Guilty Pleasures (10 page)

Before David could make it, Mari walked in. “Why, thank you,” she said, leaning up and kissing him quickly, her violet eyes ablaze. Then she saw he had company, and blushed a little. “I'm sorry. I'm early.”

“That's okay,” Nick said. “David was just leaving.”

“You must be Mari…Mari Salazar,” David said swiftly, and Nick glared at him. “I read about you in the
Guardian….
”

Abruptly, David trailed off as he studied Mari's face.

“Wait a minute,” David said. “I know you.”

Mari, Nick noticed, went pale.

“You're Marion Worthington!” David snapped his fingers. “You were the one from Le Pome!”

Mari's back went ramrod-straight. “I think Nick said you were just leaving?”

“And now you're in business with Nick,” David mused. “Man. The failure of Le Pome was downright legendary. Is that what made you change your name? How did you wind up working with Nick, anyway? Maybe I could interview you….”

Nick moved on David, his arms clenching with menace. He gave him a shove toward the door. “You heard her. Get out.”

David grimaced. “You can't stop me from writing this story.”

“Out.”
With one last push, Nick shut the door behind David.

“So. This was what you had to do this afternoon?”
Her tone was conversational, but he could see the wounded look in her eyes. “I wouldn't have interrupted, but Lindsay and I got done early.”

“It was a mistake,” Nick said, feeling a wave of guilt. “I thought he was going to do a promotional piece on Guilty Pleasures. I've worked with him before…. He didn't used to be like this.”

“So. You wanted to do a promotional piece on my restaurant,” Mari mused, “but you didn't want to tell me beforehand or have me be involved.”

She let the words hang in the air. Then she headed for the door herself. Nick stepped in front of her.

“It was a mistake,” he said sharply. “I made a mistake, okay?”

“Now he knows,” she hissed instead. “He knows who I am. I thought I'd buried that whole mess, and now it's getting kicked up again because
you
wanted to get some publicity, for the fine job
you
were doing with
my
restaurant!”

She pushed past him, and Nick held her against him before she could open the door. “You're right,” he said, and she snarled at him. “I was trying to get publicity. I was trying to get my reputation back on track. I'm sorry if it hurt you. I didn't mean for it to hurt you.”

She spun to look at him. “And what about all that stuff…‘Don't worry, Mari. Lean on me, Mari. Let me take care of things.'” She glared at him. “This is how you
take care of things,
huh?”

“Mari…”

“No. Don't talk to me, Nick,” she said, tugging away. “I don't want to see you right now.”

With that, she walked out, slamming the door behind her.

 

T
HAT NIGHT
, M
ARI SAT
on her couch, staring at her TV but not really seeing it. She didn't call Lindsay because, although Lindsay was too good a friend to say “I told you so,” Mari would still sense it…and she felt stupid enough right now.

You don't honestly think he'll stay, do you?

That was the problem, Mari thought, shutting off the TV and pacing around her living room. After their last night together, when he'd gotten her to relinquish control and consequently showed her that he wanted to help her, she'd trusted him…and some traitorous part of her heart had thought, for just a moment, that he
wouldn't
leave. Lindsay's words had brought reality in to a certain extent, but her heart apparently hadn't been convinced.

At least, she thought with a pang, not until this afternoon.

He went to a reporter. Behind my back.

Nick was a scheming opportunist, Mari thought, hitting a pillow. He was a conniving, seducing rat. He was…

She closed her eyes against tears. Why can't he care about me?

She was now hitting the pillows so hard that she didn't hear the door knock. She wondered how long it had been going on. She peered out her peephole.

Nick stared back at her.

She thought for a moment of just leaving him out in the hallway. Still, she was in a fighting mood…and here was the object of her ire, conveniently showing up.

She yanked open the door. “You're a jerk,” she said, without preamble, but to her disgrace, her voice trembled.

His eyes looked sorrowful, and he made no rebuttal to her accusation. “Mind if I come in?” he said instead.

Her eyes widened. “For what? Because I think your days of
taking care of me
are over,” she spat out.

“I'm not here to sleep with you,” he said, his voice tired. “I'm here to apologize.”

That took some of the wind out of her sails. She still looked at him with suspicion, but she did let him come in.
Let him try to apologize,
her subconscious thought.
Then kick his sorry ass out.

Still, that small, stupid part of her heart began to hope.

He was wearing a pair of Dockers and a button-up shirt, a little less casual than his usual jeans and T-shirt. He sat down on her couch.

“I don't know that you'll want to sit down,” she said, leaning against her desk. “I don't think you're going to be here that long.”

The words were bitchy, she knew that. At this point, she didn't care.

“I didn't want to hurt you, but you're right…. I was thinking more of myself.”

Her eyebrows went up. “A novel way to start an apology.”

“I never pretended…” he started, then let out a gruff breath, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could wipe the weariness off with his fingers. “No. That's a cop-out. I got a job with you because it was the only job I could get at the time. I worked with you on the menu because I saw it as a way out—and because I could be alone with you.”

She swallowed, hard. What he'd described, except for the job, was what she had felt…what she had convinced herself that she'd felt.

So why are you blaming him for doing what you thought you were doing?

Because it had moved past that, she thought. At least, for her it had moved past that. That thought worried her more than any of the previous ones.

“What do you know about me, Mari?”

She sat down at the far side of the couch, sinking into the cushions. “Not a lot,” she said, shrugging. “I know where you've worked. I know that you competed when you were with Blackstone's, you worked at the Four Seasons, and of course I know about Le Chapeau Noir….”

“Did you know about me when you went to the Culinary School?”

She had her first smile of the night at that. “I barely knew my own name when I went to the Culinary,” she said ruefully, remembering the ragged pace, the constant work…the competitive spirit as well as the friendship. “No, I hadn't heard of you.”

“I got kicked out,” he said, with a small half grin. “Leon managed to get me back in, but it was a near thing.”

Her eyes widened. This was definitely not what she expected to hear tonight—but she was fascinated, nonetheless.

“It was my second year,” Nick mused, and she could see from his far-off gaze that he wasn't in the living room with her at that moment—he was back in Upstate New York, probably in his early twenties, with no reputation to lose or gain back. “I'd gotten in on a scholarship. I'm originally from Covina, down in Southern Cal. Not a great neighborhood…in fact, our house was right on the border of the
barrio.
My mother worked in restaurants to keep me in private school. I'm not saying that for pity…I'm just saying, she worked really hard, and I worked in restaurants too…summers, after school. I knew that cooking was what I wanted to do, and when I got the scholarship to the Culinary, she was so proud of me, she got me a set of knives.”

He sounded almost embarrassed, saying it, but Mari was touched. Most parents wouldn't have understood…hers certainly hadn't. When she'd said she was going to the Culinary, they'd been unpleasantly surprised. Chefs didn't make money, not unless they were famous.

Which is why they worked on making you famous as soon as you graduated.
An effort that had ultimately failed. She focused on Nick's story, trying to keep her errant thoughts together.

“Anyway, I was doing pretty well…and I got along with Leon. I guess it got a couple of the upperclassmen steamed. Especially when I got the internship to Blackstone's when they didn't.” His smile was feral now, and she could see the competition gleaming in his eyes. “So my knives got stolen. People had lost knives before…not a whole set, but it happened. But most people could afford to replace their knives, too. I couldn't afford another job, and my scholarship wouldn't cover it. When I found who'd stolen them, he said it was a prank.” He ran his finger through his hair. “I wasn't amused.”

“What'd you do?” Mari asked, feeling a chill of foreboding.

“Well, I wasn't going to do anything…just grab my stuff and leave. Maybe report him, if Leon insisted I should. He was getting close to being my mentor at the time.” He took a deep breath. “But the guy started talking trash. He said I'd never amount to anything…that I'd be flipping burgers at a truck-stop with my crappy set of knives. Said that I was just ghetto anyway, and that they'd just given me the scholarship and the internship to get some publicity, like ‘poor kid makes good' or something. So I wound up pounding him. Pretty badly, actually.”

“So they kicked you out,” Mari summarized.

“Turns out the kid was from the governor's family,” Nick said, with a small, bitter laugh. “Thankfully, the governor wasn't too fond of the kid, either—guess he was just a whiny little jerk that was about to
flunk out of school anyway. At least, that's the angle Leon played when he got me back in.”

“I'm sorry,” Mari said, and meant it. She didn't want to, but she slid slightly closer to him on the couch. “But Nick…what does this have to do with us? With this afternoon?”

He sighed. “I guess I'm just trying to show you that I worked too hard to get to where I was at Le Chapeau Noir. I didn't get a damned
parking ticket
after that scrape at the Culinary. I didn't have a steady girlfriend, and the only friend I had—such as he was—was a kid named Phillip Marceau, who was so driven he made me look laid back.”

Mari's breath hitched. “Phillip, the guy…” She started to say
who fired you?
but changed it to the more diplomatic. “From Le Chapeau Noir?”

Nick nodded, and his eyes burned. “The same. The bottom line, which I can't seem to get to, is that nothing in my life has been more important than succeeding. I almost had it when I was at Chapeau. A few more years, and I would have had the money to open a second restaurant, and that would have been
all
mine…my menu, my choices, my name over the door.”

She heard the vehemence in his voice.
This really is a bad apology,
she thought inanely.
He's trying to explain that…

He looked at her, and for the first time since he'd walked in, the bitterness wasn't in his eyes. Instead, it was warmth and passion…and confusion.

She knew the look. Hell, she wore the look often when it came to Nick.

“The other night…” he said, and his voice went uneven “…I didn't think about the fact that we might be getting crappy reviews or that you might fire me or that you wouldn't let me get my ideas on the menu. I wasn't thinking about how to get my name out and get successful. I was only thinking about
you.
About helping you out and making you feel better.” He let out a deep breath. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

She blinked.

“I guess I agreed to the reporter to reassure myself that I wasn't getting sidetracked,” he said. “I didn't mean to hurt you, and I really am sorry.”

Mari processed that for a minute.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said again, and his fingers stroked the side of her face…a featherlight touch. “I won't do something like that again.”

“Don't say something you don't mean,” she whispered back.

He leaned forward and kissed her. It was gentle, undemanding.

“I promise,” he said. “I won't hurt you again.”

She let him kiss her again, the heat of the promise turning into a heat of an entirely different sort. She leaned into it, noticing that there was some saltiness to the kiss.

That's when she realized…a few tears had inched their way down her cheeks. She rubbed them away hastily.

“You'd better not,” she said, and kissed him back, hard.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS A NOISY
, chaotic swell of activity, and Nick was manning the helm. He couldn't believe it was almost three months that he'd been there, and that the new menu had been selling at a brisk rate for two months.

After several hours of the lunch shift and heading into dinner, he felt like he'd been working here for years. And at the gratifyingly smooth workings of the crew as they shifted into high gear, he felt like he'd been working with
them
for years.

“We are
so
packed, it's nuts,” Zooey said, in her high, girlish voice. “Where's Mari, again?”

Paulo was busy working the sauté station, his hands a blur of motion as he spiced one saucier pan here, and plated an entrée there. Tiny was working the grill, making the flames leap like he was some kind of demon-chef. Nick noticed that they were too busy to answer.

“Mari's off at the landlord's,” Nick said, barely looking up from his own work, although he was startled into glancing up at the boo that resounded among the crew.

“That chiseling old bastard,” Tiny pronounced, the flames punctuating his response.

“Yeah. Slumlord,” Paulo said with a snort. “Ten bucks says he ups the rent because he heard we were doing well!”

There was a rowdy chorus of assent on that one. “Don't worry, Mari can handle him,” Nick responded, and there was more assent at that…and they were a little calmer, too. Nick didn't know the landlord, but he knew Mari, and he doubted any chiseling old bastard landlord could get the drop on her.

Few people could,
he thought, with a proud smile. She was a sharp, savvy, no-holds-barred woman.

She was incredible.

He'd spent as many nights as he could at her place, or had encouraged her to stay with him, especially on Sundays, so they could spend a leisurely Monday morning over the paper, or wandering through the market. They'd spent a lot of it in bed, but they'd spent more time out of it, he'd noticed…not just having sex, but having dinner, talking over plans for the restaurant. Or just talking.

Their relationship was moving into affair country, he noticed. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that, but another part of him realized it was going to continue to happen, no matter what he logically thought.

He cared about her too much.

Tonight, they were going to work on some modifications to the menu…and maybe broach the idea of entering in one of the competitions. Nothing as prestigious as Internationale or the Bocuse D'or in France,
he amended. Guilty Pleasures was still too new in the game, and still had a lot of seasoning before it was ready to handle the big-league competitors that those venues drew. But some smaller, more local stuff would be good confidence builders, he thought. And he knew Lindsay had been talking about doing some more promo stuff. He told Mari he'd go over some of her plans with her, just sort of brainstorm.

He'd also promised her to make more of the chocolate dessert he'd made the first night he'd spent over there, he thought with a smile. All work and no play made Nick a dull boy, had been her statement. The sensual promise in her eyes had been more than enough encouragement.

“Hey,
jefe,
” Paulo said, nudging him. “You still awake? Ready on seven?”

Nick jerked his head. “Huh? Oh. Sorry.”

Tiny laughed. “I know that look. Thinking about a woman, huh?”

The whole crew laughed at this one, and Nick was surprised to hear them gibing with him…joking with him.

“She pretty?” Paulo said, as he and Nick put the orders in the window. “Maybe you could give her my number!”

“She's too much woman for you,” Nick said, his own tone light.

“Yeah?” Tiny said. “For Paulo, that ain't hard.”

“Shut up,
ese.
” Paulo made a mock growl at the huge grill man. “I make plenty women happy.”

“Yeah. When you walk away, dwarf-boy.”

The crew continued in this vein, and Nick smiled. They were really working hard, but their camaraderie hadn't faded into enmity like he'd seen happen when Blackstone's went into overdrive. In fact, they were holding up better than some seasoned crews he'd seen.

Zooey smiled at him, showing him a dessert she'd made. “I tried it out during my break,” she said, the youth in her smile showing her nervousness. “Think you could try it?”

He nodded. “Sure. What do you call it?”

She blushed. “Lemongasm,” she said, then frowned as Paulo hooted. “What? It goes with the menu!”

“I'd be happy to try it,” Nick said, ignoring the rest of the crews yelps of
Hey, so would I!
, and the like. Her answering grin was enough.

He was surprised to find himself whistling as he plated up three more orders in quick succession. Mari wasn't the only one he was proud of, he realized. It'd be hard to find a better crew—nor a more loyal one. He'd miss them when he left.

He frowned as he pushed plates into the window.

If I leave.

“Nick?”

Nick turned. It was Mo, not manning his usual position at the host's podium. “Problem?” Nick said immediately.

“Nope. Just somebody who wanted to compliment the chefs,” Mo said proudly, adding in a whisper, “the guy has a
way
expensive suit on. Okay to bring him back?”

Nick felt his back straighten. It wasn't often, but he remembered getting requests like this back at Chapeau…usually after one or another article about the restaurant and his work there was printed up. It would be fun, he decided. Hell, the crew could use the morale boost. “Sure,” Nick said, straightening his black shirt and glancing at the crew. Most of their more colorful slogans were covered with aprons anyway. “Go ahead and send him back.”

The crew, he noticed, were also standing straighter…and several of them were grinning. Nick was grinning, too, until the man stepped into the kitchen. Then, abruptly, all of his emotion drained in an icy wash.

“Phillip Marceau,” Nick said, his voice toneless. “Glad to see you're enjoying my work.”

Phillip didn't look a bit different. Hair a shade too pale for his tanned skin, blue eyes sharp as ever, and an air of superiority that only years of the finest schools and expensive locales could instill. His dove gray suit was expensive—Nick had bought one like it himself in charcoal, back in his first days as a well-paid head chef. Phillip looked around the kitchen with an air of supercilious disdain. “I was so charmed by the menu, I wanted to compliment you in person, Nick.”

Nick hadn't realized his hands had bunched into fists until they tightened with menace. “Must be a nice change from the tired
foie gras
you're plating up over at Chapeau,” Nick replied.

“Especially the…what was it? Oh, yes. The
Mélange-à-trois.” Phillip's voice held a hint of cruel laughter. “I've half a mind to contact
Bon Appetit
and tell them to get the recipe.”

“Why? So you can change the name and add it to Chapeau's menu?” Nick replied pleasantly. “If you need new ideas so badly, I could probably pencil it down for you.”

Phillip's face soured. Nick knew that Phillip was an excellent manager, but creativity had never been his strong suit, and they both knew it.

“You haven't changed, I see. Still making juvenile jokes.”

Nick grinned. “I see you still haven't developed a sense of humor.”

Phillip's smile was sharp. “Au contraire. I find the world infinitely more amusing since you've moved on from my restaurant. Especially now that you're
here
…and producing such, ah,
quality
work.”

Should'a done something about you when you fired me.
Nick smiled at Phillip, picturing that angelic face sporting a black eye and a fat lip.

“Hey, Nick,” Paulo said, his arms crossed, with Tiny standing threateningly behind him. “Who's the
pendejo?
”

Nick grinned at the insult, knowing that Phillip always relied on translators and really didn't know much Spanish, much less swearing in Spanish. “Nobody important,” Nick answered. “Just somebody who likes to think he's a chef.”

He saw that both the original insult and the casual
response had the desired effect. Phillip's thin lips drew into a tight line.

“Well, after August, I guess I won't be the only one who thinks I'm a chef,” he replied, his tone oily and lethal. “Le Chapeau Noir is going to be entered in the Internationale Culinary Competition. It's over in Union Square this year, did you know?” His smile suggested that Nick didn't…that he was so far out of the culinary world, he didn't even know the location of one of their largest events. “So while you're serving up penis-shaped pasta here in the slums, spare me a thought, won't you?”

“Hey, Fifth Avenue.” Tiny's voice was low, and his upper arms flexed with menace. “I don't care who you are. Take a walk, or take a beating.”

“You don't
know
who I am,” Phillip said with a sneer…but Nick noticed him take a step back, nonetheless. “And apparently, you don't even know who
he
is.”

“Sure we do,” Zooey piped in, to Nick's surprise. “He's Nick!”

“He's our sous-chef,” Paulo added. “The best.”

Before Nick could feel warmed by their show of support, Phillip went and ruined it. “Sous-chef?” His voice was gleeful. “Can't even manage head chef anymore, huh, Nick? Even in a dump like this.”

“The head chef's the owner,” Nick said. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“Ah. The owner. Mari Salazar…or should I say, Marion Worthington?” Phillip must have noticed Nick's shock, because his smile was evil-looking.
“Thought I wouldn't know, hmm? I was having a long talk with David from
Saveur
yesterday…. He's writing up Le Chapeau Noir. He just happened to have a few choice things to say about your new boss, Nick. Especially about her spectacular failures. You two must be a match made in heaven.”

“Right.” Nick felt a safety valve inside him snap. “Now you're going to get yours.”

Phillip's eyes widened, and he took another step toward the door. “You wouldn't dare,” he said, but his voice wasn't so sure of it.

“But
I
would,” Tiny said, cracking his knuckles. “Nobody talks shit about Mari.”

The rest of the crew advanced on Phillip, right down to Zooey, who was brandishing a marble rolling pin like she meant business.

“Fine.” Phillip shot one last glare at Nick. “I see you've finally found your niche, Nick. You never were cut out for a four-star, anyway. Enjoy working as a sous-chef next door to an adult theater then. You're never going to earn the money or the rep to open your own restaurant. And you're never going to be in my league.”

“I never
was
in your league, Phillip,” Nick said. “I was
better.
”

With that, Phillip turned and left, a scowl on his face.

“Who was that guy?” Zooey said, peering out the window at Phillip's retreating form.

“Whatever you did, he probably deserved it,” Paulo observed with a shrug.

“Watch the grill,” Tiny said with a growl, handing a metal spatula to Xavier. “I'm still going to kick that guy's—”

“Easy,” Nick said, putting a hand up. “He's not worth it. He's rich and he's got a team of blood-sucking lawyers, and he's vindictive as hell.” Nick paused. “That's why I haven't gone after him. You don't want to be cooking in jail.”

Tiny shrugged. “Like it'd be the first time.” Still, he turned back to his grill.

Nick took a deep breath. “Okay, orders are up, we're still busy. We've still got a few hours left before the next shift comes on. Don't worry about that jerk. Let's just focus.”

Thankfully, the crew did as instructed, although he felt a grim mood replace the earlier joking.

Nick tried to follow his own advice, but he kept getting sidetracked by Phillip's one, poisonous comment.

Enjoy working as a sous-chef next door to an adult theater then. You're never going to earn the money or the rep to open your own restaurant. And you're never going to be in my league.

Nick growled as he plated up a few pear-and-gorgonzola salads and tried Zooey's new dessert. He had been happy, thinking of Mari, thinking of how much she was beginning to mean to him. Now, he had this to think about.

It would hurt less, Nick thought, if Phillip hadn't been so close to being right. Guilty Pleasures was a great place, and Mari beyond a great woman. But if
he stayed, he wouldn't be a four-star chef. He wouldn't make enough money, and the only way he could accomplish his old dream would be to leave.

I promise I won't hurt you again.

He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “Ready on five,” he said.

He wouldn't hurt her. He meant that.

He just wondered how badly he'd be hurting himself if he stayed.

 

M
ARI WAITED NERVOUSLY
in the lobby of her landlord's rental property office, which was a run-down old stucco building that always looked in need of repair.
Not a promising sight for people looking to rent,
Mari thought, clutching her purse.
But then, beggars can't be choosers.

Her landlord, Jack MacDonald, preferred beggars for tenants. And Mari had been one when she'd come looking for a cheap property for Guilty Pleasures.

Jack came out of the closed door of his office, smiling like a used-car salesman as he showed out a young couple who looked happy. Mari got the feeling that Jack had promised them the moon, and they'd signed something.

Still, she thought as she stood up, they looked young and in love. Whatever they got probably
would
seem like a palace, from that viewpoint. It might not be much, but it would be
theirs.