Guilty Pleasures (18 page)

He lay down next to her, feeling the warmth of her, indulging in the sweet, floral-spicy scent of her. For a moment, he just stared at her, stroking at the bangs of her hair. She let him—there was no rush, no frenzy of joining. He kissed her forehead, hearing the easy laughter at the sweetness of the gesture before she returned the favor, brushing light, ticklish kisses against his chest. He stroked every inch of her skin, tantalizing the ticklish skin behind her knees and at the V of her collarbone. He discovered she had a sweet spot just where the curve of her bottom met her thighs. In turn, she found that the delicate skin on the inside bend of his elbows sent a paroxysm of shivers running through him.

It was like sex, as well as their conversation, was something they were working around…that they wanted to enjoy every second as if it were their last, as if they might never get to explore each other's body again.

What is she thinking?
Nick didn't voice the concern, merely continued in his slow, sensual exploration.
What does she feel?

Not surprisingly, she was the one who finally nudged the intensity up, who moved against him, body to body, and pressed her skin to his, fitting herself to him until he felt like gasping.

She leaned up and kissed him. Hers were slow, drugging kisses that tasted exotic and sweet, just like
her. She moved against him, until his erection emerged from his boxers, until he felt tugging fingers urging the silk out of the way. He traced a finger blindly along her panty leg, pushing the fabric aside and dipping a finger in, gratified by her small cry of pleasure. He tickled at her clitoris with one hand, then took a nipple into his mouth as she arched against him, licking at her with sure, circling strokes.

She was panting now, and her hips pushed against his hand. “Nick,” she breathed, her eyes half-closed.

Now he moved in, his mouth on hers, his hunger slipping the gentle restraint he'd been floating in. Their tongues stroked against each other, twining, her full lips mobile against his insistence. She cradled his face in her hands as she dragged her nipples against his chest. It was hypnotic.

He had to be inside her. He pulled off her panties, letting them slide down her legs and tossing them aside. Now she was fully naked, her eyes smoky, filled with desire. She already had a condom out, wrapping him swiftly. She leaned up to kiss him, and he closed his eyes, allowing her to lead him to her. He felt enveloped by her—the scent of her, the silken feel of her. He sensed her fingers running down the length of him, felt his penis stroke against the satiny-softness of her thighs as she guided him closer and closer to her moist heat. He felt the tip penetrate, but she continued torturing him until finally he was poised, pressing at her. He entered with one smooth glide, and had to grit his teeth against the overwhelming pleasure of the sensation.

“Nick,” she breathed again. “Oh, yes.”

He carefully withdrew, half-mad by the feeling of easing out of her, and heard her whimper. Then her legs wrapped around his, pulling herself up toward him, until he was buried inside her.

“I want you,” she moaned. “Forever. Please, Nick.”

He couldn't verbalize how he felt—but he knew that was close to it.

He increased his tempo, feeling the smooth clenching of her muscles, feeling the way she embraced the length of him, reveling in the soft, throaty moans as he slid against her most sensitive spot. She was breathing in short, panting gasps, and he nipped at her neck until she wrapped her legs around his waist, burying him inside her.

He lost control. He increased his speed, pushing against her, losing himself to the animal side of their passion that always exploded like a conflagration when they joined like this. She was calling his name, twisting against him, and he felt the beginnings of his orgasm clutching at him.

“Mari, honey, I can't hold…” he began, but didn't have to, as she let out a keening cry. He felt the wave of wetness against him, and he knew she had found her pleasure as she shattered against him, her thighs tightening around him like a vise.

With a hoarse cry, he dove deep, plunging into her, spilling himself into her before collapsing against the bed, barely able to keep himself from crushing her completely.

They stayed like that for a moment, quiet, just the scent of their lovemaking and the sheen of their sweat between them, their hearts beating in time.

How can I leave?

Before he could speak, she did.

“You're leaving.” It wasn't a question. “I know that.”

He closed his eyes.

She had a hell of a sense of timing.

“I haven't decided yet,” he said, leaning to one side. They were face to face, companionably naked. “How did you know…that it was an option, I mean?”

She shrugged. “Phillip stopped by.”

“Phillip Marceau was here? What did he want?” He'd written Phillip off…the man had looked absolutely destroyed when he'd left with his parents. Was Phillip trying one last effort to sabotage him, by trying to turn Mari against him? What else could he do?

“He said that you were going to accept his parents' offer. That you were opening a restaurant in New York.”

Nick studied her. “And you believed him? You believed I'd take an offer like that without talking to you first?”

She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair looking wild, her face looking vulnerable. Her eyes were wide and clear. “Nick, I love you. And I believe that you…love me,” she said, her voice choked. “And I don't think that you'd leave without talking to me first.”

“Well, I'm glad you realize that,” Nick said, with a sigh.

“But…I still think that you'll leave.”

Nick sat up. “I said, I hadn't decided yet,” he said, hating the fact that his voice sounded so defensive.

“You're not sure?” she asked quietly. “It could go either way, then?”

Nick sighed, heavily. “I don't have to get back to them right away.”

“I'd say you should take it.”

He shook his head. “I know you want what's best for me…”

“No,” she corrected, and it was as if she were suddenly clothed—all the vulnerability and fragileness he'd noted before, when he'd taken her to bed, became cloaked by her change in expression. It was the toughness, he realized. And it wasn't an act. “I want what's best for
me.
”

He looked at her, not comprehending.

She stroked his face, studying him, smiling…crying. She was staring at him, like she was staring into his soul.

“If you stay without finding out what would happen if you opened your own restaurant, you'll hate me. I don't want that. And I very nearly…” She took a deep breath. “I know what it's like to lose your dream, Nick. I won't do that to you.”

“Then come with me,” he said, kissing her. “Work with me, live with me.”

“No,” she said, and it was like a hammer hitting
his chest. “I won't give up my dream, either. I came too close to losing it already.”

He leaned up on one arm. “So…where does that leave us?”

She shook her head.

“That's the problem,” she said in a soft voice. “It…doesn't.”

He stared at her. “That's it, then? You just want me to leave?”

“Nick, you won't be happy if you stay. Find out. If it's supposed to work out, it will.”

“That is such
crap!
” he said, jumping up. “I'm just supposed to go to New York without you?”

“Tell me something,” Mari said sharply, her eyes ablaze. “If I weren't in the picture, would you go to New York to open your own restaurant?”

“In a heartbeat,” he said without hesitation, then closed his eyes. “But you
are
in the picture,” he amended.

“Yes, I know,” she said with a slow, sad smile. “But even with me in it…did you consider it anyway?”

He looked down at the coverlet, and then reluctantly nodded.

She stood up, all naked splendor and comforting, quiet love. “Pack warm,” she said, before turning and heading for the bathroom. “Fall's coming and it…gets cold…in New York.”

He heard the bathroom door close, and realized that that was it. His sojourn at Guilty Pleasures was over.

“R
EADY ON EIGHT
?” Mari called out, looking at Tiny. “I've got the Hot Chicks and the Cock au Vin tanning under the lamps, Tiny, where are my steaks?”

“Ready on eight,” Tiny said, slightly out of breath. He slammed the oven shut with his hip, and both he and Mari slid their plates out onto the order window. A perky redheaded waitress—new to the staff—picked up with the help of Mo.

“Damn, feel like my arm's gonna fall off,” Paulo grumbled from the sauté station. Zooey was expediting, her high, clear soprano getting a little hoarse around the edges. “I thought that us tanking at the contest was going to screw us up. I think we're busier than ever.”

“I know we're busier than ever,” Mari said, focusing with all the precision of a surgeon at the sauté station. She was helping Paulo…but it looked like Tiny was falling behind. She'd give him a hand in a minute.

Lindsay stepped out of the back room. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She had been helping out on the night shift, although making salads and plating desserts was about the extent of her
culinary achievements. “Good news,” she said, excited. “We did about five hundred dinners last night!”

There was a ragged cheer, then a groan as more duplicates printed out on their new order machine. Zooey picked them up and continued calling out the orders.

“Looks like six hundred tonight,” Paulo groaned.

Mari should have been tired—and probably was, if she thought about it. The trick, she learned, was
not
to think about it.

Wonder what he's doing right now.

She picked up a pot, then hissed as she scalded her wrist. She put it down with a clatter.

Not going to think about Nick Avery. No time for it, no point to it.

“Lindsay, you doing salads tonight?” she said instead.

“Sorry,” Lindsay apologized, going back to the station. She tossed together the candied pecans, fresh pears and gorgonzola cheese, then drizzled the balsamic vinagrette over everything. “Five up. Fire it.”

Mari moved into action. Two more steaks, three more salads. She helped Zooey with some desserts.

She was numb. She'd been numb for the past month.

Out of curiosity, she'd driven past Nick's place a week ago. The apartment now had a silver minivan in its short, steep driveway. Nick must have put his stuff in storage, more than likely, or had professionals move him to New York. If the Marceaus were bank-rolling him, she would imagine that he'd go in style.
And in San Francisco's crazed housing shortage, no apartment was vacant for long.

She didn't let it hurt. She just let it…sink in.

She kept working. She spent every waking moment in the restaurant or at the markets. Her life was inundated with the scents of cooking food, with the hellish heat of the kitchen, with the jostling of bodies and the fluttering of dupe sheets on the order board. She didn't know what miracle had gotten them so busy, but she thanked it nonetheless—not just for the financial sake of her business, but from the sheer fact that as long as she was moving, she wasn't hurting.

At least, not as much.

When midnight finally hit, the crew was groaning like injured athletes. They cleaned slowly. For most of them, it was because they were feeling the screaming soreness of muscles. For Mari, it was because she knew that when she locked up, she'd be heading to Tiger if she was lucky, though not many of the crew had the energy anymore. Certainly not after their latest barrage. Instead, more than likely, it would mean that she would go back to her empty loft, crawl into the bed, and fight against falling asleep by watching countless television shows that she'd never remember. Then dreams of Nick would come…actually, nightmares of Nick. The worst one had come late at night, when she'd dreamed that Nick had spent the day with her. They'd shopped at the farmer's market, cooked and joked together and with her crew. Then he'd spend the night in her house, fooling around in the kitchen, snuggling up beside her in bed.

When she'd woken to the cool pillow beside her, she wept into it.

“Mari?” Kyla stepped into the kitchen. “There's a party of people that doesn't want to leave.”

Mari rolled her eyes. Even though she didn't want to go home, she didn't necessarily want to stay for a rowdy, possibly tanked bunch of partiers. “Can't Rob handle it?” Mari said, referring to their new bartender.

Kyla shook her head. “They want to talk to you, I think.”

Tiny stepped behind her, as did Paulo. Mari sighed. “Guess I'll go take care of them, then,” she said, and they all walked out.

There was a table of twelve people, with the remnants of an obviously large meal in front of them. There were also several bottles of wine, empty, littering the table. Three of them were singing, slightly off-key. The others were joking, telling some story that involved wild gesticulations, and there was a great deal of laughter all around. When she stepped up to them, she couldn't help noticing that several of them looked familiar.

“I'm Mari Salazar, the owner here,” she said, hoping to keep things pleasant as she bounced the group. “Was everything satisfactory?”

“You rock, girl.” One balding man, on the portly side, lifted his glass.

Mari smiled. “Well, thanks. Unfortunately, gentlemen, we have to close….”

“You showed 'em,” a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed man said with a grin. “You showed 'em all.”

She stopped. “Showed who what?”

Finally, a tall, razor-thin man with scarred hands and tattoos on his shoulder stood up. “A toast, to Mari Salazar,” he said. “The only chef at Internationale with the guts to cook real food.”

Mari blinked as the men stood up, raising their glasses and cheering her in a variety of languages. She squinted at the tall man. “You were there. You were competing with…”

“Stars,” he said, with a smile. “Sous-chef. Head chef there is a boot-licker, you don't need to tell anybody I said that, but just so you know. And you didn't even care that day—you still helped us when we were in a disaster.”

“I'm from Strazzi's,” the dark man said. “Don't suppose I can steal that recipe for the chicken, huh? Almost set my mouth on fire.” He grinned. “Just the way I like it.”

There were several other compliments. The men ranged from sous-chefs to dishwashers, and they'd all come here…to try her food. And to show their support.

Mari felt her eyes welling up with tears as she smiled, and nodded to them. She turned to the bartender. “Set 'em up with a round. On me.”

The bartender, openly grinning, nodded. Mari and the crew retreated to the kitchen.

“We're going to make it, aren't we?” Zooey said, with a quiet tone of pride.

Mari thought about it, then thought about Nick, trying so desperately to get the recognition he'd been
chasing ever since his Culinary School days. She thought about her own need—thought about herself.

She gave Zooey a half hug, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah,” she said, slowly. “Yeah, we're going to make it.”

 

N
ICK STOOD IN HIS KITCHEN
.
His
kitchen, the future site of his restaurant. Le Chapeau Noir had been swank, he thought—this was downright
decadent.
Sub-zero freezers, top-of-the-line ranges, a wine cellar that would make most collectors weep. And Charles Marceau had assured him that he could order the best, most expensive ingredients-white truffle oil, Normandy butter, Scharfenberger chocolate, dry-aged filet mignon. He was like a kid loose in a candy store, and every waking moment had been channeled into developing the décor, the menu, the way everything would work. He was exactly where he'd always wanted to be.

So why can't you stop thinking about Mari?

Mr. Marceau stepped in. “Everything satisfactory, Nick?”

Nick nodded. “Yes. I couldn't ask for more.” He couldn't ask for anything else that the man could provide, anyway.

“I figure, six months, and we'll be up and running. I've got chefs from some of my other restaurants vying for the position, and we'll have a contest—survival of the fittest, as it were.” Charles laughed, a brittle sounding noise. “You'll only get the best, Nick,
that's a guarantee. I want your restaurant to be
the
place to go in Manhattan.”

Nick nodded absently.

“I'll also suggest you taking on Dan Patterson as your general manager,” Charles said, clapping a hand on Nick's shoulder. Nick felt the urge to shrug it off, but knew it would look impolite, so he tried as best he could to seem interested. “You ever want to know what's going on politically in your kitchen—what sous-chef is bucking for your job, what line chef is drinking too much, what prep cook is stealing from the walk-in—Dan's your man.”

Mari never worried about stuff like that—the political stuff, he thought. The crew would have cut off their left hands before taking anything from her. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if Paulo actually snuck ingredients
into
the pantry.

He missed her crew, too, he realized. Tiny's staunch loyalty, Paulo's lightning-quick humor, Zooey's naiveté were hard to forget. But most of all, he missed Mari.

“You're going to be the talk of the town, Nick my boy. You're going to be famous,” Charles said, and Nick could see in his face that he had already envisioned everything that was certain to follow. “You're going to be a
star.
”

Nick thought about it. His face on the cover of magazines? Maybe on television? Women fawning over him, chefs cowering? Phillip, sneering in some second-rate venue in Omaha, eating his heart out?

What the hell did I want all that for?

He looked at Charles, and saw for the first time that the man wasn't looking to showcase Nick—he was looking for glory, and saw Nick as his ticket. He saw Nick as a money-maker.

He didn't see Nick as a star.

He saw Nick as a
tool.

I. Am. So. Stupid.

Nick shook his head. “I can't do this.”

Charles was too deep in his monologue to notice Nick shrugging his hand off. “I'm telling you, this is only the beginning. I knew that Phillip couldn't handle a project like this—that's why I held back on the reins for Le Chapeau Noir. I knew that he didn't have the talent or the vision…”

“I said, I can't do it,” Nick said, a little more emphatically.

“Of course you can,” Charles said, brushing Nick's statement away like an annoying fly. “Why do you think I insisted that Phillip have you as head chef before I set him up with the restaurant in the first place?”

Nick stared at him, aghast. “You
what?
”

“And you took up the slack. That's why I always went to you when I wanted something done. Phillip's my son…but business is business.” He chuckled, and the sound turned Nick's stomach. “You understand that. That's why you're the right man for the job.”

Nick leaned back against the cold metal of the countertop.

That's why Phillip hated me.
It was so obvious, and he'd been so very, very dumb.

He realized he had nothing else to prove. He'd get everything he thought he wanted and nothing that he needed—and he'd lose his soul daily as Charles molded him into a little wanna-be Marceau. Where the only thing more important than the food was the bottom line.

“I am not saying that I can't handle it,” Nick corrected. “I'm saying that I won't do it. I made a mistake accepting this job. I thought I had something to show everyone. I don't. Not to people like you. Not to myself.”

“Wait a minute,” Charles stared at him like he was speaking another language. “You're
quitting?
”

Nick nodded.

“I can't imagine anyone else could offer you as impressive a deal as this, Nick,” he started coldly. “Has someone else..”

“No, it's not like that.” Nick paused. “Well, I suppose you could say that I am going to work for a competitor. But not in New York. I'm going back to San Francisco. I never should have left.”

“You and I made a deal,” Charles said, his voice low and harsh. “You renege, and I'll see to it that it gets
very
difficult—no,
impossible
—to work anywhere again. I don't care what they're offering you.”

“What they're offering me is loyalty,” Nick said, pleased by the way the man's face turned baffled. “And love. And family.”

Slowly, Charles blinked. “You're going back to that
hole-in-the-wall?
That…that pornographic Denny's, for pity's sake?”

Nick nodded.

Charles laughed. “I won't have to ruin you. You're doing the job for me. You'd be willing to walk away from your own restaurant—from more money than you've probably made in your entire life—all for…” He blinked, realizing he didn't have a conclusion for that sentence. “All for what?”

“If you have to ask,” Nick said, turning, “then I can't explain it to you.”

 

T
WO-THIRTY
. M
ARI GLANCED
at the clock. She'd been working from eight-thirty in the morning to midnight, and now for the past two and a half hours, she was working on a chocolate bread pudding with a pecan strudel topping. Maybe…she was working on variations of both. And she had three small batches, made from some of the little bit of stale bread that was left at the restaurant. She might even experiment with made-from-scratch brownies.

Say what you will about insomnia, Mari thought, at least it makes me productive. She'd probably create at least four more dishes before the hallucinations started to kick in.

She leaned back against her fridge, closing her eyes for a second.