Guilty Pleasures

by Cathy Yardley

  “Mari,” he said, “we need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do,” she said, then reached out and tugged him gently into the apartment.

  The air was perfumed with something floral—jasmine, maybe, or ylang ylang, a sensual hint. It wasn’t anything special—no seduction scene.

  It was her scent, he noted. It was her.

  She leaned against the couch. “So. What do you want to talk about?” Her violet eyes were clear, piercing.

  “Mari,” he said, his own voice rough. He reached for her, and she stepped into his arms as his mouth searched for hers, finding it with a rough urgency. “Mari,” he breathed against her lips.

  They made their way up the stairs to the loft. She sank down, incongruously tough-looking in the diaphanous sheets. And that was when it hit him—she portrayed her toughness for the world to see, but this was the real Mari—fragile, ethereal, full of grace.

  “I love you,” he murmured, and her face went from aggressively sexual to unguarded…innocent-looking, almost wary. She reached for him, and he pressed tiny kisses against her jawline, down her neck, until her breathing increased in speed. She sighed, leaning back, letting him take off her shirt with tender care. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath, and her breasts jutted forward, cream white with the deep redness of her nipples taut and erect. He could see her pulse, beating steadily in the column of her throat. He reached for her jeans, and she reached for his shirt, starting to undo the buttons securing it. He nipped at her fingertips, and she smiled…not the naughty smile, not a sexual smile. Just one of great happiness.

  He let her ease the shirt off of his shoulders, and he tugged her jeans off, first one leg, then the other. She was wearing a pair of delicate pale lilac panties, edged at the top in lace. She looked at him hesitantly, and then reached for his pants. To his surprise, her fingers fumbled at the button, and he helped her, his fingers closing over hers. He let his pants drop to the floor, then closed his eyes and groaned as she ran her long fingers, trailing over the erection that bulged against the opening of his boxers, smoothing over the planes of his thighs.

  He lay down next to her, feeling the warmth of her, indulging in the sweet, floral-spicy scent of her. For a moment, he just stared at her, stroking at the bangs of her hair. She let him—there was no rush, no frenzy of joining. He kissed her forehead, hearing the easy laughter at the sweetness of the gesture before she returned the favor, brushing light, ticklish kisses against his chest. He stroked every inch of her skin, tantalizing the ticklish skin behind her knees and at the V of her collarbone. He discovered she had a sweet spot just where the curve of her bottom met her thighs. In turn, she found that the delicate skin on the inside bend of his elbows sent a paroxysm of shivers running through him.

  It was like sex, as well as their conversation, was something they were working around…that they wanted to enjoy every second as if it were their last, as if they might never get to explore each other’s body again.

  What is she thinking? Nick didn’t voice the concern, merely continued in his slow, sensual exploration. What does she feel?

  Not surprisingly, she was the one who finally nudged the intensity up, who moved against him, body to body, and pressed her skin to his, fitting herself to him until he felt like gasping.

  She leaned up and kissed him. Hers were slow, drugging kisses that tasted exotic and sweet, just like her. She moved against him, until his erection emerged from his boxers, until he felt tugging fingers urging the silk out of the way. He traced a finger blindly along her panty leg, pushing the fabric aside and dipping a finger in, gratified by her small cry of pleasure. He tickled at her clitoris with one hand, then took a nipple into his mouth as she arched against him, licking at her with sure, circling strokes.

  She was panting now, and her hips pushed against his hand. “Nick,” she breathed, her eyes half-closed.

  Now he moved in, his mouth on hers, his hunger slipping the gentle restraint he’d been floating in. Their tongues stroked against each other, twining, her full lips mobile against his insistence. She cradled his face in her hands as she dragged her nipples against his chest. It was hypnotic.

  He had to be inside her. He pulled off her panties, letting them slide down her legs and tossing them aside. Now she was fully naked, her eyes smoky, filled with desire. She already had a condom out, wrapping him swiftly. She leaned up to kiss him, and he closed his eyes, allowing her to lead him to her. He felt enveloped by her—the scent of her, the silken feel of her. He sensed her fingers running down the length of him, felt his penis stroke against the satiny-softness of her thighs as she guided him closer and closer to her moist heat. He felt the tip penetrate, but she continued torturing him until finally he was poised, pressing at her. He entered with one smooth glide, and had to grit his teeth against the overwhelming pleasure of the sensation.

  “Nick,” she breathed again. “Oh, yes.”

  He carefully withdrew, half-mad by the feeling of easing out of her, and heard her whimper. Then her legs wrapped around his, pulling herself up toward him, until he was buried inside her.

  “I want you,” she moaned. “Forever. Please, Nick.”

  He couldn’t verbalize how he felt—but he knew that was close to it.

  He increased his tempo, feeling the smooth clenching of her muscles, feeling the way she embraced the length of him, reveling in the soft, throaty moans as he slid against her most sensitive spot. She was breathing in short, panting gasps, and he nipped at her neck until she wrapped her legs around his waist, burying him inside her.

  He lost control. He increased his speed, pushing against her, losing himself to the animal side of their passion that always exploded like a conflagration when they joined like this. She was calling his name, twisting against him, and he felt the beginnings of his orgasm clutching at him.

  “Mari, honey, I can’t hold…” he began, but didn’t have to, as she let out a keening cry. He felt the wave of wetness against him, and he knew she had found her pleasure as she shattered against him, her thighs tightening around him like a vise.

  With a hoarse cry, he dove deep, plunging into her, spilling himself into her before collapsing against the bed, barely able to keep himself from crushing her completely.

  They stayed like that for a moment, quiet, just the scent of their lovemaking and the sheen of their sweat between them, their hearts beating in time.

  How can I leave?

  Before he could speak, she did.

  “You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question. “I know that.”

  He closed his eyes.

  She had a hell of a sense of timing.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” he said, leaning to one side. They were face to face, companionably naked. “How did you know…that it was an option, I mean?”

  She shrugged. “Phillip stopped by.”

  “Phillip Marceau was here? What did he want?” He’d written Phillip off…the man had looked absolutely destroyed when he’d left with his parents. Was Phillip trying one last effort to sabotage him, by trying to turn Mari against him? What else could he do?

  “He said that you were going to accept his parents’ offer. That you were opening a restaurant in New York.”

  Nick studied her. “And you believed him? You believed I’d take an offer like that without talking to you first?”

  She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair looking wild, her face looking vulnerable. Her eyes were wide and clear. “Nick, I love you. And I believe that you…love me,” she said, her voice choked. “And I don’t think that you’d leave without talking to me first.”

  “Well, I’m glad you realize that,” Nick said, with a sigh.

  “But…I still think that you’ll leave.”

  Nick sat up. “I said, I hadn’t decided yet,” he said, hating the fact that his voice sounded so defensive.

  “You’re not sure?” she asked quietly. “It could go either way, then?”

  Nick sighed, heavily. “I don’t have to get b
ack to them right away.”

  “I’d say you should take it.”

  He shook his head. “I know you want what’s best for me…”

  “No,” she corrected, and it was as if she were suddenly clothed—all the vulnerability and fragileness he’d noted before, when he’d taken her to bed, became cloaked by her change in expression. It was the toughness, he realized. And it wasn’t an act. “I want what’s best for me.”

  He looked at her, not comprehending.

  She stroked his face, studying him, smiling…crying. She was staring at him, like she was staring into his soul.

  “If you stay without finding out what would happen if you opened your own restaurant, you’ll hate me. I don’t want that. And I very nearly…” She took a deep breath. “I know what it’s like to lose your dream, Nick. I won’t do that to you.”

  “Then come with me,” he said, kissing her. “Work with me, live with me.”

  “No,” she said, and it was like a hammer hitting his chest. “I won’t give up my dream, either. I came too close to losing it already.”

  He leaned up on one arm. “So…where does that leave us?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s the problem,” she said in a soft voice. “It…doesn’t.”

  He stared at her. “That’s it, then? You just want me to leave?”

  “Nick, you won’t be happy if you stay. Find out. If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”

  “That is such crap!” he said, jumping up. “I’m just supposed to go to New York without you?”

  “Tell me something,” Mari said sharply, her eyes ablaze. “If I weren’t in the picture, would you go to New York to open your own restaurant?”

  “In a heartbeat,” he said without hesitation, then closed his eyes. “But you are in the picture,” he amended.

  “Yes, I know,” she said with a slow, sad smile. “But even with me in it…did you consider it anyway?”

  He looked down at the coverlet, and then reluctantly nodded.

  She stood up, all naked splendor and comforting, quiet love. “Pack warm,” she said, before turning and heading for the bathroom. “Fall’s coming and it…gets cold…in New York.”

  He heard the bathroom door close, and realized that that was it. His sojourn at Guilty Pleasures was over.

  12

  “READY ON EIGHT?” Mari called out, looking at Tiny. “I’ve got the Hot Chicks and the Cock au Vin tanning under the lamps, Tiny, where are my steaks?”

  “Ready on eight,” Tiny said, slightly out of breath. He slammed the oven shut with his hip, and both he and Mari slid their plates out onto the order window. A perky redheaded waitress—new to the staff—picked up with the help of Mo.

  “Damn, feel like my arm’s gonna fall off,” Paulo grumbled from the sauté station. Zooey was expediting, her high, clear soprano getting a little hoarse around the edges. “I thought that us tanking at the contest was going to screw us up. I think we’re busier than ever.”

  “I know we’re busier than ever,” Mari said, focusing with all the precision of a surgeon at the sauté station. She was helping Paulo…but it looked like Tiny was falling behind. She’d give him a hand in a minute.

  Lindsay stepped out of the back room. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She had been helping out on the night shift, although making salads and plating desserts was about the extent of her culinary achievements. “Good news,” she said, excited. “We did about five hundred dinners last night!”

  There was a ragged cheer, then a groan as more duplicates printed out on their new order machine. Zooey picked them up and continued calling out the orders.

  “Looks like six hundred tonight,” Paulo groaned.

  Mari should have been tired—and probably was, if she thought about it. The trick, she learned, was not to think about it.

  Wonder what he’s doing right now.

  She picked up a pot, then hissed as she scalded her wrist. She put it down with a clatter.

  Not going to think about Nick Avery. No time for it, no point to it.

  “Lindsay, you doing salads tonight?” she said instead.

  “Sorry,” Lindsay apologized, going back to the station. She tossed together the candied pecans, fresh pears and gorgonzola cheese, then drizzled the balsamic vinagrette over everything. “Five up. Fire it.”

  Mari moved into action. Two more steaks, three more salads. She helped Zooey with some desserts.

  She was numb. She’d been numb for the past month.

  Out of curiosity, she’d driven past Nick’s place a week ago. The apartment now had a silver minivan in its short, steep driveway. Nick must have put his stuff in storage, more than likely, or had professionals move him to New York. If the Marceaus were bank-rolling him, she would imagine that he’d go in style. And in San Francisco’s crazed housing shortage, no apartment was vacant for long.

  She didn’t let it hurt. She just let it…sink in.

  She kept working. She spent every waking moment in the restaurant or at the markets. Her life was inundated with the scents of cooking food, with the hellish heat of the kitchen, with the jostling of bodies and the fluttering of dupe sheets on the order board. She didn’t know what miracle had gotten them so busy, but she thanked it nonetheless—not just for the financial sake of her business, but from the sheer fact that as long as she was moving, she wasn’t hurting.

  At least, not as much.

  When midnight finally hit, the crew was groaning like injured athletes. They cleaned slowly. For most of them, it was because they were feeling the screaming soreness of muscles. For Mari, it was because she knew that when she locked up, she’d be heading to Tiger if she was lucky, though not many of the crew had the energy anymore. Certainly not after their latest barrage. Instead, more than likely, it would mean that she would go back to her empty loft, crawl into the bed, and fight against falling asleep by watching countless television shows that she’d never remember. Then dreams of Nick would come…actually, nightmares of Nick. The worst one had come late at night, when she’d dreamed that Nick had spent the day with her. They’d shopped at the farmer’s market, cooked and joked together and with her crew. Then he’d spend the night in her house, fooling around in the kitchen, snuggling up beside her in bed.

  When she’d woken to the cool pillow beside her, she wept into it.

  “Mari?” Kyla stepped into the kitchen. “There’s a party of people that doesn’t want to leave.”

  Mari rolled her eyes. Even though she didn’t want to go home, she didn’t necessarily want to stay for a rowdy, possibly tanked bunch of partiers. “Can’t Rob handle it?” Mari said, referring to their new bartender.

  Kyla shook her head. “They want to talk to you, I think.”

  Tiny stepped behind her, as did Paulo. Mari sighed. “Guess I’ll go take care of them, then,” she said, and they all walked out.

  There was a table of twelve people, with the remnants of an obviously large meal in front of them. There were also several bottles of wine, empty, littering the table. Three of them were singing, slightly off-key. The others were joking, telling some story that involved wild gesticulations, and there was a great deal of laughter all around. When she stepped up to them, she couldn’t help noticing that several of them looked familiar.

  “I’m Mari Salazar, the owner here,” she said, hoping to keep things pleasant as she bounced the group. “Was everything satisfactory?”

  “You rock, girl.” One balding man, on the portly side, lifted his glass.

  Mari smiled. “Well, thanks. Unfortunately, gentlemen, we have to close….”

  “You showed ’em,” a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed man said with a grin. “You showed ’em all.”

  She stopped. “Showed who what?”

  Finally, a tall, razor-thin man with scarred hands and tattoos on his shoulder stood up. “A toast, to Mari Salazar,” he said. “The only chef at Internationale with the guts to cook real food.”

  Ma
ri blinked as the men stood up, raising their glasses and cheering her in a variety of languages. She squinted at the tall man. “You were there. You were competing with…”

  “Stars,” he said, with a smile. “Sous-chef. Head chef there is a boot-licker, you don’t need to tell anybody I said that, but just so you know. And you didn’t even care that day—you still helped us when we were in a disaster.”

  “I’m from Strazzi’s,” the dark man said. “Don’t suppose I can steal that recipe for the chicken, huh? Almost set my mouth on fire.” He grinned. “Just the way I like it.”

  There were several other compliments. The men ranged from sous-chefs to dishwashers, and they’d all come here…to try her food. And to show their support.

  Mari felt her eyes welling up with tears as she smiled, and nodded to them. She turned to the bartender. “Set ’em up with a round. On me.”

  The bartender, openly grinning, nodded. Mari and the crew retreated to the kitchen.

  “We’re going to make it, aren’t we?” Zooey said, with a quiet tone of pride.

  Mari thought about it, then thought about Nick, trying so desperately to get the recognition he’d been chasing ever since his Culinary School days. She thought about her own need—thought about herself.

  She gave Zooey a half hug, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah,” she said, slowly. “Yeah, we’re going to make it.”

  NICK STOOD IN HIS KITCHEN. His kitchen, the future site of his restaurant. Le Chapeau Noir had been swank, he thought—this was downright decadent. Sub-zero freezers, top-of-the-line ranges, a wine cellar that would make most collectors weep. And Charles Marceau had assured him that he could order the best, most expensive ingredients-white truffle oil, Normandy butter, Scharfenberger chocolate, dry-aged filet mignon. He was like a kid loose in a candy store, and every waking moment had been channeled into developing the décor, the menu, the way everything would work. He was exactly where he’d always wanted to be.

  So why can’t you stop thinking about Mari?