Guilty Pleasures (29 page)

“I’m not walking away from this, from you.”

Lance leaned over and gently gripped her round chin in his fingers. He slid his mouth over hers and pulled away. “We do this my way, Millie. I know your limits, trust me. Trust me to do right by you. I swear to you, Millie, I will never, ever hurt you.”

She sat very still, breathing shallowly. “Okay.”

Lance grinned. “Good. Let’s get to work, Miss Millie.”

They did the rounds in record time, accumulating oysters, ducklings with iridescent green feather necklaces and coal-black wings, delicately speckled blue partridge eggs, luscious wild berries carefully tucked into their cradles of tender green leaves, strange phallic mushrooms, a selection of exotic cheeses from the deli, and six dozen perfect red roses.

Lance drove down to the waterfront café. They settled into their chairs and he reached over and took her hand in his. Millie started and glanced around.

“What are you so worried about, Millie? That someone will see? Are you embarrassed by my touching you?”

She blushed. “No, of course not! It just feels strange . . .”

“Get used to it. I’m not stopping.” Lance turned her hand over, exposing the tender palm, and ran gentle fingers over her life line.
 

She shuddered and her colour deepened.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, it’s very . . . pleasant.”

“Good.” He brushed gently at the base of her thumb, and felt her jump.

“Now
this
is known as the Mount of Venus. Guess why?”

“I don’t know. Please, Will, stop!”

“If you
are
ashamed, don’t be, because it’s going to get a lot worse.”

“Will, I’m not ashamed of holding your hand, but I’m embarrassed to
feel
like this in public.”

“What are you feeling?”

Millie sat very still with her eyes wide and lips parted. “I can’t tell you!”

Lance grinned. “Oh, but you will . . . you
will
tell me everything, and I’ll tell
you
. Millie, I’m going to give myself to you, and I’ll be taking everything you’ve got and then some. I’m going to become your lover, and when I am, you won’t have space inside you to remember anything or anyone else.”
 

After the shopping, Lance got home and wrote a letter to Millie’s mother, and he also wrote out a cheque. It was for almost half the amount he’d gotten for the advance on his book, plus what she’d given him, but it was infinitely worth it.

Dear Mrs. Deafly,

I regret to inform you that I find myself unable to proceed with the task you proposed. Please find attached a cheque in the amount for the original advance you provided, and the additional sum is my way of apology for not keeping our agreement.

Best Regards,

L.W. Packhard

There.
Lance was clear; cleansed of the Devil’s Deal he’d agreed to with Millie’s mother. His car and his art were placed with dealers, he’d put the apartment on the market. Whatever he earned from the sales would go into a fund for Gran’s care. Lance was dead, gone. Now he would become Will, a free man owning nothing, but beholden to no one. He would start his new life fresh and clean. Now he could give and accept from her all the love and tenderness he’d been longing for his whole life.
 

Millie stopped by her diary before going to bed for her afternoon nap. As she held the pen in her hand, she turned up her palm and traced her long life line with one short well-shaped nail.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

I have been touched. I have hands.

Chapter 21

Most of my clients are intensely cerebral women, and are bright, articulate overachievers. Intellectually agile, they are unused to any kind of failure, and are therefore incapable of dealing with their irrational side: their emotional, sexual selves.

They are used to overcoming every challenge except acknowledging their own sensuality, allowing themselves to be vulnerable, maybe even losing control . . .

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

At three in the afternoon, after a brief detour to the post office, Lance marched determinedly into the kitchen. “Hey there, Serge. Have a nice morning?”

“Not too bad . . . you?”

“Okay, it
is
Saturday . . .”

“At least you seem to be in a better mood than yesterday,” Serge said. “You looked like death warmed over.”

“That’s over, for now. So what’s the menu?” Lance asked.

“Bloody showbiz types. There’s
Oysters au natural, Camembert en Croûte with Wild Berries, Roast Duckling with Honey and Ginger Glaze on a bed of Wild Rice, Mushrooms Diabolique, and—of course—Black Chocolate Truffles with Jalapeño Chilies.
All the usual shit they reckon is an aphrodisiac.”

“You don’t agree?”

“Hell, no.” Serge snorted derisively. “Only thing makes you wanna screw is seeing someone you wanna screw.”

“That’s . . . actually, that makes sense.”

“For us, yeah. Women, now . . . I have a lot of women friends, and for them, the smell makes a difference. Best looking guy in the world won’t get in if he doesn’t
smell
right.”

“In that case, we should be cooking different things for the women.”

“Nah . . . it’s all in their brain. They come in with someone they already have the hots for, eat oyster snot, chew some mushrooms, drink some wine, go home and jump each other’s bones . . . happy as pigs in shit.”

“Mood is also important, of course, the ambiance is a prelude to the seduction.”

“You have some vocab for a cook’s monkey. Still don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, Serge, sorry.”

“Well, how about Millie? She still giving you the runaround?”

Lance fell silent.
 

Serge nodded to himself. “Thought so. She’s skittish as a scalded cat.” He smiled. “Well, let’s see who wins, the cat or the mouse.”

“What do you need from me, Serge?”

“My boy, you haven’t lived till you’ve plucked a duck.” Serge briefly plunged them into boiling water, then carefully removed each and every last feather and piece of fluff.
 

“Shit, Serge! This isn’t easy!”

“I tell you, Willie, this reminds me . . . once we had this client. You know how those Oriental girls are, plucked clean as a whistle? Well, he took himself a fancy to get all silky smooth and slick, and we had this Palestinian girl, a sly little minx, who told him she did it with sugar, made it sound
sweet
 . . . and hot.”

Lance chuckled and pulled out another handful of glossy feathers.

“Now, Willie, plucking with caramel’s a delicate business. It’s all in the timing, you see. Anyway, by accident or intent, she let it cool a little too long . . . I never heard a man scream like that. Near took the skin off his balls. Swelled up something awful. He had to go home in a skirt. He couldn’t stand no pants on him.” Serge giggled. “Bowlegged for a month, he was. Served him right, stupid prick.”

Lance laughed. Picking fluff from his hair, eyes, and lips, he swore that
next
time he would pluck the bloody things with hot wax.

Serge drew and trussed the ducklings, filling the cavities with dried apples, spring onions, fresh herbs and garlic, and coated them in the thick marinade, setting them aside to rest. He sliced and sautéed the mushrooms in his special calvados and rose-pepper sauce, coated the Camembert in egg and breadcrumbs, then lovingly made the chili-truffle mix and shaped them into tiny hearts.

Lance watched, fascinated, by the deft grace of his small, nimble hands.

“Yum.” Serge popped one of the truffles into his mouth and sighed. “Shit, I’m good. Here, Willie, give this a try.”

Lance hesitantly picked a truffle. It was delicious, melting in his mouth in a complex mix of cinnamon, ginger and the bite of chilies.

“Ahh . . . it tastes like love. As long as we have chocolate, there is hope!” Serge cried in ecstasy. He brought over a plate of something smothered in a golden sauce, a chilled bottle of dry white wine, glasses and two forks.

Lance sat down and sniffed at the enticing aroma rising from the offering.
 

“This is an experiment. I don’t know how successful it will be. You are my new Willie-Pig.”

Lance picked up a fork and speared a piece of what looked like fowl in some kind of dense, aromatic sauce. He placed it on his tongue. “Mmm. Nice . . . coconut milk and something sharp, ginger maybe . . . shallots . . . definitely peanuts. And green peppers?”

“Very good, Willie. I’m impressed! You missed the coriander leaves, the green chilies, and the Tabasco. Otherwise, spot on.”

“It’s very good. What is it?”

“Chicken.”

Millie arrived a few hours later looking pretty, but distracted, carrying several letters and box files.

“Hello, boys, everything under control?”

“Mills baby, you know it. Want some peanut butter chicken?”

“Hello, Millie!” Lance said and was rewarded with a distracted smile.

“Sounds yummy. I’ll pass. The accountant’s coming by for the invoice files, and I have to finish decorating the small salon for Jane and Jake. Serge,” she said, handing him a small red box. “Jake wants us to plant some real pearls in the oysters, randomly, okay?”