A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series) (14 page)

I was so distraught and emotionally drained that I didn’t have the strength to even offer Jeremy an explanation; I just stopped talking to him. I cut him out of my life like a cancer. I stayed away from him, kept my head down, and focused on trying to get myself back together. After about a year, I left Santa Cruz and moved to Chicago. Jeremy wasn’t the only reason, but he was a big motivator. And, as fate would have it, Jeremy was the person I ran into in Napa. It was like the universe was having the last laugh or punishing me for the horrible way I’d acted. And even after I was such an asshole to him, Jeremy still wasn’t over me. He was engaged, and he was willing to throw that away to be with me. That was its own unique torture.

“You can beat yourself up about it all over again,” Beckett said, “or you can leave it in the past, where it belongs.”

“Once William knows—”

“Why does William need to know? It doesn’t matter anymore. I know you feel some sort of responsibility to come clean about this with William, but no good can come of that. Trust Papa Beckett on this one.”

I smiled briefly. “So…what? I keep Jeremy a secret?”

“You keep one tiny aspect of your relationship with him a secret, and you move on with your life. You enjoy your rich boyfriend and his mansions and vineyards and private jets—I still cannot believe he has five. That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous because you haven’t been on one.”

“Yet.” Beckett raised a finger. “I have faith you’ll wrangle an invitation for me. Maybe a little jaunt to…oh, I don’t know…Paris?”

“Oh, sure.” Beckett was right. I needed to let the whole Jeremy affair go. It was over and it didn’t matter, and I should stop worrying about it.

Beckett was waxing poetic about spring in Paris when I heard my phone. I dug in my purse, pulled it out, and frowned at the number. “No idea who this is,” I murmured but answered anyway. “Hello, this is Catherine Kelly.”

“Catherine Kelly,” a man repeated in a sexy Southern twang. “You’re exactly the woman I was trying to reach.”

Beckett was looking at me expectantly, and I gave him a bewildered look. “Do I know you?” I asked.

“Not yet, but we can rectify that quick enough. This is Hutch Morrison,” he drawled. “I believe my assistant called a few days ago.”

“Oh my God. Yes. I am so sorry I haven’t called back.” I pointed to the phone and mouthed
Hutch Morrison.

Beckett gave me a look filled with horror. “You didn’t call back?” he hissed. Then he practically sat on my lap to press his ear to the phone.

“Don’t worry about that now. I like a woman who plays hard to get, and I also like a woman with the kind of talent you have. I’ve seen your work.”

“Oh, great.” It was lame, but I never knew how to respond to compliments.

“Those cock kabobs for Fresh Market were inspired.”

“I—” How did one respond to that sort of compliment? I looked to Beckett for help, but he was doubled over laughing.

“And your work in
Chicago Now
impressed me as well. I think you’re perfect, Miss Catherine Kelly.”

“Um, perfect for what?”

“That’s what I’d like to meet with you about. I’m working on a little e-book project. It’s what I’d call
cutting edge
. I need someone who can pull off cutting edge. I think you’re the girl I want to get in bed with on this. Say you’ll meet with me.”

“I…um…”

“Don’t turn me down and break my heart before you’ve even met me in person. I don’t bite. Well, I don’t bite very hard.”

“I wouldn’t dream of turning you down, Mr. Morrison.”

“Mr. Morrison is my daddy. Call me Hutch.”

“I’d love to meet with you, Hutch.”

“Wonderful. How about next week at Morrison Hotel?”

“Great.” I frowned at Beckett who had my laptop open and was furiously typing something into the browser.

“I’ll have my people get with your people to arrange schedules.”

“I am my people.”

“See, I knew I’d like you. I’m half in love with you already. I’ll see you soon, Miss Catherine.”

I set the phone down and shook my head. What the hell had that been? On the computer, Beckett had pulled up an image of Hutch Morrison. It was similar to the one he’d texted me—a tattooed, muscled guy who was sexy as hell. Beckett grabbed my hand. “Tell me everything.”

“He’s working on a cutting edge e-book project, and he thinks I’m perfect for it.”

“Of course you’re perfect for it!”

“He’s seen my work—the Fresh Market billboards and the spread in
Chicago Now
.”

Beckett fell back on the couch. “I cannot believe this is happening. I’m so lucky!”

“You?”

“Yes! If you meet Hutch Morrison and work with him, it’s just a matter of time until
I
meet Hutch Morrison, and look at the guy. He’s fucking
hot
.”

“What about Alec?”

“Alec will have to find his own celebrity chef crush. Hutch is all mine.” Beckett gave me a serious look. “Besides it’s just a crush.” His fingers were flying over the keyboard again. “You have to get this job, Cat. You have to. Hutch Morrison is the shit. Look at this.” He’d pulled up some sort of curriculum vitae and read the highlights. “Hutch Morrison is thirty-three, an internationally known culinary genius. Look at this.” He jabbed a finger at a list of awards.

“That’s impressive.” I didn’t know a lot about cooking, but I recognized some of the awards. James Beard,
Food & Wine,
Michelin…

Beckett was going on and on, but I couldn’t help wondering if William had anything to do with Hutch Morrison’s interest in me. Did WML Capital Management have a stake in Morrison Hotel? The meeting next week would definitely be interesting, and not only because Hutch Morrison was charming and sexy. I was already intrigued by the project he’d alluded to.

“Don’t worry, Beckett, if I’m brought on board and they need a food stylist, I’ll recommend you.”

“Oh my God. I could come just thinking about it.” He fell back in mock orgasm, and I shook my head. Beckett was playing around, but I knew when he was genuinely excited. If Hutch Morrison got Beckett this worked up, he was someone I wanted to collaborate with.

“Wait until I tell Alec,” Beckett said, grabbing his phone.

“You’d better tone it down a little. Alec will be jealous.”

“Ha! Alec will want an introduction to Hutch too. He has excellent taste.”

“Obviously.” I gestured to Beckett.

“And if I piss him off, I know how to win him back.”

“How?”

“He has a weakness for my flourless chocolate cake.”

“What’s that?” I’d never had Beckett’s flourless chocolate cake, and usually he tried out his new desserts on me.

“It’s something new I’m working on. I use espresso in it and I infuse it with orange peel, bergamot, and just a hint of cinnamon. It’s to die for.”

“Why flourless? Does Alec have a gluten allergy?”

Beckett shifted and looked back at my laptop. “No, but it’s good to diversify. A lot of people have allergies.”

I got the feeling Beckett was evading my questions again. He was so mysterious lately. “But you don’t have to cook for a lot of people.”

“You’re right.” He waved a hand. “Let’s take a last look at these photos and email them. I’m starving.”

“Okay.” We looked over the shots for Fresh Market one last time. They looked great, which was good, because I was still puzzling over Beckett’s secretiveness. It really wasn’t like him. He usually over shared.

We sent the email, and Beckett stood. “Kuma’s for lunch?”

“Sure,” I said. “I could go for a burger.” Now that William was back in town, my appetite had returned.

I was standing in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear when William texted me to remind me to bring my camera. I’d actually forgotten he’d even said I’d need it in the first place. That was the effect shower sex—and just about any other kind of sex—with William had on me. I couldn’t think straight, and it made it so easy to forget everything else. Flashes of our morning ran through my head. His growling, “Let it happen” in my ear, his voice dark and choked with need as he pounded me hard from behind, had tipped me over into an orgasm that radiated all the way to my fingertips. I had been powerless to do anything but surrender to the pleasure, to his raw desire for me, and I had loved it.
That
was the feeling that was starting to become addictive and dangerous. If letting him call the shots was what it took to make me feel like that, I wanted more.

I looked down at my watch. Shit, I was going to be late. I picked an outfit, threw on some lip gloss and a spray of perfume, then packed up my best digital camera and headed outside to where Anthony waited to drive me to William’s penthouse. I could have driven myself, but the roads were still icy and tonight I appreciated his thoughtfulness in providing me with his driver.

The drive down Lake Shore Drive to the Gold Coast was quick and before I knew it, I was zooming up the private elevator to William’s penthouse on the fifty-sixth floor of one of Chicago’s most impressive buildings. I stepped off the elevator into his foyer, and William was waiting for me, wearing a wide smile. “There’s my beautiful girl.”

“Hey,” I replied, feeling the edges of my mouth turn up. The heaviness from the Jeremy secret that had clung to me all day was immediately replaced by the giddy excitement of being with William. I couldn’t resist him, especially when he was being charming and sweet.

He still wore his suit from work, though he’d shed the tie, and his hair was perfectly styled. I itched to run my fingers through it and mess it up just a little. As I pulled off my coat and handed it to him, I said, “I didn’t know what the surprise was. I hope this is okay.” I gestured to my outfit. I was back to my favorite color—I’d changed into black, cropped riding pants, a bateau-neck, black sweater with beaded sleeves and the Louboutin black stilettos William had sent me weeks ago. Underneath, I was wearing a really sexy black Bordelle pushup bra with little red bows on it and its matching thong. I found the set in the bag of clothes William had brought back from Napa, so I knew he’d picked it out.

He strode toward me and pulled me flush against him. I tingled all over as I made contact with his big, hard body. “You look perfect, Catherine,” his voice vibrated through me as his hot, warm breath tickled at my throat. “You smell good too.” He took my hand, then frowned at it. “Except you’re cold. Didn’t you wear your gloves?”

“I…”

“Never mind. I already know you forgot them.” He rubbed my hands in his, stepped back from our embrace, and led me into the penthouse. “We’re in for a special treat tonight. A friend from Japan is in town and he just happens to be a renowned sushi master. He’s made dinner for us.”

I looked up at him. His eyes were shining and he still wore that unapologetic grin. I could tell he was really excited about this and sushi
was
one of my favorite foods. “Really? That’s fabulous! Is that the surprise?”

“Part of it.” He paused in the living room and gestured to the wall above the fireplace. I couldn’t remember what had been there before, but what I saw now made me inhale sharply. “This is another part. Look what I found.”

I stared in stunned silence at the large black and white print hanging on the wall. It was of a lone surfer executing a cutback on a massive wave, a maneuver that meant he was actually riding up the wave. It was one of mine.

“Wow,” I said quietly. “This
is
a surprise.”

I hadn’t seen the print in years, and I thanked God it wasn’t a shot I’d taken of Jace. That would have been beyond awkward. The surfer in the picture was a guy named Ian who had just been an acquaintance. The day I’d shot it, I’d taken a break from classes and headed out on the water with my board and equipment for some practice, as I’d still been getting used to balancing the heavy rigging that held my camera. Ian had happened to be the only other surfer out there and had become my subject by coincidence. He wasn’t a great surfer, but every surfer has a day when each wave breaks perfectly, and that had been Ian’s day. I’d been fortunate to capture it.

I tried to stay cool, but the collision of my past and present was so jarring, especially with the whole Jeremy issue so fresh in my mind. “This was one of the pieces in my final portfolio my senior year,” I told William. “Then it was in the first show of my work and it sold for twice what I thought it would.”

“I’m sure I paid several times that,” he answered, smiling with his gaze still on the photo.

I looked back at the image. Right after I’d graduated, a real gallery in Santa Cruz had picked me up and sold all my prints. Jace and I had used the money to help with travel expenses after our wedding, when I’d joined him on tour. I wondered what William would think if he knew those details.

A moment later William held out a glass of white wine to me. I hadn’t even realized he’d stepped away to pour it. “Thank you,” I said as I took the glass.

“With Japanese food, I like the wine to be a background note so the ingredients take center stage.”

I’d almost forgotten about the dinner to come, and I nodded and sipped. The wine was very good, cool and sweet with hints of pear. I wanted to slam the whole glass and then about three more just to steady my nerves, but I sipped instead.

“The idea is to cleanse your palate so you can better focus on the complex tastes.”

I sipped again, focused on palate cleansing, and kept a tight smile on my face. “What is this? Is it one of yours?”

William was watching me closely, like he was trying to gauge if showing me the print had been a good idea or not. “No, it’s French. A Chenin Blanc. It’s crisp and lean, and I thought it would be a great match for Junzo’s dishes.”

“Yes,” I answered absently. I couldn’t stop looking at the image on the wall. I shuddered a little when I remembered that I’d shot it at Pleasure Point, the spot in Santa Cruz Jace and I had surfed all the time. It was also the locale of the bad dream that had woke me up in a cold sweat in Napa. I hadn’t told William about the dream yet.

“You have an amazing eye, Catherine,” he said, bringing me back to the present. “I wanted the print because it was yours, but I also wanted it because it’s really good. Exceptional. You know that, don’t you? You’re very talented.”

That snapped me back to the moment. I felt my cheeks heat as a blush bloomed in them. I really did need to learn to take a compliment. And I did know I was a good photographer. I would have known it even if two extremely hot men hadn’t told me so today. First Hutch Morrison and now William Lambourne.

“Where did you find it?” I asked, trying to draw his attention away from my pink cheeks.

“My art consultant found it actually, in a gallery in Santa Rosa. I’ve been looking to build my contemporary photography holdings, and she’s helping with that.” He took another drink of his wine. “When I saw it, I asked about it, and when I realized you were the photographer, I had to have it.”

I was flattered. How could I not be when my work was taking center stage on the living-room wall of a billionaire who had pieces from his personal collection on loan to The Art Institute? But I was still uneasy seeing it here. No matter how firmly I put my life in Santa Cruz in the past, it continued to creep into my present. I was in my new boyfriend’s penthouse, and here was a photograph connected directly to the life I’d left behind. Was I supposed to thank William for buying it? Should I tell him how weird it made me feel? I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I really wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “My aunt has invited us to dinner on Sunday. Would you like to go?”

“Yes!” I said with honest enthusiasm. I forgot the print for a moment and smiled. “I’d love to.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

Why wouldn’t I? I’d been waiting for an opportunity to see William with his family, in a setting where he was more than just the business mogul. I’d met his aunt and uncle and two of his cousins briefly that night at The Peninsula, but I really wanted the opportunity to get to know them a little better. This was also one way I could get to know William better. I wanted to see how he was around the family who’d taken him in, loved him, and raised him to adulthood.

Just then a small Japanese woman entered the living room and bowed formally. She wore a dark red, embroidered kimono and her long black hair pulled into a bun. Despite her traditional dress and slow, deliberate movements, she was young, maybe just a few years older than me. “Dinner is served,” she said in heavily accented English. I guessed she was part of the chef’s entourage.

“Thank you, Midori.” William gestured for me to follow Midori down the hallway to the dining room. No more talk about the print, thank God. Before I could move, he said, “Did you bring your camera?”

“Yes.” I pointed to my bag sitting on a chair.

“Good. Grab it. You’ll need it.”

I had never been in William’s dining room before, and it was very much in the style of the rest of the penthouse—stark, modern, minimalist, and imposing. It almost made me miss the accessible warm luxury of Casa di Rosabela. The ceilings soared, and several large and amazing pieces of art hung on the tall walls. The lights were low, keeping the room from resembling a gallery, and I might have moved closer to study the paintings and the large black sculpture that sat on a pedestal in a corner if I hadn’t been riveted by the dining room table.

The enormous stone table could have easily sat twelve, but only two chairs, placed next to each other, were present. On the table were two women. Initially I thought the food had been arranged so as to give the impression of a woman’s body, but as my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized two live women lay side-by-side, head to foot. One lay on her back and the other on her stomach. Both were totally nude except for the sushi, sashimi, and other delicacies that decorated their bodies.

In all the time I’d been photographing food, I’d never seen anything like this, a display that paired the beauty of food so unabashedly with the raw carnality of sex. The women were stunningly beautiful and the symmetry of their perfect bodies was adroitly complemented by the placement of the colorful food. There was so much to take in—the rolls, the fat salmon- and tuna-draped fingers of rice drizzled and adorned with pops of brightness from avocado and shaved ginger and fish eggs—the whole scene was both visually stunning and beautifully balanced. And sensual. The food had not been displayed to hide the beauty of the women’s bodies. Everything—
everything
—was on full display.

I couldn’t look at William. I stood stock still, took a deep breath, and kept my eyes glued to the table. After the handcuffs and the blindfolding and the dominance he was showing of late, I didn’t quite know what to expect here. I detected the lure of a darker sexuality and my heart quickened in response, but I prayed he didn’t have some kind of kinky group thing in mind. I wasn’t ready to go
there
. And why had he asked me to bring my camera?

He must have sensed my uncertainty because I felt his large strong hand on the small of my back. Gently, he guided me forward, leaning down and whispering, “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

I nodded, and my head felt as though it was attached to marionette strings. He kept his warm hand on my back and moved it in small circles. “It’s an art form, Catherine.” His breath was hot on my ear, his lips almost brushing my skin. “It’s called
nyotaimori
.”

I repeated the word in my mind, liking the sound of it. As I was propelled into the room, I noticed an older Japanese man in a black chef uniform standing at the far end of the table. Midori was standing by his side, and William stepped away from me and approached the couple. The chef bowed and William bowed back. They exchanged a few words I didn’t quite understand and then both men broke into wide smiles. I realized William had spoken to the chef in Japanese—I could add that to the growing list of his accomplishments.

William beckoned me to come closer and then he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him. It felt so weird to be standing here normally, as if two naked women weren’t lying on the table right in front of us, but his touch was reassuring. I needed to follow his lead.

The chef, whose name was Junzo, and Midori bowed and smiled, and I bowed in return. Then Junzo began to speak. He gestured to Midori to translate, and she started to speak in a soft voice.

“Chef Junzo says that
nyotaimori
is about beauty. The beauty of woman and the beauty of food, together in perfect harmony.”

I kept my gaze on her as she gestured and spoke of the women as though they weren’t there.

“In traditional
nyotaimori
, the model trains many hours. She learns how to remain absolutely still and to tolerate the coldness of the food. Before performing, her body is specially prepared so she may serve as a plate for this feast.”

I turned to study the table again. The women had not moved since we entered the room. Both were lean and small breasted and completely shaved. Their eyes were open, but their faces were expressionless. The closer I looked, the more my artist’s eye saw the careful artistry in the presentation. The woman on her back had a line of alternating orange and green rolls from her navel to her smooth mound. The woman on her stomach had several pieces of nigiri-sushi nestled in the small of her back and then trailing up the curve of her buttocks. “
Nyotaimori
is meant to be the highest compliment to woman. Only nature’s most beautiful creature can breathe life into the dishes created to honor her. The warmth of her body perfectly warms the cold fish, allowing its ideal taste and texture to be revealed. This state cannot exist without woman. Woman makes perfection.”