Guilty Pleasures (14 page)

“More like pretty status-conscious,” she said. “They thought the idea of their daughter being a cook was beneath them. In some ways, I think Derek did, too. He always introduced me as ‘the only child of the Worthingtons' and
then
as the chef of his restau
rant. Like it was my family connection that was much more important.” She looked at him. “You weren't like that. You really listened to me…even when I was coming up with really weird ideas.”

He closed his eyes and smiled. “Like the circus menu.”

“God, yeah. That was a bad idea,” she agreed. “But you always listened. And you gave me chocolate instead of roses. And even though you thought we'd tank at Internationale, you still took it seriously. You never lied to me or put me down. You can even read my writing,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think you know me better after four months than most people have after years. And I feel like I know you.”

He nodded, pressing a tiny kiss against her shoulder. She was right. She seemed to be able to
read
him…the way he got angry, and she soothed him. The way she could coax him out of a creative block. The way she could turn him on with a smile and make him worry with a frown. The way she knew when he was hungry or when he needed something in the kitchen or just needed her to press her head against his chest or kiss him.

“What's the first food you can remember loving?” he asked, against the choking of emotion in his throat.

“Ooh. A tough one,” she said, with a smile. “Hmm. I'd have to say chocolate chip cookies.” She shrugged when he laughed. “Hey, nobody's got a discerning palate at five.”

“No, no complaints. Like I said before, nothing's better than chocolate,” he said, smiling. “My mom
was an incredible cook. She worked really hard in a kitchen all day, so you'd think she'd hate cooking, but she still did. When I'd come home from a really crappy day at school, she'd make me…” He stopped. “Never mind. You'll laugh.”

“No, really. I want to know.” Mari nudged him, her eyes encouraging. “What'd she make?”

“
Flan.
You know, custard. If I was really feeling lousy, she'd mix the eggs and the milk and then make the caramel, and pop it in a pan of water in the oven. I swear, I could eat an entire batch of it myself.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, I did.”

“That sounds nice.” Mari sighed. “For me—when I felt lousy, it was mashed potatoes. Or bread pudding.”

“If I aced a test—steak.” His mouth watered just thinking of it. “Or hand-rolled, deep-fried pork
flautas,
with the tortillas all crispy, and fresh guacamole…”

“Not for me,” she replied with a smile. “Celebrations were made for sushi.”

He laughed. “Sort of made the jump from chocolate-chip cookies, huh?”

“It's funny,” she mused. “I think some of my best memories involve food.”

“Me, too.”

She sat up bolt upright in the bed. “Wait a minute. That could be it.”

He stared at her. “Huh?”

“Emotions and food.
That's
what'll give us an edge at the competition. Not a sensual feast,” she said,
leaning down and grabbing for a pad of paper at the edge of the bed. “An
emotional
feast.”

“Mari, food is totally subjective,” Nick said, still intrigued by the idea, but playing devil's advocate. “There's no way we can play on the heartstrings of complete strangers. It's not like we'll know their childhoods. They're all going to be different people. What's an experience they're all going to relate to?”

She frowned, still processing it. Then she smiled.

“Love,” she said, and her eyes lit up. “They'll all have fallen in love, Nick.”

He smiled. “So. You want to make a menu that's like falling in love?”

She nodded.

“Wow.” He whistled. “You don't do anything half-measure, huh?”

“Think about it. Something exciting and dazzling to start…” She started doodling on the paper. “Something new and different and fun. Then something more mysterious and complicated, something more involving. Then move on to something warm and comforting and…” She gestured with the pen in her hand.

“Addicting?” Nick supplied, still staring at her.

“That's it. Something really compelling.” She smiled. “Then the dessert would be something delicious, and still comforting and solid.”

“Falling in love,” Nick mused. Then he looked at Mari.

Her eyes were ablaze with creative energy, and there was a little half smile flirting with the corners
of her mouth. She was focused on the paper, making her notations, brainstorming.

He kissed her, taking her attention away from her work for a second.

“What was that for?” she asked, and he was satisfied to see her focus blurring a little.

“For loving food,” he said with a grin, then his tone grew more serious. “For loving
me,
Mari.”

She dropped the paper and pen off the side of the bed, and reached for him.

“Maybe I'm not so tired after all,” she whispered against his lips, and pulled him into her. “We can brainstorm a little bit later.”

 

T
HEY WERE ONLY
five minutes late to meet Leon at a little bistro he knew of, over in North Beach. The place was authentic Italian, not just the overhyped Italian designed to attract tourists. The three of them crammed into a little booth in the corner.

“I know the owner,” Leon said, after being hugged by a huge man with a thick black beard.

“We gathered,” Mari said, squeezing Nick's hand under the table.

“So. Do you have something to show me?”

Mari felt a little flutter of apprehension, until Nick stroked the nape of her neck and then draped his arm around her shoulders. She nodded and pulled out the sketches and descriptions from her purse, handing them over the table.

“I think you'll find it….” Mari took a deep breath. “Well, it'll be
different,
at any rate.”

“Ringing endorsement,” Leon said, but he smiled kindly anyway. “Let's see, then.” He put a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on, picking up the paper.

“Relax,” Nick whispered into her ear. “It'll be fine.”

She leaned against him, reveling in his warmth, and she let some of the tension seep out of her. Still, she squirmed slightly, waiting for Leon's response.

He frowned, reading over everything carefully, going back to things. Nick squeezed her shoulders, and when she started tapping her foot against the metal leg of the table, Nick put his hand on her knee until she realized what she was doing and stopped.

“This,” Leon said finally, “is unusual. Inspired. In short: it's pretty damned good.”

Mari let out a breath and felt her spine slump. “Thank you,” she said, then straightened, bracing herself for another onslaught. “But do you think it can
win?
”

Leon didn't say anything at first. Then, slowly, he smiled.

“Yes. If you can iron out the details, I think that it will be the freshest thing those tired old judges at Internationale have seen in years. I think you'll knock their proverbial socks off.”

Mari leaned against Nick, and smiled when he brushed a kiss against her temple.

“But it's going to take a lot of work,” Leon added. “I can work with your crew, but these appetizers are going to be time-consuming, and the main courses…”

“I'll worry about the main courses,” Nick said.
“Of course, if you decide to throw any suggestions my way, I'm definitely open to them.”

Leon nodded. Their waiter arrived, and they put in their orders. When he left, Nick looked at Mari.

“I'm going to wash my hands. Be right back.”

She winked at him, watching him as he weaved his way between the tables.

“So.” Leon sighed. “You're involved with Nick, then.”

Mari looked at Leon. “Yes.” She paused, feeling the weight of his stare. “You disapprove?”

“Well, moving past the idea of getting involved with someone you work with…” he said, and shook his head. “I care about Nick. I care about both of you. You were without a doubt two of my brightest students.”

Mari warmed, smiling. “Thank you, Leon.”

“But you were very different,” he said, folding his hands together. “He's different, Mari.”

“How do you mean?”

“He wants to be a success. More than he's wanted almost anything.”

She tapped her fork against the table impatiently. “I don't mean to offend you, Leon, but I've heard this warning. From Lindsay…hell, from Nick himself. He's almost obsessively driven. But he
cares
about me.”

“Yes, I know,” Leon said. “That's what I'm worried about.”

Mari blinked. “Pardon?”

“He obviously cares about you. Enough to drive
under his desire to have his own restaurant, and help you out. It may not be enough for him—but he's fighting it, to stay with you.”

She smiled. “And that's wrong?”

“It will be if he learns to resent you for it.”

Mari took a sip of her water, thinking over his words.

Leon took a look at the bathroom, where Nick was emerging from the door. “Mari, Nick is very intense. I know that he'll do anything to get what he wants. Including give up his dreams if he has to. But I'm afraid that a choice of that magnitude would tear him apart. Do you understand that?”

Mari nodded slowly.

“Just consider what might happen.”

“Back again,” Nick said, sitting down next to Mari. His eyes glowed golden as he surveyed her. “Well, you two are awfully serious. What've you been talking about while I was gone?”

Mari looked at Leon, whose face had gone back to a placid mask. “Just the competition,” Leon said easily. “This isn't going to be an easy victory by any stretch. Are you sure you're dedicated enough to pull this off?”

Nick didn't stop looking at Mari. “Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “I'm sure.”

Mari smiled back at him, but in the back of her mind, she felt a little twinge of doubt.

I'm afraid that a choice of that magnitude would tear him apart.

They had a chance at winning. Wouldn't Nick
want
to stay at a top-ranked restaurant? With a new cash flow and a new building owner, the restaurant could be improved as the neighborhood was revitalized. She'd make sure that Nick got some publicity, he would have more than earned it. Would he really need his name over the door to be happy?

Would you be satisfied giving up
your
restaurant to be with him?

She frowned unhappily.

Nick kissed her. “Relax,” he said smoothly. “It'll be all right.”

She smiled back at him.
God, I hope so.

I
T WAS ONE WEEK TO
Internationale. The crew had been working like fiends for the past few weeks, and the excitement and consequent tension was driving them all a little crazy. Leon had suggested that they all take a step away from the work, get some perspective…and some relaxation. Tiny and Paulo were playing basketball to work off the nerves. Zooey was apparently going to some kind of Tai Chi lesson “to try to get the Zen of pastries,” she'd claimed. Nick was out… He'd said at the movies, but she doubted he'd sit still that long.

Mari sat at a broad cherry conference room table in a posh office in downtown San Francisco. Lindsay looked cool as a cucumber in her pale green suit, her blonde hair swept up in a French twist that made her look like something out of a forties movie. Mari was glad she looked so collected. She, herself, was wearing a pinstripe suit that she hated, in air that felt sterile and sluggish, waiting for the new owner from this “conglomerate” to get in here.

Everybody else got to relax,
Mari thought grumpily.
Why do I have to get stuck with this crap? Why can't I go play, too?

She sighed, answering her own question. Because she was the owner. That brought responsibility. That changed the rules. Besides, winning Internationale wouldn't change anything if she got evicted the next day.

The door opened, and a tall, tanned man with pale blond hair stepped in. “Ladies. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Lindsay said, standing and holding out her hand. “I'm Lindsay Everett, and this is the restaurant's owner, Mari Salazar.”

“Ms. Salazar,” he said smoothly, shaking her hand. “A pleasure, no pun intended. I've read a lot about you and your restaurant.”

“Thanks.” Mari smiled. “I'm sorry, your name is…?”

“Of course. Thoughtless of me.” He sat down opposite them. “My name is Phillip Marceau.”

Lindsay's eyes widened. Mari got to her feet.

“Come on, Lindsay,” she said, her voice tight. “We're leaving.”

“That's a trifle rude, don't you think?” Phillip's voice was cultured and mocking. “After all, I
do
own your building now.”

Mari spun. “And now I see why. What is your
problem?
Nick didn't do anything to you.”

“I suppose you'd think that. And I suppose you'd believe it.” He didn't look so smooth now. There was a definite ferocity in his eyes. “I thought he was my friend. I thought he cared about me. But…well, all's fair in friendship and business, I suppose.”

“Which is why you framed him for theft and embezzlement and then fired him,” Mari snapped.

Lindsay stood at this, walking to stand next to Mari. “I don't think we should say anything else,” she said, her voice low and quick. “Come on.”

“I don't think you should leave just yet, Mari,” Phillip interrupted.

“What the hell could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I have a deal for you.” He pointed at Lindsay. “Just between you and me.”

“We're leaving,” Lindsay said, but Mari shook her head.

“Lin, wait for me outside, please?” She glared at Phillip. “I want to hear what Mr. Marceau thinks he can offer me.”

“Isn't it obvious?” Lindsay whispered back. “He's going to threaten the restaurant because he's the new owner unless you pull out of the competition. Let's get out of here. I know a lawyer….”

“Oh, I don't think you've got the time or the money to go up against the Marceau family lawyers, dear Ms. Everett,” Phillip said, his voice amused. “Fine. Mari, your friend has the gist of it, anyway.”

“That's it?” Mari laughed. “That's so…
stereo typical.
”

He shrugged, his hands spread. “As Nick has often said, creativity is not my strong suit.”

“But Nick is creative. Really creative.” Mari shook her head. “You are pathetic, you know that? You're
willing to screw up his career, just because you're jealous that he's talented and you're not?”

“It's not that simple,” Phillip said, cultured tones slipping into a half-growl. “But I don't need to explain it to you. The bottom line is, I don't want him to be a success. And you can help me…or you can lose your restaurant. It's that simple.”

“Or we can win,” Mari replied, “and then I won't
need
your building.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, with a snicker. “One hundred and fifty grand in San Francisco? That won't get you a parking lot, and we both know it.”

“There are investors…”

“That I can guarantee won't touch you if I tell them not to,” Phillip said evenly.

Mari glanced at Lindsay, who was staring at Phillip in horror.

“You're a real bastard, aren't you?” Mari murmured.

“As you like.”

“I don't like. One bit.” Mari turned to Lindsay. “Come on. You're right…we should've just left.”

“It's just a competition,” Phillip said. “You skip this, I'll make sure that your rent stays the same for the next three years. Keep Nick buried in the Mission District, if you like. Keep on making raunchy entrees and pornographic desserts. But
keep him out of Internationale.
”

Before Mari could respond, Lindsay's eyes narrowed. “And you'd put that in writing?”

Mari gaped.

Phillip grinned. “Hmm. Perhaps I should've dealt directly with you.”

“It's not her decision to make,” Mari bit out, and Lindsay looked surprised. “We're leaving.
Now.
”

Lindsay followed Mari into the elevator. After the doors closed, Mari didn't trust herself to speak, until Lindsay finally broke the silence.

“It's just one competition, Mari. One we've only got a long shot at winning, anyway.”

“I can't believe you.” Mari didn't even look at her. “I can't believe you'd even
think
of stooping to that.”

“Mari, I love you. You know that,” Lindsay said. “But the important part has always been
saving your restaurant.
This will ensure that, especially if we can get it in writing. Why risk a long shot that will only get you evicted and threaten any chance you have at an investor, when you can save the restaurant right here, right now?”

“Because I'm not giving in to that bastard,” Mari said. “I'm not going to quit just because he feels…”

“You're not going to quit because it would hurt Nick.”
Lindsay's face was a mask of sadness. “Mari, you're so in love, it's making you blind. Ask him. See what choice he'd make. If he really wants to help your restaurant, then he'll back down. If he
doesn't
want to help, then he'll choose the competition.”

“He'd never let Phillip do this to me.”

“Like you said in the conference room,” Lindsay said softly. “Honey, it's
your
decision to make.”

Mari shook her head.

“I'm sorry,” Lindsay said. “I know it seems
bitchy. But you're thinking with your heart, and it could cost you your restaurant. I'm not trying to hurt you. I know I'm not creative or free-spirited like you are, but I know my job. And that's watching your back.”

“I know,” Mari said, her voice cracking. “I know.”

They rode the elevator down to the lobby, and Mari took a deep breath when they finally made it out to the street.

“So. What are you going to do?” Lindsay said nervously.

“I'm going to think.” Mari sighed. “And I'm going to talk to Nick.”

 

N
ICK WANDERED THROUGH
the aisles of Whole Foods Market, breathing in the scents of aged cheese, fresh produce, bakery-warm breads and baguettes. Here he was, supposed to be relaxing…and back in his interminable search for food to experiment with.

He grinned. He'd told Mari he was going to see a movie. He could tell from the smirk she gave him before she left that she knew better.

What really got me was the food…the way you love food.

He smiled to himself, tasting a sample of goat cheese on papery-dry wheat crackers. He'd dated other chefs before, but he'd never met one that matched his desires, and understood him, as well as Mari did.

“Nick? Hello. Earth to Nick.”

He turned. “Hmm?”

It was Bob Blackstone, grinning with that slight nervous edge that he always seemed to have. “I've been trying to say hello to you for the past five minutes,” he said with a low laugh. “Thought you were dogging me.”

“Sorry.” Nick shrugged. “I just have a lot on my mind lately. So, how are…”

“I'll bet,” Bob said with feeling. “What with Internationale and all.”

“You know that we're competing, too, huh?” Nick shook his head. “What, are we at the top of the list or something?”

“Come on, Nick.” Now Bob's eyes were shrewd. Funny, that Nick hadn't noticed that before, back when he'd worked for him, so long ago. “I couldn't believe it when I saw your restaurant in the
Chronicle,
then in
S. F. Food & Wine…
I have to say, I didn't think anybody could pull that stunt off.” He shook his head, laughing a little stronger now. Sales-friendly laughter, Nick thought, not joining in. “I should have known that you could, Nick. Damn! And now you're going to be in Internationale with that bunch!”

“That ‘bunch' is a great crew,” Nick said, clamping down on the sudden burst of temper that flashed through him. “They've worked really hard.”

Bob obviously knew that he'd mis-stepped, and backtracked. “Well, you could whip any team into shape, Nick.”

Nick's eyes narrowed. “What do you want, Bob?”

Bob looked offended for a moment, then his posture deflated. “Blackstone's isn't doing as well as it was.
What restaurant is in this economy, huh?” He sighed. “Only the top places with the showiest chefs seem to make it anymore. Like you've got to have a show on the Food Network to make any kind of money.” His voice was rich with contempt.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Nick said, and he meant it. “You've been insane about this industry since I met you, Nick,” Bob said, his voice a little lower now. “You could make something out of nothing. I decided to let you make your chops with Four Seasons, then, when you were ready, I thought I'd bring you on. But Marceau beat me to it. Who can go up against those guys?”

“You could have hired me four months ago,” Nick pointed out. “Without competition, as I recall.”

Bob looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Well, that was different.”

Nick shrugged. “Whatever eases your conscience, I suppose.”

He turned to leave, but Bob stepped in front of him. “Hear me out,” he said. “Yeah, well, I probably should have trusted you, but…well, you
know
why.” His voice was urgent, just this side of frantic. “Now, you're starting to get your rep back…small press, yeah, but still
press,
all for a little bupkis restaurant in the middle of a war zone. You win Internationale, and you'll be able to write your own ticket.”

Nick looked at him, bewildered, when suddenly it struck him.

He thinks we'll win.

“I want Blackstone's to be that ticket,” Bob said. “You win Internationale, and I'll make sure not only is your name on the menu, but you'll get the biggest press push you've ever seen. Hell.
I'll
get you on the Food Network. How does that sound?”

“How about changing the name to…I don't know. ‘Nick's' or something?”

Bob goggled.

Nick laughed. “Sorry, Bob. I'm not interested. I want to build something of my own. And I don't need your help or your gracious offer…but thanks anyway.”

He walked away with Bob still goggling.

Nick walked out to his car, mulling it over.

You win Internationale, and you'll be able to write your own ticket.

He hadn't thought about it that way. Internationale was a way of trying to help Mari…help the restaurant, the crew, make it. He hadn't thought they had a snowball's chance in hell in winning at first, then he'd grown cautiously optimistic, but obviously there was buzz. Bob knew it. If Bob knew it, then other people were talking about it.

We might win.

All Nick had wanted was to build his reputation back, and get a restaurant of his own. Then he'd gone to work for Guilty Pleasures, gotten involved with Mari Salazar, and his whole world had turned upside. Now, he wasn't sure what he wanted…or if he could have everything he wanted.

We might win.

But what would he be winning? And, if he wrote his own ticket…what might he be losing?

He needed to think this through. Talk this out.

Instinctively, the only person he wanted to talk to about this was Mari…and she was the very cause of the conflict in the first place. If he hadn't met her…if he hadn't fallen in love with her…

He almost slammed on the brakes.

Of course you're in love with her, idiot.

He knew he cared about her. It wasn't until now, when he had the chance of getting out of Guilty Pleasures and back on track, that he realized how much. He wasn't going to keep climbing up the ladder toward a dream that might or might not happen and hurt her along the way.

I love her.

He drove toward her house. He would wait for her to get back from her meeting.

Then he'd tell her what he felt sure she already knew.