the PA system.

  Leonie squared off, facing the control booth “Get over yourself, Jasper. The technical part has become much more, uh, technical these days with the host having a live assistant. I forget myself at times.”

  Assistant? Before Reese could respond to the woman’s latest putdown, Nick grabbed her knee under the counter. Under his breath he said, “Don’t let her get to you.”

  Again, her pulse rate spiked, only this time it was due to frustration rather than Nick’s touch. “She’s doing this on purpose.”

  “Of course, she is. We knew she’d retaliate. But jabs like that we can live with.”

  “We? They’re not aimed at you, sainted nephew. I’m totally the brunt of her barbs, which I find tiring. And offensive.”

  “I’m sorry she’s making this so difficult for you.”

  “Then tell her to let up.”

  A strange expression swept over his face. Fear? Distrust? No, neither. Regret. That was it. “It’s not that easy to do, Reese.”

  “Really? Give it a try. Here’s your chance.” She nodded in the direction of the approaching executive director.

  Coming up to them, Leonie said, “Reese, dear, I’ve been viewing today’s tape. I’m afraid you’re fading out on camera.”

  Not again. Hardly an hour went by without the woman finding fault with some aspect of her performance. Thus far, Reese had held her annoyance in check, though she’d probably need to see her dentist soon after the grinding to which she’d been subjecting her teeth. Mouth rigid, she replied, “What do you suggest we do about it, Leonie?”

  Leonie tapped her index finger, today featuring a spit-shined garnet nail, against her chin. “Let’s see. I suppose we could change the make-up. But no! It’s the chef’s jacket. That stark white washes you out. Let’s try street clothes instead, like Nick wears. A nice neutral color. Beige perhaps.”

  “Beige? That color looks horrible on me.” Reese examined her garment. “I could wear a blue jacket. Or something blue at the throat? Like a scarf or T-shirt?” Another thought occurred. “Why doesn’t Nick wear a jacket like me?” She expected Nick to react to that, but he remained silent.

  Leonie blinked several times. “Nick? Wear a chef’s jacket?” Strangely, though, her voice lacked its usual strident tone.

  The executive producer’s change in attitude prompted Reese to press more. “I know a lot of television chefs wear more informal clothing, but the jacket would lend a certain credibility to the show, don’t you think?”

  Leonie’s eyes searched for something over Reese’s shoulder. “Never mind,” she said airily, switching gears yet again. “It was just a thought. Besides,” she paused long enough to summon a dazzling smile, “it won’t be long before Nick has recovered and we’ll be back to one host.” Over her shoulder, she called to the control booth, “Fifteen-minute break, Jasper.” To Deborah, who’d been standing off to the side, she said, “Where is that breakdown for next week’s show?”

  In a flash, she was off, harassing her own assistant.

  Reese blew out a breath. The anger she’d been restraining burst forth, mounting with each punctuated step of the retreating woman. “Where were you in that exchange?” she asked her partner. “That was the perfect opportunity to tell her where to get off.”

  “You beat me to it.”

  She’d let that remark go, because the old dragon’s parting comment had caught her attention more. “Was she right? It won’t be long before you’re ready to take over full hosting duties again?”

  Nick turned away, rearranged the food items in front of him. “I guess. The doc didn’t say exactly when. Why?”

  “Why?” she repeated with more volume than she intended. She shot a glimpse around her to see if she’d drawn attention to their exchange and lowered her voice. “Because I’m out of a co-hosting job when that happens.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Really?”

  “This twosome approach is working, but we need to be more successful to convince Leonie. That means a larger audience.”

  She gave his comment some thought. “The only way to enlarge the audience is to get more people watching.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s pretty obvious.”

  “We have to do mor
e promotion,” she said, arriving at a solution.

  “That’s Leonie’s job.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And one heck of a job she’s done. This show is one of the best-kept secrets on cable.”

  “True, but she takes great pride in being our spokesperson.”

  “What do you want, Nick? A happy executive producer or a highly-rated show?”

  “Good point. What do you suggest?”

  Her mind sifted through various possibilities. “For starters, we have to get ourselves some good publicity. Do you have any reporter friends?”

  “Used to. I could give them a call. And Jasper should still have some contacts from his theater days.”

  “Then let’s get going. We just got a fifteen-minute reprieve.”

  As she started to transport him away from the kitchen set, Nick raised a hand. “Hold on! Jasper and I may have the contacts, but you’re the big news.”

  “Me?”

  “We need an angle, a hook, to snag the media’s attention. That’s you. My new co-host.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. “Eeuw! I always hid in the kitchen whenever the press visited the restaurant.”

  “Those days are over, my dear, if you want to keep co-hosting.”

  The thought of talking to press types unnerved her. But he was right. She needed to hone that skill if she was going to successfully launch her own show. But it wasn’t something that came easily to her. “How do you deal with the press?”

  He screwed up his face. “Never given that much thought. It just happens.”

  “Talking to strangers doesn’t just happen for me.”

  “I don’t believe that. At Solange, when a junior chef asked you a question, you didn’t run for cover, did you?”

  “No, of course not. I just answered the question.”

  He shrugged. “Dealing with the press is the same. You’re still the expert, like you were at Solange.”

  She pulled at her jacket hem, recalling her days at her previous job. “That was different. The junior staff had to take orders from me. When I answered their questions, they listened. But members of the media are under no such restrictions.”

  He raised a brow. “How can I help you relax?”

  “I need some coaching.”

  “Then I’m your boy. We can meet after the debriefing Saturday.” He offered a suggestive leer.

  “Nice idea. But I didn’t have you in mind as my coach.”

  “No? I’ve got competition?”

  “Not for certain things,” she teased, batting her eyelashes, “but I’ll take a rain check for Saturday. I’m going to pay my mother a visit instead.”

  ****

  “I’m glad the guys all had other plans today,” Reese told her mother following a leisurely lunch on Saturday. The weather had gone balmy on them, providing the opportunity to dine outside on the patio. Late spring and its attendant sweet fragrances surrounded them. “This has been nice, just the two of us for once.”

  “I’ve certainly enjoyed it.” Slight hesitation. “Not that I don’t appreciate your visit, but what really brings you home again so soon?” her mother asked, having saved that question until now. Her tone was warm, pleased but definitely curious.

  Reese bit a lip before proceeding. “I need advice. Well, more like a crash course on public relations. They want me to promote the show’s new format. I’ve never been very good with the media.”

  “You’re asking me? Doesn’t the show have a media relations person?”

  Reese sniggered. “Leonie. My chances of obtaining any meaningful pointers from her are about as great as her becoming my new best friend.” Since her mother hadn’t yet had the pleasure of experiencing Leonie, Reese added, “You used to do public relations for a living. Even after you quit that job to raise the boys, you’ve been publicity chair on every charity event you’ve worked on.”

  Her mother touched her chest. “I didn’t realize you knew all that.”

  It still wasn’t easy to talk to her mother about those years. At first, she’d felt so betrayed by her parents’ divorce. Then, after her father’s sudden death, so guilty. But most of that early part had dissipated. And she’d also come to understand her parents’ sacrifice to give her a loving home those first years of her life. “I gave you a lot of guff when I was a young teen, but I still paid attention.”

  “I never realized.”

  Back to the subject at hand. “So? How do I talk to the media?”

  “That’s easy. Remain yourself. Answer their questions, but don’t let them control the interview.”

  Easy. Her mother sounded like Nick, self-assured, unaware that just the thought of speaking to an interviewer could be threatening to others. “Remain myself. How many times have I heard that? But as soon as I’m around a reporter, my mind goes blank. I lose all sense of who I am.”

  Her mother laid a hand over hers. “Confidence. It starts there. Feeling in control, knowing that you are the authority on you. You know you better than anyone else.”

  There was more meaning in that comment than she was absorbing. It was one of those adages that made sense but really needed to be explored before you could make it your own. “Pretend you’re interviewing me, Mom. Ask me a question and see if I can apply what you just told me.”

  “Okay.” Her mother changed position, acted like she was holding a mic in front of her. “Why did you leave Solange, one of the city’s best restaurants?”

  Reese flung up her hands. “Geez, Mom. You go right for the jugular.”

  “Just asking what any interviewer who’s done the least bit of research would ask. So tell me, why did you leave?”

  Reese blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I, uh, left because I didn’t get the promotion I’d been promised.”

  “Ahhhnk!” Her mother imitated the sound of a buzzer signaling an incorrect answer. “Try again.”

  “What was wrong with that? It’s the truth.”

  “Acknowledged. But an interview isn’t the same as a legal deposition. What is it you want people to know about why you left that place?”

  “That Louis Fronton went back on his word.”

  “Do you want to ruin his reputation?”

  “That’s what he tried to do to me.”

  Her mother eyed her as if expecting her to go on, continue to think through her response.

  But she was stumped.

  “Is that how you want people to know you, as vindictive?”

  “Well, no, but I don’t want to be seen as a doormat either. Someone who got walked on by someone with more powerful contacts.”

  “That’s how you don’t want to be known. What’s the flip side?”

  Maybe she should have invested in a few self-help books instead of seeking her mother’s counsel. This discussion was getting much more difficult and complex than she’d anticipated. Try again, Reese. What do I really want? “I, uh, guess I want to be viewed as strong. In charge of my destiny.”

  Her mother cracked a smile. “Now you’re talking. So how does that translate to the question I asked?”

  She left Solange because she was strong and was in charge of her own destiny. “I want to make a name for myself in New York culinary circles. I thought I could do that by gaining experience in television.”

  “Ahhhnk! Try again.”

  “That’s no good, either? It sounded strong and in charge of my own destiny.”

  “Too strong. And self-serving. Who cares that you want to make a name for yourself? How’s that going to enrich anyone else’s life?”

  “I have to come across as some kind of humanitarian, enriching everyone’s lives?”

  “Heavens, no! But you do have to appeal to others’ interests. How is your being on television going to do that?”

  “You’re kidding. That’s what I have to do?” If that was the case, she was stymied. And a goner. She had no idea how to answer that question.

  “Let’s take a break. How about more lemonade?” Her mothe
r pulled the glass pitcher closer and poured two glasses.

  Reese sipped her drink thoughtfully, savoring the cool liquid against her surprisingly parched throat. She’d never given much thought to how her cooking could help others. Pretty selfish. Nurses gave aid and comfort to the ill and injured. Teachers helped develop children’s brains. But, other than filling someone’s stomach, what did chefs contribute to society?

  “If those brows hitch up much farther, I could place a hanger on them. What’s the matter? Did I stump the chef?”

  “Completely. I can’t figure out how my cooking skills can come to the aid of humanity.”

  Her mother tapped Reese’s glass with her own. “Congratulations. You’re almost there.”

  “Really? Then why do I feel so far out at sea?”

  “Let’s pretend again, only this time you’re a member of the audience. Aside from tuning in to gaze upon that hot young man’s pecs, why are you watching this show rather something on another channel?”

  Why would she want to spend a half hour every week watching Reese Dunbar help her injured co-host prepare food? Better yet, in the months ahead, why would she watch Reese Dunbar’s own program? God, she’d never considered any of this when she decided she’d make her mark on the city via television. She’d just seized the idea, thinking it the fastest way to celebrity.

  “Maybe I can help. Forget for a minute that you, Viewer Person, watch the show just to see Nick ripple his biceps. You’re watching this newcomer, Reese Dunbar, do her stuff. What’s she doing that catches your attention?”

  Reese tried to step behind the camera and imagine herself on the other side, talking to her audience. “I guess I’m good at what I do. My technique.”

  “Your expertise. Good start. You are good, Reese.”

  Yeah. Progress.

  “What else?”

  “Geez, Mom. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “Not by a long shot. What else?”

  She closed her eyes, still trying to envision herself on camera. “I’m talking, explaining what I’m doing. And why.” Wait! “The viewer, she’s always been fascinated with food preparation, but nothing’s ever worked for her. Watching me, she realizes it’s because she’s never understood how food elements go together. Sweet versus salty, bitter versus sour. I keep my discourse simple, easy to understand so that others are not only persuaded to try a particular dish but are encouraged to make it themselves.”