Taste

by Cambria Hebert

  TASTE

  (a Take It Off novel)

  One taste is never enough…

  Spencer Waller’s main purpose in life is to protect and serve. After spending years in the military, he gets a coveted spot on the Secret Service detail protecting the president. Spence doesn’t have time for women or all the work having a relationship with one requires. But just because he isn’t looking for a lady doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate a beautiful one when he sees her.

  And he makes it a point to see one in particular every single day.

  Elle Bond has literally chopped and fried her way to the top of the food chain. Earning a coveted position in the White House as the president’s personal chef, she figures her professional life can only get better. Her personal life, on the other hand, could use a little bit of an overhaul, and because of that, she tries to ignore the charm-dripping cookie thief every time he comes into her kitchen. After all, she knows better than anyone that just one taste of something good is never enough.

  One night after work, Elle is assaulted, threatened, and given an ultimatum. She can’t go to the police, and she sure as hell can’t do what she was ordered.

  But she has to. Or else.

  Pale, shaken, and scared to death, Elle confides in Spence, and his protective instincts take over. Together, Elle and Spencer have to uncover a sinister plot and stop it before someone ends up dead.

  TASTE

  Take It Off Series

  CAMBRIA HEBERT

  TASTE Copyright © 2014 CAMBRIA HEBERT

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by: Cambria Hebert Books, LLC

  http://www.cambriahebert.com

  Interior design and typesetting by Sharon Kay

  Cover design by MAE I DESIGN

  Edited by Cassie McCown

  Copyright 2014 by Cambria Hebert

  ISBN: 978-1-938857-55-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Other books by Cambria Hebert

  Heven and Hell Series

  Before

  Masquerade

  Between

  Charade

  Bewitched

  Tirade

  Beneath

  Renegade

  Heven & Hell Anthology

  Death Escorts

  Recalled

  Charmed

  Take It Off

  Torch

  Tease

  Tempt

  Text

  Tipsy

  Tricks

  Tattoo

  Tryst

  Distant Desires Serial

  (erotic)

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three (conclusion)

  Table of Contents

  Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Trashy Excerpt

  Spencer's Recipe

  Elle's Recipe

  Author's Note

  Bonus

  TASTE

  “Home is any four walls that enclose the right person.”

  —Helen Rowland

  1

  I was restless. Even after a full day of work and the feeling of exhaustion cloaking my limbs, I still couldn’t fall asleep. There was a recipe, a few ideas for new dishes to try, and the beginnings of a big menu plan I needed to write cluttering up my mind. I knew it was likely the reason I was still lying here staring at the ceiling.

  Sigh…

  I sent the covers flying back, kicking my legs free, and climbed out of bed. With one last lingering, yearning glance at my pillow, I turned away and quietly made my way down to the kitchen.

  Once there, I pulled out my notebook and black pen to jot down all the competing thoughts and ideas. They were good ideas, great ingredient combinations and a solid start to the menu. Too bad I couldn’t think of this stuff during the day, say, when I wasn’t supposed to be sleeping.

  Of course, my day was so filled with everything else that it really wasn’t that surprising these ideas only came after the lights were out and I was blessed with moments of quiet silence.

  As I pondered a new sauce for a rack of lamb, I worked on autopilot, brewing a cup of hot chamomile tea. Perhaps its relaxing herbs and heat would be the remedy I needed to rest tonight.

  I reached into the overhead cabinet for the tea bags, and my eyes landed on the cookies. A smile immediately stole over my features, causing me to stand there in the center of the kitchen, grinning in the middle of the night, alone, like a complete idiot.

  I couldn’t see a cookie these days and not think of Spencer. His charm was like a stealth ninja and so was his ability to blindside my mind with thoughts of him. He was only the second man I’d ever met in my entire life who could completely take over the inside of my head.

  But it didn’t matter how much he grinned, how much he teased me, and how many of my cookies he managed to stuff into his mouth at once; I couldn’t let him in my life.

  The first guy who ever took over my thoughts taught me that.

  I was just now getting my life where I wanted it to be after the disarray he left behind.

  But oh, Spence was tempting. With dark-blond hair that always looked like it was just a little too long and needed trimming, short sideburns that hugged the side of his striking face… I couldn’t really call Spencer handsome. He was too rough around the edges for that. He had strong, dark eyebrows that slashed over honey-colored eyes, full lips that could draw into an intimidating line, and a strong nose that appeared to have been broken a time or two.

  His body also looked like it had been through a couple of battles. He boasted wide shoulders, thick arms, and a tapered waist that was always accentuated by the tailored black suit he had to wear.

  It just proved that clothes did not make the man. Spence made his clothes. Hell, he owned them. As a Secret Service operative, I think Spencer was supposed to look professional and quiet, sort of like he could blend in anywhere.

  I have no idea how the hell he got his job because nothing about him blended in. He drew eyes like fireworks in a pitch-black sky. I mean, every time he waltzed into the kitchen, every pot on the stove was in danger of being burnt up because none of the staff could concentrate.

  As if to prove my point, the teakettle whistled angrily, the shrill sound snapping me out of my daydreaming and making me wince. Quickly, I yanked the kettle off the burner and poured the boiling water over a bag into a ceramic mug. Steam rose from the top in great puffs, and I shook my head, annoyed I let the water boil that heavily. I’d have to wait forever for this tea to cool enough to drink.

  I carried the mug a few steps to the tiny island in the center of the kitchen and set it beside
my notebook. The perfect herb to add to the crust on the lamb popped into my head and I hurried to jot it down.

  The room was completely silent except for the light scrawling of my pen across paper. Maybe that’s why I heard the sound.

  It was a low scraping sound, like wood rubbing against wood. I tilted my head, confused. It was an odd sound to hear in the middle of the night, something I might not even think twice about if it were daylight.

  But it wasn’t.

  A muffled thump overhead caused my entire body to tighten like a shoelace with a double knot. My head snapped back to stare up at the ceiling.

  I was being crazy.

  I was being paranoid.

  Thump.

  There was someone in the apartment!

  A surge of adrenaline so powerful it blurred my vision for a few seconds rocketed through me. My brain tried to think as my body went into overdrive. That first sound, someone had opened a window upstairs. The thump was when that someone dropped their up-to-no-good ass into my house.

  Still clutching the pen, I raced for the stairs, out of my mind with fear. All the times my mother told me I needed to get a landline phone installed haunted me in that moment. My only means of calling for help was upstairs, beside my bed, in the form of my smart phone.

  She was never going to let me hear the end of this.

  If I survive. The thought floated through my head like a vicious taunt. Another light scuffling sound upstairs had my heart thumping even harder.

  My God, it might not be me they hurt!

  I wasn’t quiet on my way up the old wooden steps. In fact, I sounded like a herd of elephants that needed to lose about twenty pounds.

  Good.

  It would draw all the attention of the no good dirty rotten bastards in here.

  Come get me, assholes.

  It was dark upstairs except for the nightlight that lit up the hallway. Against the long wall across from that light, I saw a dark, lurking shadow pass. I gasped and my blood pressure skyrocketed so high that my scalp likely should have blown off the top of my head.

  Holy shit, this was scary.

  But I had to be strong. I had to be a fighter. I was a fighter.

  The intruder appeared at the top of the stairs, slipping out of my bedroom just as I cleared the top step. His body tensed when he saw me, and then he rushed me without warning.

  Not knowing what else to do, I used the pen as a weapon, striking out and using the force with which he threw himself at me to impale him with the writing instrument.

  He grunted in pain.

  Score!

  Clearly, I was terrible at sports because stabbing a man twice your size who had broken into your home with an itty bitty pen wasn’t enough to swing the game in your favor.

  All it did was piss him off.

  He straightened and yanked the pen out of him, looked at it, then looked at me.

  He was wearing one of those black ski masks that frankly scared the bejeezus out of me. I threw my arms out to shove past him to run back along the hallway, but that was a bad idea, too.

  He caught me, wrapped his meaty, vise-like fingers around my forearms, and swung me around. I slammed into the wall, my head bouncing off like a child’s ball.

  Darkness closed in around the edges of my vision, and I fought it like a little hellcat. I would not pass out. I couldn’t. He depended on me.

  “No,” I whispered, my head exploding with pain.

  The man advancing on me laughed low. It made my skin crawl.

  Another man appeared behind him. He was just as big as his friend.

  “You’re going to pay for that, bitch.” The man closest to me promised.

  Before I could do anything, he fisted a hand in my hair and dragged me down the stairs.

  2

  The only light on downstairs was the small one above the stove in the kitchen. While I couldn’t see the intruders that clearly because of their masks and the crappy lighting in here, I was pretty glad they couldn’t see me that well either.

  I didn’t want them to see my fear.

  The minute someone sensed your fear, things got worse.

  After a rough trip down the stairs (I was going to be covered in bruises), I was dragged into the kitchen and shoved at one of the two chairs at the little bistro set in the corner.

  “Sit down,” he growled.

  Sitting wasn’t really an option with the way he shoved me. I stumbled and fell, the top of my forehead colliding with one of the black wrought iron chairs. I landed on my hands and knees, willing myself to shake off the pain.

  Get up, Elle. Get up.

  I slapped a palm onto the seat of the chair and hoisted myself up to sit down. I thought longingly of my cell phone, which still was upstairs. I should have listened to my mother.

  If I survived this, I was sooo getting a landline. And one of those life alert thingies for old people. And a gun.

  Yeah, definitely a gun.

  “What do you want?” I asked, dabbing at my forehead that was now bleeding.

  Intruder number one dropped the bloody pen on my island—gross—and applied pressure to the hole I gave him in his side.

  “We just wanted to talk all nice like,” he said with one of those Jersey accents. “But you didn’t greet us very nice like.”

  “If you wanted polite, you should have rang the doorbell,” I snapped.

  Intruder number two chuckled from the other side of the island. “She’s a spicy one.”

  “Shut it,” intruder one growled. He was wearing a black ski mask, and in the dim lighting I could see that his partner was wearing a blue one.

  Both men were wearing black jeans and black jackets. I mean, really, I know they were invading my home and all, but they could have dressed better.

  After yelling at Blue Mask, he pulled his hand away from his middle and I saw it was covered in red. I got some sick satisfaction out of that. In fact, it made me feel a little stronger, like I could fight my way out of this.

  “You need a Band-Aid boss?” Blue Mask said. Clearly, he wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box.

  I couldn’t help it. I snickered.

  Black Mask’s shoulders tightened and his eyes swung up to mine. He stared at me for a long, hard second. I got this twisty feeling in my stomach. I shouldn’t have laughed. I’d made him angry.

  “Yeah,” he said, not a hint of anger in his tone. “Can you find me a Band-Aid?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Blue Mask said and headed for the stairs.

  Panic rose in me again. I didn’t want him up there, but I knew there wasn’t a way to stop him. “Hey,” I said.

  He looked at me.

  “The first aid kit is under the bathroom sink. First door on the left.”

  “Thanks,” he said like we were friends and this wasn’t some weird hostage situation. As soon as he left the room, the man in the black mask backhanded me across the face.

  I gasped, my head rotating sharply on my shoulders because of the unexpected strike. The pungent taste of blood covered my tongue when I swallowed. My tooth must have cut into the inside of my lip when he hit me.

  I stared up at him, lifting my chin.

  “You won’t be laughing when I’m finished with you.”

  The adrenaline in my system was starting to die down a bit and I began to shake. Fear crept into my fighter’s attitude.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, knowing he wanted more than conversation.

  My eyes slid over to my hot tea. Steam was still rising slowly off the top. It seemed like forever since I poured that water. Clearly it had been merely minutes.

  Above us, I heard the man in the bathroom. He wasn’t being delicate as he looked for the kit. I knew when I went up there, my bathroom was going to be trashed. I winced at all the noise he was making and bit my lip to hold back a broken sob.

  “You’re a personal chef, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied, still listening to the ruckus upstairs.

  “You
work at the White House.”

  “Yes,” I said again, distracted. Another loud thump carried to my ears. Geez, how hard was it to reach under the cabinet and pull out the first aid kit?

  And then the sound I was dreading most cut through the night. It also cut through my heart. My very bad situation just got worse.

  The sound of my crying son, Jack, floated down the steps.

  My eyes shot to the man in the black mask. I saw his lips curve into a sadistic smile.

  “Please,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt him.”

  “What kind of man do you take me for?” he said, but we both knew what kind of man he was.

  “Please,” I said again. I wasn’t above begging. It was my son. He was my entire life.

  Jack’s crying grew louder, and my stomach tied itself into knots. He was probably wondering where I was, why I wasn’t coming. He probably heard all the noise and was scared to death. Unable to take the torturous thoughts, I leapt out of my chair and ran toward the door.

  Asshole was right there, grabbing me back and tossing me into the teetering chair. “You do what I say and no one will get hurt.”

  I didn’t believe him, but God help me, I wanted to.

  I swallowed down the sob stretching out my windpipe.

  Jack’s crying abruptly stopped, and I began to panic. “Just let me go check on him,” I entreated.

  He laughed. “Maybe wondering what the hell is going on up there with my partner and your kid will make you more agreeable.”

  “Just tell me what you want!” I shouted, tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

  I judged the distance between the man and the door, considering my chances of running for it.

  “Don’t even think about it, bitch,” he said, reading my thoughts.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks and I wiped them away quickly. When I pulled my hand back, I noticed there was some blood mixed in. I dabbed at my forehead again, noting it was still bleeding, trickling down the side of my face.