Taste for Trouble (14 page)

“I’m
willing,” she finally said. “But understand this: I don’t work for them. And I
don’t work for you either. You and I? We’re in this together. I’ll deal with
Kate, you deal with your brothers and if we catch every lucky break in the
universe we might just come out of this okay.”

He nodded.
“Deal,” he said and held out a hand.

She eyed
his hand and renewed her grip on the countertop behind her. “On one condition,”
she said. “From now on, you’ll be keeping your hands to yourself.”

He
smiled at her, and it sent an electric shock across her skin. “I will?”

“It’s
best if we keep things professional, James.”

His
smile widened. “Sure it is.”

“And
speaking of professional,” she said with a small twinge of evil pleasure, “I
assume you and your brothers own clothes that fall somewhere between track suits
and tuxedos on the fashion continuum?”

“Sure.”
His smile went suspicious. “Why?”

Evil
pleasure grew from a twinge into a full-on glow. “From now on, we dress for
Sunday dinner.”

“Aw.”
He hung his head. “That’s just mean.”

“Much
as I’d have enjoyed inflicting it on you, it wasn’t my idea.”

“No?”

“Nope.
Kate’s joining us for dinner tomorrow night along with our favorite agent. They’ll
be delivering our first challenge on your path to rehabilitation.”

“There’s
a challenge beyond dressing for dinner?”

Bel
laughed then realized he was serious.

“How
cruel are these people?” he said.

She
shook her head. “You have no idea.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Civilization,”
Kate began, with a steely-eyed look that reminded James uncomfortably of his
mother, “depends on our ability to quell our baser instincts in order to build
something that benefits the group.”

James
nodded sagely and helped himself to a second piece of Bel’s peach cobbler. Because,
good lord, the girl could cook. Throw a scoop of vanilla ice cream on there—the
good stuff, too, because Bel apparently (thank God) didn’t believe in fake
sugar, fake fat, fake anything—and you had yourself a big ol’ bowl of heaven.

Not,
he’d decided, that heaven was ever very far away when Bel was in the kitchen. He
tucked into the cobbler with a happy sigh and lovely memories of the pot roast
and the world’s fluffiest mashed potatoes that had preceded it.

Kate
nudged aside her full glass of wine and sharpened the point on that stare of
hers. “It depends, James, upon being stronger than your appetites.”

“Yes,
ma’am.” How had Kate Davis ever convinced America that she was the Martha
Stewart of the South? Because if domestic bliss even existed, surely it was
contained in the bowl James held in his hand. And Kate was sucking the pleasure
right out of it.

“Taking
control,” she intoned severely, “of your
inner glutton
.”

James
shoved another spoonful of peachy goodness into his mouth and chewed defiantly.
“Are you making a point, Ms. Davis?” he asked when he’d swallowed. And that was
proof right there that he wasn’t entirely devoid of manners, wasn’t it?

“I
am.” Kate gave him a serene smile. “Thank you for putting down your spoon long
enough to notice.”

Across
the table, Drew coughed a laugh into his hand. James gave him a narrow glance
but his eyes were all innocence as he lifted his coffee cup. His itty-bitty
coffee cup with the useless handle that all the men, James noticed, had finally
settled on pinching rather than attempting to jam their fingers through.

Drew
appeared perfectly at ease drinking from a teeny little breakable, however. Just
as he seemed perfectly comfortable in his slacks-and-sweater ensemble, complete
with tie. Beside him, Will looked essentially the same. Both their ties looked suspiciously
well-knotted to James.

He
glanced at Bel, who was seated on his right but she was too busy sweeping
crumbs from the tablecloth into a pile between their plates to notice.

He
set down his spoon and wiped his lips with his napkin. A cloth napkin with
razor sharp creases because, good heavens, Bel really would iron anything,
wouldn’t she?  He turned his attention back to the woman at the head of James’
own dining room table.

“You
were saying, Ms. Davis?” he asked. “Regarding civilization?”

“Yes,”
Kate said, her smooth face a sharp contrast to the unholy anticipation he saw
in her bark-brown eyes. “Civilization. I believe it depends on an ability to
master one’s own needs, and thus allowing one to give precedence to the needs
of others.”

“I
see.” James glanced sadly at the melting mess in his bowl. This could take a
while. “And this pertains to me how?”

Drew
set his coffee aside and leaned in, chin on fist. James frowned at him. Drew shifted
to gaze at Kate like she was the second freaking coming. Bel didn’t look up
from her crumbs. Will upended a bottle of wine into his glass. In desperation,
James finally looked to his agent, Bob, who sat at the foot of the table.

Bob only
nodded toward Kate. “Pay attention, son,” he said. “You’re in deep, ah—” He
broke off, groping for a word that wouldn’t offend the civilization police opposite
him. “—trouble with your sponsors, and Kate here is the only ticket out I could
buy you. If I were you, I’d listen up.”

James
sighed and turned back to the woman on his left. She gave him a smile that had
James’ back teeth clamping together. “You’ve completely lost control, dear,”
she said.

“I
have?”

“Yes.
You’ve become a slave to your appetites.”

A
dull burn crept up James’ throat and headed for his cheeks. “Well, hell. I
haven’t gained
that
much weight.”

“It’s
not just food, dear,” Kate said with serene aplomb. “It’s everything.”

A
twinge of recognition ricocheted around in James’ chest but he covered it
carefully with skepticism. “Everything? Now that’s a bit extreme, don’t you
think?”

“All
your appetites.” Kate lifted a hand and ticked them off on long, elegant
fingers. “Food, alcohol, entertainment, sex.”

James
shot a look at Will. “Am I contractually obligated to discuss my sex life with
Kate
Every Day
?”

Will
looked at Bob, who merely lifted one shoulder as if to say
wasn’t my idea
.
Will looked back at James. “Yep.”

James
turned back to Kate with a sigh.

“Fame
and money have given you the means to live like some sort of demi-god,” Kate
told him. She fluttered that regal hand at his brothers across the table. “Complete
with minions.”

“Minions?”
Drew sat back, offended.

“Minions.”
Will lifted his glass to James then slugged back a hefty swallow of wine.

“Indeed,”
Kate said. “People who do your bidding, tell you yes whenever you want to hear
it, abuse those who don’t agree with you, and generally facilitate this idea
you’ve gotten stuck in your head that you deserve everything you have and
should therefore use it to gratify your every whim and desire.”

“Well,
ouch,” James said. In general, he didn’t care for the idea that money was
power. To him, money was just fun. He and his brothers had been poor their
entire lives. Because of that, the sort of money being thrown at James now
was...well, ridiculous. They all knew it, too. So why not be a little
ridiculous with it every now and then? The universe was a quirky place. It
would only be a matter of time before that money got snatched up and tossed
some other lucky bastard’s way, right? So no point in setting up foundations
and trust funds and investment properties and the like. No point in getting
used
to it. The ride would be over soon enough.

But
he wasn’t going to tell that to this woman.

Which
was a good thing, because he had no idea how to squeeze in a word when Kate
Davis got rolling. And she
was
rolling.

“It’s
my professional opinion, Mr. Blake, that you’ve become over-used to being admired.
You need to reconnect with the concept of service.”

“Service?”
James frowned at her, then at Bel who studiously failed to meet his eyes.

“Yes.
And to that end, I’ve decided to structure your rehabilitation—and Bel’s—in the
following manner. You’re serving out the final four weeks of a six week
suspension, yes? A suspension you earned by punching a colleague?”

The
way she said it, with that supercilious tilt to one blonde brow, had temper
snapping up into James’ chest. So he pushed back from the table, stretched his
long legs out in front of him and gave her a lazy grin. “Why, yes, ma’am. I laid
him out right handy. I didn’t know you followed soccer.”

“Four
weeks,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “in which to rediscover the
pleasure of an altruistic act.”

James
pretended to frown. “Altru what now?”

“Altruistic,”
Kate said. “It means selfless.”

“Right.”
He nodded, as if this were new and fascinating information. “Go on. Please.”

“Each
week for the next four weeks,” she said, “I’ll assign you a task which will
require you to not only acknowledge the self-indulgent paradigm under which
you’ve been operating these past several years but overcome it.”

“You
want I should develop a knack for that altruism thingy, then.” James paused,
shot her an earnest look. “I said that right? Altruism?” Kate nodded tightly. James
grinned. “Awesome. I love new vocab.”

“Belinda
will be your guide, your mentor and your task master,” Kate said, her lips
curved in a tense smile that said she didn’t know whether James was an idiot or
making fun of her. The anger snapping in James’ gut eased back a little. “She
will be judged on her ability to shepherd you through the transition from
your...” She paused delicately. “...current condition to that of a mature,
well-adjusted member of society.”

How
had Bel put it? Going from guy to man? Same idea, James understood, but somehow
he’d liked it better when Bel said it. Or maybe he just liked her mouth. He
glanced to his right, saw her grinding those damn crumbs into a powder on the tablecloth,
that pretty mouth pinched and set.

“Right.”
James hooked an elbow over the back of his chair and said, “Well? What’s the
challenge this week?” He grinned at Bel. “I’m yours, darlin’. Mold me.”

Bel
finally looked up and he blinked at the instant of raw, hunted panic in her
eyes before she smoothed it all over and lifted her face to Kate’s. “We’re as ready
as we’ll ever be,” she said.

Kate
curved her lips—James couldn’t rightly call it a smile, not something this cold—and
tucked a wing of ash-blonde hair behind one ear.

“We’ll
start with the gluttony.”

“Gluttony?”
He blinked.

“Gluttony.”
She gave him that not-smile again. “You were born with a freakish talent, Mr.
Blake. A surfeit of speed, strength and coordination. It’s allowed you to abuse
your body and still perform at a level sufficient to compete as an elite athlete.
But barely.”

James
stifled the urge to sit up, stung. Abuse his body? He slouched deeper into his
chair and rocked his feet side to side like a metronome set on lazy. “I’m not
sure a couple extra cheeseburgers counts as actual abuse.”

“Nourishing
your body properly requires good food, and the preparation of good food is
time-consuming and effortful. Becoming reacquainted with the level of time and
effort good food requires will, I feel, recalibrate these rogue appetites of
yours.”

James
squinted at her, sorting through the surfeit of words to find the meaning. “You
want me to learn to cook?” he asked.

“Not
just cook, but cook
well
.” She smiled. “And feed others.”

“Feed
others?” James echoed, suspicion creeping into his voice.

She
ignored him and turned to Bel. “I’ve booked the two of you to cater an event
for twenty-five people next Saturday afternoon. An engagement party—tea, heavy
hors d’oeuvres and cake. James will be your sous-chef for the week prior, then
you’ll instruct him in the finer points of serving.”

“Serving?”
James again sorted through the words and dug out the meaning. He turned
incredulous eyes on Bel. “She wants me to wait tables? At a high frickin’ tea?”

“Yes,”
Bel said, her face pale and composed while her eyes continued to burn. “Is that
a problem?”

James
glanced around his dining room table. He saw Bob, tough and square and unflinching,
at the foot of the table. His face said
you fucked it up, you fix it
. No
help there. Drew and Will sat opposite him, wearing matching smirks. Then there
was Kate Davis, presiding at the head of the table, her hands folded neatly,
her eyes saying
try me, buddy. I’d welcome the opportunity to kick your ass
.

James
sighed. “No.” He mentally resigned himself to an afternoon of having his fanny
pinched by a couple dozen face-lifted socialites. “No problems here.”