“Mari,” he whispered against her skin, leaning up to taste her mouth again. And reached for the fly of her jeans.
She shivered her way out of her jeans, smiling as his eyes widened at the high French-cut bikini panties that matched the bra.
“Your turn,” she murmured, tugging off his shirt. Then she stopped. She had to.
The guy was magnificent. She gaped at the smooth, muscular perfection of his torso.
His eyes were like bonfires as he reached for her, tracing the lacy edges of her panties. “I’ve thought about what you were hiding under those clothes of yours,” he said. “But I see my imagination didn’t do you justice.”
“Likewise,” she said, fingering his corded muscles with the pads of her fingers. “All this, and you can cook, too.”
His smirk was dark, mysterious. “And that’s not all.”
With that, she felt one of his strong fingers push the panties out of the way, stroking her clitoris with a firm, sure stroke. She gasped.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, continuing to lick at her breasts as his finger continued its maddening exploration of her sex. A second finger pressed in deeper, past her clit, enveloped by her damp heat.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, her hips arching. “Please…”
His tongue worked against her nipple as his hands pressed between her legs. She was trembling all over, the feelings of the roughness of his fingers against her dampness and the velvet heat of his mouth against her breasts combining in a state of sensual overload.
She felt the tremors start before she recognized what they were…and by the time she did realize what was happening, the orgasm had ripped through her mercilessly. She cried out, a throaty moan. “Oh…oh…Nick!”
He didn’t let up, the relentless motion of both tongue and hand producing an echo of the tremors as he brushed against her G-spot and caused her to almost weep with pleasure.
She collapsed against the couch, limp and sweating. He moved his hand to push himself up on the couch, and she felt bereft at the loss of his fingers pressing inside her.
“When I get the feeling back in my extremities,” she said, panting, “I am going to thank you properly.”
His grin was smug. “Your response was thanks enough.”
“Oh, I’m sure…” she said, then reached for the fly of his jeans. “Then I suppose you don’t want…’
Rrrrrring.
She glanced over. It was ten o’clock. Who would be calling?
She looked to see Nick staring at the phone, also. She turned his head. “I don’t care,” she said, lowering the zipper of his pants and smiling as he groaned. She reached in, feeling the length of his erection against the cotton weave of his briefs. It was hard as steel and hot. “Just take me.”
But before he could tug the offending material off, the machine clicked on. “Mari? It’s Lindsay.”
“Ignore it,” Mari said, kissing the flat planes of his stomach and edging toward his waistband. She had condoms up in her bed-loft. She would take him upstairs, and they’d finish what they had started….
“I think I might have figured out something that might save the restaurant,” Lindsay’s voice said relentlessly.
Despite herself, Mari’s attention shifted abruptly to the machine. Unfortunately, so did Nick’s.
“Well, maybe not save, but definitely help. I was thinking we should enter in a competition. Several of the ones that I’ve researched offer sizeable cash prizes, and at the very least, they offer very good promotion. They also have a lot of ‘guardian angels’ at these things—you know, investors. Anyway, we can talk about it tomorrow, but I wanted to call you in case you were home. I didn’t want to forget.” There was a pause. “Of course, we’d only have a few months to pull it off, especially if things don’t shape up soon. Still, it’s worth thinking about. Call me when you get in…I’ll be up.”
There was a click, and the message machine went back to silence.
Mari took a deep breath, staring at Nick, who was now looking at her with an expression she didn’t like. “Where were we?” she said, her hands still in his jeans.
But the mood had shifted. Anyone could tell that.
“Just how much trouble is Guilty Pleasures in, Mari?”
Mari felt the tone of the question like a cold San Francisco fog bank. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
He leaned back, out of reach of her fingers. “Is it something you need to worry about?”
She huffed. “Do we have to talk about this now?” She nudged herself off the couch, stumbling slightly onto the floor, then turned and glared at him. “I thought we were going to…well, you know.”
“That’s why you’re creating the new menu,” Nick said, his tone serious. Obviously the you know moment had flown right out the window. “Because you’re not moving enough meals or making enough money. Because Guilty Pleasures is going under.”
That did it. She grabbed her shirt, tugged it back over her head. “I guess this is the part where I say it’s been a lovely evening, and I’ll see you at work on Tuesday.”
“Mari,” he said, standing next to her. Shirtless, with his pants unzipped slightly, he was still enough to make her gasp. “I can help you. I created all the menu plans at Le Chapeau. I was practically the manager. I can help you turn Guilty Pleasures around.”
Mari saw the sincerity in his eyes…and yet she saw a hint of something else.
Opportunity, maybe?
“All this, and orgasms, too,” she said, her voice sounding bitter to her own ears. “Wow. A woman would have to be a fool to turn that down, huh?”
She paused, then handed him his shirt from the back of the couch.
“Too bad. I’ve been called a fool so many times, I’ve got the T-shirt.”
He stared at the shirt, then at her. “That’s it? You’re going to turn me down because you think you don’t need my help?”
“No, I’m turning you down because, sous-chef or not, this is none of your business.” She tugged on her jeans haphazardly. “I’ve already done one stupid thing tonight. I’m not going two-for-two. You have a good evening, Nick.”
He pulled his shirt on. “This isn’t finished,” he warned, as she walked past him and opened the door.
She smiled sweetly. “It is for me.” With that, she closed the door on his glare.
She leaned in, listening to his footsteps as he tromped down the stairs and out into the street.
Who was she kidding? He was right—it wasn’t over. In fact, she had the sinking feeling that she’d just started something she wasn’t ready for.
3
TUESDAY MORNING, Mari didn’t get in to Guilty Pleasures until the last possible moment. She hung back until she saw some of the crew waiting out on the street before crossing and unlocking the door.
She wanted to convince herself that she just needed a little more time to sleep in, but that was a blatant lie—she hadn’t slept well since she’d met Nick, and after their interplay Sunday night, she had barely slept at all. She did spend a lot of time in bed…or dreaming, out of bed.
The fact was, she didn’t want to be alone with him. Not because she was afraid of him. Rather, she was afraid of what she was going to do when she saw him again.
She had been stupid. Unbelievably so. She could remember the quivery aftershocks of really good sex coursing through her like a drug. He’d made her come and he’d promised to help her restaurant.
If she hadn’t been burned before, it would have been a promise too good to be true.
Oh sure, he’d help me, she thought. Maybe he was worried about her, and the fortunes of the restaurant. And maybe he meant it, as a charitable gesture.
But she knew that what he was doing wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted to get ahead, and she might be the one to help him.
There was heat between them, no doubt about it. But however strange and powerful it was, it wasn’t “caring”…it was sex, pure and simple.
“Wha
t’s the special?” Xavier said, chalk in hand.
She closed her eyes. “Chicken Piccata,” she said, then quickly thought again. “No. Matzo ball soup. Right.”
“We’ve got the makings for either.” Xavier shrugged. “Whatever you want, boss.”
Whatever I want. She thought of Nick. She couldn’t have what she wanted. She shouldn’t have even sampled what she wanted!
She shifted her feet, while rubbing at her temples. “Let me look at the walk-in, and see what we’ve got,” she said instead.
Of course, she already knew what she had—she’d gone over inventory with Lindsay on Monday, making her orders for the week. But she’d just seen Nick come in, and that was one thing she was not quite ready to deal with.
Hidden away in the coolness of the walk-in pantry, she looked over their stores: cans of artichoke hearts, jars of mayonnaise…the usual supplies. Maybe chicken salad, she thought desperately. Or will that tank like the rest?
Hell. Maybe she should bite the bullet, and go with that Molé Poblano. It couldn’t do worse than anything else she had on the menu.
Still, it rankled. She could see it now: Nick Avery, former chef at Le Chapeau Noir, saves struggling restaurant in the heart of the Mission District. It would look good on a press release, she thought sourly. Or better, on a resumé.
She closed her eyes for a second and leaned her head against one of the shelves. Maybe she was just bitter. She’d taken on a lot—Lindsay often chided her for not delegating more. But the lessons she’d learned early on were difficult to unlearn. She’d tried so hard to be everything to everyone…and had wound up pleasing no one, and taking all the blame when Le Pome had failed. From then on, she took responsibility for everything.
She wasn’t about to turn over her fate, and that of her restaurant, to someone she barely knew…and had almost slept with.
She heard footsteps behind her, and made a guess at who it was. “Mari, we need to talk.”
She didn’t open her eyes, simply sighed deeply. “Can it wait?”
“As a matter of fact,” she heard Nick’s voice say sternly, “it’s already waited over twenty-four hours. I’d say I’m due.”
She heard the pantry door shut behind him, and her head jerked up. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a moment of privacy with you,” he said in a low voice, his arms crossing in front of his chest. Now that she knew what it looked like without a shirt, she forced herself to stay focused on his eyes. They were gleaming with anger—and some undefined emotion, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Well, you can get a moment’s privacy on break,” she said, hating the fact that her voice trembled slightly. “I’ve got to come up with the special for the day.”
“Forget the special,” he said, advancing on her. “We need to talk. About Sunday night.”
She shrugged. “What’s to talk about? I made a mistake. We made a mistake. Let’s just put it behind us and stay professional, shall we?” The last word ended on a high note of surprise as he backed her against a shelf, putting a strong arm on either side of her.
“Do you honestly think we can put whatever this is between us—‘behind’ us?” he said, in a low voice that ran over her like a caress.
She looked down at the floor. No. She’d been telling herself that she could put it aside, since the night he walked into the restaurant. She’d repeated it when she kissed him after his interview, when she’d invited him over to cook for her. Even when she’d stripped down to her underwear and writhed beneath him in her living room.
She’d been lying to herself.
She put her arms up, knocking his arms aside. “This he-man crap does nothing for me, Nick.”
“How about this, then?” He put one hand on her shoulder, and another under her chin, forcing her gaze back to his eyes. “I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you. Sure, yeah, I’ll be honest. It’d be great to have a few signature dishes on the menu. It’d be easier to get promotion. It’d be easier to get my name back. Is that what you want to hear?”
She didn’t look away, but she swallowed hard. No, what I want to hear is, “Mari, I want to help you, I don’t care about my reputation, I just want to get you through this.” She almost laughed at her own naive desires.
She shrugged, and he let out an irritated huff.
“Did it occur to you that, since jobs aren’t all that easy to come by for me right now, the fate of your restaurant is now my problem as well?”
She looked at him. Self-motivation…and self-preservation. She couldn’t really blame him for that.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I always have.”
He stared at her, and she felt the usual warmth…with an undercurrent of wariness. Finally, he jerked his chin toward the door. “They don’t know, do they?”
Now a spike of ice hit her in the chest. “They don’t know what?”
“That you’re going under. They have no idea how dire the situation is.”
“I haven’t told them.” She felt her own chin go up a notch. “And it’s not as bad as you—”
“What would they do, I wonder?” His eyes were fixed on her like a rifle sight. “Quit? Leave, while they still could?”
“No,” she said instantly, angry. “They care about me. They’re loyal. I’ve known them for years.”
But they’d worry, she thought, with a slight edge of panic. They were the closest thing she had to a family. That was why she hadn’t told them.
That was yet one more reason she had to turn this whole thing around.
“So…it wouldn’t hurt to tell them.”
He let the words linger in the air for a second.
She realized the gist of what he was saying. “This is blackmail,” she said flatly.
“I prefer to think of it as reasoning with someone who refuses to see reason, but you can call it what you like.” His voice was firm. “I’m not saying hand over the keys, dammit. I’m just saying…let me help you.”
She nudged him away from her, crossing her arms and standing in the furthest corner away from him—which, in this admittedly tiny walk-in, was not very far. “Help me how?”
“Let me cook for you. For real this time,” he said, when she made a snorting sound of disbelief. “We come up with the right theme, develop the right menu, get the right people to look at it…I could help you save this place, Mari.”
She closed her eyes.
What choice did she have, really?
“All right,” she said. “But it doesn’t get your name on it. I don’t want this to become a celebrity chef thing.”
He grimaced. “All right. And we work at my place.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
He turned toward the door. “Because I’m sick of you having home court advantage. So…tonight?”
She shook her head. “After an eleven-hour shift? My brain’s going to be like tapioca.” She took a deep breath. “And I don’t want to brainstorm in front of the crew. They’ll know something’s wrong if we rework the whole menu in front of them.”
His eyes glowed. “All right. Then Sunday night again…and Monday morning.”
NICK’S WORDS WERE STILL echoing in Mari’s head on Thursday. Whenever they had a break, he had something for her to taste, usually with a “close your eyes and try this” while his fingers tickled her lips, distracting her from the taste of the food. He talked with her about possible menu items, but all she could sense was the incredible heat from his eyes.
Mari Salazar, you are losing your mind.
The phone rang, and she answered it. “Guilty Pleasures, this is Mari.”
“Mari? This is Leon.”
“Leon!” she said. She saw Nick’s eyebrow quirk up, and she smiled at him before disappearing into the back room with the cordless. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s it going?”
“The usual. At least here I don’t have to teach first year students anymore.” He chuckled. “I don’t hav
e a lot of time to talk, but I was wondering…did Nick Avery get in touch with you?”
Mari felt a slight blush heat her face. “Um, yes. I meant to call you about him.”
She heard Leon let out a sigh on the other end of the line. “I hope I didn’t put you too much on the spot,” he said, his voice full of apology, “but if you’ve seen him cook at all, you’ll know how incredibly talented he is.”
Mari knew how talented he was. And not all of it was his cooking.
She blushed harder and stammered. “Well, yes…”
“He was a brilliant student. I can vouch for that.” Now her old teacher had pressed into hard-sell mode, something she’d never heard him do before. “More than his talent, he’s an incredibly hard worker. He’s got drive…you wouldn’t believe the extent of his ambitions.”
Mari frowned. It was easy to overlook his ambitions when he was seducing you with a few words and a few random touches…easier still when your body was dying to be seduced. But this drove home the point.
“I can imagine just how ambitious he is,” Mari said, her voice turning slightly sour.
Leon was silent for a second. “Perhaps I am misrepresenting him,” he said, and she could tell the note of confusion in his accent. “I don’t mean that he’s unscrupulous, certainly. He just wants to be the best. And he’s as close to being the best as any I’ve seen.”
Mari let out a low breath. “Yes. I know he’s talented. And I know he’s a hard worker. I hired him, Leon.”
She could almost feel the relief over the phone line. “Ah, that’s wonderful. So? He’s working out well, then?”
Mari glanced at the door, hoping he wasn’t listening. “He’s working out pretty well, yes.”
“You sound reserved.” Leon paused. “Good grief. This isn’t that nonsense from Chapeau, is it?”
“No, no, of course not.” The last thing she was thinking of was his past reputation. He could’ve robbed the place blind and all she’d be thinking of was how good his hands felt on her.
Definitely losing my mind.
“Then what is it?”
Mari took a deep breath, then peered out. Nick looked busy at the sauté station, so she muttered into the phone, “He’s a little…er, distracting, isn’t he?”
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