A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2) (7 page)

BOOK: A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2)
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For a woman who spoke her mind every second of the day,
Annelise hadn’t opened up to anyone this much in years. She knew she could trust Des, even if she couldn’t trust herself. He closed the office door behind them and sat not behind the desk, but in a chair beside hers. He set the espresso cups on the desk and took both her hands in his. Des’s hands were big, enveloping hers completely. She looked at their hands, his covering hers, and was a little surprised to find that she didn’t want to pull away from him.

“You put your faith in the wrong man
,” he said simply. “You know better now. You can trust yourself again. And if not, you can trust me.”

Her mouth dropped open a little. It was unnerving, the way he said exactly what she’d been thinking. It was more astonishing that she believed him. And he wasn’t talking like a hot shot chef who wanted a fling. He was talking to her as an equal—a
twenty-three-year-old couch-surfing, homeless secretary. He was looking at her the way a man looks at a woman.

She held his gaze steadily, resisting the sudden shyness that crept over her, knowing that he could see her, really see her and not wanting to shrink from that. So
Annelise closed the small distance between them and kissed him. His kiss was soft and knowing, a waiting kiss.

“I don’t think my granny would believe you were real
,” she said with a smile.

“Then she’s just going to have to meet me to believe it
,” he said, laying her palm against his broad chest so she could feel his heart pounding strong against her fingers. “Real as real can be, Annelise.”

His head dipped toward hers
. She opened her lips, welcoming his kiss as her due, a prize for her patience, for the years she’d wasted. She expected him to start on the buttons of her suit, to push her clothing aside roughly, but still he kissed her. Though they were behind a closed door, they had privacy, a few moments alone, he seemed in no hurry. Impatient, she reached for the buttons of his chef’s jacket, but he caught her hands in his.

“Not here
, like this,” he said firmly. “I won’t have you the first time in a cluttered office with fifty people outside the door. I will take my time to savor you. You deserve a man who can wait for what’s worth waiting for, Annelise. A man who wants to give you more than a quick grope on an office chair.” She subsided, a little embarrassed.

“You got something against humping?”

“Not at all. Humping has its time and place.” He grinned, kissing her. “I’m working tonight. Are you free tomorrow night?” His voice was low and intimate against her ear, and she shivered.

“Yes.” She shuddered the word as his mouth brushed against her earlobe
. She turned her head, kissing him frantically. He held her more tightly, feeling the uncertainty in her kiss. The fear that all this could be taken from her was clear to him as her tongue invaded his mouth, her hands gripping his face as if to claim him.

“I’ll be here waiting
,” he promised, folding her into his arms and holding her for a moment. She was reluctant to leave the circle of his arms, shutting her eyes briefly, shutting out the world.

“Desmond Blair, you better be here tomorrow night
, or I will hunt your ass down,” she said in a mock serious tone. She needed his reassurance, he knew, and he kissed her softly again.

“I wouldn’t miss
this for anything,” he whispered. “My life’s been on hold while I built my business. Now the world can wait while I have you.”

Chapter
5

 

Annelise returned to work, confident that no potatoes would appear at the engagement party to horrify her boss. She reported her success to him by text and went back to researching yellow flowers besides the daffodil that could go in the centerpieces. The florist was an absolute caricature of a difficult personality. Shannon was in a conference, so Annelise sent a carefully worded text to Hannah, only to find that the bride hated sunflowers, thought roses and carnations were boring, thought Peruvian lilies looked like cheap grocery store flowers, and was convinced that the photo Annelise sent her of a tiny golden aranthera orchid was probably a picture of a starfish penis. Even though that made Annelise laugh, she was getting seriously tired of Hannah’s pickiness.

“If she has her moody little heart set on daffodils, I’ll just have to find some.” She sighed.
The rest of her day was spent locating suppliers so the florist could quit saying it was impossible. That night she had delicious dreams of Desmond and what the next day would bring.

With RSVPs floating in by the dozens, she updated her spreadsheet the next day and cross referenced with the list of people Shannon had said shouldn’t be seated together
, lest a corporate takeover break out.

At least
, the menu was finalized and that drama could be couched. The flowers promised to be a scene of monumental proportions, though. Annelise configured seating charts for the garden party based on the RSVP list and was almost, very nearly satisfied with one set-up when she got a text from Desmond. She opened the message happily, only to be disappointed that it wasn’t personal.

 

Can’t source enough lobster mushrooms for the sauce. Tell Cates it has to be chantarelles.

 

Don’t do this to me. Spraypaint some of those chanterelle bastards hot pink and tell him they’re lobster mushrooms. He saw a special on how rare and spectacular lobster mushrooms are and he’s convinced they’re the perfect touch to the menu. He hates carbs, but fungus, he adores.

 

It’s a parasite that ate a mushroom. It’s not even truly a mushroom anymore. This is not the metaphor he wants for his love at the engagement party. Tell him that. Convince him because it is not happening. It was a bad year for hemlock trees and the lobster mushrooms grow at the foot of those….mycologists are only finding spotted nasty ones, nothing worth serving at a high end dinner. If he insists, I can get crap ones at a supermarket, but they won’t have the flavor. They’ll just be show mushrooms.

 

Annelise hung her head, imagining the exchange she would have with the intractable Jasper Cates, who would recount every minute detail of that mycology documentary yet again and tell her it was as rare and beautiful as Hannah is. He wouldn’t settle for grocery store mushrooms, and she was pretty sure any other kind of mushroom would be unacceptable to him. This pair of educated and successful adults were acting like whiny kids, and she felt like their harried nanny.

I have some chanterelles at the shop. A sous is whipping up a sauce with them for you to try so you can tell Cates how splendid it is. Come on over.

 

Finally, a text from Desmond that made her smile. She sped down to Aux
Delices and perched on a stool at the central island. Des presented her with a small square black plate, on which was arranged two prawns and a tiny golden pool of mushroom sauce. Tucking in, she tasted the buttery bright mushrooms, a rich compliment to the sweet, tender prawns.

“I don’t usually say stuff like this, but I’m impressed.”
Annelise said, devouring the delicious prawns.

“I knew I could impress you. I just didn’t think you’d ever admit it.” Desmond said.
Des walked her out, a kiss promising great things for the coming evening, and she felt lighter than air returning to work.

She braved Jasper Cates in person, determined to defend the chanterelles and
keep the menu finalized as it was. He didn’t look up from his computer screen, which was usual and, feeling stronger today, Annelise called him on it.

“I spent a lot of hours getting this menu sorted for your picky ass
. Now look up for five seconds. The lobster mushrooms ain’t happening. Desmond is substituting chanterelles. I tasted the sauce myself and it’s magnificent. Everyone will be impressed.”

“Lobster mushrooms are what I ordered. He agreed to fulfill his contract
, which specifies those. I will not accept a lesser substitute.”

“They aren’t even mushrooms. They’re a pink parasite. Let it go. These ones are good with the shrimp and people will like them. I got rid of the potatoes against my better judgment
; now hop on board and sign off on the change,” she huffed.

“Miss
Hollingford, I understand that, as you’re swiving the cook, your instinct is to defend him, but he’s trying to pass off shoddy goods in violation of his contract. It’s unacceptable. You can tell him so or you can find another caterer who can provide the quality of dishes I’m prepared to serve,” he said, coldly sardonic.

“I am not—
he’s the best. You won’t find another caterer who can give you that kind of quality; they’ll just give you crappy supermarket pink mushrooms to shut you up. Desmond has integrity. He wants to serve the best meal he can for you. You should appreciate that.”

“Apparently you appreciate it enough for all of us. You may tell him my decision stands.”

Annelise fumed, stomping to the outer office. Shannon looked up in dismay.

“What’s wrong
now?”

“The boss has to have his mushrooms
, so I get to tell Desmond Blair that his food ain’t good enough.”

“I’m sure that’s not what he meant. You know how he can be—eccentric
,” Shannon said in her conciliatory way.

Annelise
shook her head. “You been making excuses for that man since the day I came here. Explaining his weirdness and his rude attitude. Keeping everyone smoothed over for him so he don’t get upset.”

“I know it sounds like I’m enabling him,
Annelise, but hI try to protect people from him, and him from himself, as much as I can.”

“You’re mothering him.”

“I know. I always have. I think I’m the only one who ever has. He doesn’t act like someone who’s used to being looked after I’m not the only one who does it either, Annelise. I’ve seen you do the same thing. Your manner might be a little…feistier…but you stick up for him, too.”

“I know. I think he counts on women taking the heat for his bullshit. First you, then me, probably
even Hannah in any social situation. .”


Annelise, go take a walk. I know he made you mad, but it isn’t worth your job,” Shannon warned, concerned for her. “I’m not sure you’re not the one who needs some help right now. You’re mad about something and you’re not going to take it out on him. Go take a walk, really. I’ll cover your phone in case there’s a cake crisis or something.”

“Fine. I know you mean well
, so I’ll go. I still think we ain’t doing nobody any favors, letting a grown man act like that. I know it’s early, but I’m taking off. I’m going to pick up my lease from Legal and sign it, I guess. Get this over with.” She said with dread.

“See you tomorrow.” Shannon said sadly.

Back at the couch, Annelise changed out of her suit and into what she thought of as her own clothes, her armor. The way she’d dressed since she was a tough-talking high school kid learning to braid hair and mouthing off to the dealers in her neighborhood. Faded jeans with a fraying rip high up on her left thigh, a black tank top faded to dark gray softness from many washings, and three cheap necklaces—a butterfly charm, because Madame Butterfly had been her granny’s stripper name, a shark tooth charm because she thought it looked tough, and a hamsa, its curving fingers in filigree. She layered them on and stepped into her battered old motorcycle boots. She would go to Desmond not as a rich man’s secretary, but as herself. As Annelise Hollingford, who used to live in a crap neighborhood because her dad got high instead of getting work, who moved in with her boyfriend right out of high school, who did cornrows so fast when she was nineteen that she drew a crowd, who elbowed her way up the ranks to a job uptown and a taste of the finer things. Annelise Hollingford, who thought she’d get a wedding and babies and a house in the suburbs and instead got a broken heart and a chlamydia and had to sleep on people’s couches.

She put on her dark red lipstick, the kind that came from the
drugstore and had a cheap plastic tube, and blotted her lips once on a tissue. If Desmond Blair wanted her, he’d have to see her for who she was, without the tailored suit and semi-tailored manners.

At Aux
Delices after hours, there was no Kathleen to let her in, or refuse to do so, and when Annelise rang the buzzer, Desmond opened the door himself. The way he filled the door, blocking the light from the entryway, made her catch her breath from wanting him.

“I’m glad you decided to keep our appointment
,” he said with a sly smile, taking in her outfit. Her hair was wild and tangled from the wind, not tortured into pins as he’d seen it before. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them off of her.

“I’m not sure you’ll be so happy to see me when I tell you what Jasper Cates said about the mushrooms.”

“Not to shock you or anything, Annelise, but I couldn’t give a shit about Jasper Cates and his party right now.”

He swept the tangled hair back from her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately, their tongues
meeting in a back and forth dance not unlike the salsa that had nearly brought her to her knees a few nights before. Panting, he pulled away and drew her into his massive kitchen, its astringent tang of lemon cleaner making her wrinkle her nose.

“I thought I’d teach you to cook
,” he said, his voice as seductive as if he’d suggested something unmentionable.

“I already know how to cook
,” she said as if insulted.


You zest the oranges. We’re making a ricotta tart.”

She wasn’t sure what that was, but she agreed
. With the guidance of his strong hand atop hers, she learned to stroke a microplane grater along the skin of the orange, fine curls of zest unfurling beneath her fingers. It was impossibly sexy. She wanted to drop the grater and throw him down on the floor and have her way with him.

Desmond Blair was not a man who could be hurried.
She watched him break the eggs, whisking in sugar, adding pastry ingredients to a food processor and pulsing them with the pressure of one finger on the button. She couldn’t help imagining that finger pressing against her, between her legs. His every movement was sensuous. When he raised the mixer to scrape the bowl, he offered her a dollop of sweet ricotta on his finger.

When she took his finger in her mouth
, she nearly moaned with desire, but she held herself back—barely. Her thigh brushed against his as they worked side by side, assembling the tart. He slid it into the oven and started clearing the dishes into the sink. Annelise came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his back. He continued to rinse the mixing bowl.

She
opened the buttons on his chef’s jacket and parted it, rubbing across the thin t-shirt that separated his washboard abs from her touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, and she longed to set her mouth on it. Methodically, he washed dishes as she stroked his stomach, his chest, his thighs. She felt him laugh softly as he turned around, his hands warm and wet from the dishwater. He framed her face with his hands and claimed her mouth. Their tongues meshed as he trailed his fingers up and down her arms, raising goose bumps in his wake. Chills slithered across her skin.

Annelise
pushed his jacket to the floor and made short work of his shirt. In her relationship with Roger, she’d always been the initiator, the aggressor, and it was a role she was comfortable in…it was the only way she knew. So when Desmond Blair caught her hands in his and shook his head, she was startled, a little embarrassed. He kissed her palm, her wrist, his mouth trailing fiery kisses up the length of her arm as she stood there, dumbfounded. Men, in her limited experience, wanted the clothes ripped off and for someone else to do all the work. She had no problem taking charge herself, but this was new. Desmond Blair wanted to make love to her, not just get laid as quickly as possible.

He lifted her by the hips and set her on the edge of the counter, his mouth on her neck. She felt the rasp of stubble on his face as it scraped at the tender skin of her throat, the warm wet mouth making her tremble. Slowly, languorously, he inched up the hem of her tank top, his hands warm at her sides and stroking her stomach. At last he pulled back long enough to strip off her tank top, revealing the black bra underneath. Instead of going straight for the tits—as her granny’s prophesy went—Desmond slipped one finger beneath her bra strap, teasing it down her shoulder, his mouth following its path with soft kisses. She was trembling with need, her legs snaking around him as he started on the other strap, delaying gratification so long that she felt his seduction was crossing over into torment.

BOOK: A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2)
8.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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