by Sera Taíno
“Hell, yeah. If it’ll keep the building out of the hands of those vultures.”
If they owned the building, Val could ensure the survival of her business, as well as protect her family and the other tenants in the building. She’d be giving Wagner Developments the proverbial finger, and the satisfaction of doing that tasted better than anything she could cook up in the kitchen.
Val was possessed with an inexplicable urge to text Philip and tell him what she was about to do but caught herself before she made that mistake. They were nowhere near that place in their relationship where she should be texting him about something like this. This was a family matter, and she didn’t need to bring him into it.
She set her phone aside and instead followed along with Rafi as he jotted down numbers on a sheet of paper, making calculations that would enable them to be independent of Wagner Developments’ nefarious plots.
Chapter Six
“Coq au Vin?” Val froze in place, scanning the front of the restaurant as he stepped around to open the car door. “This is so wild. I’ve heard this place is impossible to get into on short notice. How did you pull off a reservation?”
Philip tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “I talked to a friend of a friend.” That was not entirely true. Wagner Developments owned the property and Philip might have taken advantage of that fact to get the reservation. “I assume, as a restaurant owner yourself, you’d probably appreciate the cuisine. And this restaurant happens to be one of the best.”
Val turned her face up to him, her smile outshining the electric lights and lamps along the street. “That’s so thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Philip found it nearly impossible to avoid staring. She wore a classic black dress that hung in seductive folds over her curves. She was tall again, though not as tall as the night he met her, the heels of her sandals less precarious tonight. Her hair was pinned in an elaborately braided updo, revealing her long, elegant neck decorated with the rosary from the night they met. A brocaded black shawl hung over her smooth shoulders. He bent his head, his lips a mere hairsbreadth from her ear, and whispered, “You look beautiful.”
She shivered in response. “You should speak, dressed like a model.”
He didn’t think the navy blue blazer, light blue button-up and jeans ensemble he now wore was particularly fashionable, but the compliment warmed him nonetheless. He guided her to the entrance of the restaurant, where the owner manned the host station. Upon seeing Philip, he jumped to attention.
“Nicolas,” Philip said. “Ms. Navarro and I have a table for two.”
“Very good, sir. Follow me.”
Val tugged his arm, pulling him close to her. “He practically threw his back out when he saw you.”
“My company holds the lease of this restaurant.”
“You own this building?” she asked, scanning the opulent restaurant, with its deep ochre walls, golden lamplight and deep, rich wood.
“Not me personally, I’m afraid.” His heart gave a thump-thump of terror that she might follow up with further questions, but she appeared distracted by studying the restaurant.
They were taken to the bar, where they would wait for their table to be prepared. Philip waved the bartender over, hoping to head off any more of Val’s questions. “White or red?”
“Red,” she said, turning her attention to Philip. He nodded to the bartender, signaling that he should fill their glasses.
Val took a sip. “This is very good.”
“It’s a Bordeaux.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. Her pleasure lit up her face, and Philip forgot the rudiments of drinking and swallowing and...breathing.
She opened her eyes and sighed. “I love a full-bodied red wine.”
Philip still held his glass without sampling it, flushed from watching her. “I, uh, I went to a vineyard in Northern Italy once, in the Tuscan region where they make Valpolicella. I stayed in a kind of bed-and-breakfast, and drank from the local cantina. You would have loved it.”
“Valpolicella on one hill, Chianti on the other,” Val murmured, swirling the liquid in her glass, inhaling the aroma.
“You know your wines.”
Val shrugged, her head tilting demurely to the side. Soft Val was a mood he liked. “I know lots of things.” She held her glass out to his. “Salute.”
“Tchin.” He clinked his glass against hers. Val watched him with those glistening eyes, the gears of her brain visibly grinding. Maybe she’d made the connection and his subterfuge was up. However, instead of questioning him, she turned her attention to a small stage where a singer, a tall brunette in a sweeping, silver dress, was singing the strains of “Crazy, He Calls Me” to the accompaniment of a piano.
“Her voice is dreamy,” Val said, her eyes on the singer, but Philip couldn’t take his eyes off Val. Like the night he’d watched her dance, he was ensnared by the way she gave herself over to the things she enjoyed, desperately wishing he had the ability to do the same. He leaned forward, breathing in her scent, floral and light, and gave himself permission to drag a finger down her cheek with the pretext of moving a wayward curl back into place. Her breath hitched, lips falling slightly open.
“My parents always played music when we were growing up.” Val’s voice shook but she cleared her throat and continued. “They went through phases—jazz, blues, salsa, disco, rock... You name it, they played it.”
“My mother used to play the piano when I was younger.” Philip dropped his hand, remembering how her playing filled the high-ceilinged rooms of his family’s house where he’d grown up, not entirely sure why she stopped. It never occurred to him to ask her about it. “She’s only recently taken up the hobby again.”
“When you’re raising a family, it’s hard to find the time to do what you like.”
He let her statement stand. Discussing his family, or his feelings, was something he didn’t easily do. Maybe it was because he’d been taught to keep his feelings close, prevent them from exposure for fear they could be used against him. Except here he was, with someone who seemed to define herself by all the ways she connected to others. It was a vulnerable position to start from, but Val was anything but vulnerable. Her heart was out there for the entire world to see. It made hiding himself from her worse because of it.
He forcibly crushed down the guilt, resolving that the night would not pass without rectifying his omission, and concentrated instead on the music and on her.
“There was...there was a record shop where we used to buy LPs.” Val’s voice had fallen to a rough whisper. “They kept upgrading the technology, but when developers bought out the building, that was the end of Turntable Records.” Her hand slid out of his grasp and she took another sip of wine. “Always the same story.”
A chill lanced through him, evicting all the warmth her nearness elicited. There it was, again. That compulsion to speak up, to confess. All this did was confirm that if she knew what he did for a living, she would hate him. He needed to come clean, tell her. But the words crammed in his throat, robbing him of his ability to speak.
Nicolas returned to let them know their table was ready.
“Shall we?” Philip asked. Val gazed at him with the same look of curiosity as earlier, as if she were unraveling a snarled riddle. Philip hardly heard the music anymore, focusing the entirety of his senses on the woman before him. Even without his untruth, she was like his personal kryptonite, the temptation to open himself up and lay all his secrets at her feet too great to resist. Whether by weakness or by design, the night could not end without him confessing everything.
Chapter Seven
Val had suspected, from the moment she took a seat next to Philip at Aguardiente that he was doing well for himself. His clothes spoke of style and expensive taste. But it wasn’t until he’d opened the door to his black, Italian car to take her home that first night that
she came to the realization that Philip might be a little more than well-off. It hadn’t been a big deal then. Her aunt Renata, Olivia’s mother, wasn’t exactly a pauper in her estate outside Lares, Puerto Rico. And her father’s family, descended from one of the grand families of Corsica, had been landowners in the nineteenth and early twentieth century.
But when Val and Philip had arrived at Coq au Vin, Val watched the way that Nicolas guy tripped all over himself. They’d simply shown up and waltzed in like royalty. Even now, the waitstaff was scrambling to fulfill Philip’s every request.
She liked carrying her fair share of the load in a relationship, but how could she if he had so much more than she did?
Val clenched and unclenched her fists to keep the freak-out at bay and concentrated instead on the pianist who filled the time during the singer’s break with an indistinct instrumental piece.
As she struggled with her composure, Philip placed a hand on her back and guided her to a table tucked into the back of the room that gave them an uninterrupted view of the small stage.
The waitress handed Philip the wine menu, which he passed to Val. “You can choose.”
She scanned the list, admiring the vintages, until she noticed the prices were missing. She nearly squeaked in surprise but contained it. She’d never dined in a restaurant with no prices, which only meant one thing. She’d probably never be able to afford even half if they split the bill for dinner.
“I think I’ll just have water.”
Philip watched her, his gaze discerning, though his face remained placid. “Wouldn’t you like to try another red? Maybe a Merlot?”
Val bounced her leg so hard, she risked banging her knee against the table. She needed to think quickly. Pretending she didn’t drink wine was out of the question—she’d drunk the Bordeaux without blinking. Her thoughts raced until she scooped up the menu, pretending to scan the selections again. “I’ll take the house red.”
Philip rubbed his chin, considering her for a few moments before taking the wine menu and waving the waiter over. “A bottle of this—” he pointed at the menu.
When the waiter walked away, Val resisted the urge to call him back. The invoice for Nati’s classes materialized, as if someone had laid it on the table before her. Lab fees, books, tuition, taxes—a meal like this would cover a good part of that. She couldn’t justify it, but here was Philip, asking her to do exactly that. She folded and unfolded her hands on the table until Philip’s larger one covered hers, an intense warmth emanating from the contact.
She grasped at the ends of words in a futile effort to tie them together and form sentences. She could make a big deal out of the prices or she could choose to enjoy herself, just this once. It had been so long since she’d done something simply because she wanted to.
When he didn’t pull his hand away, she turned hers over and pressed her palm against his. Her anxiety changed focus to the place where their skin met. If his proximity confounded her thinking, his skin against hers short-circuited everything above animal brain functions. Her body surged toward his, the touch of his palm against hers a poor substitute for what she yearned for. She resisted his pull, squirming as delicious aches stole over her.
Before she could get lost, she pulled her hand away and concentrated on the singer, who’d begun another set. The smooth notes soothed her, while the singer’s voice possessed an untapped range that filled Val with anticipation each time she approached a high note.
“I like her,” she said. “I could listen to her sing all day long.”
“She reminds me of Roberta Flack.”
“Right?” Val’s excitement shook her out of her lust-induced stupor. “Tell me you’re a ’70s music fan. Please?”
Philip laughed. “If I wasn’t, I am now.”
Val pulled out her cell phone and opened her Spotify app. “All ’70s and ’80s, all the time. I would have lived in bell bottoms and platforms.”
His eyes were dancing with humor and she decided it was her favorite expression so far. “A fan of the music, yes. The bell bottoms not so much.”
“Like I said, my music obsession is my mother’s fault. When I said we danced at the drop of a hat, I meant it. My parents used to dance all the time. Over the years, they became flawless.”
“Used to? Don’t they dance anymore?”
She frowned, the reminder of her mother provoking that ever-persistent sadness that refused to dissipate. She finished the last of the wine to swallow down the feeling.
Philip leaned closer, concern morphing his near perfect face. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, you’re fine. My mother passed away when I was still in high school. So, no, they don’t dance anymore.”
He gave her a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry meant pity and she hated pity. “As I was saying,” she pushed on. She was on fire and shrugged the shawl off her shoulders onto the back of her chair. “You can tell how long a couple has been together by the way they dance, especially coordinated dances, like salsa. My parents danced like two people who’d been together much longer than they’d been.” Val remembered the parties growing up—weddings, backyard barbecues to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Her childhood memories were punctuated by food and music, her parents at the center of every festivity.
When her mother died, the parties stopped for a long time. Val never had a quinceañera because her mother had died that same year and no one had the spirit to celebrate. But when it was Nati’s turn, Val made sure she had one.
The silence between them lingered, brittle, full of music and private thoughts. The waiter arrived, filling the emptiness with the sound of wine being uncorked. He poured a careful measure and offered the glass to Philip for sampling, but he demurred, indicating Val.
“You have better taste than I do.”
Val pulled a face but accepted the wineglass from the waiter. She sniffed it, the tart aroma making her nose twitch, and glanced at Philip’s expectant expression over the rim of the glass. She took a sip, the wine flowing over her tongue with its heavy, variegated flavor, and knew she was in the presence of a great vintage.
She set the glass down, glaring at him. “This isn’t the house red I asked for.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” He nodded to the waiter, who poured two glasses.
“You tricked me.” She sounded petulant, though the flavor of the wine softened her indignation, coaxing her forgiveness in exchange for its perfection.
“It wasn’t my intention. I just want you to have what you want.” He frowned, picking up his glass. “Don’t you like the wine?”
He wanted to please her—she could tell by the careful way he studied her reactions. But everything was expensive as hell and it felt positively sinful to indulge in it all, especially when she had to physically resist taking another sip of the extraordinarily rich and sharp wine. She sighed, resigned. “It’s possibly one of the best I’ve ever had.”
“Good,” he whispered, relief evident in the way his body relaxed. She could make a big deal out of it, go on and on about the expense, but then she’d just come across as annoying and, truthfully, she really wanted to try the food here. Coq au Vin was the kind of restaurant she never thought she’d visit in her life, and now that she was here, she couldn’t blow the chance to do so. Plus, there was nothing she enjoyed more than to deconstruct a good meal, something Philip had sensed about her even though he’d known her all of five minutes.
Ay, por favor, who was she kidding? Philip was gorgeous, the music was perfect, the food was probably going to be insanely good and she was dressed to the nines. Locked, loaded and ready. She was going to shut up her inner bruja and have herself a good time.
Val was grateful when their pissaladières arrived, forcing her to tend to her most banal appetite, pushing the more dangerous ones out of her mind.
For someone as passion
ate about food as Val, the meal was the equivalent of a visit to a culinary theme park. She ordered artichoke and black truffle soup, followed by toasted mushrooms in truffle oil, a sea-land sampler with buttery cuts of meats and seafood, vegetables in cream sauces, coconut sherbet adorned with bitter cocoa drops and a cheese platter that Val could have made a meal of all by itself.
It didn’t help that Philip shared bits of his dishes, as well. She gorged on everything with undisguised glee.
“Had I known cheese would make you this happy...” Philip trailed off in awe. He leaned on his hand, watching her.
“Cheese,” Val mumbled around a seasoned olive, all pretenses of delicacy abandoned sometime after the second course. She savored everything using her heightened sense of taste to identify the seasonings used in each dish, filing them away for future experimentation. “Always the cheese.”
Philip’s laughter was infectious and even the waiter who served them could not repress a smile when he took their order for a digestif.
“I don’t know if even the cognac will help, but it was all so good. Thank you.”
Philip took Val’s hand across the table, squeezing it. “It was worth it to watch you enjoy yourself.” He opened his mouth to say more but glanced at the singer instead before giving Val’s hand a short tug.
“May I have this dance?” he asked beneath the strains of the singer’s rendition of Sinatra’s “All the Way.”
“I thought you didn’t dance,” she protested.
“Don’t tell Étienne. He’d never let me live it down,” he quipped, though it was clear there was more to his aversion to dancing than simple embarrassment.
She took his hand and followed him to the small dance area in front of the piano. When she stepped into his arms, she noticed the panicked rigidity in the way he held her.
“Relax,” she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing, thrilling at the muscles bunching beneath his shirt. “Drop your shoulders and lead with your hips.”