Cooking up a Storm (3 page)

Her tears made him break away. He gave her a little shake, then let her fall back on to the mattress. ‘I’m not giving up,’ he repeated through gritted teeth. ‘I love you, Ab, as much as you love me.’

Which probably isn’t saying much, she thought as she watched him storm out the door.

*   *   *

Marissa ducked into the bathroom in time to miss being run over by Abby’s angry boyfriend. She sagged back against the cool pink-and-black tile wall, her body shaking with a fine, rapid tremor. She could still see Abby’s face as she’d climaxed, the adorable preparatory pucker between her flaxen brows, the flush on her peachy skin, the final gasp for air and then her look of childlike wonder as the pleasure rolled through her and her muscles went slack with relief.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Curling both hands into fists, Marissa pressed them hard between her legs, grinding them over the awful, throbbing ache. She wanted Abby so bad it hurt.

She swore under her breath. Don’t do this to yourself, she ordered. Gemma warned you Abby doesn’t swing both ways. Just because she gave poor old Bill the boot doesn’t mean your chances are one iota better than they were before.

Gemma had been Abby’s roommate at college and, later, Marissa’s lover. Gemma liked to joke that Marissa was her mid-life crisis, even though Marissa was just five years younger, and Gemma was only thirty. Since they never fell in love, the relationship ended amicably. When Marissa fled Boston for the Cape, Gemma was happy to recommend her for employment to an old school chum.

Marissa called her former lover a week after she started working at the inn.

‘I think she’s the one,’ she’d gushed with a naivety that made her cringe today. ‘She’s got a boyfriend but he’s a jerk and I don’t think she really loves him. Oh, Gemma. Every time I see her I get butterflies. I’ve never met anyone so pretty and sweet. Last night we talked until two in the morning about the most incredible things and she really listened; she really understood.’

That’s when Gemma warned her what a straight arrow Abby was.

‘If I couldn’t seduce her, no one could,’ Gemma said, ‘and, believe me, I tried.’

This was probably true. Gemma was a wisecracking, redheaded Amazon with a knack for coaxing people past their normal comfort zones. She often said that, given time, she could joke a nun into bed.

So Marissa had tried to stop dreaming about Abby; had tried not to notice the baby-soft curve of her cheek, the strength of her hands as they worked side by side in the kitchen, the compassion in her limpid green eyes whenever anyone came to her with a problem. Her efforts were all in vain. Her throat tightened twenty times a day with an urge to explore her employer’s rose-pink mouth. Her hands itched to touch her. Her cunt ached to be touched.

Abruptly overcome, Marissa slid down the tiles and worked both hands under her skin-tight black cycling shorts. Her fingers delved between her swollen lips, spreading her wetness, brushing the hard, hot button of her clit. Her knees sagged to either side and she closed her eyes. The image of Abby’s orgasming face drifted through her mind. Swallowing a moan, she thrust two curled fingers into her sheath, searching out the sensitive cushion behind her pubic bone. She pressed it hard and pinched her clit with her other hand, a machine-gun rhythm that never failed to bring her, or her partners, off.

‘Abby,’ she mouthed, recalling the brief glimpse of shiny, pink pussy she’d seen through the open bedroom door. How delicate it had been, how plump and sumptuous. I’d suck you till you came, she thought, remembering how Bill had mounted her too impatiently, too roughly. You’d never go wanting with me.

God, she could almost taste Abby on her tongue — soft, smooth, musky-briny like the ocean. Abby would touch Marissa’s hair the way she’d touched Bill’s. She’d stroke her shoulder, touch her breast with shy, trembling fingers…

A climax wrenched Marissa’s pussy tight around her fingers. She bit her lip, a little grunt the only noise that issued from her throat as the contractions came and came.

Stupid, she thought a minute later as she pushed to her feet and splashed water on her face. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She looked at herself in the bathroom cabinet mirror, at her sharp bones and hard brown eyes, at her spiky hennaed hair, at the pretty gold ring in her nose and wide thin slash of her mouth. Gemma said she was striking; said she had the kind of looks no one could ignore. Her mother said she’d be pretty if only she’d take more care. Marissa herself thought she’d do, but she’d never stop traffic; not like Gemma and not, in a quieter way, like Abby.

Not that devastating looks carried much weight with her boss. Bill was, at best, pleasant-looking and, at worst, a clod.

‘Idiot,’ she told her reflection.

She found Abby slumped in the centre of her bed, blowing mightily into a Kleenex. Looking up in surprise, Abby gave her nose one last swipe and tossed the crumpled tissue into a small wicker bin. The tip of her nose was pink and her eyes were swollen. Her hair, fine as spun sugar, draggled off her head like a bird’s nest after a storm. Marissa still thought she was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.

She sat next to Abby on the flowery coverlet and took a second to look around. She loved this room. It made her feel safe and pampered even though she’d never choose anything so feminine for herself. The air still smelt of sex, but Abby had pulled an old pink T-shirt over the leather bikini. Marissa tried not to stare at the long, clean curves of her thighs.

‘I saw Bill tearing out of here,’ she said. ‘I take it you finally dumped him.’

‘Yes,’ Abby admitted, too upset to ask what Marissa was doing there. She pulled another tissue from the box on the bedside table and began to worry it between her hands. ‘I’m pretty sure it was the right thing to do, though I dread telling my sisters. Fran would marry him herself if bigamy weren’t illegal.’

Marissa patted her knee and tried not to notice how silky it was. ‘You did the right thing. Bill wanted a caretaker and you already do too much of that. Speaking of which…’ Reluctantly, she released Abby’s knee. ‘I’m here because Francine is over at the restaurant. She wants you to babysit tonight.’

‘Oh,’ Abby said, already beginning to rise.

‘No.’ Marissa caught her shoulder and pushed her down again. ‘The last thing you need right now is an evening with those squalling brats. Your sister has to learn to plan ahead. It’s not as if no one else on Cape Cod could take care of her kids — your other sister for one. I mean, she can only spend so many hours a day writing that awful poetry.’

‘Even so,’ Abby said, ‘I should tell her “no” in person.’

Marissa scratched her temple and laughed. ‘That’s hard to do when she’s got one monster hanging from either hand, both bouncing with excitement at the thought of spending the night with their Auntie Abigail.’

Abby’s eyes widened. ‘Francine brought the kids? She must be desperate.’

‘Most likely Richard got his bi-monthly erection and she doesn’t want it to go to waste.’

Abby gasped out a laugh and smacked Marissa’s knee. ‘You are so bad!’

‘Bad but wise,’ Marissa said, her chest warming painfully at the moment of female bonding. ‘Why don’t I tell her you’re suffering from a killer sinus headache? Then you and I can drive up to Provincetown and drown our sorrows in a pitcher of margarita.’

Abby smiled gently and Marissa knew the answer was no. Her face stiffened to hide her disappointment.

‘The headache story sounds fine,’ Abby said, ‘and I thank you for looking out for me. I think I need some time to myself, though. Bill and I went together for four years and, tempting as your invitation is, I don’t think a gallon of margarita would help me sort out my feelings.’

‘Sure,’ said Marissa. She stood and began backing towards the door. ‘I understand. We’ll take a raincheck.’

‘Absolutely,’ Abby agreed.

Marissa hoped to God the look she saw on Abby’s face wasn’t pity.

Storm could not get from LA to the Cape in one go. He had to take a puddle jumper from Boston to Barnstable. The little plane touched down in mid-afternoon. To his disappointment, the overcast sky prevented him from observing the peninsula’s famous ‘beckoning arm’.

The Cape was an island — just barely. In 1914 the Cape Cod Canal freed the peninsula from the geographical tyranny of Massachusetts. He knew from his research that the pilgrims spent their first months in the New World here. Nowadays, the pilgrims had cameras round their necks and sand in their shorts. Between the fourth of July and the dog days of August, they came to spend the few precious weeks or weekends they could spare from their jobs. While they remained, they tripled the population. Locals called them the Summer People.

Sometimes Summer People fell in love with the Cape. They returned year after year and then, if fate had blessed their bank accounts, they retired here. The harsh winter weather did not dissuade them, nor the creeping incursions of developers. They knew where to find the Old Cape, the real Cape.

Storm understood their obsession. After dog-earing one smudgy photograph of a 250-year-old house and a handful of tourist guides, he’d been infatuated enough to follow his impulse out here. Now the feel of new ground under his feet set his heart racing. He covered the distance to the hire-car firm in no time. He’d leased a French green convertible, a celebration of his new start. For a moment — but only a moment — the manager’s gloomy demeanour cut through his excitement. The big, bearded man looked as if he’d lost his best friend.

Woman trouble, Storm deduced as he tossed his luggage in the boot. He was glad he had arranged his life, and himself, to circumvent the annoyance of a broken heart — unless it was someone else’s broken heart, and even that could be avoided if one was honest about one’s intentions from the start. A dedication to sexual exploration required that one’s heart remain warm but mild. If more men acknowledged that home truth, there wouldn’t be so many dragging about with their tails between their legs.

Pleased with his own wisdom, Storm manoeuvred the sporty green Miata on to 6A, the mid-Cape highway. He was headed for a village called Picker’s Hollow, nestled — according to his guide book — just above South Wellfleet and happily ensconced within the Cape Cod National Seashore Project. In essence, his future home was protected by federal law from overdevelopment.

Yet another sign of his supremely good sense, he thought as he checked the lay of the land. Flying in to Provincetown would have shaved an hour off his drive time, but time wasn’t the issue. The longer Barnstable route allowed him to see what traffic this resort area supported during the off season — and to run his eye over his restaurant’s potential competition.

Steering with one hand, Storm brushed his long hair back from his face. The early-June day was cool. A pearly fog blanketed the roadside motels, lending them an unearned, nostalgic air. Between these gentle reminders of the modern day, he spotted salt marshes and pine groves, open moors and tiny quicksilver ponds complete with patient fishermen. Narrow back roads led off from the highway. Along their shady verges he saw houses of similar vintage to the one that had lured him here. Some were covered in crisp white clapboard, others in weathered cedar shingle. All stirred a pleasant pang of longing in his chest — pleasant because his dream of owning such a place seemed for once achievable.

He had investigated the local property values. They were high, but so was the balance in his brokerage account. If he played his cards close to his chest and chose the right moment to bid, he’d take the pot with no trouble.

As a further sign of serendipity, he rolled into the car park behind the Coates Inn in time for the evening meal.

He knew the ocean was near. He could hear the meditative shush-shush-shush of breakers on the shore. The air was sharp with sea smells, and the heady scent of roses blooming nearby was dizzying to a man with his sensitive nose.

He climbed out of the low-slung car and donned his linen jacket. Shaking the kinks out of his legs, he looked around. Two rectangular wings extended backwards from the black-shuttered white house. Between their stiff embrace a tidy herb garden sloped to a windbreak of hemlock and pine. The paint on the wings was peeling. They looked sturdy enough, but uninhabited. Apparently, the inn was not currently fit for guests.

On the lookout for further flaws, he ambled to the front of the eighteenth-century house. Here the view did not disappoint. The past seemed imprinted on the pristine clapboard: a soft vibration tingled seductively over his skin. In his mind he heard games of tag and a rope swing creaking in the shady oak. For generations, children had played here and squabbled and had their boo-hoos kissed by loving parents. He looked up at the widow’s walk and pictured a whaling captain’s wife standing braced on the railing, her hair and dress whipped back by the wind, her eyes fixed on the endless expanse of the Atlantic, waiting for her man.

His cock stirred within his trousers as he imagined reunions after months at sea. What would it be like to do without sex that long? From the age of seventeen he hadn’t gone more than a week between encounters. After a month, would you rip off your clothes and do it on the doorstep? Would your woman drag you to the bedroom and lock you in? An image formed in his mind: tiny mother-of-pearl buttons marching up a slender female back. A single forceful wrench would scatter them, creating music to accompany deep kisses of homecoming.

I want this place, he thought, and his arousal surged as much at the idea of owning the inn as for his fantasy.

Shaking his head at himself, he crunched up the oyster-shell path. A border of yellow and purple irises led him to a brass-handled front door. He filled his lungs with sweet Atlantic air and tugged it open.

He smiled. The interior was everything he’d hoped, homey and warm with a collection of worn but not ragged antiques. The floor was oilcloth painted to resemble marble, the old-fashioned version of linoleum — in good condition, too. One of the local craftspeople must have restored it. He nodded in approval, then frowned.

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
, said the sign beside the empty hostess station.

Eh bien
, he thought. It will be interesting to see how long this takes. He crossed the hall to examine a photograph of dunes iced in snow and fringed with golden beach grass. The hand-lettered card beneath the frame said
JACK WESTON, $575
. A bargain at any price, he thought, though he wasn’t one for acquiring art. Something about the image moved him, the purity maybe, or the sense of timeless peace. He was promising himself he’d consider buying it when a small, smiling woman with astonishingly blonde hair bustled out to greet him.

His first impression was that she was soft all over, from the wisps of hair that escaped her French braid, to the humour in her clear green eyes, to the pink cashmere twin set whose sleeves she’d pushed to her elbows. Her flowing flowered skirt hid all of her legs except for a pair of trim, tapered ankles. His eyes slid back to her chest. Her breasts jiggled as she walked. She wore no brassiere. No doubt she considered her attributes too small for containment. He appreciated the oversight. Her nipples had a lovely pouty shape, their areolas swollen though not erect.

He wondered if this was a sign that they were sensitive. Perhaps she was one of those rare women who could orgasm from being suckled. He had never met one, but it would be interesting to find out. Already verging on tumescence, his cock pushed against the confinement of its skin, a sleepy animal squirming awake.

Coming to a halt before him, the cuddly little blonde clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘I bet you’re hungry.’

For a second, he thought she had spotted his erection, but her expression was far too innocent for that.

‘Come with me,’ she said, taking his elbow and steering him into the airy dining room. Her touch sent a fierce pulse of awareness to his groin. ‘I’m afraid our hostess called in sick today and we’re a bit short-staffed. Let me get you settled and I’ll have the waitress come by in a few minutes for your order.’

She led him to a white-draped table in a corner between two tall windows. His elbow tingled when she let it go. She handed him a menu, took his drink order and disappeared in the same flurry with which she’d arrived.

Storm’s erection subsided with her departure but did not disappear. He could still smell her, a light, spicy mingling of lavender and orange blossom which enhanced her underlying scent. If a woman had to wear perfume, he thought, it ought to be a perfume like that.

He flipped his napkin into his lap and wondered if she might be the owner. If she was, the negotiation process could be more interesting than he’d expected.

He perused the menu with a practised eye, then gazed at his fellow diners. Off season or not, the place was woefully under-patronised. He counted two married couples, a silver-haired fisherman type scribbling in a notebook between bites of oyster stew, and three giggling college girls who were making a meal of salad and side dishes.

The skinny, spike-haired waitress seemed to know these women weren’t likely to tip. She was ignoring their nearly empty water glasses in favour of picking lacquer off her nails. Storm narrowed his eyes. She wore a gauzy, mud-brown smock over a pair of tight black cycling shorts — hardly professional garb. Considering her appearance, he was pleasantly surprised when she arrived to take his order. Her manner was polite and efficient and she answered all his questions about the entrées with accuracy and aplomb.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have to be fired after all.

He waited longer for the food than he considered ideal, but it was hot. The portions were huge — laughably so — and the preparation competent, if uninspired. Storm consumed his entire lobster, which was wonderfully fresh, ignored a despicable iceberg lettuce and tomato salad, and picked dubiously at an overheavy crab cake. He ordered three desserts, which earned him a raised eyebrow from the rake-thin waitress, but he was on a research mission here, not a diet.

The quality of the desserts was considerably higher than the main course. The lemon meringue tart melted in his mouth, the bittersweet chocolate rum cake caused his cock to lift its head in wonder, and the caramel-pecan crumble tasted so decadent he actually cleaned the plate, despite being quite full already. He concluded that the owner either had a good supplier or she let her sweet tooth set her kitchen priorities. Remembering the woman’s soft pink cheeks and rounded build, he suspected the latter.

The dining room had cleared by the time he finished, which suited his purposes perfectly.

‘I’d like to speak to the owner,’ he said when the waitress arrived with his bill.

She immediately crossed her arms beneath her pointy, high-slung breasts. ‘Why do you want to talk to the owner?’

He smiled reassuringly. Perhaps she thought he had a complaint. ‘I’m a chef. I’ve come to apply for the position she advertised.’

‘Oh,’ said the waitress. Her arms uncrossed but she did not relax. ‘You might have called ahead, you know. I’ll have to see if she’s got time to talk.’

Protective, aren’t we? he mused, and made a note to watch his step around this young female Cerberus.

*   *   *

Abby ran the damp, soapy cloth down the counter, so lost in her thoughts she wasn’t aware that she was lost. The stranger was more exotic than handsome. His jaw was too long, for one thing, and his mouth was unusually shaped. She touched her own, trying to recreate it in her mind. Yes, his upper lip was almost triangular. It looked temptingly soft. His nose was on the large side. It matched his jaw, but not his pretty blue-grey eyes. His clothes were expensive, but his hair was shaggy — shiny, though, so he must care for it.

He was a misassembled puzzle, she thought. His face made one want to stare, to figure out what made it so appealing. Of course, it didn’t hurt that from the neck down he was drop-dead perfect.

She ran the cloth the other way, heedless of the soapy drips trickling to the floor. Out in the lobby, she’d caught him staring at Jack’s photo as if he wanted to crawl inside. The expression of naked yearning disappeared the moment he caught sight of her, but it lasted long enough to brand itself on her memory. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t suppress the urge to soothe him, as if he were an injured puppy rather than a full-grown man who probably ate women like her for breakfast.

He had that heartbreaker’s look; that ‘I can have any woman I want and I’ve proved it’ look. Was he ever sexy, though! Just holding his elbow, she’d marked the heat of him, the sexual electricity. Her pussy felt swollen even now. Every so often it gave a little twitch of longing.

Ridiculous, she thought, crouching down to swipe a soapy puddle off the floor. Bill hadn’t been gone a week. Her body ought to be in mourning, not panting after a man who probably wouldn’t give her a second look. He probably went for fashion-model types who wore designer gowns to the grocer’s, women who read the
New Yorker
and never got grease under their nails. If she had the least bit of sense, she’d keep her interest hidden and save herself some embarrassment.

Marissa’s unexpected entrance made her gasp and jolt to her feet.

‘One of the customers wants to talk to you about the chef’s position,’ she said.

A little shiver tickled the back of Abby’s neck. She just knew it was him, Mr Sexy in the linen jacket. Heart thudding in her chest, she asked Marissa which customer she meant.

Marissa studied her fingernails. ‘Shortish guy. Long hair.’

Abby pressed her lips together to hide her smile. The man had been of average height and his shaggy brown hair did hang to his shoulders, but Marissa had to be blind to think that description did him justice.

‘Bedroom eyes?’ she added, succumbing to her urge to tease.

Marissa shrugged. ‘He didn’t make an appointment. Want me to show him the door?’

‘Of course not.’ Abby pulled the soiled apron over her head and tossed it on to a stool. ‘I’ll talk to anyone who’ll get me out of this kitchen.’ She peered at her reflection in the door to the microwave. ‘Lord, look at my hair!’