A Taste of You (3 page)

“It’s quite alright, Catherine,” she said, patting Laird on the head. I could hear the faint trace of her German accent. “You know I don’t mind. What I do mind is your refusal to call me Minerva.
Mrs. Himmler
makes me feel old!” She gave me a warm hug.

“I’ll try, Minerva,” I said. But it was hard to call this refined, dignified woman by her given name. Minerva Himmler and her husband, Hans, were my first friends in Chicago, other than Beckett. They lived in the condo below mine, and Minerva welcomed me with chocolate-covered
baumkuchen
the day after I moved in. I think I ate the whole cake in less than an hour.

Since then, Minerva and Hans had become good friends. They invited me over for dinner once a month, and the food was always delicious. Minerva liked to point out how lucky I was to have a renovated kitchen that included an AGA stove—or cooker, as it was called. It was this behemoth, white cast-iron monstrosity with all these doors and compartments, and it wasn’t anything like the Kenmore gas range I had grown up with. I still hadn’t figured out how to use the AGA, so I felt luckier that I was a master of my microwave. Minerva, however, made wonderful
stollen
in the AGA, and Beckett—well, Beckett just about creamed himself every time he looked at it. He found reasons to come over and bake in it all the time, which I didn’t mind, since he usually left me half of whatever he made.

Having Minerva and Hans as neighbors was another great perk about the condo and completely unexpected. It was like having my grandparents living downstairs. They were sweet and funny and spoiled me. They also knew enough not to pry into my life. They minded their business when they could tell I was having a bad day and wanted to be alone, and they drew me out of my shell when I was lonely and wanted cheering up.

“I have not seen you much the last few days,” Minerva said.

“I have a job. I’m doing a shoot for
Chicago Now.
It’s to accompany a piece on Willowgrass, a new restaurant opening in Fulton Market.”

She nodded. “I read about that one. Ben Lee’s venture. He was on that cooking contest show, yes? He’s quite the rising star and handsome too. And
Chicago Now
? I am impressed. You are making quite a name for yourself.” This from a woman who was a celebrated opera singer in her day, the coloratura soprano famed for her brilliant performance as The Queen of the Night in Mozart’s
The Magic Flute
. She still looked the part, with her grey and black hair coiled high on her head, her stylish navy trousers and white sweater, and her dramatic makeup. I hardly ever wore makeup and always felt pale beside Minerva.

“Thanks. I’m doing the actual shoot today, so I’d better get going.”

“Good luck. Come for dinner soon,
ja
?”

“I will.” Laird and I walked upstairs, and I changed for the shoot. It took me longer than usual to get ready because I tried three different outfits. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Usually I threw on whatever I first grabbed in my closet, but I couldn’t seem to make a decision. Finally, I decided on black suede boots, tights, a slim black skirt, a grey and black striped sweater, a cashmere scarf wound around my neck, and the diamond studs that were a gift from my mother when I turned twenty-one. And just for fun, I put on a lacy, red balconette bra and matching panties. It wasn’t because I was hoping to see Stormy Eyes again. Even if I saw him, he’d never know what I was wearing underneath. But I would
.

A quick check of the time told me I was running late, so I dashed out the door, stowed my equipment in my white Volvo SUV, and backed out of my parking space. It still felt weird to drive such a big car, but I needed a change, and now that I didn’t have surf gear to tote, I didn’t have to worry about scratching the paint on a nice vehicle. Plus, the design was touted as one of the most solid, and the car had all these high-tech safety features.

It was sleeting hard, and traffic was slow thanks to the icy conditions. By the time I reached Willowgrass, found a parking spot, and unloaded my gear, I was ten minutes late.
Cat time. Great
, I thought. I dashed into the restaurant feeling completely frazzled. I’m sure I looked it too, but Amanda was all smiles when she greeted me. “Do you need anything, Catherine? How about a nice espresso to warm you up? It looks awful out there.”

I ran my hand through my hair, hoping to smooth it down and undo the sleet damage. “Um, no thanks. How about a water instead?” I was already nervous enough, and the last thing I needed was to be bouncing off the walls with a caffeine buzz.

“Sure thing, hon. Let me go grab it. Beckett’s in the kitchen with Ben,” she added as she left to fetch my water.

I went to look for Beckett. He was in the back, working with Ben and the food, and after I checked in, I went into the dining room and set up. Amanda brought me the water then finished tearing the paper off the windows. I wished the sleet would stop so more light would come in, but I had brought extra lamps just in case. Except for a handful of Ben and Amanda’s friends and what I assumed were financial backers sitting quietly by the bar, I was alone for a few minutes, which was perfect. I could really look at the space and the lighting and do a few test shots before making final decisions.

I started working, but every few minutes I found myself glancing over my shoulder at the restaurant’s front windows. I knew it was because I kept expecting to see
him
. I had no idea who he was or why he was outside the restaurant the night before, but a part of me hoped he’d reappear today.

Ugh. I had to stop this. I pressed my cold palms to my frozen cheeks and tried, once again, to concentrate on my job. This was so unlike me. Usually, focusing was a non-issue for me. This was a fabulous space and a great opportunity. I was really excited about this assignment. I don’t know why my mind wandered back to Stormy Eyes. Well, yes I did, but I tried not to think about it.

“Cat!” Beckett breezed into the dining room and gave me a hard hug. He was wearing slim jeans and a cable sweater with a white apron. I never knew how he managed to keep his apron so clean when he was working with food. “How’s it going? Can I bring out the food for the first shots?”

“Yes. I’ll finish positioning the lights while you spray and shellac. I wish I’d remembered my gas mask.”

“Ha-ha. You know everything I use is all-natural.”

“That doesn’t mean it smells good.”

“You’re one to speak, Miss Reek of Darkroom Chemicals.”

I grinned, relaxing now that Beckett and I were bantering. We’d known each other so long and were such good friends, it was easy to work with him. We knew each other’s routines, likes, and dislikes.

“Ben is totally pulling out all the stops. You’re going to love how everything looks,” Beckett said as he retreated to the kitchen. “So sexy.”

I smiled, loving that he was as excited about this as I was.

I checked my notes on the first shots, and my cheeks thawed and tingled. I bent to retrieve a camera from my bag, and as I straightened, I spotted a pair of expensive men’s shoes—sleek black leather. I looked higher and saw grey flannel, tailored trousers, a suit jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a silver tie, loose at the neck. Slowly, already knowing who I’d see, I glanced into his face. His eyes were molten grey, like the suit he was wearing. His hair wasn’t windblown or wet from the sleet. In fact, he looked like he just stepped off a page of a magazine.

I swallowed and felt my hands tremble. Our eyes met, and in that moment, it was all I could do to breathe.

Two

I took a shaky breath and looked down quickly. My hands were trembling so badly I almost dropped my camera.

His look was intense and completely mesmerizing. My whole chest constricted and when our eyes met, my breathing became shallow, and my throat tightened. Everything inside me became soft, liquid, and unbearably hot. It was as though an internal furnace had been turned on, and I had no way of releasing the pent up heat. I averted my eyes and pulled at the black pashmina artfully wrapped around my neck. I hoped I wasn’t flushed from the unexpected flash of hot raging through me, but I was pretty sure I was glowing.

I didn’t know how I would concentrate with him standing so close, but I made a valiant effort to ignore him and go about my work. At least I knew who he was now. He had to be one of Amanda and Ben’s backers or a friend.

I bent to grab a flash and sneaked a peek at Stormy Eyes. He’d retreated to the bar with the rest of the group, and I breathed a little easier—until I saw he was still staring. Then my pulse skipped, and I had to look away again. If he was an investor, I had better act professionally. I didn’t want to make Amanda and Ben look bad by falling to my knees in front of Stormy Eyes and begging him to take me then and there. But that’s exactly what was flashing through my mind. A vision of sliding down his front, rubbing myself wantonly across every inch as I looked into those turbulent blue-grey eyes and mouthed,
take me
. I was still too warm, but I shivered as if a cold breeze had brushed across my heated skin, and I felt my nipples pebble into hard, sensitive nubs.
Oh shit
. I was in real trouble here.

I smiled uneasily and tried to forget the heat of his gaze as it bored into my back. My skin prickled everywhere while I finished setting up. I was probably being rude. He was looking at me so long and hard. I should have introduced myself. I should have asked his name, but I feared that would somehow break the spell. And though I was so warm and tight that I was uncomfortable, I didn’t want the feeling to end. It had been so long since I’d felt anything but numbness. And I’d never, ever, been this aroused from nothing more than a man’s look.

And then Amanda and Beckett came out with Ben’s first plate of starters, and Amanda practically stumbled when she spotted Stormy Eyes. Any woman would stumble looking into a face like his. He was male perfection—all hard lines and planes and chiseled features. But then, she did the impossible. She recovered gracefully—I had to give her credit—approached him and embraced him.

So he was not a god. He could be seen by others. He could be touched. He could lean down and wrap his arms around a woman. At that moment, I felt intensely jealous. Obviously, Amanda was his girlfriend. Watching them embrace, I think I saw red blurring my vision. I could hear the low murmur of conversation, but I was far enough away that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard Amanda laugh and watched as she put her tiny hand on his upper arm, which looked, even from where I was standing, rock-solid.

“Cat?” Beckett looked toward the bar then back at me. I realized I was straining to eavesdrop, and I was staring, so I quickly averted my eyes and focused on Beckett. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“Great.” I dug in my bag to give myself something to do. I knew who Stormy Eyes was now. He was Amanda’s boyfriend. I hated her, and at the same time, I understood. She was beautiful and petite and dainty—the exact opposite of me.

I was plain old me. Brown hair, not much makeup, a veritable Amazon at five-foot-six with an athletic build, more curves than straight lines, and dressed all in black like most urban, artsy types, but really because I hated to draw attention to myself. I’d always thought my green eyes were my best feature, but they didn’t stand a chance when Amanda was a tiny, perfect package. “Is this the first shot?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you sure you’re ready?” Beckett positioned the food. “Do you need a minute?”

“Nope.” I said too brightly. “I’m ready.” I moved to the other side of the table, looking for the best angle. It put my line of vision directly with the bar, but I made an enormous effort not to look. I didn’t want to see Stormy Eyes touching Amanda, playing with her hair, kissing her neck, or caressing her perfect perky breasts.

My camera slipped, and I had to crouch, pretending I was going for a closer shot. The benefit was that I finally noticed the food. And then, I had to smile. I couldn’t remember what Ben was calling these, but they were essentially pigs-in-a-blanket, made with lamb merguez sausage, topped with a spicy mustard sauce, and then wrapped in flaky puff pastry. They were a clever take on an old favorite, and when I’d tasted them yesterday, they’d been delicious. The wrappers were golden and crispy, and the filling was colorful and savory. I loved how they crunched initially, then turned creamy and wonderful in my mouth. Ben had taken something fabulous and used his skills to make it irresistible.

“There,” Beckett said, stepping back and admiring his work. “Let’s see how that photographs.”

I immediately started snapping pictures. After a dozen shots, Beckett and I studied them, and he moved in with a few tweaks. He pulled one of his sprays from his bag and spritzed the lamb rolls then added color to a couple spots with his vegetable-based paints. Regardless of the natural products he used, the food was inedible now.

“How’s that?” he asked.

I put the camera to my eye and snapped a shot. Beckett and I studied it. “Looks good,” I said. “Let me do a few more, and we’re ready for the next dish. Two-minute warning.”

This was our code for Beckett to start his final prep on the next subject. He didn’t like to put the final touches on too early because, as he put it, food had a perfect window. Style it too soon, and it would wilt before I took the first shots. Timing was important, and Beckett and I had it down.

I snapped a few more shots of the lamb bites, and then the next dishes came in rapid succession. Beckett brought me venison tartare with foie gras, marinated stuffed olives, and herb-roasted chicken tenders. All the while, I kept my head down, talked only to Beckett, and ignored Stormy Eyes. I didn’t forget about him. My skin tingled when he was near, making me hyperaware. My bottom chafed against the soft wool of the skirt, and my breasts were too sensitive against the silk of my bra. Yet the food had its own allure, and it was enough to keep me from forgetting my reason for being there.

“That’s the last starter,” Beckett said. “I’m going to prep the first small plate.”

“Sure.” I rubbed the back of my neck and moved my head from side to side, trying to loosen up. “Give me about five minutes.”

“I’ll plate it and bring it out.” He leaned close and whispered. “You’re doing great!”

Those were exactly the words I needed. “Thanks.” I breathed, feeling relieved. He headed for the kitchen, pausing at the monitor to study the last shots.

“What do you think about the farmhouse table for the small plates? Maybe a larger stage and a different look?” He shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.

I took a step back, studied my setup, and decided Beckett was right. The farmhouse table was perfect. I loved the knotted wood and honey color. But it was too far back to give me the natural light I wanted, so I set my camera down and moved to the end to give it a shove.

It barely moved.

I shoved again, and the next thing I knew
he
was beside me.

“Allow me.”

Oh, God. That voice again. That low, seductive voice that rumbled through me and vibrated into the depths of me. He’d said nothing provocative, and yet my body reacted as though he’d murmured,
spread your legs
.

I looked up at him—geez, he was tall—and kept an unaffected look on my face, but I don’t think it worked. I felt wide-eyed and bowled over, and I suspected I looked it too. “I can get it,” I said. “It’s my job.” The truth was it was physically painful to be this close and not touch him. If he’d been mine, instead of Amanda’s, I would have killed any woman who looked at him. I needed to keep my distance.

“Absolutely not.” The way he said it, with such authority and finality, stopped my protest completely. In fact, I stepped back, out of his way, and he moved the table with little effort. A quick glance at the bar told me no one was paying attention. Amanda wasn’t standing there anymore. Only this tall, well-dressed man had noticed that I needed help and had come to my aid. “Here?” he asked, pausing.

I glanced at the table and nodded. He’d placed it almost perfectly. “Yes. But I think…” I moved to the table and gestured to show him I wanted it closer to the window. The sleet had finally stopped, and I wanted to take advantage of the clearer skies and brighter light. I placed my hands on the wood, ready to give the table a shove, but as I was about to push, his hands came down on top of mine. I hissed in a breath, and my body reacted as though an electric current had traveled from his fingers to my very center. I’d thought I was hot before, but now, I was on fire. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, and all I wanted to do was press my body against his and find relief from the unbearable heat.

Slowly, he slid his hands off mine, placed them on either side of my palms, and leaned his body into me, moving the table as he did. His body was warm and solid behind me. I could feel the steel of his biceps, and above the scents of the food and the chemicals, there was another scent, something masculine and exotic I couldn’t place. All I knew for certain was that I could feel him touching me, and every nerve in my body was alive and firing.

“Here?” he asked.

I made an unintelligible sound.

“Do you like it here?” he asked with more directness.

I was rendered momentarily speechless as I looked into his stormy eyes. I watched them widen as I licked my bottom lip and thought how to answer. At least my mouth wasn’t hanging open.
Do you like it here?
This sounded as innuendo-laden as the quick one-liners that had floored me last night, the ones about my being screwed and him not being innocent.
Oh my
. Maybe I was reading this all wrong, but I didn’t think so. “Oh, yes,” I finally stammered with my heart racing.

He chuckled, moved away, and gave me that knowing expression. Again. “Good,” he said, and then he turned and walked back to take his seat at the bar.

His absence felt like the cold January air sweeping down. I wanted my warmth back. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the table.
Stop
. I no more needed his kind of warmth than I needed a huge slab of decadent dark chocolate cake. I might want both, but they were not good for me. I had to remember why I was in Chicago and stay focused on my goals. Right now, my professional life was paramount. My personal life, what little there was of it, was on hold. That was fine because it was still too early to start dating again. I wasn’t ready.

When I released the table, my hands still shook and my belly still fluttered, but I felt a little steadier. I knew my face was warm, and I probably looked flustered. I didn’t think there was a woman alive who wouldn’t have been flustered by this man.

“Don’t kill me,” Beckett announced, holding a plate high as he strode through the kitchen door. “Ben threw together one more starter, and I couldn’t resist. This one is mucho sexy! I’ve sprayed it within an inch of its life so it’s really shiny and juicy.”

He set the plate on the table with a flourish, and my eyes widened. The dish was gorgeous and undeniably sexual. “What is it?” I said, my voice huskier than I’d intended.

“Figs. They’re supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”

I didn’t look at Stormy Eyes. I wanted to. I could feel him looking at me, but I kept my gaze on the figs. Beckett pointed to the dish he’d plated. “These are wrapped in prosciutto and have a touch of goat cheese. They’ve been baked.” He moved his hand, indicating another group of figs. I couldn’t help but notice that in their raw state, the figs bore a close resemblance to the female sex organs. “These are raw, but there’s a little crumble of Danish blue cheese in the middle, then they’ve been drizzled with warm spiced honey. Well, if you order them, they’re drizzled with honey. This is syrup and something akin to motor oil. But wouldn’t all the gooey honey be perfect for licking off your fingertips?”

I couldn’t stop myself then. It was as if my eyes were independent of my brain. I looked at Stormy Eyes, and our gazes met. He smiled slowly, his eyes twinkling wickedly, his lips full and sensual, and I felt the spot between my legs throb in response.
Get a grip
, I told myself and raised my camera. The food was gorgeous, the lighting perfect, the restaurant amazing. I could very well take some of the best damn photos I’d ever taken. I wasn’t going to let some guy with gorgeous eyes and extremely kissable lips get in the way.

Steeling myself, I snapped the first shot of the figs. It was blurry and unfocused, but that was okay. It was a start. Beckett and I conferred, and he was kind enough not to comment on how blurry my shot was. He reached in and used his tongs to move one of the raw figs slightly, and as the fruit shifted, the thick, gooey coating dripped down the side. The dollop of creamy cheese on top was softening and spreading thanks to the heat of the lamp. The whole dish looked luscious and juicy, and I envisioned a thick tongue slowly flicking across the top, lapping up the sweet deliciousness.
Oh fuck
. I steadied my aim, took a deep breath, and the next shot was perfect.

Beckett and I slipped into our routine, and the work felt natural and right. I snapped photo after photo of some of the most mouthwatering food I have ever seen. And all the while, I was starving. I should have eaten before heading over. The irony was that even though I was surrounded by delicious food, I couldn’t have even a taste because it had been handled and sprayed with products.

And then there was the added irony of Stormy Eyes. I could feel his gaze. I could feel it touching me, caressing me, arousing me. But he, too, was untouchable. I tried to push my X-rated thoughts away, but they lingered in the back of my mind, threatening to surface whenever I let my guard down. The air in the restaurant crackled with tension and attraction, but I kept my head down, my camera up, and worked until it became rote.