by Elaine Fox
She turned from her dough and began working on the custard filling.
Roxanne’s strategy for dealing with Steve worked and didn’t work. She succeeded in not seeing him all night, but she also succeeded in not leaving the kitchen. The crowd was in fact the same as the previous night’s, and while that elated her, it also ran her ragged.
Sir Nigel came back at one point early in the evening to report, with what constituted a smile on his face, that reservations for Friday night had been filled.
Booked! she thought, her stomach sailing with excitement. Open two days and she was already booked solid one weekend night.
She wished she had a moment to call Skip. Even though he’d been negative about her plan to open this restaurant she knew he’d be pleased for her. As he had said, he didn’t want her to fail; he was just afraid she would.
It didn’t look like that would happen now, she thought with a deep, quiet joy. Everything was coming together perfectly. And with that thought she pulled a perfect raspberry soufflé out of the oven.
The kitchen was quiet, she was wiping down her counter, and M. Girmond was packing up for the evening. Out front, most of the waitstaff was gone, but she could still hear the vacuum being run in the dining room. George, probably. It was his night to close.
“Well, my dear. It is another night of adventure, n’est pas?” M. Girmond stopped behind her and gave her shoulders a squeeze with his big warm hands. “You should be so proud of yourself, mon ange.”
She smiled and dropped her head as he kneaded her aching muscles. “I’m proud of you, mostly. It’s because of you that everyone came. But I am proud of the way the employees all came together and worked so well. Who would have thought there would be so few glitches?”
He patted her back. “There is time for glitches. But here we are getting our feet in the door. Problems later…” He put his hands up, nonchalantly. “We will deal with them.”
She smiled, tired down to her very bones. “No, no. No problems. I won’t allow it.”
M. Girmond laughed, his hearty, comforting laugh. “We cannot hope that there will never be problems, ma puce. We can only aspire to dealing with them well.”
“Spoken like a true Zen master.”
M. Girmond laughed again, patted her once more on the back, then wished her good night. “Go to sleep soon!” he called as he went out the back door.
Roxanne locked the door behind him, then turned out the lights. She pushed through the swinging doors to the dining room, which was dark. Everyone had finished, cleaned up and gone home. The only light was from the bar, where soft spotlights on the bottles gave them a jewel-like glow.
She sighed and sat in one of the bar chairs, looking out over the dining room. Street lamps from the sidewalk outside lit the tables by the front window, gleaming off the glasses and silverware laid out for tomorrow’s service. Some of the tables were bare, waiting for clean dishes to be set out, but for now the place looked quiet and ready for another day. Everything was under control.
Her restaurant was a success.
She let the thought wash over her. A calm such as she had never known settled within her. Even the fiasco with Steve seemed small compared to all that was right. Besides, Steve was still here.
Not that it mattered that he was still here. Mostly it just meant that she hadn’t screwed up so badly that she was without a bartender. That was all.
She should go to bed, she thought. She was too tired to be thinking these thoughts. But she was too tired to get up off the chair, too. She thought briefly about laying her head down right here, but knew she’d only wake up in an hour with a stiff neck wondering where she was.
She hoisted herself out of the chair and stopped abruptly.
Had she heard something?
She stopped breathing. It sounded again. Someone working at the lock on the front door.
Her heart immediately started hammering in her chest. What if last time there really had been an intruder and it was not just the squirrel? What if he had come back to finish the job? At a million thoughts a minute, she had already constructed the scene of her demise when whoever was at the door succeeded in getting it open.
She gasped. The door swung wide. She stood frozen as a hand hit the switch for the light over the maitre d’ station.
She squinted in the light. It was Steve. And he was apparently as startled to see her as she was to see him.
“Jesus,” he breathed, after visibly jumping when he saw her. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She took a deep, wavering breath. “What are you doing here?”
Her tone was imperious. She knew because she made it that way. And Steve obviously picked up on it.
“I forgot my backpack.” He gave her a cool look as he walked around the bar. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
She didn’t say anything, just watched him lift the hinged door of the service bar and root around in the lower cabinets for his bag.
“So what are you waiting for?” He pulled the bag out and looped it over his shoulder. “Got a hot date?”
Roxanne brushed her palms down her sides, her posture impeccable. “I could ask the same of you.”
“You could. But I would answer. There’s the difference.” He closed the service bar quietly behind him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…” He stopped before her and tilted his head. “That if I’d heard a story about you, I would ask you about it before flying off the handle.”
“Would you?” she said, her tone reflecting that she didn’t believe it for an instant.
“I would.”
“I did something different.” She crossed her arms over her chest and forced herself to hold his gaze, though it did all kinds of syrupy things to her insides. “I consulted the evidence, and in doing so found confirmation of the whole sordid story.”
“And by evidence you’re referring to…?”
“The money, of course.”
“Ah, of course.” He nodded his head. “For women, money always talks, that’s for sure.”
“And men are so impervious to money.”
“Some men.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” she replied with a chuckle.
He stood quiet for a moment, studying her. She fought the urge to squirm under his regard.
“Roxanne, listen, I’m only going to say this once—”
“Is that a threat? Because I don’t feel very afraid.”
His brows lowered. “I had nothing to do with that bet, other than taking P.B.’s money to shut him up.”
“Which apparently didn’t work.” She gave him a mock-sympathetic look.
He took a frustrated breath. “I just want you to understand that I did not bet on you. On us. On—you know. I didn’t bet that I could get you.”
“And yet, you did.”
“No I didn’t! Oh, you mean…I didn’t plan on that. I didn’t plan on anything that evening. Surely you know that.”
“And now we both regret it. But look on the bright side. You won a hundred dollars.”
He shook his head. “I’m not keeping that. I told you, it was never a bet.”
“So P.B.’s getting his money back?” She laughed cynically, spreading her arms wide. “All this and change back?”
“Roxanne…”
She shook her head, nerves shaking from her head to her feet. “I think I should get it.”
“You—what?”
She held out a hand. “The money. You should at least split it with me.”
Steve gave an incredulous laugh. “You want the money?”
“Half of it. I want to get a new lock for my door.”
The smile was still half on his face. “That only works if you don’t open it yourself.”
Her eyes were steady on his. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem anymore.”
He laughed again, shaking his head, and plopped his backpack on the bar. Unzipping an outer pocket
he said, “I’d rather you have this than P.B. anyway.”
He held out the roll of bills to her.
She stepped toward him, took the roll and counted the twenties, five of them.
“Thank you.” She pushed them into her pocket. “Now we’re even. So from now on if you’ll keep your mind on the job and your pants zipped, we won’t have any problems.”
She turned away.
Steve’s hand took her upper arm and turned her back to face him. “Excuse me?” he said. “If I’ll keep my pants zipped? Can we just jump back in time a little bit and remember who kissed whom first that night at your apartment?”
He dropped his hand.
“You apologized for that.” Heat rose in her cheeks but she didn’t care. He was off balance now.
“As did you.” He glared at her. “And if you’re honest with yourself you’ll remember that I did not exactly have to force myself on you the other night. You were right there with me. Right there,” he repeated, stepping closer, “with me.”
She stared back at him, her chin lifted and her heart beating wildly. He was close to her, his eyes fiery, and God help her, she felt a wave of desire wash over her.
Something flickered in his eyes, and after a second a slight smile curved his lips. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel anything. Don’t pretend you don’t feel anything right now, Roxanne.”
She inhaled slowly to brace herself and said, cool as she could, “How much do you have on this encounter? Huh, Steve? Another hundred?”
“Consider this a gentleman’s bet,” he said. “With you.”
She laughed. “Control yourself, Serrano. I don’t like betting on the same horse twice. Besides, your charm has a limited life span.”
His eyes were soft now, enticing, and somehow they compelled her to stay where she stood.
“I know that,” he said, his voice low.
He stood close, too close for her to draw an even breath, and he reached a hand up to touch her cheek.
The contact zinged through her and she felt that now-familiar melting at her core that signaled her body’s unequivocal desire.
“But something tells me it hasn’t worn off yet.” With that, he took her chin in his hand and laid a kiss on her lips.
Despite herself, her mouth opened under his. Their tongues met. Heat flared within her and the kiss deepened.
He wanted her too, she could feel it in his mouth, his tongue, his lips. Could feel it in the heat coming off of his body, in the way he stood rigid, unwilling to touch her beyond his fingers on her chin.
Just as she was willing to throw the whole damn fight out the window, just as she raised her hand to touch his body, he pulled back.
She stood before him, on fire, but unable to move.
Dead serious, pulse beating hard in his neck, he let his fingers trail her cheek as he dropped his hand.
“I’m not the only one who can’t control himself,” he said and stepped back. With one shake of his head, he added, “Don’t kid yourself, Roxanne.”
12
Bar Special
Bombe Chez Soi—what you least expect
Strawberry ice mold filled with vanilla mousse, surrounded by sliced fresh strawberries
Steve hunched over his notebook, open books spread on the table around him in the hush of the Library of Congress. He scratched out one sentence on the pad in front of him, then another, then sat back.
Portner Jefferson Curtis was proving to be an inadequate distraction from Roxanne Rayeaux.
He should call Lia, he thought. That was the kind of distraction he needed. Flesh and blood. Not musty old papers and unprovable theories.
Of course, with Lia he’d also get guilt and remorse, additional proof that she and Steve had absolutely nothing in common.
He scratched his forehead, then rubbed his palm against it.
He didn’t want Lia, couldn’t even quite remember what was appealing about Lia, with Roxanne taking over his mind. All he could think about was Roxanne’s thick, glossy hair cascading through his fingers. Her hot, soft skin, pale in the moonlight next to his. Her lithe body as eager and hungry as his, pressing, shifting, winding around him like a cloud of erotic energy—or an impossibly seductive serpent.
His body began to tighten and he leaned forward again, staring at the portrait of Portner in the dusty book in front of him.
Thin, pointed face. Slick black hair. Beady, unscrupulous eyes. The man’s face screamed thief.
Steve was as certain he’d stolen the “fair copy” of the Declaration of Independence as if he’d known him personally. And he probably did know him better than he knew most modern-day people. He’d read the man’s letters, examined his will, studied his history, lived in his house.
Steve sighed.
The worst part was, it wasn’t just Roxanne’s body that made her so irresistible to his thoughts. She was completely unpredictable. He never knew what she was going to say or do.
Lia, he could predict like the sequence of the old Mousetrap game. Say this and that falls, do this thing and you end up in that trap, make her mad and the whole thing comes tumbling down.
Roxanne was just the opposite. Do something you think will earn you a slap across the face and you end up having the night of your life. Challenge her in a way that would make other women explode and she throws it right back at you.
He couldn’t have been more stunned, or more impressed, when she said she deserved P.B.’s bet money. He chuckled even now just thinking about it.
“Mr. Serrano?” A rumpled man of about fifty with glasses on the end of his nose stood next to him with a cardboard box.
“Yes?” Steve sat up, feeling as if he’d been caught talking to himself. He used the opportunity to stretch elaborately, and his back muscles screamed in protest.
“We came across another box of letters you might be interested in.” The man smelled heavily of body odor as he leaned over to put it on Steve’s table. “There are at least a couple letters that other people wrote to Jefferson, but there might be one in here from the cousin you’re looking for.”
Steve’s eyes shifted to the box. It looked like something that might come out of his mother’s attic. Fatigue washed over him. How many boxes like this had he prowled through? How many times had he thought here was going to be the evidence he was looking for?
“Thanks,” he said, mustering a smile. “Thanks very much.”
The man nodded and went back to his desk.
Steve stood up and ran a finger along one edge of the box to remove a spiderweb. He tried to remind himself that this could be the very box that would contain what he most needed, despite his being tired and discouraged. He even tried to tell himself he could find something else, just as good, to give merit to all his time spent studying this degenerate Jefferson cousin.
But he didn’t believe it.
Still, he reached a hand in and gently pulled forth a sheaf of folded parchment. Slowly, he laid the letters out on the table, one by one, searching for the handwriting he’d come to know so well…
“And it’ll be delivered this afternoon?” she asked, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder as she put her wallet with her credit cards in it back into her purse. “Yes, just put them in a box. That’s great, thank you.”
She hung up the phone and smiled. Roxanne: 1, Steve: 0.
After locking the apartment door behind her, Roxanne trotted down the stairs to the restaurant, her kitchen clogs galloping on the wooden treads like a herd of horses.
She felt good. No, more than good. She felt like the world was her oyster. Something about that kiss had set her free. Or maybe it was the moments leading up to it. When she’d realized this was not something to agonize about, but maybe something she could have a little fun with.
The bottom line was, she was in control.
Strange, she knew, considering she was most definitely out of control when Steve kissed her—at least physically. But there it was.
It helped
that she believed him about the bet. She’d seen enough of both Steve and P.B. to know who was probably telling the truth and which scenario was more likely. So she was able to shed the ugly fear that she’d been the object of some sick joke between them.
Not that that meant she was eager to be involved with either one. Quite the contrary. It just meant she and Steve could probably get back to some semblance of a decent working relationship.
The best thing—the thing that really kept her spirits buoyed—was that the restaurant was doing well, far better than expected. Her life in New York was becoming a distant memory and—most of all—she was barely thinking about Martin, at least not with any sort of longing. When she left him over a year ago to go to culinary school, she thought he’d be in her thoughts forever. A constant ache of failure, of love lost.
Now the only reason he was even a blip on her radar was as a cautionary tale. A lesson.
Instead she was excited by her work. By her whole new life. And even by the way she was dealing with her mistakes.
She let herself into the restaurant, taking a good long minute in the dining room to appreciate the warm colors, the welcoming French country prints, the coziness of the brick walls. Winter sun poured through the front window, making the whole place feel like a little oasis of spring, even though it was twenty degrees and as windy as a Chicago city street outside.
Maybe someday she’d have to open for lunches. The place was just too charming in daylight to be empty.
With a smile she moseyed back to the kitchen, where she was greeted by gleaming chrome and the fresh smell of a meticulously clean room.
She was going to make le délice de Montecito for dessert tonight. A special cake made with chocolate and meringue and Amaretto. Her favorite part, however, was the French butter cream.
As she got out the ingredients, she noticed a cold draft on her feet. Trepidation oozed up her spine as she remembered the last time she felt an indoor breeze—when the back door had been broken into—and she looked toward that exit now.