Guilty Pleasures (17 page)

“Insecure much?” she replied, and was gratified to see his color rise.
Well, you started it.

“No. I'm just wondering if it was love that made
you make such a stupid decision.” He shook his head. “I can't think of any other reason for it…although that reason is baffling enough.”

“Like it's something you'd understand,” she said, turning back to the window.

“He doesn't even know, does he?” Phillip said, his tone colored with surprise. “How noble. How very
sacrificing.
”

“It was my decision,” Mari said sharply, turning to him. “And I decided I'm not going to change what I do and what I am, just because an insecure, self-serving jackass is threatened by the man I love. No matter
what
happens.”

“So your restaurant means that little to you, then?” Phillip said quietly.

“My restaurant means everything to me.” Mari's voice shook, and she cursed the little sign of weakness. “But I can live with out it if it means not giving in to you.”

“It must be nice,” Phillip said, and she looked at him, because his voice wasn't mocking…she could've sworn he actually meant what he was saying.

“What must be nice?”

“Not to have to answer to anyone. To be that strong.” Phillip's voice was thoughtful…then the usual sneer appeared on his face, and Mari wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing. “Of course, giving up your restaurant for a guy you're sleeping with could be categorized as something else. Say, stupid.”

“I think you have to have a heart to understand,” Mari said.

“Touché.” Phillip shook his head. “Well. You've made your decision. You know what happens.”

“If Nick wins, he can go anywhere he wants—do anything he wants,” Mari said. She hated the fact that even if the restaurant could have somehow miraculously survived, there was still the possibility he would leave. Still, watching Phillip blanch was worth it. “Shutting the restaurant down isn't going to stop him…it's just going to give him no regrets when he moves on.”

He scowled at her. “You're just trying to save yourself.”

“You would think that,” Mari said, shaking her head and walking down the hallway. “See you at the finish line, Phillip.”

She walked back to the Guilty Pleasures station. All the chefs in the auditorium were now riveted to the podium. The final entries had been judged, and now the judges were meeting in a separate room and tabulating the scores.

“Hey. I was worried. You took a long time,” Nick said, staring at her face. “You look pale.”

She noticed he was the only one not watching for the judge's door to open. In fact, he looked cooler than anyone in the room. As if he didn't care about the outcome at all.

She thought back of what Phillip said…and what she'd responded. If they won, he'd have lots of opportunities. He would definitely be moving on.

And what will I do?

At least she could be with him, she thought. But
her heart still mourned as the fact of their competing sunk in.

I'm going to be losing the one thing I dreamed of.

It was harder than she expected. She felt the stabbing pain of loss.

“I'm just waiting to see what happens,” she finally answered him, as he put an arm around her shoulders.

“Won't be long now.”

He was right. A short, mustached judge with silver hair and bushy black eyebrows stepped up to the podium. “We have the results,” he said in dire tones.

The chefs held a collective breath.

“We will be reading off the rankings of the top five restaurants, then we'll post the listings of the remaining competitors,” he said, rustling papers on the podium, either ignoring the crowd's impatience or deliberately building up the tension. Finally, he said, “The fifth runner-up is…Henri's of Chicago, for their entry ‘City in Springtime.'”

Mari barely noticed the low cheer, somewhere to her right.

“The fourth-runner up…Le Chapeau Noir of San Francisco, for ‘Windows and Doorways'!”

Mari tensed at that, then grinned. Fourth place.
Wonder how he feels about that?
It was small comfort—after all, he was still top five—but the fact that he hadn't won, that they might actually
beat
him, was a small balm on her heart.

“The third-runner up…Il Fortunado from Florence, for ‘Il Vesperi'! Second-runner up…Spoonful of Boston, for ‘Quilt'!”

Mari closed her eyes. There was still a chance…

“And the winner of the hundred-and-fifty thousand dollar prize and the title of Champion du Internationale is…”

The words drew out, as if in slow motion.

“Reinquist's of Los Angeles, for their dynamic entry ‘Midnight Garden'! Congratulations!”

There was an explosion of applause. Mari was momentarily deafened. She felt pain, and disappointment…and a strange numbness. She looked at Nick.

He, she noticed, was looking at her.

Oh, God,
she thought, with a blinding flash of insight.
Not only have I lost the restaurant, I've screwed up his chances, as well. I've ruined it for both of us.

N
ICK KNEW THAT
the competition had taken its toll on Mari. Their loss had stung him as well, but at least he'd been prepared for it. Now, she was listless, and nothing he could do or say would in any way change her mind. They'd closed the restaurant for the weekend in anticipation of that Saturday challenge. Now, it was Sunday, and Mari had stayed in bed, wrapped up, seemingly unwilling to move. He'd tried comforting her, but everything he said or did didn't seem to put a dent in her depression.

“I'd just like to be alone for a little while,” Mari had said instead, and even though it frustrated him, he respected her wishes.

Maybe I'll cook her something,
Nick thought, pacing around his house finding restlessness catching. Then he thought about the competition, and how cooking her something special would probably remind her of it.
On second thought, maybe I'll just bring fast food and some movies.

He sat down on his couch, at loose ends. He'd spent so much time at Mari's that this place seemed strange to him.

There was a knock on his door, and he went
to answer it. When he opened the door, his eyes widened.

“Mr. Marceau,” he said, astonished. “And Mrs. Marceau.”

“See, Phillip? He does still live here,” Mrs. Marceau said lightly. Now Nick noticed their son behind them, standing on the steps with a look of pure venom on his face. “We've missed seeing you at the house, haven't we, Charles?”

Mr. Marceau had nodded in agreement. “Since we were in town, we thought we'd stop by and tell you ourselves—your entry was remarkable, absolutely remarkable. If you hadn't been with that group of losers, I think you would have swept the competition.”

Now it was Nick's turn to frown. “They're not—”

“Never mind,” Mr. Marceau said, and he made his way into the living room, his wife and Phillip following behind. Phillip was obviously loath to come in, but at his father's insistent glare, he did, remaining standing as his parents made themselves comfortable.

Nick, in sweats and a T-shirt, felt distinctly out of place.

“I have to say, this visit isn't purely social,” Charles Marceau said, his voice deep and commanding. “There's some things that have been drawn to my attention…namely, you.”

Phillip paced nervously, his arms crossed.

“You managed to make something from nothing, and after an internal audit, I discovered that the, ah,
allegations
against you at Le Chapeau Noir were falsified.”

Now Phillip turned pale. “What is this? You said you just wanted to see Nick!”

“See him, and show you something at the same time,” his father said, and now his tone turned sharp. “You set Nick up. And once he left, you tried changing the menu. I read the financial reports, Phillip. Do you have any idea how much business we've lost since Nick left?”

Phillip frowned. “The economy…”

“The economy, nothing.” Charles's face turned slightly reddish. “Nick managed to turn around a little glorified version of ‘Hooters' and get it written up in
Food & Wine
magazine! You've got a four-star staff at your command, and you only get a blurb in
Saveur!
”

Nick smirked at this, and Phillip glared at him. “This is all very, um, interesting,” Nick said. “And if you could clear my name and the allegations with the rest of the culinary world, I'd appreciate it.”

“I'm going to do better than that, my boy,” Mr. Marceau said. “Nick, I've wanted to offer this to you for a long time…should've done it with Chapeau, but that's neither here nor there. We're opening a restaurant in New York…something exotic, different, really high-end. I want you to helm it. You can name it whatever you want, put whatever you want on the menu…you're the final decision maker. And the budget will be large.”

Now Phillip turned purple. “What are you saying?”

“Son, you messed up with Chapeau by getting rid of Nick. I didn't believe you when you made your accusations, and I should've known that you'd throw away Internationale.”

“We placed fourth!”

“Ha. Fourth. You should have won, and you knew it.” Charles's voice was like thunder. “You'll be lucky if I even keep that high-priced restaurant of yours before I'm through. Now be quiet!”

Phillip did.

Charles nodded, as if satisfied there would be no further outbursts. “As I was saying…”

“Mr. Marceau, this is all very sudden,” Nick said, his head reeling. Charles Marceau was offering to finance a restaurant for him—under his complete control. He was offering him everything he'd ever wanted or dreamed of. And Phillip's allegations were being proven wrong…while Phillip himself was possibly being put out of business. “I need time to think about it.”

“I expect nothing less from you. I'm sure it'll need negotiating,” Charles said, with a crafty smile. “Well, we'll leave you to think about it.” He pressed his business card into Nick's hand. “Don't take too long, now.”

“Um, no,” Nick said.

Mrs. Marceau—Marjorie—kissed his cheek, then smiled, her face plastic-surgery tight. “We always did like you, Nick.”

He turned to Phillip, seeing the pain and hatred in his eyes. Nick felt no sense of triumph at this, only a hollow twinge of pity.

“Congratulations,” Nick said.

Phillip glowered and left. His parents followed him out the door and to the waiting limo.

Nick closed the door, and put his head against it.

Holy crap.

All he'd ever wanted. All he'd ever dreamed of.

In New York.

Away from Mari.

He shook his head. He needed to talk to her. Tonight.

 

M
ARI HAD AT LAST MANAGED
to get up and shower, then throw some clothes on, but that was about as productive as her day had been so far. Now, it was early evening. Nick would be here soon.

I have to figure out some way to tell him what's happened. That we'll all be looking for jobs.

Would he be angry? Of course he would be. She should have told him—it had been beyond foolish of her not to. But then what? Would he stay? Leave?

She wasn't eager to find out.

There was a knock at her door, and she walked to it, puzzled. Nick now had a key to her place. Maybe it was the crew, she thought, wincing. She'd have to tell them, too, that they'd soon be out of jobs once the restaurant closed down.

She peered through the peephole. Then she opened the door.

“Phillip Marceau. I wasn't expecting to see you so soon,” she said bitterly. “Serving me with eviction papers, I assume? Or just here to gloat?”

“Not gloating. What the hell do I have to gloat about?” he asked, shaking his head.

Mari eyed him skeptically. “You mean, besides that whole fourth-place-in-Internationale thing?”

“It means less than nothing.” And to her shock, he really looked like he believed that. “May I come in?”

Mari backed away and he entered her apartment.

“I suppose you know about Nick?” he asked.

She felt her heart start beating harder against her rib cage. “What about Nick?”

“My parents. They always loved him, even back when I was in school.”

It suddenly struck her—there was the slightest slur in his voice.
He's drunk,
she realized. He was drunk, and he'd made his way here.

“What does that—”

He held up a hand. “The thing is, they knew he was a better chef than I was. And even though I was good with the money, good with ordering, good at
managing
…they didn't care. They wanted the
celebrity.
They wanted the
talent.
” He all but spat out the words. “And they wouldn't even front me the money to open my own restaurant unless I brought Nick along as acting head chef.”

Mari's eyes widened. Nick hadn't mentioned that. Maybe he hadn't known, either.

“I thought I could convince them, and I thought I was winning them over,” Phillip said, in a plaintive
voice. The liquor had loosened his tongue, obviously. “I wasn't. I couldn't. Nick Avery could do no wrong. So I started doing things. I refused to enter Chapeau in any competitions while he was head chef. I started arguing with him over the menu. And my parents kept taking his side.”

Phillip grew red. Mari listened, fascinated.

“I knew I couldn't take it anymore. I told my parents, since Le Chapeau was doing so well, I wanted to order a second location. I thought that if I could just get away from Nick, get out of his damned shadow…I'd have a chance. And do you know what they told me?” He didn't even wait for her to answer, just looked at her with pale blue eyes full of pain. “They said it would fail if I didn't have Nick, and they weren't willing to spare him. They thought I was just a lackey who took his orders. A lackey…to
Nick.
And they favored him over their own goddamn
son.
”

He looked at her, pleading. “Have you ever known what it's like,” he said, his voice heartbreakingly low, “to have someone love a
restaurant
more than they love you? To think that talent and success is the only valid measure of how much they can care? What kind of humans feel that way?”

Mari sighed. “I'm sorry, Phillip,” she said, and meant it.

He shrugged, and drew himself up straight. “As am I. I just wanted to let you know…I'm not going to foreclose on your restaurant. You were right at Internationale. I can't hurt him. I'll just make it easier for him to leave.”

“Let's just see if you still feel that way tomorrow,” Mari said. She felt bad for the guy, especially in light of what he'd just shared. But a man didn't go from Genghis Khan to Cuddles the Bunny overnight. “You're, ah, going to get home okay, right?”

“You mean the drink, I suppose,” Phillip said, with a tone of injured pride. “If you're overly concerned, my driver is parked downstairs. Still, I assure you, I'm not going to be changing my mind. I'm not angry with you. And hurting you isn't going to hurt Nick anymore, anyway.” He sighed. “I'm starting to believe nothing will. Especially not now. Lucky bastard.”

“What do you mean?” Mari asked. Phillip was starting to walk with a dignified lurch toward the front door, but he turned back to her, his eyes light blue and full of sorrow.

“Don't you know?” he asked slowly. “Nick's taking a job. With my family. They're having him open up his own restaurant in New York, damn him.”

Mari felt her heart hit her stomach and burn there.

 

N
ICK WALKED UP THE STREET
to Mari's apartment, deep in thought. The restaurant, his own restaurant, the thing he'd dreamed of his whole life…or Mari, the woman he never realized he'd been waiting for his entire life.

Where did that leave him?

Would she go with me, I wonder?
No, probably not, he answered himself. Her restaurant was her family. She wouldn't leave them in the lurch, unemployed. Even if he gave her the time to find them new
positions, he doubted she'd want to go to New York, anyway.

In front of Mari's apartment, he paused, looking up at the rendition of her face, just across the street, on the sign. The faint naughtiness of it, the rough-sexy feel of it. And if you looked at Mari, that's what you saw—and sensed. A rough, raw, elementally sexy woman. And if you got to know her—well, then you knew her as he knew her, as a talented, imaginative chef, a sensitive soul. A wonderful friend. A wonderful
woman.

How could he leave?

He walked up the steps slowly, then started to unlock it. She opened the door, and he caught his breath.

She was wearing her jeans, holes in the knees, her hair tumbling in rough, haphazard waves, the purple streak a rebellious match for her slumberous eyes. “I was wondering when you'd get here.” She wore a T-shirt, cut short to reveal her belly-button, the sleeves removed to show her nicely toned arms. She smiled, her lower lip almost pouting in its fullness.

“Mari,” he said, “we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” she said, then reached out and tugged him gently into the apartment.

The air was perfumed with something floral—jasmine, maybe, or ylang ylang, a sensual hint. It wasn't anything special—no seduction scene.

It was her scent, he noted. It was
her.

She leaned against the couch. “So. What do you want to talk about?” Her violet eyes were clear, piercing.

“Mari,” he said, his own voice rough. He reached for her, and she stepped into his arms as his mouth searched for hers, finding it with a rough urgency. “Mari,” he breathed against her lips.

They made their way up the stairs to the loft. She sank down, incongruously tough-looking in the diaphanous sheets. And that was when it hit him—she portrayed her toughness for the world to see, but this was the real Mari—fragile, ethereal, full of grace.

“I love you,” he murmured, and her face went from aggressively sexual to unguarded…innocent-looking, almost wary. She reached for him, and he pressed tiny kisses against her jawline, down her neck, until her breathing increased in speed. She sighed, leaning back, letting him take off her shirt with tender care. She wasn't wearing a bra beneath, and her breasts jutted forward, cream white with the deep redness of her nipples taut and erect. He could see her pulse, beating steadily in the column of her throat. He reached for her jeans, and she reached for his shirt, starting to undo the buttons securing it. He nipped at her fingertips, and she smiled…not the naughty smile, not a sexual smile. Just one of great happiness.

He let her ease the shirt off of his shoulders, and he tugged her jeans off, first one leg, then the other. She was wearing a pair of delicate pale lilac panties, edged at the top in lace. She looked at him hesitantly, and then reached for his pants. To his surprise, her fingers fumbled at the button, and he helped her, his fingers closing over hers. He let his pants drop to the floor, then closed his eyes and groaned as she ran her
long fingers, trailing over the erection that bulged against the opening of his boxers, smoothing over the planes of his thighs.