Guilty Pleasures (24 page)

Lance loved the way the work at Guilty Pleasures absorbed him; the sensuous smells and textures of the food, and the colours and the crisp sounds of the vegetables yielding under his knife entranced him.

Millie arrived in a black short-sleeved blouse and a long colourful gypsy skirt, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, looking younger and more carefree than Lance had seen her before. “Hello Millie!” He smiled.

“Hey, boys, how’s tricks?”
 

“All well and on schedule, Mills. Dinner will be ready at seven thirty as the client requested,” Serge answered.

“Great. Don’t forget he just wants a simple pizza dinner for the kids, only without the aggravation of an audience.”

“He’s got it, plain as plain.” Serge sighed.

Millie turned to Lance. “Will, I didn’t call Hendricks. He’s so formal, and this is a small family dinner. I hope you won’t mind helping me serve it?”

“Not at all. Am I supposed to have a uniform?” Lance asked.

“Do you have a black T-shirt? If so, that will be good enough. No formalities, okay? Be ready at seven tonight.”

Serge started laying out the pizzas onto their oiled trays, carefully spreading the sauces and the ingredients over each of them. He kneaded the garlic bread with the olive oil and garlic emulsion, and sliced black olives and paper thin slices of pepperoni. At seven, they placed the bread and the pizzas into the ovens and arranged the pretty red and white salad into its bowl.

Lance popped into the locker room, quickly washed up, and slipped on his black T-shirt. Smiling, he dipped his finger into the vial and touched vanilla scented oil behind his ears and at his wrists, leading down into his chest. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror.
 

He walked to the small salon and noted its cosy and cheerful atmosphere. A red and white checked tablecloth lay on the table, straw-covered bottles held candles, and daisies filled bright yellow vases. The plates were bright yellow with dainty white daisies, and the napkins were bright red. A sideboard was ready to receive the food, the yellow jugs obviously held water, and several bottles of branded soft drinks rested in ice-filled red fire buckets.

Millie looked around one more time, just as the doorbell rang.
 

Lance stood ready by the sideboard as a gaggle of happy voices approached. A veritable deluge of children poured into the salon, shouting and laughing excitedly, followed by a tall, quiet looking man and a harried, but very pretty woman in her thirties.
 

Faster than he would have believed possible, Lance found himself conveying the cartwheel-sized pizzas from the kitchen to the sideboard and to the table where they were virtually inhaled by the human locusts. Huge amounts of soft drinks were siphoned off, and the loaves of garlic bread were savagely fought over. The salad was enjoyed only by the parents and the eldest daughter, a pipe thin thirteen-year-old in the very first stages of adolescent angst over her body image.

When all that was left were crumbs, Millie signalled urgently, and Lance wheeled in the dessert trolley with the luscious tiramisu, the gelato with chocolate sauce, and a large fruit basket displaying all the splendour of an exotic summer harvest.
 

Fast work saw the locust children served before they had time to buzz a complaint. The mother, Rosette, looked absurdly relieved and thankful. Around the table, ruddy sated faces were showing heavy-lidded eyes. Jaw-cracking yawns leaped from face to face. The parents took the opportunity to thank Millie profusely, hastily ushering their sleepy offspring out the door.
 

Rosette ran back and clasped Millie’s hand warmly. “Thank you. You have no idea how I appreciate these monthly dinners.” She leaned forward. “Could you open an exception for us? Twice a month? Please Millie, you have no idea of what you’d be doing for my quality of life.”

“Rosette, I have no openings right now, but if I do, I promise I’ll consider it.”

Lance loaded the dishes and glasses onto the trolleys and carried everything back into the kitchen, where Serge was busy packing it all away in the dish washers.

“It’s nine thirty. I love those kids. They’re like vacuum cleaners, noisy, quick, and efficient.”

“Rosette wants a second dinner a month, but I don’t know . . .” Millie said.

“Every week, if she likes. We’ll do a Hamburger Night, a Pizza Night, a Lasagne Night, a Fried Chicken Night . . . whatever she likes. These are our easiest customers. They pay well, leave early, and always love the food,” Serge said.

Millie frowned. “Would that be healthy, though?”

“Come on! Not one of those kids is even a gram overweight, Millie, and you would be making those parents very, very happy,” Serge said.

“Not you, too!” she exclaimed, crossly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Shall I take you home, Millie?” Lance asked.

“If you don’t mind, Will, yes please.” She smiled. “Night, Serge. Sleep tight.”

“Good
night,
children.”

Lance opened the passenger door to the van, and helped Millie into it. He eased himself in, pulled on his seatbelt, and turned the key. “You hungry, Millie?” Lance asked. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

“A bit. Yes, we could . . . we could go to my place. I’ll whip something up?”

“Are you sure about that?”

Millie smiled. “Will you behave, Will?”

“What does
that
mean?”

“I’m not ready for sex, Will, okay?”

“Okay. Can we kiss? Touch? Pet? Hug?” Lance asked.

“Yes. But no sex.”

“Duly noted. You have my word.” He grinned at her. “Not even if you beg!”

Millie’s kitchen was all warm wood and red tile. Wooden bowls and woven baskets with fruit and vegetables stood on the counters, bunches of dried aromatic herbs, red chilies, garlic and onions hung on bronze hooks. Racks of spices—some of which he’d never heard of—hung on one wall, another held a bookcase chock-full of cookbooks in several languages, collected notes, herb-lore treatises and biographies of famous chefs.

Millie moved lightly, as if dancing. She uncorked a bottle of Californian red and poured out two glasses. “To us, Will, whatever this may be.”

“To us.” He sipped at the wine, then moved forward and sipped at her lips.
 

Millie flushed and laughed. “I’m hungry. Is a white truffle omelette okay?”

“Perfect. What can I do?” Lance asked.

“Here, grate the parmigiano. Careful though; it’s really hard.”

“Yes, Boss.”

She was enchanting to watch. Buoyed up by a patent joy, she flitted around the kitchen, efficient and economical in every motion. She chatted casually about the work, the week, the importance of the odd regulations.

“I believe food is just as addictive to some people as wine, gambling, or sex. I won’t promote addictions, Will. I have a fun business, providing pleasure, realising little fantasies and special occasions. I love what I do.”

“I can’t tell you how I’m enjoying working with you and Serge,” Lance said. “By the way, I like him enormously, and he adores you.”

“He was my dad’s best friend, did you know that?” Millie asked. “He saved me. When my father died, I was so alone, so lost. But then Serge talked me into opening Guilty Pleasures with him and it gave me something to focus on, something to live for. That was eight years ago. Serge is my family.”

“You don’t have siblings, or . . . a mother?”

“Yes and no. There is Mother . . . and my brother, Josh. Mother wanted a perfect family: one perfect daughter, one perfect son, one perfect husband. All the perfect ingredients for the perfect life.” Millie smiled sadly. “My father couldn’t stand the pressure of so much perfection, though, and had a perfectly lethal heart attack at fifty-six.”
 

“I’m so sorry, Millie,” Lance said.
 

Millie shrugged. “Josh flew the coop. He lives somewhere in Nicaragua in perfect ecstasy with a needle in his arm. Me, I took a degree in business management and decided to run a diner, as she calls it. I never married or provided her with the perfect son-in-law, or the perfect grandchildren.” She laughed. “You could say I’m a perfect disappointment.”

Lance reached over and captured her hand in his, gently raised it to his lips and kissed it. “There is nothing disappointing about you, Millicent Deafly, nothing.”

Millie smiled and expertly slid the omelettes onto the plates, arranged the greens around it, and added the parmigiano. “Eat up now, Will, while it’s still warm.”

It was delicious, as was everything of hers he’d ever tasted. “Delicious.” He groaned. “Why don’t you cook at Guilty Pleasures, too?”

“I love cooking, but only for people I care about.”

Lance smiled. “Millie, thank you for caring about me.”

She smiled back shyly. “You’re welcome.”

“Come here, Millie.”

Millie stepped toward him.

“Closer,” Lance whispered. He could feel the heat of her body leap the small distance between them.
 

Hesitantly, Millie laid her fingertips on his knees, reaching up to press her mouth against his, softly breathing him in, feeling his touch. She spoke softly, her lips stirring against his.

“I haven’t been with anyone in twelve years. I don’t even know how to kiss anymore.” The motion of her lips against his was incredibly arousing.
 

Lance parted his lips and gently caressed her. He licked at her sensitive lower lip, biting gently at that maddeningly succulent little pout, pulling her into him, pressing her hips against his.