A Taste of You (4 page)

I was snapping pictures of apple-cheddar tartlets and lemon panna cotta with blackberries when my stomach growled loudly enough for Beckett to hear. “Cat, you’re starving!” he exclaimed. I resisted glancing at the bar, mortified that he might have heard too.

“I’m fine.” I waved a hand, not wanting to stop now that I had momentum going. Not wanting to allow my attention to drift, once again, to Stormy Eyes. “This is the last of it anyway, right?” I asked Beckett, who had leaned in with one of his tongs to push a berry a fraction to the left on the plate.

I glanced up to see Ben and Amanda standing beside the monitor and smiling. Ben glanced at the last shots, gave me a thumbs up, and I nodded and finished the final photos. “I’m going to take a few of the interior,” I called out. I’d taken some already, but I wanted aerial shots. I also wanted to get away from the penetrating gaze of Stormy Eyes. “I’ll take a look at these right away. I’d be happy to bring the proofs by tomorrow.” This wasn’t something I needed to do, but it was a little extra I liked to throw in. If Ben liked the shots, he might recommend me to his chef friends or request me the next time he was featured in a magazine.

“That would be great!” Amanda said.

“If
Chicago Now
wants more?” Ben asked.

“No problem. I’d be happy to come back and shoot as many photos as it takes. I want to make sure you’re pleased and that the magazine is pleased. Whatever it takes.”

“They won’t need her to come back,” Beckett chimed in confidently. “
Chicago Now
is going to be blown away.”

As I headed up the metal staircase to the loft above the restaurant, I wished I felt as confident as Beckett. Normally, I didn’t question my abilities. In California, my surfing photos had been featured in several magazines and on tons of surfing websites, and my career had been in high gear. But in the realm of food photography, I was a complete unknown, and Fresh Market’s phallic kebab ads were my highest profile credit to date. I knew it was going to be like this here—all the insecurity and self-doubt that went along with starting from scratch and trying to make a name for myself—and I was ready. But today, I’d felt off. It had nothing to do with my abilities with a camera and everything to do with Mr. Mystery with the unsettling eyes, or more specifically, my reaction to him. I glanced at the bar. He was gone. My chest clenched with disappointment. I’d wanted… I don’t know what I wanted, but I hadn’t wanted him to leave. But maybe it was better this way. Now I could concentrate on my job.

I raised my camera and took a couple shots of the main dining area below, then stepped back to look at them.

“Do you ever take a break?” a velvet voice I recognized asked.

I looked up, holding my camera in front of me as a shield. There he was, leaning against the railing, his body long and loose, his posture that of a sleek cat ready to pounce. I noticed his eyes were blue rather than grey now—how could I not notice—but they were still the blue of a dangerous, turbulent sea. He smiled, and his smile was predatory, not reassuring.

“Sometimes.” My voice was breathy, seductive. I didn’t mean it to be, but this man’s effect on me was unavoidable. He moved closer, and I thought about moving back, but I didn’t. This close, he was as gorgeous as I remembered. His hair was thick and wavy, and I felt the familiar pull of wanting to run my fingers through it. His brows were an elegant slash over mesmerizing eyes, and he had more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. I wondered how it would feel against my skin. He wore his suit well, looking as comfortable as most men did in jeans and a T-shirt. It was an expensive suit, but he owned it. I didn’t have to think too hard to imagine what his body looked like under that suit—broad shoulders, lean waist, narrow hips, and muscled thighs. I had felt his rock-hard biceps when he helped me move the table.

“Something you said downstairs intrigued me.” His fingers played on the railing beside me, and my skin prickled as I thought of how just a slight movement on his part would have us touching.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What was that?” I couldn’t resist. There was something about his eyes. I couldn’t look away. They were going grey again.

“You told the chef you’d do whatever it took to please him.”

My cheeks heated when he repeated my words. Stormy Eyes made them sound… erotic—up here, in the semi-darkness, just the two of us, alone. His eyes were locked on mine, and I couldn’t look away.

“Do you have that same philosophy in bed?” He reached out, and his long fingers stroked my hand. They were aristocratic fingers, long and strong and beautifully manicured. I clenched my fingers tightly around my camera. Everything in me wanted to scream,
Yes
! My body was willing to do anything to keep this man touching me, looking at me, speaking to me, and I could feel myself responding, yet alarm bells went off in my head.

“What’s going on?” I finally sputtered. “What’s this about?”

“I should think that would be obvious.” His direct gaze never wavered. “I want you.”

I was stunned into silence. When I didn’t answer, he moved closer. I swayed because I felt the heat of him, and there was that scent again—smoky and intoxicating.

“I want to fuck you. Hard. Long,” he whispered. “Until you come and come and think you can’t come anymore.”

I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle. I didn’t understand. I hated arrogant come-ons—not that I’d ever had a man come-on to me quite like this—yet my legs were quaking, my breath had been snatched away, and my panties were wet. I’d never been so immediately and so unequivocally aroused by a man. Not even Jace. But where was the basic civility, the: “Hi, I’m so-and-so. Nice to meet you.” I didn’t even know who this guy was and the fact that a part of me didn’t care—and was screaming
oh yes
! in my head—well, all my alarm bells got even louder.

I shook my head and backed away. I had to put some distance between us, or I’d never say what I needed to. My heart thudded in my chest, racing so fast I felt as if I’d just run three miles, but I was going to say this. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but your chances of getting me into bed are exactly zero.”

He raised a dubious brow, and my heart kicked up a notch.

“I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. So why don’t you just go back to your girlfriend and leave me alone?” I stomped away, tossing my hair over my shoulder for good measure. I hated girls who did that, but it seemed appropriate in this instance. And besides, I needed every trick in the book to prove, if only to myself, that I could actually walk away. Inside I was so hot for him. My whole body heated up from just one look, so his words had ignited an inferno. When he’d touched me, I went absolutely liquid.

I took the stairs as quickly as I could without tripping over my uncertain feet. I wanted to look up, but I didn’t need to. I could feel his gaze, and he was angry. I had seen the flash of irritation in his eyes. It turned them from that smoky grey to icy blue.

“Did you get what you needed?” Beckett asked when I was back downstairs.

“What do you mean?” I asked breathlessly. Oh no. Had he heard? Had the entire restaurant heard? Did everyone know what just happened?

Beckett gave me an odd look. “Did you get the shots you needed?”

Oh, thank God. “I think so.” I was so flustered, so completely off my game. My head was spinning, and all I could think of was
his
proposition—
I want to fuck you. Hard. Long.

I shuddered from the thought of the pleasure of him inside me.

“How about a few of the kitchen?” Beckett suggested.

“Of course.” At that point I would have done anything to get away from
his
gaze. I grabbed more batteries and a lamp and braved one last look at the loft. Stormy Eyes was gone. A part of me was devastated, but the part that valued logic and self-preservation cheered.

*****

“Coffee?” Beckett asked after we’d told Ben and Amanda good-bye and stowed my gear in the Volvo. “I know you want to work on the shots, but you look a little drained.”

“Okay,” I said.

“That was easy.” Beckett slung an arm around me and led me to the next block, where we found a Starbucks, ordered, and plopped into large purple armchairs. “I ordered you a scone,” Beckett said immediately. “And don’t argue. You need nourishment.”

“Okay.”

Beckett’s eyes widened. “What’s with you? You’re never this easy.”

I laughed. “Apparently, that’s not the vibe I was giving off all morning.” Over a mocha and a warm scone, I told Beckett about Stormy Eyes. When I got to the part in the loft, Beckett’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.

“Shit, Cat! You turned him down? How could you?”

“How could I?” I almost spit out my mocha, not believing that Beckett would question my response. “He’s a jerk. He didn’t even know my name, and he propositioned me. He said he wanted to fuck me, for God’s sake. Who does that?” I took another sip. I’d only managed to nibble the scone. I was starving, but not for food.

“I’ll tell you who does that. A guy who goes after exactly what he wants does that.”

I couldn’t believe that Beckett was on
his
side and thought
I
should have acted differently. He continued. “Do you know who your Stormy Eyes is?”

“An asshole?”

“Well, possibly But he’s also William Lambourne. The third.”

I blinked. “So?”

“So? William Lambourne is Chicago’s most eligible bachelor.”

“He’s Chicago’s most
arrogant
bachelor,” I retorted.

“He can afford to be arrogant. He’s rich. As in billionaire rich, Cat. Old money. And he owns… everything. Hotels, vineyards, real estate—”

“Restaurants?”

“Of course.”

“Does he own Willowgrass?”

Beckett shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one of the investors. That’s why I thought he was there. But now that we know he was who you ran into yesterday, I’m beginning to think maybe he was there to see you.”

Beckett couldn’t possibly be serious. “Me? Oh please, I’m hardly worth going to all that trouble for. No way he was there to see me.”

Beckett rolled his eyes. “Hello! Earth to Cat.” He took my face in his hands. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re gorgeous. All that thick brown hair, those green eyes, and you don’t have an inch of fat on you. What are you? A size two?”

I rolled my eyes. “Six, sometimes an eight.”

“A curvy, sexy six. Who wouldn’t want you?” This was a familiar conversation. Beckett and I had known each other since we were fourteen. He had always been the skinny boy who loved to cook. I was the artsy, insecure girl who hadn’t been surprised when he came out before our senior year of high school. We’d always supported one another. I’d been there when his father disowned him because he was gay, and he’d been there after everything happened with Jace.

“I think he’s dating Amanda,” I said, thinking of Stormy Eyes.

Beckett shook his head. “First of all, William Lambourne doesn’t date women. Women are seen with him, but never the same woman too many times. And his taste leans toward women who are beautiful, independent, and socially connected. Besides, Amanda’s married.”

“What?” I didn’t see that one coming. Amanda and Stormy Eyes had looked so familiar at the restaurant, and after the presumptions I’d made, it was hard to believe there wasn’t anything between them. “Why would I want to be seen with him? And how do you know all this anyway?”

“I actually read
Chicago Now
, Cat, usually while I’m on the treadmill at the gym. You should too, by the way. And why wouldn’t you want to be seen with him? You’d look great together. You need some fun.” Beckett put a hand over mine and squeezed. “Let’s talk about it, honey. We never talk about it.”

Oh no. He wanted to talk about Jace. And about why I was here—what I never wanted to talk to about. Red flag, red flag, red flag! No matter how much I avoided talking about this, it didn’t change anything.

I was twenty-five years old and a real anomaly: a widow. I’d been a widow longer than I’d been a wife. Jace and I had been married for only six months before he died. We got married two weeks after I graduated from UC-Santa Cruz, and for a time, I had everything I thought I ever wanted. I was married to my soul mate, I had a great career doing something I loved, and our life together was exciting. And all of it had been taken away in an instant. To say I had been devastated was an understatement. It took forever, but I had finally climbed out of the deep well of misery I’d dwelled in for so long after the accident. I found the balls to leave Santa Cruz and to start the next phase of my life. All good things and Beckett was a huge part of it, and I loved him for it. But that didn’t mean I was ready to have fun with any guy, let alone with a dangerously sexy billionaire bachelor.

I resisted, but I felt tears well up in my eyes and squeezed the familiar sting back. I would not cry again. I’d cried all the tears I had. I offered my standard response. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I was too vulnerable today. All my emotions were on the surface.

“That’s fine,” Beckett replied and let it go, sort of. “But consider having a little fun. You’re entitled to it, Cat. And it’s time. William Lambourne is the perfect guy for you. He’s a player, and obviously, anything long-term isn’t his style. As long as you know what you’re getting into, what’s the problem? I hear he’s fabulous in bed. You should totally tap that, Cat. If the man was bi, I’d be all over him.”

I shook my head. “I don’t care about his money or his looks. I’m not interested.”

“Uh-huh.” Beckett took a sip of his coffee. “That’s your story, huh?”

“How do you know he’s great in bed? Who told you that?
Chicago Now
?“

Beckett looked sheepish and then laughed. “Okay, well, nobody told me that. Shit, Cat, of course, a guy like that is fabulous in bed. How could he not be? I’m trying to entice you. Letting go can be a good thing, you know.”

Who was I kidding? I wasn’t fooling Beckett, and I sure as hell wasn’t fooling myself. My body still ached for Stormy Eyes. My hand still tingled where he’d touched it. My heart still pounded too quickly. I’d never met a man with that kind of magnetism. Not even Jace had affected me that way. And that’s why the attraction felt like a betrayal. But Beckett was right. I was only twenty-five. Widow or not, I had to start living again. I didn’t want to admit this to Beckett, but when I’d been alone with William Lambourne in the loft, for just a moment, he’d been all I could think about. I’d forgotten about the past, about what I’d done, and that scared the shit out of me.