Guilty Pleasures

by Cathy Yardley

  “What?” she said, feeling a queasy sort of nervousness rise in her throat.

  “I’m a basket case on competition days,” he said, and his tone actually made her laugh. “I’m serious. When I competed in Internationale last time, my teammates threatened to tie me up and stuff me in a broom closet until the thing actually started. I just get a little keyed up before events, that’s all. Nervous energy.”

  Energy was right—she could feel it crackling from him, like static electricity. She could understand it, because she was feeling the same burst of nervous energy herself. Only, knowing that it was certain death for her restaurant, she could put more emphasis on the “nervous” part.

  He needed a distraction, obviously, she thought. They both did. The next couple of hours would be brutal, and the judging… She didn’t even want to think about that.

  So what could distract them both for a while, take them away from all this?

  She saw a door slightly ajar down the dusty hallway. In the slight light from the hallway, she thought she could make out brooms and mops. She grinned.

  “This way,” she said, tugging his hand. “I’ve got an idea.”

  She pushed open the door, taking a minute to find the light switch, which lit a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was a utility closet of some sort. There were various props from the theater works that were performed in the auditorium, some music stands, some cabinets, as well as various cleaning supplies. She pulled him in, tested the doorknob, and then shut the door.

  He looked at her, quirking an eyebrow curiously. “What?”

  “Well, I won’t tie you up,” she said, smiling slowly. “But I can keep you in here until the competition starts.”

  He laughed, until she walked up to him, tracing the fly of his jeans, stroking the bulge underneath until he groaned and started growing hard. Then she got up on her toes, kissing him slowly, her tongue teasing his lips until his tongue met hers.

  He pulled away, his breathing short. “Mari, this is crazy. There’s sixty teams out there, all getting their game plan on…”

  “This is how we started things,” she said, unbuttoning her own pants and pulling the zipper down, watching his eyes widen and then move toward the door. “I think that this is our game plan.”

  He smiled, stroking her chest before trying to stop her fingers from removing her pants. “I hate to remind you, but there are some of the world’s top food journalists and renowned chefs out there waiting to judge us.” He kissed her neck, his words full of reluctance. “What would they do if they found out one of their competing teams was off having a quickie in a broom closet?”

  “Envy us,” she said with a smile, kicking off her shoes and tugging her loose-fitting pants down the rest of the way, until she was standing in bikini panties. “Besides, it’s not going to be that quick.”

  Nick smiled, then closed his eyes and let her undo his pants, tugging them over his perfect behind. He kicked off his own shoes and left his pants on the floor.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice…as well as the excitement. She could also feel the bulge of his erection straining against the thin cotton of his boxers. “Hell, Mari. Somebody could walk in, find us…”

  “I know,” she whispered. Then she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows.

  He laughed, as she’d hoped.

  She leaned back against a wall, and motioned to him. He walked to her, kissing her slowly, their lips brushing against each other as his fingers smoothed themselves over her shirt. She tugged it over her head, putting it on a nearby pedestal. Now she was just in her underwear, the cool basement air in the room making her skin prickle.

  He kissed her shoulders, rubbing fingers over her rib cage as she tugged at his shirt and put it by her own. He pressed against her, his skin warm compared to the cool air, and she brushed against him, moaning. Soon, their kisses grew more urgent, as she brushed her panties against his boxers, feeling them dampen, feeling him grow even harder until he was prodding at the juncture of her thighs. He pressed against her in a mimicking action of their lovemaking, and she let out a sighing breath, tilting her head back as he kissed her jawline, and the sensitive hollow behind her ears.

  “Mari,” he breathed. Then he paused. “Sudden, dreadful realization—I don’t have any, er, protection on me.”

  “Condom,” she said. “In my pants pocket.”

  He broke away from her long enough to get it out of her pocket, then handed it to her. “So. You planned this?” he said with a grin, his eyes hot and full of desire.

  “You’ve got your checklists,” she said, panting as she tugged the thing open and he slipped out of his boxers. “I’ve got mine.”

  He chuckled, putting the condom on as she slid off her panties and unclasped her bra. She could barely hear the rumbling din of set up as the teams took their places upstairs.

  Right now, out there wasn’t important. What happened to her restaurant wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered at this moment was the man standing in front of her. “Lift me up,” she murmured.

  He obliged her, lifting her up slightly, propping her against the wall as he angled himself at her entrance. His muscles bulged and flexed with the effort, and his face was tight with concentration. His eyes were dilated, their whisky color now almost entirely black. The lightbulb swung slightly, adding to the surreal effect. She felt him, huge and probing, in between the delicate flesh of her thighs. She leaned her head back against the wall and tucked her legs around his hips as he lowered her onto his erection. She moaned, feeling him inch by unyielding inch.

  “You feel incredible,” he whispered, as he moved his hips and legs to press inside her more deeply. She rotated her hips slightly, enjoying his responding shudder as well as her own sensual shivers. He kissed her slowly, his tongue corresponding with the actions of his lower body, dipping inside her, tasting her, teasing her. She tasted him as well, as her body clenched against his.

  He lifted her legs a little, changing the angle of his entry. He started pushing against her, and she felt the brush of his penis against her clit as he slid out then returned, a steady rhythm, increasing in pressure. His chest was crushed against her breasts, and the wall felt cold against her backside in contrast with the inferno sliding against her. Inside of her.

  She could feel the beat of his heart as she clutched at the back of his neck, at the firm muscles of his shoulders. He picked up in speed, and she tightened her thighs around him, trying to get as much of him in as possible as his hands clutched at her hips and pulled her to him. They were moving faster now, causing the waves of sensation to double, pulsing through her chest, making her nipples erect. “I’m close,” she gasped against his ear.

  To her delight, he angled her so that he was brushing against her clit, making that pleasure center bloom with heat and friction, an explosion of sensation. “Ah…ah…” she breathed against him, moving her hips, slamming against him as the waves of orgasm rolled against her. “Nick!” she cried, the sound muted as he covered her mouth with his own and moved up inside her, his cock stroking against her relentlessly.

  “Yes,” he said, now her mouth muting the sounds, as he shuddered against her, the resounding pressure of his thrust causing her own waning orgasm to burst back into life. She cried out, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vise.

  She might have passed out, she wasn’t sure. When she blinked long moments after, her breathing slowly getting back to normal, he was practically crushing her against the wall.

  “Nick,” she said, stroking at his sweat-damp neck. “Nick, I love you.”

  His arms tightened imperceptibly around her. “I love you too, Mari,” he answered, and she felt the thrill of his response like it was the first time he’d said it. “More than I thought I’d love anyone.”

  He eased her to the floor, and as he withdrew she felt his absence as keenly as pain. “So. I guess it’s time to go back out there,”
she said slowly, hating the fact that they’d have to go back to the competition, to the possible failure of her restaurant…to all that reality.

  He smiled, and to her surprise, he kissed her. “You know,” he said slowly, “we’ve still got about half an hour.”

  “I see.”

  “It’ll help us to get ready.”

  She rifled through her pockets for another condom, then held it up. “You sure, cowboy?” she said, winking. “I mean, I don’t want you to be all tired out.”

  His grin was fierce. “Give me a few minutes to recover,” he said, “and we’ll see who’s tired.”

  NICK WAS STILL GRINNING as the competition commenced. They were an hour in, and working busily. He couldn’t remember being this loose or relaxed at a competition, ever. He felt pretty sure that Paulo, Tiny and Juan figured out what had happened, from the way they were grinning back at him. Zooey was working industriously on the Pot of Chocolate for the dessert, so he doubted that she knew that her head chef and sous-chef had just gotten it on in a utility closet.

  He glanced over to where Mari was working on the flashy appetizers, and saw that she had a hickey on her neck…one she didn’t have when they walked in that morning.

  Well, if anybody didn’t know, I guess they’d put it together soon enough.

  But he didn’t even care about that. The clock was running, the whole auditorium a flurry of movement and yelling in several languages as the “foodie” crowd of spectators and restaurant investors milled around and gawked. Photographers from different trade journals and newspapers snapped bright flash photos. It was distracting and unnerving to some, but Nick was thriving on it.

  “Nick! Nick Avery!”

  He smiled at the reporter yelling at him. The guy looked familiar, but he didn’t remember his name. “Little busy here,” Nick drawled, as he cut succulent pork rounds and marinated them.

  “What’s with the black clothing? Is it some kind of statement?” The reporter pressed. “And what have you got planned?”

  “We like wearing what we’re comfortable in,” Nick said. “And you know I’m not going to tell you what we’ve got planned. You’ll find out when the judges do.”

  A couple of other reporters stepped up and started hounding him. “What happened at Le Chapeau Noir? Is this a grudge match? Can you beat Phillip Marceau?”

  Now Nick was getting annoyed. “No, it’s not a grudge match. I wanted a change. Chapeau’s got nothing to entice me anymore.” Even as he said the words, he realized they were true. “I’m being ten times more creative and allowed more freedoms now than I ever have. I’m having more fun, too.”

  “Don’t you miss it, though?” The first reporter was particularly persistent…reminding him of David’s questions. “Being in a four-star restaurant, being at the top of the culinary world?”

  Nick laughed. “What makes you think I won’t be after today?”

  The reporters laughed with him, and he felt relieved…until the guy’s next question.

  “So…you’re not going to leave this restaurant, Guilty Pleasures, if you win, huh? Is that what you’re saying?”

  That quieted the rest of them, as they waited, poised to jot down his answer.

  He hadn’t thought about it. Had tried desperately hard not to think about it, since Bob Blackstone’s proposition in Whole Foods Market.

  “I doubt it,” he said, hating even that hint of uncertainty. “Put it this way…I’d have to be offered a hell of a lot more than just a head chef’s position. If I had an unlimited budget, my own restaurant, and…I don’t know, the keys to a Lexus or something, then I might consider it.” He shook his head. “But I have to tell you…it’d be hard to top what I’ve got here.”

  They wrote hurriedly. Before they could ask some more questions, Mari moved forward.

  “You’re distracting my team,” she told them, with a firm but friendly tone.

  “Nick…”

  “Move it,” Mari added. Her gaze was like violet ice.

  They got the hint and started pestering other stations. Nick looked down at Mari, who was staring at him warily.

  “They’re jackals,” he said with a shrug. “When you’re on the way down, they can’t wait to nail the coffin shut. When you’re on the way up, they want to act like they put you there. You remember that?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, causing Tiny and Paulo to whistle and getting some attention from the reporters, who snapped a shot. Mari flinched at the flash of light.

  “Just worry about today, okay?” Nick said, ignoring everyone and every thing else.

  She nodded slowly.

  “All right then,” he said, turning back to his work. “We’ve got a competition to win.”

  But he still thought about it.

  Will I leave? I doubt it. I’ve got a woman who loves me, a restaurant I’m happy with, a nice life.

  But he thought of what he’d gone through to get there.

  I doubt it, he repeated to himself.

  But as much as he loved Mari, there was still a shadow of doubt…and that really disturbed him.

  THEY WERE GETTING CLOSE to the end, working on setting up the food on broad, mirror-surfaced platters that the competition’s “waiters” would parade before the photographers and judges before plating and serving the entries. Mari felt like her shoulders were stapled together with the stress of working so hurriedly, of getting everything perfect. She jumped when Nick walked behind her, rubbing at the back of her neck. “It’s almost over,” he whispered in her ear.

  That had two connotations in her mind—not that he knew that it. But it didn’t help her tension much, either. Still, the feeling of his strong fingers massaging her was soothing, and she needed all the soothing she could get.

  “Got it,” Tiny said, letting out a breath. Everything was arranged artistically, and she had to admit, it looked fantastic. The “waiters,” all dressed in tuxedoes, carried her food away, and she felt a pang of loss.

  Did we do everything we possibly could? she asked herself feverishly. Was everything right?

  She sank back, tapping her toes as the rest of the crew watched the parade of consumables. The rest of the dishes entered didn’t take the same route they had, Mari noticed. There were the usual towers of potato gallettes, the same sautés, the same foie gras and black truffles. Theirs was next in line, and they waited like expectant parents. Mari felt Nick hold her hand, and she squeezed it tight.

  “The next entry is from the restaurant, ah…” the commentator stumbled. “Guilty Pleasures.”

  There was a ragged cheer from the crowd, and Mari smiled.

  “Their entry is called A Taste Of Love,” he said, and she could have sworn she heard a tone of disapproval. “First, an opening aperitif of Kir Royales, titled ‘First Date.’ Opening appetizers are titled ‘First Kiss,’ comprised of chili and mango tarts. Fish dish is a form of sushi…”

  Mari waited as he listed off the rest of the entrees, the different kinds of sushi they’d concocted, designed to surprise and tantalize…the savory pork cassoulet, meant to be savory and addictive. The Meyer lemon sorbet between courses as “the next level” palate cleanser. And finally the sweet smoothness of the Pot of Chocolate. If nothing else, it would probably wake up the deadened taste buds of a bored-looking judging panel…and remind them that food didn’t have to be so painfully art-house, oversculpted, overengineered and overpriced.

  From the smiles on several faces as they ate their portions, she had a real hope that they would get the point.

  It was scary to hope, but they’d already accomplished more than she ever would have thought possible. At first, the other teams had been stand-offish, and she knew they didn’t think much of the black-clad “Guilty Pleasures” group. Rather than being intimidated, the crew had approached the competition with a dogged determination, and best of all, with their trademark sense of humor. They’d laughed, sung, and in general made enough
of a ruckus to earn the looks of censure from the gray-haired, pot-bellied head chefs from other restaurants…and, when the head chefs weren’t looking, they’d gained the grins from other crews. When she’d discovered that the restaurant to their right had crushed a batch of eggs and lost a bottle of tarragon vinegar, she was thankful for Nick’s overzealous preparation, and had handed them over, much to Nick’s surprise. News of her little charity was spreading—partly as a sign of respect, which made her happy. But also partly as a sign of her foolishness, which made her sad, not because other people thought her foolish, but because these people were so hell-bent on winning that they’d ignore the problems of the other teams. It seemed like a hell of a big prize to her—even if it wasn’t enough to save her. But for some of the other teams, winning this was more than just the prize—it was driving the other teams into the ground. It was war.

  “Jeez,” Paulo said, staring at the judges as they scrutinized every bite. “You’d think they never ate mangoes before.”

  Nick laughed. “Don’t worry. They do that to everybody. We did a hell of a good job today. I think we’ve garnered the attention of the culinary world, in fact.” He was buoyant, she noticed, and felt her spirits lift a little. That is, until he added, “Don’t be surprised if a bunch of restaurant people start giving you their card and trying to steal you away, guys.”

  That provoked a string of nervous laughter from the crew. “They’d have to cough up a hell of a lot of money,” Tiny said, shaking his head.

  Mari felt unnerved. Once the restaurant went under…well, maybe they wouldn’t have to cough up that much money. And at least the crew would have jobs, right?

  She pushed herself away from the countertop she was leaning on. “I have to take a walk, get some fresh air…something,” Mari said.

  Nick stopped her, nudging her chin up so her eyes met his. “You okay?” he asked, in a low voice. “Want me to come with you?”

  “No, that’s all right,” she said, thinking I want you to remind me that this was the right choice. “I’ll be right back.”