Guilty Pleasures (6 page)

“Wait till Sunday,” he said, leaning against the door frame and giving her barely enough room to walk past. “Maybe I'll be able to come up with a feast for the rest of you.”

 

N
ICK WORKED
T
UESDAY
through Saturday at Guilty Pleasures, watching as Mari tried her damnedest to
avoid him, even though he felt her gaze on him whenever he wasn't looking. Which wasn't often, since he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her, either. It was strange, this attraction.

He grimaced to himself. Of course, watching her fall apart under his fingertips might have something to do with it.

He walked through the stalls of a farmer's market, looking at the fresh produce…garnet-colored strawberries, lemon cucumbers, baby spinach. The smell of kettle corn and baked goods permeated the air. He was getting the ingredients for the Great Menu Experiment, as he was mentally calling it. With any luck, he'd help come up with a theme that would attract reviews and publicity, which would then in turn bring in business. Which would help his reputation.

He bought a half pound of hot chili almond brittle, thinking of how to incorporate it into a dessert. With any luck, it would garner the same reaction as the chocolate. He might be in this to help the restaurant, but he was honest enough to realize that he had an ulterior motive.

He wanted to sleep with Mari Salazar.

It had been a pure sensual pleasure to watch the woman eat. As someone whose life and obsessions revolved around food, maybe he was more attuned to it than the average man, but the way she closed her eyes to savor the flavors, and that low moan of appreciation, all were simply precursors to the way she
responded to the passion between them. It had been like a sexual sneak-preview.

It had turned him on to an unbelievable extent. He was looking forward to repeating the experience…only this time, he wouldn't get kicked out after a phone call. He'd see to that.

“Hey, Nick. How's it going?”

Nick glanced over, feeling a clench in his stomach. It was Bob Blackstone, a restaurant owner from New York who had recently moved to a swank new restaurant in the city. He'd tried getting a job from Bob when Phillip had fired him, and Bob had reluctantly said no…just like everyone else Nick had interviewed with. At least he was more polite about it—Nick had interned with Bob's New York restaurant, Blackstone's, when he was at the Culinary School.

“Hey, Bob. Things are going…” He paused, thinking it over. “Well, they're going.”

Bob laughed, the polite laugh of someone who's not sure how to respond. “Did you get a job yet?”

“Yeah. Sous chef, but it's got potential.” At least, he was betting that there would be.

“Really?” If anything, Bob sounded relieved. Nick had liked him enough to cut him slack—it was hard to go up against a rich, established family like the Marceaus if you were in the restaurant industry. And Bob had sounded both guilty and sorry when he'd turned him down. “That's fantastic, really fantastic. Where? Henri's? Stars?”

Nick winced. “Well, I'm not sure you'll have heard of it….”

“Smaller places are good to build your reputation,” Bob said, with a wave of his hand. “You let me know where, and I can start spreading buzz.”

Suddenly, Nick wasn't sure if he
wanted
buzz about Mari's restaurant—at least, not until he could whip it into shape. “It's a little place in the Mission District,” Nick hedged, then realizing Bob wasn't going to let up in his drive to be helpful, he sighed. “It's called Guilty Pleasures. Heard of it?”

He saw the exact moment when Bob registered the restaurant. “Oh. I think I've driven by it.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, Nick thought.

“Well. It's good that you're working, at least, right?” Bob's tone was falsely cheerful, and Nick noticed that the offer of “building up buzz” was not repeated. “And you'll get past this. Hell, I'd offer you a job myself, only…” Bob shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. “You understand.”

“Yeah. I understand.” Nick tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a drop still crept in.

“Well…” Bob looked away, and Nick could tell he was sorry he'd even asked. “I've got to pick up some stuff for tomorrow. You should stop by the restaurant some time. Don't be a stranger.”

Nick quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“Sure.” Bob smiled genially and held out his hand. “I'll buy you dinner. See you around.”

Nick shook his hand, then gritted his teeth as Bob wandered back out into the crowd of pedestrian traffic. It was all he could do not to crush the almond brittle he was holding.

It was one thing to be targeted, taunted, and humiliated, he thought. He'd put up with that all his life.

But
pitied…

Nick gritted his teeth. He couldn't stand for that.

He started purchasing in earnest, his mind going into overdrive with possibilities. He could picture Guilty Pleasures in his head, not as the slow, third-rate restaurant it was now, but filled with people, getting four star reviews.

Getting his name out.

He purchased ingredients, his mind full of grim determination. His thoughts of Mari's sensual delights were crowded out of his mind by more pressing matters.

Lust was one thing, he thought.

Reputation…now, that was forever.

 

M
ARI SHOWED UP AT
Nick's house that night around nine-forty-five. The restaurant had had virtually no business…it was the slowest she'd seen it since the first week they opened, and only drove home the fact that she had to do something, soon. She'd already mentioned in passing to Lindsay that if she wanted to get that critic in, Mari would definitely be open to the possibility.

At this point, even
bad
word of mouth was better than this slow, silent dying. The downside to all this was, she now had a combination of tense, stress-filled desperation, and an excess of nervous energy.

This was how you got in trouble with Nick the last time.

But she wasn't going to repeat last Sunday's mistake. She'd kept her work clothes on, deliberately not wearing anything that might be construed as seductive. She had her notebook with her. She got the strong feeling that he would try to seduce her again, and while part of her body was more than willing—in fact, was wanting—to let him try, her logical mind was standing at the fore today.

She wasn't going to bury her fear in sex. She was going to focus, get this menu done, and get out. That was all.

She walked up the steps that led to his front door, and knocked. After a moment, he answered. He was wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a crisp white T-shirt that already had signs of food on it. His eyes looked unfocused.

“Good. You're here,” he said. Before she could answer this greeting, he had already turned and was heading back into his house.

Oh, yeah. This guy's trying to seduce you.

Mari ignored the mocking tone of her subconscious, shutting the door and following him into his kitchen. It was larger than hers—not surprisingly—and already there were four pots bubbling away on the stove. There was also a lot of food strewn on the kitchen counters, and piled on one side of the broad oak kitchen table. On the other side, he had sketches laid out in a large notepad, with a scrawling handwriting not unlike her own. She stared, fascinated.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Huh? Oh. Since about four today,” he said, going
back and stirring something in one of the pots. “I've got some ideas, but I think we've got a long way to go.”

She nodded, trying to stay serious herself, even while part of her felt the tiniest bit bereft. There was none of the double-entendre of last Sunday's meal-making, she noticed… He barely seemed to register that she was there. He looked like a man possessed.

By food, that was, she thought ruefully. Not sex.

She sat down at the table. She wasn't going to be disappointed. This was what she wanted. This was what
had
to happen. “So. What ideas have you come up with so far?”

He sat down next to her, going over his drawings. He smelled like…garlic, she thought with a silent laugh. And oregano, and lemongrass, and cinnamon. All overlaying a basic male scent. It should have been disgusting, but instead it was intriguing.

He flipped over a drawing. “So far, I've come up with three main themes. There's French, of course…”

“No French,” Mari said, a knee-jerk reaction. Derek, the owner of Le Pome, had insisted that French was the way to go, too. She didn't mind eating French food, but damn if she was going to cook it again.

He frowned. “It was just a start. Okay, then there's the ‘light food' approach: natural fruits and vegetables, organic meats…”

She frowned, looking at the menu he'd come up with. “That's not us,” she said bluntly. When he frowned back at her, she pointed out, “Going from fried foods and ice-cream sundaes one day to organic
veggies and tofu shakes the next? Come on. We'd be schizophrenic. And my crew won't believe in this kind of food, I can guarantee it.”

Nick looked disgruntled. It was interesting to see him this way—not trying to charm her or seduce her, but genuinely working.

It was a bit of a turn on, actually.

She frowned down at the page he was doodling on.
What about this guy
isn't
a turn-on, though?

“All right,” he said. “Now we start to get into the more artsy stuff. I've got a couple of ideas: Gypsy, with Moroccan and maybe Spanish influences; Noir, with sort of stark foods and some fifties influences; or maybe Alien, with really weird food combinations.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Alien?”

He took a deep breath. “That's why it's called brainstorming, Mari.”

She looked over the sketches, reaching for a pencil just as he reached for the same. Her hand brushed against his, and she looked at him.

He simply shrugged and reached for a nearby pen, not acknowledging their touch, even while she felt the slight jolt from it.

“We might be able to work with the Gypsy thing,” she said, starting to hunker down. She was focusing, getting serious. “Let's see what menu ideas you had in mind.”

Still, she couldn't get over the lingering feeling that was haunting her. She could have sworn it was disappointment.

 

S
EVERAL HOURS
and many failed dish attempts later, she and Nick were at each other's throats. Sandy-eyed,
Mari looked over the long list of themes they'd managed to kick around. They'd moved from Gypsy and Alien to Fiesta, Fusion, Museum—with sculpted food, Pie House—a short-lived idea, and even Circus—even shorter-lived. Now, at three in the morning, Nick ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed at his eyes.

“I think we've hit a wall,” he said, stating the obvious. He stretched, giving her a view of his tightly corded abs. “Maybe we should try picking it up again tomorrow.”

Her mouth went dry.

Too bad we can't have a menu about sex.

The thought was so ludicrous, she wound up laughing. He looked at her with a puzzled smile.

“What?”

She was too tired to come up with a proper lie. “I was just thinking…there's one theme we haven't hit on. Sex.”

He blinked, and she laughed even harder. “Sex, huh?” he finally said. “Well. It can't be worse than Circus.”

She was chuckling in deep, hitching breaths now. “Can't you see it? We could call the appetizers Foreplay or something.”

He leaned next to her, and brushed her shoulder. Suddenly, a good deal of her tiredness fled in the face of a wave of desire that hit her like a slap. Apparently the better part of her restraint and a good deal of her common sense had already gone to sleep.

Now, there was just wanting—and Nick.

Nick smiled, oblivious to the change that had just occurred in Mari. “Hmm. Foreplay. Could work. We could offer oysters, artichoke hearts…potential aphrodisiac stuff like that. Have drinks like Spanish Fly and Blowjobs.” He chuckled to himself.

She leaned forward, scooting her chair closer to his. “I could be on to something,” she purred. “You'd go from Foreplay to Main Intercourses.”

Nick snickered, until he noticed how close she was. Then his laughter stopped, and his eyes glowed. She noticed the vein at the base of his neck pulsing as she stroked one of his legs with a barely-there touch of her fingertips.

“We'd need to come up with a variety of stuff,” she said, her voice coaxing. “You don't want the same thing all the time.”

“Of course not,” he said, his breathing a little ragged. “So…sexy main dishes.”

“Intercourses,” she murmured, and he closed his eyes slightly as she reached his thigh, only brushing toward the juncture before moving back to his knees. She watched as he bunched his hands into fists.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said, his eyes golden and glowing.

No, she wasn't. More importantly, she didn't care. She continued onward, implacably. “I was thinking of splitting it into a few sub menus… Quickies, for people who don't have a lot of time, for example. Big Meat,” and now her hand started heading north again, eliciting a low groan from Nick. “For those who like
that sort of thing. Exotic and Spicy menus for people who want their intercourse different and…
hot.
”

He leaned back, and she traced the erection that was straining against the fly of his jeans. “And which are you?” he asked in a strangled whisper.

“I think we can come up with the Quickie menu later,” she said, unbuttoning his jeans and tugging the zipper down slowly, a tooth at a time. “But the rest of them…the Spicy, the Exotic, the
Big Meat…
” She smiled as she freed his cock from the restraints of denim and cotton, as Nick gripped the sides of the chair as if he would break the wood with his bare hands. “I think I'd like to try a little of each tonight. If you're up to it.”