A Taste of You (5 page)

*****

Beckett tried to talk me into a late lunch, but I told him I needed to get home and edit the pictures. He didn’t argue, but when I got home the shots I took at Willowgrass were the farthest thing on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about William Lambourne, Chicago’s most eligible billionaire. I wished I had a few shots of him. I wondered if all his thick hair would look as soft and glossy on film as it did in real life. I wondered if I would have been able to capture his changing eyes or the shadow of his stubble or the easy way he moved.

It was still cold outside, but the sleet hadn’t returned, so I whistled to Laird, got his leash, and we headed out. I didn’t arrow for the lakeshore, and instead, we walked through the neighborhood. I hoped a little window-shopping would keep my mind occupied, but apparently, there weren’t enough boutiques to ward off the allure of William Lambourne.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes darkened from blue to grey, and the sound of his voice as it caressed me in the loft.
I want you.

I closed my eyes against the wave of dizzy arousal that hit me just remembering his words.
I want to fuck you
.

It had been a long time since someone looked at me that way and… I liked it. I liked the feeling of a man wanting me—a man like William Lambourne. It had been a long time since I’d thought of myself as sexy, and he made me feel sexier than I ever had.

For the first time, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have told him no.

Three

I spent Thursday morning holed up in my condo, processing and editing my photos of Ben Lee’s food. I didn’t mind being inside. I loved my condo, and even if it didn’t feel like home yet, it was cozy and comfortable. The light from the French windows made it bright and cheery, even on winter days. The floors were hardwood, and I’d painted the walls in pretty neutrals to offset the framed photographs I’d hung. The photos were a mix of images I’d captured during my travels—exotic flowers, serene beaches, plumed birds, shadowed trees, and unusual buildings. I had been careful to hang only still photos, nothing with action or motion. Nothing from Santa Cruz. No pictures of Jace. The irony that I was a professional photographer who launched her career taking candid photos of her athlete husband, but didn’t display those images, wasn’t lost on me. But I hadn’t wanted my new home to become a shrine to Jace and to everything I’d lost. I needed the illusion of a clean slate. Maybe I overcompensated by not having
any
pictures of Jace around, but it seemed like a good idea to leave those memories boxed up.

My bedroom was a little smaller than I would have liked, the queen-size bed taking up half the room, but the living room was large and spacious, more than making up for it. There was a great nook near the window where I’d put my desk and my computer, and this was where I did most of my work. The master bedroom was off the living room, so I could jump out of bed and walk fifteen steps to my “office.” I liked working in my pajamas, cozy and snug, while outside the living room windows, Chicago was blustery and cold.

There was a second bedroom near the front door, which I intended for guests, but I hadn’t had any yet, so I kept my unpacked boxes shoved in the closet, along with my summer wardrobe. The whole place had been renovated, the kitchen most heavily. Minerva told me the former tenants were avid foodies, which explained why they spent so much money on the kitchen. Apparently, they were crushed that they couldn’t take the AGA, but it weighed half a ton and moving it out wasn’t feasible. The behemoth cooker was there to stay. Too bad I didn’t cook. But I did like a bubble bath on occasion, and one day I wanted to enlarge the master bath and make it truly decadent.
That
I could appreciate.

So Thursday I settled in, throwing a fragrant log in the wood-burning fireplace and enjoying the piney smellwhile my eyes feasted on the mouthwatering photos I’d taken. Occasionally, I looked out the large windows to the right of my desk. The day had dawned clear and sunny, and it was still hard for me to comprehend how it could be so bright and still so cold. Of course, we had cold weather in Santa Cruz, but it was damp cold and didn’t usually last for months. The Chicago cold was biting and bone-chilling. I learned about windchill here too. That’s when it feels colder than it actually is because of the wind. And it was windy in the Windy City.

The sky looked the same though. In Santa Cruz, a bright blue sky would have called me to the beach. Now I was happy to be bundled up inside. I had to admit, my condo might not have the views our Santa Cruz place did, but it had its perks. One advantage to having a large, renovated kitchen was that the pantry was the perfect size for a darkroom. I’m sure the former owners would have choked if I’d told them my plans for their spacious pantry, but the darkroom had been finished before I had sheets on my bed.

I took a short break from editing. I couldn’t help myself, so I typed “William Lambourne” into my Google browser. Pages of links to business articles filled my screen and I could feel my eyes glaze over. I read enough to learn that William was the head of WML Capital Management, which managed investments “in a wide range of asset classes, including private equity, hedge funds, real estate, and entertainment ventures.” I wasn’t sure what all that meant, but Beckett was obviously right. William Lambourne really did own everything. I clicked over to images, which were my speed, and the first picture that came up made me catch my breath. There he was, in all his stormy-eyed handsomeness, staring back at me. I could have spent all day looking at him on my screen, but I did have work to finish, so I forced my attention to pictures of honey-dripped figs and delicious desserts.

Later that day, I took Laird for a quick walk then drove to Willowgrass to show Ben and Amanda the images I intended to submit to
Chicago Now
. Outside, the street was empty, but when I stepped inside, the place was a hive of activity, and I was momentarily bewildered. Men and women moved purposefully about, shouting orders, and rushing here and there with clipboards, crates of fresh produce, and cases of wine.

“Catherine!”

I looked up to see Amanda waving from the loft dining area. She looked calm and beautiful in winter white cashmere. I waved back and wished I’d worn something cuter than dark-wash jeans, boots, and an oversized sweater with a T-shirt underneath. At least I had a filmy scarf tied around my neck.

“I’ll be right down.”

I waited, looking around as unobtrusively as possible. I didn’t think there was much chance William Lambourne would be there, but that didn’t stop me from secretly hoping. Amanda waved me to the bar, and I made my way around decorators, electricians, and stagers. I had a proof sheet printed, as well as the images on my tablet, and as soon as I opened the digital file, Amanda swiped through them. She scanned each photo carefully before she gave a nod and moved on to the next. Finally, she finished and handed the tablet back with a huge smile. “These are fabulous. Perfect! You’re a genius!”

“Well, the food was beautiful, and that made my job easy. And please, keep the proof sheet.”

Amanda clutched my arm. “Thanks. You should come to the opening party tomorrow night.”

I hopped off the barstool. “Oh, you don’t have to invite me.”

She shook her head, and I could see I was not going to dissuade her. “Beckett is coming, and I want you there, so we can introduce everyone to the fabulous photographer who took these gorgeous shots. Besides, I wouldn’t want to disappoint our investors.” She winked.

I gave her a perplexed frown.

She leaned into me. “William Lambourne asked about you after the shoot. He was that tall, dark-haired man in the grey suit? You must have noticed him. He seemed quite taken with you.”

“Really?” I tried to act nonchalant, but I felt a spark of fiery heat flare in my belly. “I don’t even know him.”

“How romantic! You have to come to the party and meet him officially then. I’ll introduce you myself. It starts at eight.” And then she melted into the crowd of workers.

And that’s how I ended up standing in front of my closet on Friday night, trying to figure out what to wear to a restaurant opening party—what to wear to see William Lambourne again. I heard my cell ring in the living room and called, “Beckett, will you get that?” Beckett was fetching wine, even though there would be plenty at the opening. I needed fortification beforehand. He knew I wasn’t comfortable at big parties, so he’d shown up with a bottle of white in one hand and a bottle of red in the other.

“Sure!” A moment later, I heard him answer, “Well, hello to you too, Jill! How
are
you?”

Ugh. My mother. I was so not in the mood for her flakiness. I could put her off, but it would only prolong the inevitable. And there was no hoping she’d call back at a more opportune time. She always called at the worst times. She had some inborn sense of when I felt insecure and harried.

Beckett’s voice grew closer, so I opened my bedroom door and held out my hand. Beckett made a circling sign, indicating my mother was going on and on, and then finally he said, “Oh, Jill, here’s Cat. Bye, now. Kisses!”

“Hi, Mom.”

Beckett breezed past me and peered into my closet, immediately shoving dresses aside and shaking his head.

“Hi, baby.” My mother’s voice was too loud and too bright. And too… southern? “How are you?”

“Good. I’m sort of getting ready—”

“Oh, good, good! Catherine, honey, I told you about Bobby Parsons, didn’t I?”

I should have known she wouldn’t want to hear about me. Why did I even try? “Bobby Parsons? Um, I don’t think so.”

Beckett held up a red dress I’d bought ages ago. It still had the tags on it. I shook my head and mouthed,
no red
.

“He’s the art collector? From Texas?” That explained the fake accent. My mother was like a chameleon, never uncomfortable in any situation. She just changed herself to adapt.

“Still doesn’t sound familiar, Mom.” I sipped my wine. Between my mother and Beckett, I might need more than one glass.

“Oh, honey, I told you!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Remember—he’s rich and divorced?” Not surprisingly, this description did not help.
Rich
and
divorced
described every one of my mother’s boyfriends.

Beckett pulled out an orange dress and shook it enticingly. I covered the receiver. “No way!” What had I been thinking when I bought that? I’d look like a pumpkin in that thing. “Listen, Mom, I need to wrap this up. Can you tell me why you’re calling?”

“Of course.” She sounded cold now. I was an expert on my mother’s moods, but anyone would have known she was annoyed at my dismissal. “I can see you have more important things to do.”

“Mom…” I sipped more wine.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for St. Barts with Bobby. I didn’t want you to worry.”

I almost choked on the wine. “Not worry? I don’t even know this guy! How long will you be gone?”

“Just ten days.” She sounded as though she was smiling. She loved nothing better than to shock.

Ten days
! How serious was this? I wasn’t exactly shocked, but I hadn’t seen this coming.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll email you with the travel details.”

“Mom, no. I really don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Catherine, really. Learn to live a little!”

I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see—especially because she couldn’t see. Beckett pulled out a beige dress with a black geometric pattern and made a face.

“Have you followed through on your resolution?”

The stupid New Year’s resolution. I knew I shouldn’t have spent New Year’s Eve with my mother. “Mom, that was your resolution for me. Not mine. I don’t want to date right now.”

Beckett’s head snapped up, and he pointed as if to say,
listen to your mother
.

“Don’t want to date?” To my mother, the idea was ludicrous. A woman without a man was like a ring without a diamond. “What are you waiting for? You’re an intelligent, successful, attractive young woman. It’s time you got back out there. Jace—”

“Mom—” I had a good idea what she would say next, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I cut her off. “I’m going out tonight, so I really have to go.”

“Wait a minute. You’re going out tonight? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did say so!”

“Who are you going out with?”

I sighed. “Beckett. We’re going to a really hip restaurant opening party. Lots of eligible guys will be there.” Including William Lambourne. “And I’ll think about going on a date. Soon, okay?”

“Promise me, honey.” And the accent was back again. I wanted to remind her she had been born in Southern California, not South Carolina, but I kept my mouth shut.

“Sure.”

“Ya’ll take care now.”

“We will. Bye. Love you.” I flopped down on my bed. I looked at Beckett and whined, “Do I have to go? Can’t I make popcorn, sit on the couch, and watch a movie instead?”

“You have to go.” Beckett pulled me up. “I’m not seeing the perfect outfit in this closet. Tell me you’ve already chosen it and are waiting to surprise me with the big reveal.”

“That’s it, exactly.” I walked to my closet, thumbed through hanger after hanger of black and pulled out a classic cashmere sweaterdress. It had a high neck and would keep me warm, plus the black would ensure I blended with the crowd.

“Oh, no! I would accuse you of joking, but I know you too well.” Beckett shoved the dress back in my closet. “You are not wearing that. That’s for traffic court or for a job interview at a cardboard box factory. Totally not appropriate for a sexy, restaurant opening party for the hottest new chef in Chicago. No, no, no.”

“I thought
you
were the hottest chef in Chicago.”

Beckett grinned. “Flattery will get you everywhere—except into that dress. You need something sexy. Show off that rockin’ bod. The billionaire might be there…”

“I really don’t care if he is. I have nothing to say to the jerk.” I couldn’t look at Beckett when I said this because I knew he’d see through me in an instant.

“You haven’t even thought about him?”

“Not even once.” Bald-faced lie. I hadn’t
not
thought about Stormy Eyes for more than five minutes—his voice, his lips, his hard body. How much I would have liked to feel that body pressed against mine again.

I want to fuck you
.

Beckett raised his brows. “Your cheeks are pink, Cat.
What
are you thinking about? Rather,
who
are you thinking about?” He held out the red dress.

“No, Beckett. No red. I don’t want to scream for attention. I want to blend with the crowd, you know?” But did I? Did I really? It had been a long time since I’d dressed for a man. I’d forgotten how exciting it could be—the sexy lingerie, the flirty outfit, the anticipation of his response. I secretly wanted to wow William Lambourne. I wanted his jaw to drop, and Beckett was right. The black sweaterdress wouldn’t do it. Still, I protested. “I’m not interested in William Lambourne’s attention,” I said and tried to make myself believe it. Lie, lie, lie.

“Honey, you could wear a paper bag, and that man would notice you. You’re gorgeous, and it’s obvious he wants you. He
told
you he wants you. How more obvious can you get?” Now, he leaned closer and raised his brows conspiratorially. “Why not torment him a little? Make him sorry for his obnoxious come-on at Willowgrass?”

It was the perfect incentive because Beckett knew I had a competitive streak and could be a little vengeful—not in a
Fatal Attraction
kind of way, but in a you-got-me-but-I’ll-get-you-back kind of way.