A Taste of You (14 page)

The family was beautiful. They could have been models posing for a frame ad. Another picture was of an older William with another man, woman, and three girls. There was still a family resemblance, but I did not think these were William’s parents. And William must have been about fourteen. He looked different in this picture. There was no smile, and his eyes were haunted. He looked lost, and for a moment, I thought of the brief glimpse of vulnerability I’d seen this morning in the man.

I heard a sound and decided I to get dressed and head home. I couldn’t snoop with the staff lurking, and poor Laird probably needed to go out.

I dressed in my clothes from the night before and headed out. After declining an offer of coffee and breakfast from the cook, I had George drive me home.

I wished Anthony had been on duty this morning. George stood rigidly and never smiled. As soon as I was in the back of the SUV, he said, “Where to, Miss Kelly?”

“Home, please. I guess you know where that is. “ I repeated my address anyway.

“Very good.” The words were innocuous, but I got the feeling he thought I should have gone home hours ago, or perhaps, never left my condo in the first place. The car was silent, and then George said, “Are you working today, Miss Kelly?”

“Yes. I have a meeting this afternoon.”

“And what is it you do again?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Freelance?” His tone was clipped and polite, but somehow, I suspected he didn’t think this was a profession. I made good money, at least by my standards—not that my income was any of George’s business.

Then it struck me. Did he think I was after William’s money? Did he have some objection to photographers? Maybe he thought I was a secret paparazzo. And did I even care what George thought?

“You haven’t been in Chicago long, have you, Miss Kelly?”

I didn’t know George well, but I understood his type. He knew exactly how long I’d been in Chicago—probably to the hour and minute. He was protective of William, I got that, but I felt as though he saw me as a threat.

“How exactly did you and Mr. Lambourne meet, Miss Kelly?”

“You know what, George? I think that would be a good question to ask Mr. Lambourne,” I said.

That shut him up. He wasn’t going to ask William anything. That wasn’t his place. And I didn’t want to put up with the third degree. I should have called a cab.

I finally arrived home and was happy to jump out of William’s SUV. The remainder of the drive had been made in strained silence, until I said, “thank you” and got out. I jogged up the stairs and unlocked my door.

After being in William’s world, my own condo looked so normal, so average, but I was glad to be home. I took Laird for a brisk walk then sat down to work. I had a meeting with the Fresh Market people downtown today. They’d loved my photos of the kebabs and wanted more. Since meeting William, I could see the appeal of food as sex. There had been a trend toward food porn in commercial photography these past few years, and since no one was better at staging food sexually than Beckett, I’d brought him in to work with me on the Fresh Market campaign. Besides, I owed him big time for all the work he’d gotten me.

Beckett!

I grabbed my phone and read his text then quickly replied that I’d be happy to meet him for a pre-lunch meeting at a casual bistro we both liked. I hurried to change and get ready. All the while my thoughts were on William and the talk we’d had this morning. The more I mulled everything over, the angrier I became. Not at William—he was just being himself—but at
myself
. I’d promised myself on Sunday that I would end it with him. And now, I was in deeper than ever.

As soon as I walked into the restaurant, Beckett could see something was wrong. He gave me a hug, and said, “You look great.” It was meant to cheer me up, and it did. I was wearing a slim black skirt, black tights, black boots, and a black-and-white print blouse with a vintage green Chanel jacket. It was my best “business” outfit and I wanted to look good for the Fresh Market people. Of course, I also had my coat, scarf, and hat. I’d forgotten my gloves as usual.

We ordered at the counter. This bistro had great sandwiches, all local, organic ingredients, but I wasn’t hungry. We sat by the window, and before I could take a sip of my water, Beckett said, “Alright Cat, what’s up?”

I launched into a detailed description of the date with William, my thought process, the decisions I’d made on Sunday, and coming home to find William in my kitchen making bucatini. Beckett was always a good listener, and as I talked, I felt lighter. It was good to open up to someone.

When I was done, I sat back, and Beckett whistled. “This would make a great movie,” he said. “It’s got the whole
Cinderella/Pretty Woman
thing going for it.”

I laughed. “Beckett, be serious. I’m more confused than ever. Commitment-phobe William thinks we’re in a relationship now, and I don’t know what I think.” I sipped my water again and pushed my sandwich around on the plate.

“Why are you thinking so much?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can get that kind of advice from William.”

Beckett shrugged. “Then maybe you should listen. Really, Cat, step back and look at this objectively. It’s romantic. A fairy tale!”

“I thought you said to look at it objectively.”

“Okay,
objectively
, you had great sex with a hot man.”

“It was better than great.”

“
Amazing,
mind-blowing sex with a drop-dead gorgeous billionaire—I hate your guts, by the way. So what’s the harm in that? You don’t have to marry him. Just fuck his brains out.”

I laughed again. It felt so good to talk things over with Beckett. “But I’m not the kind of person who does casual. And this doesn’t feel romantic. It feels confusing.”

“Because you’re thinking too much. You married Jace, but that was a different time in your life. Maybe the new Cat should live in the moment and see what happens.”

I shook my head, and Beckett reached across the table and took my hand.

“Cat, Jace would want you to be happy. You’ve been closed off for so long. I think William is good for you. You’re finally opening up. You’re stepping out of the little cocoon you’ve built.”

“I just don’t know if this is what I want.”

“You don’t want the fairy tale? Girl, everyone wants the fairy tale. But seriously, you can’t deny yourself forever. You’re twenty-five, not eighty. Act twenty-five. Have fun.”

“Eventually, the fun has to end, and where is this going? William is so serious about everything.”

“That’s his deal. You don’t have to marry him. You don’t even have to love him. Honey, enjoy the perks!”

“Really, Cat,” Beckett continued, eating the last of his sandwich. I had barely touched mine. “Every girl, and some guys, I know would love to be in your shoes. You’re Julia-fucking-Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. But prettier, of course. You are William Maddox Lambourne’s
girlfriend
.”

Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. The comparison resonated. And the real question remained—was I the princess or the whore?

*****

I’d taken the L into the Loop because parking near the Fresh Market office was expensive. Plus, I’d scored a great spot Sunday evening and was now reluctant to move my Volvo. Beckett always took the L or a cab, so we walked from the restaurant. My cheeks were burning from the cold by the time we stepped inside. Beckett and I were a few minutes early, and we were met by the assistant art director, who showed us into the conference room.

“I’m Alec Carr,” he said as he led us back. “I’m excited to be working with you. I saw what you did with the kebabs. It was genius.”

“Thanks.” I ducked my head, always unsure how to respond to compliments.

“We’re excited to have you on board too, Mr. Altieri.”

Beckett waved a hand as we entered the glass-walled conference room. “You can call me Beckett.”

Alec smiled. “And you can call me Alec. Seriously, I’m a big fan of your work.”

I glanced at Beckett and raised my brows. There was definitely something going on here. Alec was cute in a Justin Timberlake way. He had light brown hair, a great body, and black-rimmed glasses that made him look funky and fun. He was the perfect compliment for Beckett’s blond hair and blue eyes.

“I love what Fresh Market is doing,” Beckett said as we took seats around a rectangular table. “Sex sells, Alec, and when you put food and sex together, the combination is explosive.”

“I agree completely,” Alec said. “And that’s why I didn’t hesitate when Catherine insisted we bring you on board. There’s no one better at staging food as sex than you.”

“I’m sure you’re equally good at what you do, Alec.”

Alec grinned. “I have a few hidden talents.”

“I have no doubt.”

I hid my smile. It was cute to see Beckett flirting with Alec.

Two executives I’d met before entered, and everything turned to business. We discussed different campaigns and listened as they outlined their ideas. Then Beckett and I made suggestions and offered advice. I felt like the meeting was going well. The executives were excited, and Alec couldn’t stop smiling. And then, with about fifteen minutes left, Beckett’s phone buzzed. He checked the text and scowled.

“Everything okay?” Alec asked.

“Great,” Beckett said and returned to our discussion of strawberries. I could tell everything wasn’t great. Something was wrong.

We wrapped the meeting up and Alec showed us out. “Call me if you have any questions,” he told us. “I’m available,” he said with a suggestive look at Beckett.

We stepped outside, and I nudged Beckett. “I think Alec has a thing for you. You should call him.”

“Maybe I will. He’s cute.”

“He’s
really
cute.”

“Cat, I need to show you something.” He pulled his phone out. There was something in his voice that made me tense. “I got this during the meeting.”

I took the phone and studied the link for a Google alert for William Lambourne. Huh. I should have set up a Google alert for him. I hadn’t thought about it. I opened the link and scanned the first lines of a society column article about the Art Institute event on Saturday night. The writer mentioned some of the more prominent attendees, including “benefactor William Lambourne, who attended with a mystery brunette.”

“This is so weird,” I told Beckett. I was a
mystery brunette
in a society column. Life couldn’t get much stranger.

“Keep scrolling,” Beckett said.

“There’s more?”

I scrolled down and took a step back. The picture showed William dancing, but it wasn’t with me. I recognized Lara Kendall immediately. I scoured my brain for the sequence of events and knew this dance had been after I’d left. William hadn’t danced with anyone but me while I was there. I scrolled farther and read the caption.

Is Chicago’s favorite couple once again an item?

“Oh, my God.” I pushed the phone back at Beckett. I couldn’t stand to see it anymore. How could I have bought William’s bullshit this morning? He was all talk about exclusivity, but I probably hadn’t been gone five minutes Saturday evening before he was dancing with that bitch.

“I have to go,” I told Beckett.

“Cat, I’ll walk with you.”

“It’s out of your way, and I’m fine.” I doubled back and gave him a hug. “I’ll call you later.”

We split, and I headed for the L. I wanted to be home right now. I was such an idiot. Had I really believed William when he’d said Lara was nothing to him? Had I really trusted him when he’d claimed no other woman had slept in his bed? Clearly, he wasn’t being completely straight with me—about his relationship with Lara, or who had really slept in his bed.

Chicago’s favorite couple! I was so pissed I nearly ran into a woman who’d slowed to pick up a package she’d dropped. I walked at a punishing pace, eager to be alone. Maybe I’d Google him again myself and see what I turned up.

My phone dinged, and I looked at the screen, expecting a text from Beckett. I stopped dead. It was from William.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking of a dozen ways to make you scream my name.

“Asshole,” I muttered and shoved the phone in my pocket. I kept walking. The wind whipped my hair against my cheek until it stung and the smell of exhaust burned my nose and eyes. I heard my ringtone, and swearing, I fished my phone out again. William was calling. I almost shoved the phone back in my pocket, but at the last second, I answered.

“I’m thinking about you,” he said, his voice low and seductive.

“I can’t talk now,” I said.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ll call you later.” Like, maybe never.

There was a long silence, and then, “Where are you?”

“I’m downtown. I had a meeting at Fresh Market.”

“Where are you now?”

“Um…” I looked around. “State and Wacker, by the river. Why?”

“That’s not far from my office. Come over.”

I didn’t want to see him, talk to him, or know he existed. I wanted to forget this enormous mistake. “Another time. I need to get home.”

“Catherine, I need to see you.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to learn to live with disappointment, like the rest of the world.”

“What the hell does that mean?

I didn’t answer, which obviously wasn’t the response William wanted.

“Catherine, I’m sending someone to get you. I’ll have you carried up, if necessary.”

Jerk. “Don’t bother.” I hit End, stuffed the phone in my coat and kept walking. The L wasn’t much farther. I kept my head down, my face out of the wind, and walked resolutely. Then, as I was crossing the Michigan Avenue Bridge, something made me look up. William stood at the other end of the bridge. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared. His overcoat was unbuttoned, and it flapped in the wind. His face was flushed with cold, and he wore a steely expression. My breath caught in my throat. He was devastating. If he hadn’t been glaring, I would have thought he was waiting for someone else—an impossibly gorgeous goddess.

When I didn’t continue walking, he strode up to me and grabbed my hand. “You never have gloves,” he said and slapped a pair of black cashmere gloves into my hand. Stunned, I pulled them on. How did he know I always forgot my gloves? And what did it mean that he’d thought to bring me a pair?