Master Chef

by Danielle Berggren

  I had been wrong.

  It had taken me almost losing my career, and a move to the opposite end of the country, but I had found her. I stroked a hand down her naked skin, reveling in its softness, tracing the red lines from our activities earlier that evening.

  I don’t just like you, Veronica. I love you.

  You’re mine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Veronica

  Weeks went by.

  The insurance company was still deep in deliberations with the bank when I received a call from the lead investigator on my case. There was a man matching the description and security footage that had been arrested on a possession charge in Mendocino, and the local cops were trying to shake him down for any information relating to the apartment fire or attack.

  The investigator said that he would keep me posted on any further developments, but the bored-casual tone of his voice made me think that he thought it was a dead end. I felt the same way. I couldn’t understand how the cops would make it sound like a good idea to admit to a heavier crime than the one the man was being arrested for. Maybe they were dangling a deal in front of his face.

  Christmas came and went. Fiona had me over with her family, and I met the famous George. He was gorgeous, smart, and head over heels for Fiona. I made gagging noises behind their backs when I caught them kissing and she shot me a look that would kill. He asked me about myself and we got around to discussing the fire. I could tell that he was passionate about his work in the way that he explained how investigations worked. I liked him, but I didn’t tell Fiona. She would think I was putting a curse on them.

  Ethan flew back to the East Coast to spend the day with his grandmother. Aside from his grandmother and estranged brother, Ethan had little other family. “Next time I go out there,” he said, kissing me before he left. “I’m taking you with me.”

  I wasn’t sure what to think about that.

  The apartment had seemed empty while he was gone, and so I fled it to spend time with Fiona, arriving back home late and so exhausted that I did not register the cave-like feel of the place before passing out.

  When he returned, we exchanged gifts. Ethan bought me a turntable and several vintage albums from the British invasion, including those that I had lost in the fire. I gave him a set of engraved hardcovers on Celtic legends and deities. I also ‘got him’ a set of lingerie he had never seen before and a night of carnality that had him sleeping like a baby. I think he liked it.

  Ethan and I rang in the new year with Fiona and a few of the others from the restaurant and their dates. After the incident in the parking lot, it was becoming something of an open secret that Ethan and I were seeing each other. Neither of us admitted to anything, and that was enough to let the skeptics hold their position that there was no way in hell sweet Veronica Delaware would date grade-A asshole Ethan Craymore. When the clock struck midnight on New Years, Ethan and I were in another room, behind a closed door, kissing and claiming each other.

  Esteban was letting everyone know that Ethan had cold-clocked my ex. I don’t think Ethan knew what to do with the newfound admiration that grew from his coworkers. He dealt with it as he dealt with most problems at work—he shouted at it.

  The thought made me smile.

  Things were beginning to feel... normal.

  “I have a special evening planned,” Ethan said during the second week of January.

  I looked up from perusing of my new cooking magazine. It was all Southern cooking, but a girl is allowed to experiment. “What are we doing?”

  He slid over to the couch and plucked the magazine from my fingers, a teasing smile turning up his lips. “Do you trust me?”

  My mind flashed to the night before, when he had trussed me up on the horse again. It was becoming my favorite piece of furniture, period. Just the thought of what he had done had me wet between my legs. “Of course I trust you,” I said, my voice breathy.

  He rested the tip of his finger against my breastbone and ran it in a straight line up my chest to my throat. “I bought you something special.”

  I tried to raise my eyebrows or look exasperated, but his touch was too distracting. His finger hovered just below my bottom lip, and he was watching me with those gorgeous, orange-flecked eyes of his.

  I wondered if he would ever cease to affect me like this. I wanted him with every fiber of my being. The only time I could push the thoughts of him away was when we were at work, and then only just.

  “What are you thinking about, Ms. Delaware?”

  He traced my lips before running his finger up my cheek. I licked my lips. “I was just thinking about you, and about last night.”

  He smiled, “You were spectacular.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It has been true every time.”

  He pulled his hand away and ran his palm over the places he had traced, resting just above the swell of my breasts.

  “I have a gift for you,” he said. “It’s for tonight.”

  I wanted him to move his hand lower, to press against me and use his skillful fingers to bring me to those heights of pleasure I had only experienced with him. Would it have been like this with another dominant? A part of me wondered, but... I was certain that it was just him, us.

  “You need to stop giving me gifts,” I whispered. “You’ve given me enough.”

  He shook his head, “What is the point of having money if I cannot use it to buy things that I enjoy? I enjoy giving you presents.” He moved his hand down and caressed one breast, then lifted himself off the couch. He stood there, towering over me, and held out his hand, “Come.”

  I giggled, “I’m not that close.”

  I took his hand and let him lift me.

  We went together to the bedroom and Ethan opened his closet to pull out a long, shallow gray box tied with a black silk ribbon. He handed it to me. “Open it.”

  I placed the box on the bed and undid the ribbon, letting the silk slide between my fingers like a caress. I lifted the lid and found a pile of sparkling black fabric. I reached in and touched it. The jewels rasped against my fingers, juxtaposed against the slick satin cloth.

  I grasped the top of the dress and lifted it from its box. It was full length, a jeweled bodice giving way to sheer folds of the skirt. There were no sleeves. I held it at arm’s length and tried to imagine wearing it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re going to wear it tonight,” he said. “Let me help you put it on.”

  I wanted to insist that I could dress but stopped the words. Ethan had ‘helped’ me dress before. It often ended with fewer clothing pieces than I started out with, and I had to admit that the prospect was a happy one.

  But fifteen minutes later, I had to admit that A., I had needed the help and B., I was a little disappointed that Ethan behaved like a perfect gentleman. He did give the skin of my back a quick caress before he went to work on the buttons, but that was all.

  The dress had a swoop back, almost all the way down to my hips, with a lace overlay. The dress buttoned up my ass and lower back, with a short zipper up the side. The bodice was modest and, with the amount of fabric at my legs, the sheer fabric did not reveal too much. I had to admit that I looked pretty damn good when I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror.

  Ethan liked mirrors. All the better to see you with, my dear.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, standing behind me and placing his hands on my waist. With his face in shadow, he looked like some sort of dark, demonic lover. “I’m going to get changed.”

  I nodded, “And I’m going to attend to hair and makeup. Do you need the bathroom for the next hour?”

  He laughed, but I wasn’t joking.

  The thing about natural curls is that they don’t look like they’re ‘supposed’ to look. Every magazine and model would have you believe that the curls fall in perfect, symmetric waves, but they don’t. Sometimes my curls didn’t curl, and I have tufts of straight, frizzy hair poking among them. Others
meld together to create some kind of super curl. A general lack of caring meant that my typical routine was to condition the hell out it and run some gel through my still-wet hair and let it air dry. It worked, but I had the feeling—if the dress was any indication—that we were going somewhere special.

  Extreme measures had to be taken.

  Forty minutes later Ethan knocked on the bathroom door, “How are you getting along?”

  I spoke around a mouthful of pins, “Almost there.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I grunted an assent and he pushed into the room. His eyes widened when he saw me and for a moment I forgot the complicated knot I was trying to pin to the top of my head.

  In my biased opinion, Ethan looked gorgeous no matter what he wore—or deigned not to wear. But I had never seen him dressed to the nines.

  He wore a crisp black suit and, by the way the trousers and jacket hugged his body, I knew it had been tailor-made for him. The deep red shirt he wore offset his tan skin. He was like one straight, seamless line from his shoulder to the point of his high-polished black shoes. I had never seen someone so... immaculate.

  I imagined that anyone who looked at him would think he was a high-level executive or some kind of rich playboy. Who would know that he had a full-color tattoo covering his back, or that he had a penchant for buying gifts that came with leather straps and locks?

  I shook myself and returned my attention to taming my hair. I didn’t look half bad myself. I’d applied some light makeup, giving a little heavier of a hand around my eyes where I created a smoke effect, and my lips I had painted a dark burgundy red. It made my already pale skin appear even paler, but also lent warmth to my features.

  Ethan came up beside me and propped against the vanity, his back to the mirror, and watched me. His hand strayed to my side and he ran his hand up and down from just below my breasts to my hip. “You’re looking lovely,” he said. He leaned in and inhaled. “Is that a new perfume?”

  I plucked the last pin from my mouth and twirled it into the knot atop my head. A few stray curls fell along one side of my face, but it softened the otherwise severe effect of pulling my hair up.

  “It is,” I said, smiling a little. “Do you like it?”

  “I do,” he said, and his grip on my waist tightened. He pulled me to him, his hands falling to rest on my back, just over the lace.

  Feeling his warmth through the thin fabric was enough to drive most other thoughts from my mind.

  I ran my palms over the lapels of his jacket, stopping at his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, showing the hollow of his throat. I leaned forward and lay a gentle kiss there, and his hand came up to cup the back of my neck. I leaned into his neck, rising on tiptoes. Without heels, he was still a few inches taller than me.

  “When do we have to leave?” I murmured.

  He chuckled, his fingers on that edge between my skin and hairline. “Too soon.”

  I shivered. Pressed this close, I could feel his voice reverberating out of him and into me. I tightened my grip on his shoulders, “We don’t have time for anything?”

  He ran his hands down my back until they rested just above my ass. “No,” he said. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

  I pulled back so that I could look up at him. His mouth was stretched into a wicked grin. “What are you planning, Mr. Craymore?”

  “Nothing you can’t handle, Ms. Delaware.” He let me loose and slid away from me, coming around to stand behind me at the mirror as he had in the bedroom. “I have something for you.”

  “Another present?”

  “Yes,” he said, and his tone brokered no argument. “Just as much for me as it is for you, my dear.”

  He pulled something out of his inner pocket. For a moment, I thought it was some kind of lacy underwear, but it was the wrong shape.

  “May I?” He asked.

  I wasn’t sure what it was, but I trusted him. “Sure.”

  He reached around and pulled the lace over my throat. It was a choker, lace with a middle band of leather. He did something to the back of it and I felt a metal clasp, still warm from where he had kept it close to his heart.

  “This is not a collar, though it may appear that way to others. It’s close enough that I want you to wear it so that other dominants know you’re spoken for tonight.”

  I licked my lips. “Where are we going?”

  “On the East Coast, in Boston, there’s a club. I know the owners, have been close to them for years, and I just found out they’re opening up a West Coast branch. Here. Just outside San Francisco.” He ran his fingers along the edges of the choker, straightening the lace and checking that it wasn’t too tight. Then his hands stilled, circling my neck. “It’s a very exclusive club,” he said. “Invitation only. Tonight is opening night.”

  I licked my lips. There was no pressure to his fingers, but having that gentle warmth there, around my neck, made my throat feel dry. I swallowed hard. “What’s it called?”

  He smiled, and his fingers pulsed where they lay. The sensation made me gasp, and his smile widened. “Secret,” he said. “The club is called Secret.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Veronica

  Ethan hired a town car for the night. The driver was a short man with a full beard and kind brown eyes. He chatted with us a little as he drove, talking to us about the weather, the city, and then a little about his family.

  Ethan made small talk with the driver, his hand entwined with mine. We drove out to what passed for the country in the Bay Area—rolling, wooded hills dotted with an amalgam of old farm houses and the overbearing mansions of the new rich.

  We arrived at one such place about half an hour after leaving Ethan’s apartment. The building was palatial, a sprawling neo-Mediterranean villa with a long driveway and ample parking in the back. The driver dropped us at the front and Ethan opened the door for me, handing me out.

  “Are you sure this is the club?” I asked, “This seems more like someone’s house.”

  “It’s supposed to look that way,” he said. “Just as the New York Secret was in an old brownstone.” He leaned in and whispered, “It is, after all, a secret club.”

  I laughed, “Of course it is.”

  He led me inside. An attendant at the door, dressed almost as spiffy as Ethan, asked to see our invitation. Ethan removed a thick card from his interior pocket and presented it. The attendant ushered us in and bid us a good evening.

  The interior was filled with people.

  I noticed a theme right away. Leather and lace were predominant. Discarded coats and dresses—worn, I supposed, over the scandalous lingerie of some of the guests—were piled on a couch by the front door. Outfits ran from high-class formal, like what Ethan and I wore, to straps of crisscrossed leather and, in one case, layers of thin, almost delicate chains that left nothing to the imagination.

  Some heads turned to us as we entered, and I saw a few of the men and women look me over, top to bottom. I saw a few more give Ethan the same once-over, but not so many.

  I leaned on Ethan’s shoulder, “What are we going to do at this club?” I murmured in his ear.

  “Whatever we want to,” he replied. “We can watch, or participate. I leave the choice up to you.” He bent so that he could whisper in my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “Just remember who you belong to. While we are here, I expect you to follow the same rules as when we are in the play room. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He offered me his arm and I took it. We were just starting into the crowd when a voice boomed out, “Ethan Craymore! I thought I recognized you.”

  We both looked toward the voice and I saw a tall, handsome middle-eastern man making his way toward us, a wide grin splitting his face. He had curling hair that just brushed his shoulders and deep-set black eyes. I glanced at Ethan and saw that he, too, was smiling.

  “Byron, how are you?” He call
ed, taking his arm from me to embrace the man.

  They patted each other on the backs and split apart, Byron holding Ethan at his shoulders. “It has been too long, my friend,” the man said. “And you are looking well. Better than you were at our last meeting. No more woman troubles?”

  Ethan still smiled, even as he shook his head. “Not anymore. May I introduce you to Veronica Delaware?” He held out his hand to me and I took it, letting him sweep me forward into their circle. “She’s my guest for the night.”

  “Enchanté,” Byron said, looking me over and giving a slight bow. “Lovely. You always were able to find the most charming women, my friend.”

  “Veronica, this is Byron. He and his family own Secret.”

  Byron waved a hand in dismissal, “It’s nothing.” He patted Ethan on the shoulder, “Not like the food you cook, no?” He turned to me, “Does he not cook the most amazing things? Transcendent, I tell you.”

  I smiled and nodded, “He is quite skilled.”

  “Ms. Delaware is also an accomplished chef,” Ethan informed his friend. “We work at Le Poisson d’Azur. You must come and be our guest some time.”

  Byron clapped his hands together, “I would be delighted—delighted! When I am more settled, I will give you a call. You have the same number?”

  Ethan nodded.

  “Magnifique. I must attend to my other guests, but we will talk soon, yes? It is wonderful to see you again.” He bowed to me once more, “A pleasure, madam.”

  I smiled back at him, and he melted back into the crowd.

  “Where do you know him from, sir?” I asked.

  “We met in France,” he said. “And he told me of his club. I had heard of Secret, but Byron secured me my first invitation.” He smiled at me, “He’s a good man. I’m glad to see that he’s here.”

  I smiled back. It was a little odd to see Ethan being so friendly with someone. While Esteban and Julio were making inroads, Ethan still held them at arm’s length. I could tell by his relaxed posture that he was quite comfortable in Byron’s company.