Guilty Pleasures (15 page)

M
ARI WALKED UP TO
her apartment with a sense of doom.

I don't want to have this conversation.

She didn't know which would be worse…telling Nick that the guy who'd ruined his reputation in the first place was now going after him at Guilty Pleasures, or telling him that his decision to knuckle under to Phillip's demands might be the only thing that saved her beloved restaurant.

She unlocked the door, and opened it.

There were flowers everywhere, it seemed, she thought as she looked around. Deep violet irises, large white lilies, fragrant freesia and lots of other blossoms she didn't even know the names of. It was like a garden in her loft.

“Was wondering when you were going to get back from your meeting,” Nick said, grinning.

“What's the occasion?” Mari said, momentarily floored.

He walked up to her, kissing her lightly. “You are,” he murmured, taking her purse and putting it down on the kitchen table. “See what I've got for you.”

He walked her to the kitchen, and pulled a covered tray out of the fridge. He lifted off the top.

“Sushi,” she said, dazzled by the sheer variety he'd picked up.

“The only way to celebrate, remember?” A timer went off, and he put the tray of sushi down on a nearby counter. “Wait a sec.”

She inhaled deeply, trying to get her bearings. This was not making things any easier…but she was touched, nonetheless.

He opened the oven, revealing a pan full of chocolate-chip cookies, and her eyes misted.

“So…am I the celebration, too?” Mari said around the lump in her throat.

“Sort of.” He put the pan down on the stove. “Come here a sec.”

She walked into his arms, and looked into his now-serious eyes.

“I did a lot of thinking today, while I was out.” He smiled sheepishly. “I, ah, didn't go to the movies. I went to Whole Foods instead.”

She laughed, despite her nerves. It was just so
him.

“Anyway, I thought about us. About our conversation about loving food. Why we loved it, what we loved best. And I figured out something that I should've been more attuned to before, if I weren't so… Well, if I'd been paying attention.”

“And that is…?”

“That I love food,” he said, kissing her. “But I love you more, Mari.”

That did it. Tears crawled down her cheeks, and she
closed her eyes, tasting the salt of them mingling with his kisses.

“Took you long enough,” she said, when he tucked her head under his chin and held her tight.

“Well, I threw a little party for you to make up for it,” he said, and she let out a watery giggle. “That's got to count for something.”

“You always think of me,” she said, hugging him fiercely.

How can I tell you what happened now? After all this?

“This way. Let's eat,” he said, setting the food on the table. They both sat down. “I figured you'd be hungry—and stressed—after the talk with the new owner. How did that go, anyway?”

She tensed. This was the moment.

“He…” She swallowed hard, chickening out. “I'm trying not to think worst case scenario, but it doesn't look good.”

“What does he want?”

He wants us to pull out of Internationale.

“He was just trying to be a hard-ass,” Mari said instead. “I think he'll probably want us to move.”

Nick's brow furrowed. “No way to talk him out of it, huh?”

“No way to reason with the guy. I guess I'll probably get evicted.”

Nick reached out, held her hand. “Maybe it won't get that bad. Anything I can do?”

“Probably not.”
Except…
“Nick, can I ask you a question?”

He smiled.

“Do you still think Internationale is a good idea? I mean, you were against it from the start….” She picked up some sushi, put it down on her plate more to give her hands something to do—and to avoid his probing gaze. “What if we dropped out? I'd lose some deposit money, but…”

“Mari, I know how much my doubting hurt you. I guess I was scared. But after working with your crew and Leon, and after all we've come up with—I
know
we've got a shot at winning. I believe in us. Now, I
want
to compete. I know we can win, Mari. I can feel it.”

She could hear the sincerity ringing in every word. “One other question,” she said slowly. “Phillip's in Internationale, right? What would you do if he…you know…wins? If he beats us?”

“Then he'll pull off a miracle,” Nick said, his face darkening momentarily. “But the bottom line here isn't Phillip, anyway. It's not even about me. This is for you…and your restaurant.”

He looked out the window a minute, pensively, then turned back. “Besides, I'm not going to let the threat of Phillip hang over my head for the rest of my life. Since I've met you, I've got better things to think about.”

His words galvanized her.

If I give in to Phillip, I'll have to live with his blackmail for the rest of my life…anything I do will be dictated by whether or not he'll evict me. And he'll keep on hurting Nick, given the chance.

Nick was right. She had better things to think about than Phillip Marceau.

“You okay?” Nick said, stroking her cheek.

“I'm fine,” Mari said. “I just want to focus on the competition from here on out.”

 

I
T WAS FINALLY HERE
…Internationale, the day of the competition. It was seven o'clock in the morning, in a huge auditorium, just off of San Francisco's Union Square. Crews from various restaurants, hard to distinguish in their almost identical chef's whites, were scrambling to set up in the small, stainless steel “stations” that were designated to each six-person. Each team would have two relatively small ovens, a refrigerator–freezer, a set of four burners, counter space for portable fryers or any other tools they chose to bring. They would have five hours when the competition officially started at nine that morning. They would need to be prepped, with all of their ingredients ready, by nine…but no ovens or burners were to be turned on until that time.

Mari smiled as Tiny, Paulo, Zooey and Juan craned their heads this way and that, taking in the bursts of French and German and Spanish from all the other teams. They themselves were wearing their usual—black long-sleeved T-shirts, black aprons, black loose-fitting pants.

They looked like ninjas at a karate exposition, Mari thought with a low laugh. Well, she was okay with standing out.

If we're going out, we're going out with a bang.

Nick was hyper, she noticed…bordering on manic. He logged all the ingredients on his checklist, clicking the ballpoint pen open and shut with his thumb.

“Okay…Meyer lemons, we've got the pork, we've got the makings for the appetizers…wait a minute. Where's the Phyllo dough?” He started rooting around in the boxes. “Tell me we didn't forget the Phyllo!”

“Got it here, boss,” Tiny said, rolling his eyes at Mari. He leaned over and whispered to her, “Is he always like this?”

“I have no idea,” Mari thought. But she had an inkling of
why
he was being this crazed.

He wanted to win. Not just for himself—for
her.
And consequently, he was going a little nuts.

“Can't you talk to him?” Zooey said plaintively half an hour later, after Nick moved things around for the third time and compulsively gone over his list for a seventh time. They were early into their competition booth, set up, watching the other teams get ready. The waiting was grating on all of them.

Mari walked over to Nick, who was muttering to himself. “You okay?”

“Huh?” Nick looked at her, obviously not seeing her but still focused on whatever it was he was concentrating on. “Sorry. Yeah, sure. We'll be fine. I just want to make sure everything's ready to go.”

“You've ‘made sure' to the point of paranoia, Nick,” Mari said with a small grin. “Let's go. Walk with me.”

She noticed Paulo, Tiny, Juan and Zooey heaving
sighs of relief as she guided Nick out to a side hallway that led to the basement of the auditorium, away from the traffic and bustle of the other competitors. “I've never seen you this…” she searched for a word “…. unglued. What's up?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I should've warned you…I didn't think about it until this morning.”

“What?” she said, feeling a queasy sort of nervousness rise in her throat.

“I'm a basket case on competition days,” he said, and his tone actually made her laugh. “I'm serious. When I competed in Internationale last time, my teammates threatened to tie me up and stuff me in a broom closet until the thing actually started. I just get a little keyed up before events, that's all. Nervous energy.”

Energy was right—she could feel it crackling from him, like static electricity. She could understand it, because she was feeling the same burst of nervous energy herself. Only, knowing that it was certain death for her restaurant, she could put more emphasis on the “nervous” part.

He needed a distraction, obviously, she thought. They both did. The next couple of hours would be brutal, and the judging… She didn't even want to
think
about that.

So what could distract them both for a while, take them away from all this?

She saw a door slightly ajar down the dusty hallway. In the slight light from the hallway, she thought she could make out brooms and mops. She grinned.

“This way,” she said, tugging his hand. “I've got an idea.”

She pushed open the door, taking a minute to find the light switch, which lit a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was a utility closet of some sort. There were various props from the theater works that were performed in the auditorium, some music stands, some cabinets, as well as various cleaning supplies. She pulled him in, tested the doorknob, and then shut the door.

He looked at her, quirking an eyebrow curiously. “What?”

“Well, I won't tie you up,” she said, smiling slowly. “But I can keep you in here until the competition starts.”

He laughed, until she walked up to him, tracing the fly of his jeans, stroking the bulge underneath until he groaned and started growing hard. Then she got up on her toes, kissing him slowly, her tongue teasing his lips until his tongue met hers.

He pulled away, his breathing short. “Mari, this is crazy. There's sixty teams out there, all getting their game plan on…”

“This is how we started things,” she said, unbuttoning her own pants and pulling the zipper down, watching his eyes widen and then move toward the door. “I think that
this
is our game plan.”

He smiled, stroking her chest before trying to stop her fingers from removing her pants. “I hate to remind you, but there are some of the world's top food journalists and renowned chefs out there waiting to judge
us.” He kissed her neck, his words full of reluctance. “What would they do if they found out one of their competing teams was off having a quickie in a broom closet?”

“Envy us,” she said with a smile, kicking off her shoes and tugging her loose-fitting pants down the rest of the way, until she was standing in bikini panties. “Besides, it's not going to be that quick.”

Nick smiled, then closed his eyes and let her undo his pants, tugging them over his perfect behind. He kicked off his own shoes and left his pants on the floor.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice…as well as the excitement. She could also feel the bulge of his erection straining against the thin cotton of his boxers. “Hell, Mari. Somebody could walk in, find us…”

“I know,” she whispered. Then she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows.

He laughed, as she'd hoped.

She leaned back against a wall, and motioned to him. He walked to her, kissing her slowly, their lips brushing against each other as his fingers smoothed themselves over her shirt. She tugged it over her head, putting it on a nearby pedestal. Now she was just in her underwear, the cool basement air in the room making her skin prickle.

He kissed her shoulders, rubbing fingers over her rib cage as she tugged at his shirt and put it by her own. He pressed against her, his skin warm compared to the cool air, and she brushed against him, moaning.
Soon, their kisses grew more urgent, as she brushed her panties against his boxers, feeling them dampen, feeling him grow even harder until he was prodding at the juncture of her thighs. He pressed against her in a mimicking action of their lovemaking, and she let out a sighing breath, tilting her head back as he kissed her jawline, and the sensitive hollow behind her ears.

“Mari,” he breathed. Then he paused. “Sudden, dreadful realization—I don't have any, er, protection on me.”

“Condom,” she said. “In my pants pocket.”

He broke away from her long enough to get it out of her pocket, then handed it to her. “So. You planned this?” he said with a grin, his eyes hot and full of desire.

“You've got your checklists,” she said, panting as she tugged the thing open and he slipped out of his boxers. “I've got mine.”

He chuckled, putting the condom on as she slid off her panties and unclasped her bra. She could barely hear the rumbling din of set up as the teams took their places upstairs.

Right now, out there wasn't important. What happened to her restaurant wasn't important. The only thing that mattered at this moment was the man standing in front of her. “Lift me up,” she murmured.

He obliged her, lifting her up slightly, propping her against the wall as he angled himself at her entrance. His muscles bulged and flexed with the effort, and his face was tight with concentration. His eyes were dilated, their whisky color now almost entirely black.
The lightbulb swung slightly, adding to the surreal effect. She felt him, huge and probing, in between the delicate flesh of her thighs. She leaned her head back against the wall and tucked her legs around his hips as he lowered her onto his erection. She moaned, feeling him inch by unyielding inch.