by Brit Blaise
Every day after work now, Cara left work to rush to Mike's restaurant. His busiest time happened to be evenings and weekends, but they managed to be together each night as soon as he could leave.
And, when the next cooking class date rolled around, Cara was convinced she needed to attend, despite his adamant objections. The more Mike insisted she didn't need to cook, the more she wanted to, just to prove a point.
By the time Cara walked into the kitchen with the rest of the cooking students, she'd worked herself up into a serious case of nerves.
"Ladies, if you'd please find your places and let the make-up man do his job,” Felicia told the class and she looked nervous.
When the man approached Cara with his make-up box, she waved him away only to have him insist she needed more color.
"You've said the same thing every week and believe me, whether or not I had enough color didn't matter,” she groused. “Not a single person told me they enjoyed my added color."
"Miss Thomas, you have such pale skin, you must have a touch more."
"What's that?” She pushed his hand away from her eye.
He held it where she could see it. “Eye liner."
When Cara nodded her acceptance, the man seemed to do his job a little too zealously, and if Mike hadn't walked into the kitchen and captured her complete attention, she'd have told him so.
Cara's breath caught in her throat when she looked at him. Best of all—he was hers.
When he walked across the room to stop beside her, her chest swelled. The make-up man looked annoyed and left. Mike reached his hand out to touch her face, making her blood sizzle.
"You're wearing more make-up than usual,” he said, while he ran his thumb along her cheek.
Could he really be touching her in front of all the other women? He was branding her.
"I thought he was being heavy-handed. Is it too much?” She reached up to capture his hand. With all the beautiful women in the room, the last thing Cara wanted to do was look like a clown. She'd already done that.
"It doesn't look bad, just different. Should I kiss you and see if you taste different?” He moved into her space.
All thoughts of make-up flew from Cara's head. Would he dare kiss her in front of all these women, she wondered?
"Don't doubt it,” he said smoothly, as if reading her mind.
Cara heated. “I don't doubt a word you say."
"Ahem.” The sound of a voice interrupted them. “Mike, we are ready to begin,” Felicia said.
"We're ready to begin,” Mike repeated as his eyes remained intimately locked with Cara's until he took his place behind the counter.
He tapped a spoon against a bowl. “Your attention please, ladies. Today we'll start with an old family recipe. Onion soup. It's good as an appetizer or a main course. Then we'll make truite au bleu.
"The secret to making truite au bleu, and to make sure the skin of the trout stays a brilliant blue, is to keep the fish alive until the last possible minute. We'll kill the fish with a sharp blow to the head, split and clean it in a single stroke and plunge it into boiling water."
Cara couldn't believe her ears. From the horrified faces of the other women, they couldn't either.
"Just teasing,” Mike said with a little boy grin. “We won't be cooking it here, but I bet none of you will be ordering truite au bleu anytime soon. We'll be preparing fillets of sole Florentine as our main course and, for dessert, we'll finish with stuffed peaches. Now, if you'd please take a few moments to read your recipe card for onion soup before we begin."
Cara read her card wishing she'd asked Mike to show her how to make the dish in advance. He'd stubbornly remained adamant she not come to the class and hadn't given her a chance.
"Take your onion and slice it thinly,” he said. “When you have sliced approximately a cup-and-a-half, go ahead and start browning them in butter. Keep a close watch on the heat. We don't want them to cook on too high a heat or for too long or they could discolor and emit an unpleasant odor because of their sulfur content."
Cara winced. Why did he pick a dish that sounded like it needed to be watched carefully? She picked up her knife and cut into the onion. The smell Mike warned her about immediately became apparent. A couple of slices later and the fumes began to burn her eyes.
Tears began to stream down her face and swiping them away only made it worse.
"Aaarrrhh, I c-can't see!"
"What the—Cold water, fast.” Mike propelled her toward the sink.
Her nose started to run as fast as her eyes, and everything became a blur. Not a pretty sight, she was certain. She tried not to panic as Mike splashed cold water on her face. Within seconds, the pain and irritation began to subside, but when she tried to focus on Mike's face, she wasn't reassured. Mike looked stricken as he continued to dab at her irritated eyes.
"I feel better."
"It's not that. You look like a raccoon,” he told her, as cameramen swooped in from either side to get a close-up.
"Do you suppose you could find the make-up man for me?” she asked. “I never thought I'd hear those words come out of my mouth."
Cara gave up on her onion soup while the make-up man mauled her. Poor Mike was run off his feet as many of the other women had problems. When they were ready to start the next dish, she wanted to leave before she managed to do more damage.
"Ladies, we will begin the fillet of sole Florentine by making a very quick creamed spinach. Grab the container from your blender and take it to the stove where you can get a couple of cups of boiled spinach Felicia has already prepared for you."
Cara looked at the blender suspiciously. What could someone have done to sabotage it? As the last of the woman returned with her spinach, Cara went to get hers.
"We'll add a quarter cup of sour cream to the spinach. Before you start mixing, add an eighth of a teaspoon of prepared mustard. You could also add horseradish if you'd like and then salt and pepper to taste.
Cara decided to add horseradish as Mike recommended and skip the pepper. She had her mixture blended while Betty seemed to be adding pepper a tad heavily as she cranked the mill.
"Be careful—” Cara started to warn Betty. Too late. Betty sneezed, sending a puff of pepper toward Cara who had a moment to reflect she was in trouble before she erupted.
"Aaaaa—chewwww!” Cara thought the top of her head came off with her extreme sneeze. Grabbing the hem of her apron, she buried her face into it as sneeze after sneeze continued to rack her. Betty didn't seem to be faring any better as she sneezed in harmony with her.
"What can I do?” Her hero rushed to her side ... again.
Cara couldn't stop sneezing long enough to speak. She needed to blow her nose. “Tissu—aaaachewww."
"Right, tissues! Tissues?” He thrust it into her hand.
She wasted no time, no matter how unladylike. When she heard a suspicious crash, a feeling of dread washed over her. As soon as she could catch her breath, she looked up to see several people leaning over someone prone on the floor just a few feet away.
"Now what?” she managed to ask.
"Mike hit the cameraman. We'll probably be sued.” Felicia answered.
"I'm going to own this restaurant,” the man on the floor proclaimed angrily.
Cara had enough. “I'll wait for you in your office."
If Felicia wanted to play, it was Cara's turn at bat.
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CHAPTER 13
Cara and Mike had confronted Felicia, who denied everything. Once again, Mike appeared to believe his partner, so they agreed to disagree where Felicia was concerned until they had proof of who caused the problem in Mike's kitchen.
Problems at her own job kept Cara busy enough she did have time to worry too much about Felicia. Cara didn't blame Mike for trusting his partner, but his loyalty might be misplaced. He'd discovered her onion wasn't the same as the rest. Who could be responsible other than Felicia? Nobody else had a motive.
No matte
r how much Mike assured her his partner had nothing to gain, she didn't believe him. If Mike was the prize, wouldn't he be trophy enough?
By the time the weekend rolled around, Cara had a plan and she intended to enjoy her time with him. She enjoyed herself so thoroughly and completely, she wondered if she'd ever be the same. Chef Mike's talents weren't limited to the kitchen, although he seemed to use food as a prop to get her cooking.
"Please don't come to the cooking class tomorrow,” Mike asked her as he stood with his hand on her door handle, getting ready to leave.
"I think I'll come and just watch.” Cara needed to change the topic, so she wouldn't be forced to be untruthful about her plans. She kissed him, and despite making love several times earlier, he got hard right away. “I can't let you go home like this."
He pulled back and shook his head. “You need to get some sleep."
She had guns, too ... big ones. Taking a step back, she opened her robe and took her girls in both hands. When she pushed them together, he grinned and reached for his fly. Cara led him to the chaise and went down on her knees in front of him when he sat.
Once his cock was freed, she surrounded it with her breasts. His cock-head touched her lips as she worked the girls up and down on him. He leaned back to watch, his blue eyes dark with desire. Cara smiled and then lowered her face to take him into her mouth. She needed to do this more often ... she loved it. Loved how his breath hitched and then rasped. Loved how his cock tasted.
"I'm there,” he moaned only a short while later.
She was torn between feeling him burst inside her mouth and watching the miracle. She lifted her face to see. After working the girls more vigorously, he shot a ribbon of cum into the air. It came back down on the top of her breasts still holding him snug. After he went again, and then a third time, she freed him.
"Next time ... I'll swallow."
* * * *
When she walked into the class the following day with everyone, he looked uneasy, but smiled.
"I'm a spectator today."
"Spectate away. Ladies, today we'll be celebrating the South. New Orleans, in particular. We are making Cajun catfish with red beans and rice. I've also prepared several dishes with their roots in New Orleans for you to try at your leisure. Sitting on the counter in front of Cara and Betty are New Orleans bread pudding, muffuletta and delicious Louisiana-style chayote."
Cara couldn't help but be captivated by him. While he spoke, even just giving recipe instructions to the class, he left her breathless. Each time she looked at him, she fell a little more in love. He'd told her she didn't need to come to class ... she had nothing to prove, but he was wrong. Not only did she have to come, she needed to settle matters once and for all. Felicia needed to realize there were penalties for messing with people's lives.
"Somebody in here drive a little red, foreign car about the size of a peanut shell?” The boom of a man's angry voice echoed off the copper pans hanging from the ceiling.
"I drive a little red car,” Cara said. “Although I resent anyone likening my Bizzarini to a peanut shell."
"You drive a SUV,” Mike corrected.
"The SUV was a rental while my vintage Bizzarini GT Strada was in the shop for new valve guides.” She didn't have to pretend to be proud of her car. She had years of experience.
"You got one of them designer license plates says ‘D8B8'?” the man asked.
"D8B8? D8B8. You've got to be kidding,” Mike said.
"What's it mean?” the man asked.
"Date bait,” Mike said again incredulously.
"My first fiancé's idea,” Cara said. “I never changed it because it's easy to remember."
"Your first fiancé?” Felicia gave a sarcastic sniff as she joined them.
"Well, little lady, I think you better learn how to drive your little peanut shell,” the big man barked and lumbered across the kitchen to stand directly in front of her.
"I drive just fine, thank you."
"If you drive just fine, then I'm a ballerina. Why is there a scratch longer than my leg on my pick-up truck parked next to your little red Biz-a-whatcha-ma-call-it."
"You must be mistaken.” Cara allowed her voice to escalate in volume. “I certainly didn't scratch your truck, but if you did something to my car, you better be ready for a fight.” She stepped closer to punch the man's massive chest with her forefinger.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Can't you see we are filming here?” Felicia pushed between Cara and the angry man, just like Cara hoped she would.
"Lady, I don't care if you're entertaining the President of the United States, I ain't goin’ anywhere until I find out who damaged my truck."
"Neanderthal,” Felicia mumbled.
"Lady, what did you just call me?"
Cara raised her hand. “She called you a Neanderthal. She could've called you a muffuletta."
"A muff-a-what-a? I don't know what it is, but nobody better call me anything that begins with muff,” he said, appearing to grow angrier by the second.
Cara held up the dish Mike had called muffuletta. “Muff—u—letta."
Grabbing the crusty bread from the tray, the angry man tossed it into the air. Green and black olive salad came raining down as it poured out of the crust. Felicia was drenched by the salad with a large piece of bread landing on her shoulder like an epaulet.
"How dare you!” Felicia screamed. “Get out of here right now or I'll call the police.” Felicia flicked the bread from her shoulder, sending it flying to hit Mike's mother.
"Care for some bread pudding?” Cara held another dish toward him.
He scooped his beefy hand into the bowl and threw a handful of the gooey pudding toward Felicia. It probably wouldn't have hit her in the face if she hadn't ducked.
"What a waste of good bourbon,” Mike said, watching with a grin as Felicia swiped the glob off her face.
"Good bourbon?” The man stuck his fingers in his mouth for a taste.
Felicia jerked back to Cara. “Don't you even think of giving him the chayote."
Cara picked up the dish Felicia referred to and held it toward Mike. “What in the world is chayote anyway?"
"Squash,” Mike said.
"If you insist.” Cara grabbed a fist full of the soft vegetable and squashed it onto the front of Felicia's boney chest.
"Is everybody crazy? Call the police.” Felicia hopped up and down in anger and frustration. Cara turned toward the nearest camera and waved.
"Look at me. I look as if I was thrown in a trash bin at Mardi Gras,” Felicia complained.
"Aren't you glad it isn't beet salad?” Cara reached to pull an olive from Felicia's hair.
"We need to stop filming right now,” Felicia insisted.
"Did you stop the filming when you dyed Cara's hands or exploded her chicken all over?” Mike asked his partner.
"That was different,” Felicia said.
"Maybe we should move the cameras to the parking lot and see what happened to my car?” Cara teased.
"Date bait, huh?” Mike said with a snicker as he watched Sam from the diner dig the last of the bread pudding from the bowl with his fingers.
During the remainder of the class, Cara had fun for the first time, although she really didn't cook. She helped Betty prepare her food. Even as much as Mike believed Felicia deserved what Cara did to her, he still doubted her guilt in the recent events.
"Mike Nichols, if Felicia didn't do it, you better give me a name,” Cara demanded after the class.
"As a matter of fact, I'll give you a name when we get together after work."
"I'll listen to what you think, but I'm going to confront Felicia myself right now."
Cara found Felicia and invited her into Mike's office, where they could chat privately. Much to her surprise, Felicia seemed just as anxious to talk.
"I think you have a clue now just how serious I can be. If you have any doubt, I can show you more,” Cara said.
"Are you threaten
ing me?” Felicia asked.
"No, just giving you a warning. Your ploy isn't working. Mike and I are an item."
"You don't have to tell me that,” Felicia said, her voice bitter. “Mike has made it clear to me how he feels about you. I know nothing I could do or say will change what's happened between us."
"And you still insist you had nothing to do with what happened during the last class?” Cara questioned, not really thinking Felicia would admit her deception.
"Did you know Mike threatened to dissolve our business relationship if I did anything else to humiliate you?"
"Yes, he told me, but I didn't know if you believed him. You have a history of doubting his word."
At Cara's words, Felicia sucked air into her lungs so quickly, Cara could hear the sound.
"You know Mike cheated on me?” Felicia asked, looking as if she might be on the verge of tears.
"I know you think he did. I also know just how wrong you are. Janet Madsen told me she never had an affair with Mike.” Cara couldn't see surprise registering on Felicia's face, only pain.
"Janet seemed to take delight in telling me just how clueless I am—or rather how clueless I was. I haven't been able give my apologies to Mike yet, but I will."
"You believe him now?” Cara asked.
"As much as it pains me to admit what a fool I've been—yes. I do have a reason to explain my insanity, though. My father cheated on my mother countless times. Mom always believed his lies, even when I once told her I saw him kissing my babysitter.” Felicia turned her face away as she finished speaking, leaving Cara speechless.
"Are they still married?” Cara asked finally, not having a clue what to say to the obviously distraught woman.
"My father died when I was a teenager."
"Did you ever tell any of this to Mike?” Cara had a momentary sense of impending doom.
"I probably should have. He might have been able to convince me how wrong I was and then again, maybe not. We'll never know. I was so embarrassed by my philandering father, I didn't say anything. It really doesn't say much for my relationship with my mother either, since she didn't believe me. She never did and now she has Alzheimer's. It's not easy when the people who are most important let you down."