Guilty Pleasures (11 page)

The third door led to a storeroom full of the strangest odds and ends. A bull’s head stared down from the top of a Doric column. Dozens of large sealed boxes, carefully labelled, were piled up to dangerous heights. A busty nude statue of Venus smirked, and a likewise leafless Adonis leered. Mandolins, tubas, saxes, and a gold baby grand piano filled the rest of the room.

“Here! The third box down. It reads Caligula’s Genitalia. That’s where the purple cushions should be.”

Huffing and puffing while balancing one tottering box against his shoulder, Lance managed to get the box without toppling anything on his head. “Mission accomplished, Boss.”

“Right. Let’s get it back to the salon, and you can go see if Serge’s calmed down.”

Together they scattered the purple satin and velvet cushions onto the zebra armchairs and the
chaise longue
.
 

“Wow!” Lance exclaimed. “It looks great!”
 

Millie moved to a discreet unit in one corner and summoned the cool sounds of a bossa nova. She nodded in satisfaction. “Great for the mood.”

Lance grinned. “Great to dance to, too!” He swept his arm around her waist and spun her into a dramatic dip.
 

Millie gasped, and her cheeks flushed. She gripped his shoulder while he held her suspended with her back arched over his arm. “Will!” She teetered unsteadily onto her heels, clung precariously to his shoulders for long seconds, and stumbled back.
 

Lance smiled and gently steadied her, his hands on her waist. “Careful there, Boss!”
 

“Well, that’s that . . . um . . . I’ll dash out now.” Millie looked around her in flustered confusion. “Music, lights . . . all done. I’ll be back at six this evening to do final touches and
shazam!
Magic hour.” Millie glanced at him again suspiciously, and took a few steps backward toward the door. She nodded sharply and scurried off.

Left in full command of the battle ground, Lance grinned. He glanced around one last time. He loved it. Every part of it appealed to the sensualist in him.
 

She appealed to him. He could still feel the tremulous warmth of her in his arms, her scent a mix of flowers and spices, and the slippery satin of her skin under his hands. He drew a deep breath to clear his mind and pushed through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

Serge was pouring the frothy yeast mixture into the silky-fine flour when Lance walked in. “Go clean up. It’s time you got your hands dirty.”

After watching Serge pound the dough into submission, Lance finally got his hand in. The dough was smooth and warm to the touch, with the yielding elasticity of skin. He found himself grinning. It reminded him of Millie’s skin.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Nothing like live dough. It’s like a lover’s flesh. Smells delicious.” Serge nodded at several large metal trays. “Butter those up and dust flour on them, then we can pop these babies in.”

Thoughtfully, Serge ran through the to-do list. “Okay . . . Quadruple Cheeseburger with Double-fried Chips, check. A Three-sauce Deep Dish Pizza with Hot Sausage, check. Fried Bacon, Banana and Peanut Butter Sandwiches, last minute item. Great Dane Hot Dogs with relish and mustard, last minute item—as are Chili dogs and Nachos with refried beans and melted cheese . . .”

Good God!
Lance shuddered.
What was this? A glutton’s suicide pact?
There are enough lethal combinations on this menu to kill a regiment.
He nearly gagged as Serge ticked off the rest of the menu.

“For desserts we have Sourdough Pancakes with Maple syrup and Blueberries, Black Forest Cherry Cake with liquid truffle sauce; Strawberry Cheesecake, and last but not least, Crème-Caramel Banana Split.” Serge relaxed. “It’s all organised. All that’s left is the last-minute cooking, and presentation work. We did good.” He broke open a still-warm roll and slathered it with butter.

Lance winced at the sight of pure unadulterated animal fat melting into the bread.

“Here, try this out. I’ll go get a jar of peach preserves and some chèvre.” Serge poured sparkling white wine into two wine glasses. “Cook’s privilege, my boy. These are the best meals you’ll ever have. Nothing tastes as good.”

Lance picked up the buttered roll gingerly and sniffed at it suspiciously.
 

Serge returned with a large jar and a chalky white cylinder of cheese. He cut generous slices of the cheese, and heaped glistening chunks of peach preserve on the roll.

Lance took a tiny bite of the bread. The sensuous sweetness of the peaches exploded on his palate. He groaned in pleasure. Following Serge’s example, he bit into a concentric slice of chèvre. The odd salty tang of the cheese somehow enhanced the sweetness. Lance found himself licking at the salty drops of melted butter coating his lips. “It’s good . . .” he mumbled through a huge mouthful.

When Millie arrived, they were sucking peach preserve off their fingers and sopping up the melted butter with the last crumbs from their rolls.

“Want not, waste not, I always say.” Serge grabbed the last slice of cheese from under Lance’s nose.

“Well, it’s nice to see you two having fun.” Millie smiled.

Lance jumped guiltily, fingers in his mouth, and then caught her mischievous grin.
 

“Save a lick for me.” She giggled as he chewed and hastily swallowed the generous mouthful.
Was there the slightest hint of flirtatiousness in her voice?
Lance thought there might be a subtle hint at seduction in the lifting of one shoulder and a shy half flush as she slid her gaze down to Serge.

She was wearing a long purple satin sheath that skimmed her curves and somehow made her seem taller. The deep colour whitened her skin and brought out red highlights in her hair. She had outlined her slanted eyes with kohl, and brushed a soft gloss onto her lips.

“Millie, you ravishing piece. You look good enough to eat!” Serge exclaimed.

She laughed. “Thank you! Coming from you, that
is
the ultimate compliment.” Millie turned, offering them a view of her generous bottom and a plunging backline exposing acres of perfect skin. “You don’t think it’s too much? It’s just that these girls will all be wearing
haute couture
 . . .”

“Not at all,” Lance said. “And I love the purple on you. By the way, I wanted to ask, what on earth is Caligula’s Genitalia?”

Serge howled and Millie giggled.

“Well, the Archaeological Society funded this dig in Merida, and they found this monumental statute of Caligula in the nude,” Millie said.
 

“Minus his family jewels.” Serge grinned.

“So five years later someone found this
huge
penis miles away.”

“And no one knew
who
it belonged to . . . until a student made the connection and brought the old cock home.”

“So the Archaeological Society wanted to celebrate that they’ve got the one
complete
Caligula statue . . . with lots of purple and laurel leaves,” Millie said.
 

“We called the event the Imperial Cock-up or Caligula’s Genitalia.” Serge finished with a malicious cackle. They clutched at each other, laughing, and Lance joined in.

“Ahem!” Hendricks cleared his throat. “Miss Deafly, I wanted to go over the serving order with you, and how you want the waitresses to line up, behave, etcetera. If you can spare me a few minutes . . .” He glared at Serge and Lance with blatant disapproval.

“Certainly, Hendricks. Get the waitresses together in the salon, and I’ll be there in a minute,” Millie replied.

As Hendricks and his staff trooped in and out of the kitchen, Lance caught the sounds of feminine voices, excited laughter and squeaks of delight.

Serge piled silver platters with monumental hamburgers, oozing alternating layers of rich meat, cheese, pâté, and grilled mushrooms, surrounded by crisply fried golden chips. They were quickly whisked away by Hendricks and his five waitresses in black Nehru minidresses and high heels.

“I thought the wait staff was male?” Lance asked.

“Usually, yes. The fashion victims don’t want men to see them pig out. Hendricks is the only exception . . . woe betide men should know they actually eat! So these are special hires,” Serge replied.

Huge rounds of glistening pizza with delectably variegated toppings, and brown rounds of smoked sausage quickly followed. Jug after jug of champagne sangria was emptied as quickly as Lance and Serge could fill it. The guests were getting boisterous. The hot dogs with their huge scarlet sausages and relish, enlivened by vivid zigzags of glossy mustard, were greeted by screams of lascivious delight.
 

According to Hendricks, everything was being eaten by hand, even the scalding-hot fried bacon and peanut butter sandwiches. Fingers were licked, nachos crunched with gusto, sauces dribbled onto signature dresses, chins smeared, and a good time was being had by all.

Serge prepared the dessert trolley, taking special care in the confection of the scrumptious-looking banana splits with crème-caramel, swirling the whipped cream up to incredible heights, dusting them with praline and chocolate sprinkles before popping the ruby cherries on top.
 

“There. Let’s start the clean-up, Will. I’ve got places to be, and these bitches will keep going for at least another three hours.” Serge blew around the kitchen in record time, working Lance mercilessly.
 

“There,” Lance said. “Done!”
 

Finally things were in a reasonable condition.
 

“You pop whatever comes out of the salon into the dishwasher and set the programme before you leave. You
do
know how to mix the sangria if you have to, right?” Serge asked.

“No problem, Mr. Moreno,” Lance replied. “Go in peace.”

“See you tomorrow morning, four sharp.” Serge tottered away, leaving Lance in sole command of the kitchen and with a precious opportunity of alone time with Millie.

Lance prepared several more jugs of champagne sangria for an increasingly harried-looking Hendricks. The waitresses brought in piles of very empty plates, but no glasses. The music went from smooth fifties sounds to frantic disco. Occasional screams of laughter seeped in through the doors. It sounded like a great party. Finally Hendricks and his wait staff crawled in and headed for the locker room.
 

The sounds faded to hiccups and sounds of good-byes.
 

Millie swayed through the door holding her strappy purple high heels in one hand and a full glass of sangria in the other. “It’s over. Thank God. I think I’ve had a teensy-weensy little bit too much to drink.” She glanced around. “Has Serge gone already? Poor Will . . . you did very well. Thank you.”

Lance smiled. “Thanks, Boss!”
 

She grasped at the counter edge and slid onto a stool. “You’d best get home. You’ll have to be up soon. I’ll lock up.”

“I think I’ll make you some coffee before I go, and maybe get you something to eat, too.”

“That would be lovely. I try not to eat when I’m working.” She took a slug of her sangria. “This last batch was dynamite; was that you?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Ah . . . Will Pecklise. A man of many talents . . . dancing, poetry, sangria . . .”

Lance stepped in and gently removed the glass from her fingers. “I think that’s quite enough now. I’ll get you an espresso.”