Guilty Pleasures (4 page)

“So. How long have you known Mari?” he asked Tiny, trying to start off friendly, at least.

“We worked together a couple of years ago. She was just a dishwasher when I met her. We hit it right off. She said I was the best grill man she'd ever seen.” He grinned with pride at this, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “So when she opened up the restaurant and asked me to come, I came. I knew that she had her act together, you know? And she runs a tight ship. She doesn't take crap from anybody.”

He gave Nick a meaningful look.
So don't try giving her any,
the expression seemed to say.

Nick nodded. “And everybody else here…?”

“She's made a lot of friends,” Tiny said, shrugging. “Most of us have worked together over the years, at different times.”

“Small world,” Nick said, with only a hint of irony.

Tiny shrugged again. “So. We've got a lot of chicken to move…not everybody's buying the panfry.” Nick noticed Tiny was trying not to sound concerned by this.

“Hmm. Maybe we could try something a little different…maybe a little more exotic,” he mused. “Chicken with Molé Poblano, maybe.”

“It's up to Mari,” Tiny repeated. “Let's go over the walk-in.”

Nick listened dutifully as Tiny went over the stores in the walk-in pantry, but inwardly he seethed. He wasn't going to be much more than a grocery clerk and assistant line-chef at this rate, if the crew didn't
recognize his authority. Obviously Mari's “this is my kitchen” philosophy was bred deep.

The restaurant was obviously in trouble. He could tell that from how many supplies weren't moving. He could help her, dammit, if only she'd let him.

And you could help yourself.
A few of his dishes on the menu, and the responsibility for turning around a failing restaurant, would go a long way toward rebuilding his tarnished reputation.

“Thanks, Tiny,” he said, when Tiny was finished with his tour.

“Now you'll want to meet the crew,” Tiny said. So Nick met all of them: Zooey, the dimunitive blond pastry chef; Paulo, the sauté cook; Juan, the prep cook and self-proclaimed soup guy; Miguel, the runner and garde-manger, dishing up salads and cold dishes, getting whatever the chefs needed. All of them met Nick's greeting with a guarded sort of friendliness.

Mari was the last. “Of course, you know me,” she said, with a wink and a smile that revealed the dimple in her right cheek.

Not as well as I'm going to.

“Boss,” Tiny said, “we got a lot of chicken left over. What do you want me to do with it?”

Nick cleared his throat. “I was thinking we could make some Molé Poblano. It could be a nice addition to the menu.”

She looked at him…and the rest of the crew looked at her. This would be an important step. If she accepted his decisions, the crew would follow her lead.

Without breaking eye contact with him, she said,
“Juan? Think you can make some matzo and chicken soup?”

Nick gritted his teeth as Juan cheerfully replied, “Anything you say, boss.”

Nick didn't glare at her, but she must have sensed his ire. She addressed the crew at large. “Still, the Molé Poblano's not a bad idea. I'm going to be working on a new menu soon. Paulo, think you might be up for that if I added it?”

Paulo looked at Juan, who was grinning. “I know a great place for fresh chiles, all sorts of varieties. Fresh.”

“Fantastic.” She walked over to the window, looking out. “In the meantime, work on the soup. And Zooey, the dessert last night went over really well…why don't you make more of those seven-layer cookies?”

Zooey, he noticed, blushed with pride.

“Okay. I'll let you know what I come up with.”

With that, the crew went back to business, tossing back conversation over the burners and the bustling. Tiny went back to manning his grill and getting the fryer prepped for the lunch crowd. Unnoticed by the now-busy crew, she sidled up to Nick.

“My kitchen,” she whispered, so only he could hear her.

Nick nodded.

For the rest of the day, he worked side-by-side with the crew. If he had been younger, or in another kitchen, what had just happened would have him feeling resentful…and angry. There was a shade of that,
he realized. But seeing the way Mari interacted with her crew made him think twice. She bantered back and forth with them, not lording over like some head chefs he'd worked with. She helped out when somebody got “in the weeds,” on the few occasions when a flurry of orders came in and a chef got swamped. She wasn't afraid of getting her hands dirty. He admired her for that.

On the other hand, his body seemed constantly aware of her, and that took an edge off his anger, as well. It was hard to stay ticked off at a woman who seemed to unconsciously brush past, a quick smooth rub of hip against leg or chest against back as they maneuvered in the cramped quarters.

It's hard to stay mad when you're ragingly turned on,
his mind summed up.

His thoughts turned back to tonight…to the challenge he'd thrown down. He was going to prove a few things to her. Namely, that he needed the authority of second-in-command. That he needed her backing him. That he had the talent to deserve her support.

“Ready on eight. Coming through,” Mari sang out, and she moved past him, her soft backside brushing against the front of his crotch as she moved two full plates out of the way.

He gritted his teeth against the sensation that seemed to explode through his body. When she'd put the plates out onto the pickup window, he almost thought he saw her grinning.

He'd show her one other thing, he thought as he turned to the fridge, hoping to cool off his body's
blatant reaction. He'd show her that she wasn't the only one who could drive somebody crazy with desire.

He smiled. That was one challenge he was ready for.

 

M
ARI HAD NEVER FELT
this amped up when closing down the restaurant. She was showing Nick their closing routine: the cleaning of the grills, locking the pantries and freezers, making sure all the burners and lights were turned off and the dishes washed through, going over the best-selling and worst-selling items, locking the deposit in the safe. The restaurant would be closed the next day, and she'd go over the orders and invoices with Lindsay then.

She waved to the last shift crew and left the kitchen to the able hands of Jake, her one-man night cleanup crew. Then, with her skin practically feverish, she turned to Nick.

“All right,” she said, making her voice sound as calm, yet cocky as she possibly could. “You ready to show me something?”

She liked the way his eyes lit at the statement. “I hope you're hungry,” he said, showing a bag of ingredients that he'd selected from her stores. “I've thought up a couple of things just for you.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” she drawled, and led the way to her apartment, amazed at the way her stomach danced nervously.

She shouldn't have teased him so much today, she knew that. And to her credit, she hadn't actually
meant
to. She hadn't even said half the double-entendre
statements that had flown to mind as he'd gone over the ingredient list so solemnly with Tiny.

There was just something about him, when he went into “I'm-a-top-ranked-chef” mode, that made her want to poke at him. Push him off balance. She knew that the food community was already strangely obsessive about food—hell, she was just as bad, if it came down to it. But he was so deathly
serious,
when it ought to at least be fun. Even knowing that the restaurant could potentially be going down the tubes didn't stop her from being grateful every day that she got to do what she loved.

Then there was his little power-play, she thought, frowning as she unlocked her front door. He was trying to get her tacit approval to change the menu with that whole “why don't we try chicken with Molé Poblano” thing, after she'd told him she created all the menus. She hadn't wanted to have that public a face-off his first day, but he'd pressed the issue. Now, she felt sure he'd try to charm her…seduce her with food, as it were.

She grinned at that, dropping her keys in a pebble-filled bowl by the front door. She'd like to see him try. Sure, he made her senses sing and her common sense jump right out the window…but at the cost of her restaurant?

Fat chance.
He could do a strip tease wearing whipped cream, and he'd still get nowhere.

Momentarily, the idea of him naked and wearing some artfully placed whipped cream invaded her mind. She let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

“What's so funny?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, clenching her jaw before another laugh could escape. When she got it under control, she shrugged. “Just remembering a joke Zooey told me.”

Okay, so it would be more of a challenge than she was used to, she admitted, watching as he spread out the ingredients on the countertop. Still, she'd be strong. She'd enjoy the spectacle of a gorgeous guy cooking for her in her kitchen. She'd praise his obvious skill.

Then she'd tell him no, in no uncertain terms would he be working on the menu. And send him home.

Without sleeping with him,
she reminded herself as he bent down to look in her oven. No matter how nice his ass was.

“This hopefully won't take too long,” she said, flopping down in one of her kitchen chairs. “I'm starving.”

He turned to treat her to a slow, thoughtful stare. “The best things are worth waiting for,” he said, his voice smug. “But don't worry. I won't keep you hungry long.”

She watched as he rolled his sleeves up, revealing well-muscled forearms as well as the bulge of his biceps. “Promise?”

His smile was wickedly sensual. “I promise.”

Down, girl!
She forced herself to focus on what he was cooking. He had the makings of a salad, she noticed, and some gorgonzola. He had a small bag of
jasmine rice. He had also grabbed some of the chicken.

Just as well, she thought, her desire and distraction ebbing for a moment. The chicken wasn't selling well. One more thing to worry about.

“So. What am I in for tonight?” she said, hoping to lighten her mood.

His expression was smug. “It's a surprise.”

“Hmm.” She made a show of looking skeptically at his selection. “I'm still waiting to be impressed.”

“Give me time,” he murmured.

She watched, and she hated to say it…she
was
impressed. He was deft with a knife, cutting the chicken with almost artistic motions, like it was some sort of martial art. He was showing off, she knew, but he was still damned quick about it, browning the chicken in butter, juicing Meyer lemons, adding white wine and the juice and some capers. The sauce smelled heavenly, and her stomach rumbled in response.

“You're killing me,” she said, walking to stand next to him and inhale deeply. “Tell me you're going to be ready soon.”

“You keep this up,” he said, his eyes glowing, “and I'm going to blindfold you.”

She started to make a quick comeback, but he was quicker. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching around her to get a bag of pecans. His arm brushed gently against her breasts, and she almost moaned at the quick tightening of her nipples in response. She shot an accusing look at him.

“Sorry,” he said, and she could have sworn he
meant it. “You've got a small kitchen. Maybe you should sit at the table?”

His voice was innocent. Still, his eyes smoldered—she wasn't just imagining that.

Considering the unexpected heat currently jetting through her system, she agreed with him. She sat down, giving herself time to cool off…and wonder if maybe this wasn't as bright an idea as she had originally thought.

In a surprisingly short period of time, he said “dinner's on” and presented her with two courses…a pear-and-gorgonzola salad with pecans he'd candied on the stovetop, and lemony chicken piccata.

“This is it?” She felt relief burst through her. Saying no to him would be easier than she'd thought. “A salad and Chicken Piccata? Third graders could make this.”

The smug expression didn't waver. “Just taste it first,” he said, sitting down with his own plates.

She looked at him dubiously, then took a bite of the salad. The mix of the sharp cheese and the mild pear contrasted with the bitterness of endive, the sourness of the balsamic vinaigrette, and the surprising sweetness of the pecans. She let out a low moan as the taste processed through her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the complexity.

When she opened them, she saw that his eyes were low-lidded and fixed on hers.

“Still simple?” he said mildly.

“Shut up,” she said. “I'm having a religious experience.”

He grinned and did as told.

They were simple foods—deceptively simple. But the chicken was tender as a dream, and the Meyer lemons made the concoction sweeter than the recipe normally called for. He'd cut the sweetness with olives, unusual for the dish but still a good choice.

He was showing her:
If I can do this with something this basic, imagine what I could do if you let me loose.

She could just imagine, she thought, studying his smile.

When she finished, she sighed, feeling the warm, sated feeling of someone who had eaten truly inspired good food. “What, no dessert?”

His responding grin made him look boyish. “Are you kidding? Dessert's the best part of the meal.”

She batted her eyes at him. “A man after my own heart.”

He got up, and she noticed a bag she hadn't seen before. He pulled out a plastic container and a spoon.

“I whipped this up this afternoon, when you were going over receipts with Lindsay. It's a fairly simple recipe, too,” he said, “And usually I'd have some whipped cream and raspberries with it. But I think you'll get the idea.”