Guilty Pleasures (3 page)

Suddenly, he wanted to take more than the job.

He let out a low, quavering breath, and put out his hand. “I'll take it.”

She turned, her smile megawatt-bright and beautiful. She took his hand.

He lingered over the handshake, enjoying the warmth of her palm.

She finally tugged away. “We're open Tuesday through Sunday,” she said. Was she breathless, or did he just imagine it? “Lunch and dinner only. I'm there by nine, I usually work both shifts. When do you want to start?”

“As soon as possible,” he said.
Right now, for instance.

“All right. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. I'll be there at nine.”

She took a deep breath “One last thing. “You'll be my sous-chef, and I'll rely on you as my second-in-command. But it's still my kitchen, and my restaurant. My call. Clear?”

“As crystal,” he murmured.

“Oh. One last thing.”

He quirked an eyebrow, then his eyes widened as she took a step closer to him, leaning up to whisper in his ear. Her proximity, and the floral yet spicy scent of her, caught him off guard. The front of her thighs brushed against his, causing a jolt to course through his system. Suddenly his heart was pounding, making it difficult for him to stand.

“I'm trusting you because Leon does,” she whispered, the soft brush of her breath against his skin making him want to hold her to him. “But this restaurant is my life. You do
anything
to jeopardize my restaurant, and what happened to you at Le Chapeau
Noir is going to seem like a walk in the park. Don't think I'm kidding. You got it?”

He looked down into her eyes…deep violet, intense as flame.

“Some day you'll learn to trust me on your own,” he replied softly, then did what he'd wanted to do since he'd walked into her restaurant…he leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers, savoring the petal-softness of her full mouth.

She let out a low sound, something like a moan.

This was a bad idea, he thought…until she pressed forward, matching her mouth to his own.

The kiss was slow, rich as chocolate, hot as fire. They didn't hold each other, didn't grasp at each other…simply brushed mouth against mouth in a slow, exotic play of tastes and textures.

When she pulled away, it was a shock to his system, and he reeled to get balance back.

“I may trust you someday,” she said, taking a step back. He noticed she was trembling slightly. “But today's not that day, Nick. I'll see you in the morning. Now, I've got to get back to my restaurant.”

I
T WAS EIGHT-THIRTY
in the morning on Sunday, and Mari was at work extra early. Not that there was extra preparation that needed to be done—Sundays were notoriously slow, and she could get inventory and her orders for the week done in the course of regular business. But she hadn't slept well, and she'd been restless. Now, she was working on developing a new menu, trying to think of a new theme. Trying to get rid of some excess energy by focusing on her beloved restaurant.

Why did you let him kiss you?

She closed her eyes, putting down the pear that she'd been about to slice. That was the reason she was restless—why she hadn't been able to sleep. Yes, he was gorgeous. Yes, he was sexy. She'd known gorgeous and sexy men before—she'd even worked with one or two.

She'd never kissed one within hours of meeting him. And certainly not after she'd
hired
him.

She rubbed her eyes with her hands. Apparently, she hadn't been thinking at all. She'd been trying to intimidate him, she supposed…at least, that was her
excuse for getting that close to him. Then he'd kissed her. Worse, she'd
kissed him back.

Her lips tingled just at the memory of it. And a kiss had never had
that
effect on her before.

She shook herself mentally. In striking her bargain with him, she'd bought herself time—she could have him for base pay for three months. If the restaurant turned around and made a profit, she could offer him more. If it didn't, then a raise wouldn't matter…none of them would have a job. She had to focus all of her energy on ensuring that situation didn't happen.

The last thing she needed was to get sidetracked by her bizarre physical attraction to the very sexy Nick Avery.

“Hi there.”

She looked up.
Speak of the devil.

Nick stood in the open back doorway. His clothing emulated the rest of the crew's normal attire: long-sleeved T-shirt, a pair of black, loose-fitting slacks, comfortable shoes. The only difference was his shirt didn't sport one of the humorous slogans her crew normally wore.

Well, that and the fact that the muscles of his chest and shoulders seemed to pull the fabric taut, in a very enticing way. His light brown hair was still damp from a shower.

Nick in the shower…

“You're early,” she said, displeased with the unruliness of her thoughts. “Shift doesn't start till nine.”

He shrugged. “Thought I'd come in early, get any
paperwork you might have out of the way. And maybe you could give me the layout of the kitchen.”

“You worked here last night. It's a small kitchen.” She didn't mean to sound curt, but after tossing and turning all night with restless thoughts about him, the kitchen was
definitely
too small to be alone with him. “I'll go get your paperwork.”

To her dismay, he followed her into the miniscule back room. He seemed to take up all the remaining space between them. She was having trouble breathing, it seemed. She opened a desk drawer, pulling out the paperwork Lindsay had meticulously filed. “Just fill it out and leave it here,” she said, hating the breathless quality of her voice. “Lindsay will take care of it when she comes in tomorrow. She's the only one who works on Mondays. Says it's quieter.”

Now I'm babbling.
She forced herself to shut up, and headed for the door.

He was in her way. “I wanted to apologize.”

She stared at him. He looked sincere. “I assume you mean for last night?”

“Yes.” His voice was like warm fingers, caressing her skin. “I shouldn't have initiated that…well, you know.”

“Forget it,” she said. “I already have.”

His eyebrow quirked up in an aristocratic arch. He didn't believe her. Why should he? She was lying right down to her toes.

“Happen often?” he asked with deceptive casualness.

She bristled slightly at that. “No. In fact…” She
bit her tongue. She didn't need to admit how long it had been since she'd had the time to get physical with a man. “I just think it'll be easier for both of us if we just put the whole incident out of our minds. Okay?”

He nodded, stepping to one side. She walked out into the kitchen, which felt degrees cooler than the back room, where Nick seemed to generate his own heat. Too quickly, he was out in the kitchen, again. Her body knew it even before she saw him walk towards her.

He glanced down at the hasty, impromptu sketches and nearly illegible scrawls on her notepad. “New recipes?” he asked.

She felt her guard snap into place, and shrugged. “Just kicking around a few new ideas,” she said. “I'm thinking of changing the menu. We need a new theme.”

He frowned. “What exactly would you call the theme now?”

She was irritated at his question—and since irritation was better than arousal in this particular instance, she latched onto the emotion and held tight. “I didn't want to create another bourgeois restaurant, with a bunch of pretentious-sounding items and weird flavors just for the sake of being creative,” she said, more vehemently than perhaps she'd intended. But it was a familiar rant. “I wanted to create foods that people liked, but couldn't get on the menu at any of the other trendy restaurants. That's how we came up with the name—Guilty Pleasures.” She smiled now, remembering the debate that had taken place between herself,
Lindsay and Mo when they'd chosen the name. “It's a place where you go to get what you crave, but which isn't necessarily en vogue.”

He stared at her. “Feel pretty passionately about that, huh?”

She felt a little blush start up, and laughed at herself. “Sorry. You hit a hot button. But everybody who works here knows my stance on this.”

“So that's why you cook what you do…pan-fried chicken with sweet Meyer lemonade, mashed Yukon Gold potatoes with gravy, ice cream sundaes.” His voice was contemplative. “Favorites, but nothing really trend-setting.”

She glared at him for that one, and now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. “That wasn't an insult,” he said quickly. “That was just an observation.”

“At any rate, I'm going to be working on it,” she said, ignoring the sting that his “observation” wrought. “It should be an easy day—we close early, at nine. We don't get a lot of business on Sundays.”

She got the feeling he realized they didn't get a whole lot of business on the other days, either. “I could help with the menu,” he suggested. “I developed several at Le Chapeau Noir, after all.”

She picked up her notepad. “Thanks, but I think I can manage.”

“Sometimes it helps to have someone to brainstorm with,” he said, his tone mild. “That's all I'm saying.”

Maybe she was being unreasonable, but she knew men like Nick—ambitious, go-getters. Especially thwarted ones. If she gave the man an inch, he'd take
her whole kitchen. Her whole
restaurant.
At least, that's what he'd act like.

“I'll manage,” she reiterated. “But thanks for offering.”

She tried to start sketching again, but she couldn't with him staring at her…and she could feel his gaze like a touch. “What?” She finally asked, turning to look at him.

His arms were crossed, making his pectoral muscles flex a bit. “Is it just me you have a problem with, or do you not accept help from anyone?”

She put down the notebook with a slap. “For your first day on the job, don't you think it's unwise to start off by pushing my buttons?”

“I don't mean to,” he said, his eyes lazy and low-lidded. “But you hired me to help your restaurant…and now you're turning my help away. I was just wondering if this was another trust issue, or if you're like this with everyone.”

She started to let out a sharp retort, bit back on it. Then she let out a low, impatient breath. It really wasn't his fault. Well, the fact that she was on edge was definitely his doing, granted…but this was a little different. “I had a bit of a bad experience, a while back,” she said slowly. A brief memory of Le Pome flashed across her mind. “Let's just say it was like menu by committee. And in trying to please everyone, I betrayed myself. So from here on out, I create the menus here.”

He nodded, and from the look on his face, it seemed like he really understood. She felt the tension between
her shoulders relax a little bit. “Nothing personal,” she said, finally.

“Gotcha.” He glanced again at the top sketch, and tapped it. “Poached pear in spiced honey sauce, huh?”

She had to stop herself from gaping at him. “You can read that?”

He nodded, not looking at her. “Have you considered going with more Moroccan flavors, rather than just cinnamon and nutmeg?”

Before she could stop him, he picked up a pencil and started drawing what he had in mind, listing off various ingredients: cardamon, cloves, and paprika. “It'll be a little spicy for a dessert,” he mused. “Maybe something cool…and creamy, to counterbalance? I'm thinking maybe whipped cream with a hint of sherry, or possibly a cool sorbet. What do you think?”

She looked over his sketch, imagining what he had in mind. “That's not bad,” she said, glancing up at him, and then caught her breath at the sexy, confident grin on his face.

“I'm not bad either,” he said in a low voice. “Why don't you give me a try?”

Her heart started pounding in her chest. Suddenly, she wanted very badly to give him a try.

“Let me cook for you,” he said. “You seem very fond of trial runs. Let me see if I can impress you enough to help out.”

She blinked. Of course he wasn't offering anything
else. So why was her body reacting with such disappointment?

She heard the bustling of the crew coming in…the morning shift was here. She took one last peek at the sketch.

“Okay,” she said grudgingly. After all, she was going to be creating a whole new menu. Maybe she was being unreasonable. At the very least, she could let him think he was getting a fair trial, before telling him that, as always, she'd be coming up with the menu on her own.

“Great.” He leaned toward her, and she hoped nobody had come into the kitchen yet. “How does tonight sound?”

Her mouth went dry. “Tonight? For what?”

“I'll cook for you.”

That shouldn't have sounded sexy, but from his mouth, it sounded downright sinful.

“Just give me a chance. You'll be hungry, so I'll whip up something for dinner for you.”

“All right,” she said, slowly. “But it'll have to be quick…I'm going to have a night crew doing a thorough cleaning of the kitchen.”

“Why don't I cook it at your place, then?” Although his voice sounded reasonable, the heat coming from his eyes was intense. “Just cook,” he assured her. “And then we won't be…rushed.”

She took a deep breath. The crew would be in any second.

“All right,” she heard herself say. “After work tonight. Although after a twelve-hour shift, I doubt
you're going to feel up to anything really challenging.”

He grinned at her. “You'd be surprised at my stamina,” he murmured. “See you tonight.”

“Hey, boss,” Tiny, her grill man for the morning shift, said in a gravelly voice. “You got last night's logs?”

“I'll go get them,” she said, hurrying for the back room. She shot one last quick look at Nick.

His eyes never left her. She turned back to the makeshift office, grabbing the log books.

What the hell have I agreed to?

 

N
ICK WALKED THROUGH
the inventory and supplies with Tiny, the ill-named grill man. At six foot one and easily two hundred and fifty pounds, Tiny was an enormous black man with a flopping chef's “toque” or hat, and a glinting gold earring. He grinned widely and spoke in a slow, deep bass voice. Still, Nick noted what the man said, absently checking things off on his own makeshift list. If he were at Le Chapeau, he'd be coming up with specials, noting what needed to be tossed, thinking of how to improve cost and maybe kicking around a few new recipe ideas.

Now, he could just think of tonight—cooking for Mari.

What the hell was I thinking?

He looked over, between the moving bodies of chefs, to see Mari in her element, pan-frying chicken on the busy sauté station, her mouth curving into a sensual smile at some joke that the young pastry cook,
Zooey, was telling. He watched as she deftly plated the meal, shutting the reach-in pantry drawer with her hip. She looked over, catching his gaze on her, and he could have sworn her violet eyes darkened for a second before hastily looking away. His body reacted with a characteristic tightening.

The thing was, he
wasn't
thinking. Not with his head, anyway.

Okay, not with that head.

“Nick? You still with me?”

He shifted his attention back to Tiny. “Sorry. Was thinking up some possible specials,” he lied.

Tiny frowned. “Mari comes up with the menus. Including the specials.”

This, at least, was able to shift Nick's focus. “I'm the sous-chef. I go over the inventory, mark what's low. I was just thinking I could help by suggesting a couple of specials….”

“That's not what Mari hired you for,” Tiny said, in a tone that would have been intimidating even if the guy weren't built like a line backer.

I'm going to have a problem here.

He'd been so fixated on Mari, he hadn't really paid attention to the rest of the crew. Now, he realized that most of them were casting suspicious glances his way. He felt sure that Mari hadn't mentioned anything to them about the allegations from Le Chapeau Noir…he'd only told her last night, and he'd arrived before anyone this morning.

Which meant that they didn't trust him for other reasons.