One More Taste (22 page)

Emily pulled a paperback thriller from her purse and flipped to page 100. With Haylie looking on, she scribbled detailed directions to her apartment, right over the text. Better to write the instructions out longhand instead of a mere address so Haylie wouldn't have to look up directions on an internet search engine if she decided to go, since Wendell could find her that way. And Haylie could keep the book close to her, in her car or purse, without anyone being the wiser. She tucked the key inside, then walked to a bookshelf she'd seen in the living room.

Carina was busying herself using the side of a magazine to push the broken vase pieces into a pile.

With Haylie watching, Emily slid the thriller between two other paperbacks.

“Where's your broom and dustpan?” Carina said.

Haylie hurried to her side and took the magazine from her hands. “I can finish on my own. You two have to leave. He'll be back any time.”

Carina stood, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “Please come with us, Haylie. Please.”

Haylie looked past her sister to Emily, as though Emily were her only ally—the only one who understood her plight. Yes, they were both survivors, but the truth was Emily didn't understand, not deep down, not really. She would never be able to understand on an elemental level why a battered woman remained in her abusive situation. She only knew what she'd seen with her mom. Emily had rejected her abuse and fled as soon as she was old enough to survive on her own. She didn't know what it meant to choose to stay.

Emily looped an arm around Carina's shoulders and pulled her out the door. “You know how to reach us if you need anything,” Carina told Haylie. “I'll be pissed if you don't call us.”

“No more cops,” Haylie said.

Emily wouldn't promise that, and judging by Carina's silence, neither would she. At the car, Emily pulled Carina into her arms as her friend's silent tears gave way to wrenching sobs.

Emily held her tight. “We're going to get her out of there. I promise. She's going to get through this. Someday, she's going to be the strongest badass of all badasses that ever were. She's going to rise and she's going to live a wonderful, happy life pursuing her dreams. She's going to soar.”

“Like you did,” Carina croaked.

Emily wasn't soaring yet, but she was getting there, one meal at a time for Knox.

 

Chapter Twelve

With the heady aroma of simmering tomato sauce filling the air, Knox stood in his empty kitchen and surveyed the mess. It looked like Emily had paused mid-dinner prep. An unopened bag of Fritos chips sat on the counter, along with a cold bowl of grits topped with melted and cooled white cheese. On the island, a glass jar sat, the shrimp inside visible through a layer of condensation. More ingredients were strewn over the counters.

The pan on the stove was cool to the touch. He opened the lid and found chili, cold. His eyes again found the bag of Fritos.
Frito Pie? Really?
That was hardly the obvious choice for an accomplished chef.

Then again, Emily was no ordinary chef. Frito Pie had been his father's favorite meal. No doubt Knox's mother had given Emily the idea, but he no longer cared that she'd used his mother for insider information because the relief that his exile to Gastronomyville was over superseded all annoyance over her methods.

The question now was, where was the chef? The house felt empty, but Emily's silver hatchback sat squarely in the driveway, right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance as though she owned the place, so she had to be around somewhere. Asleep on his bed again, perhaps?

Doubtful.
That was a slippery slope that neither of them dared start down.

He walked through the house calling her name, then stepped out to the deck. The evening was blustery. Wind whipped at his hair and dried leaves scuttled across his deck. The time change was a couple of weeks away, so the glow of dusk still saturated the hills, even at the dinner hour. He strode with purpose along the deck, then down to the lake's edge, peering in the boathouse and along the trail that led to the lookout point on the hill above his home. It was as though Emily had vanished into thin air.

Back in the kitchen, he texted her.
Where are you?

He held the phone, awaited her reply. Nothing.

He felt like a whiny, 1950s-era husband.
Where's the little woman and why isn't she in the kitchen ready to serve me dinner when I get home from work?

Yes, she was probably still furious about their momentary insanity at his mom's house, but there was no way she'd go from creating culinary masterpieces to brushing him off with a lowbrow dinner cooling on the stove. Impossible that she'd leave the kitchen such a mess. She was a professional, and she wanted the restaurant too much. The truth reminded him that, as opposed to a whiny husband, he was her boss. He was entitled by their arrangement to expect her here, cooking for him, every night this month.

And what of next month?
he caught himself wondering. Then fear jolted him out of his selfishness. What if something were wrong with Emily—an emergency, an accident? Could she have been kidnapped? Impossible. But what if?

Are you okay?
he texted.

The minutes ticked by. Nothing.

Rather than text again, he called, but her phone flipped to voicemail instantly. He called her office next, but the phone in her office at the resort rang on and on.

He was about to call Carina when the kitchen door opened and Emily trudged in. Her face was drawn and her eyes red-rimmed.

Knox hurried to her and braced his hands on her shoulders. “What happened?”

Eyes downcast, she wrenched her body away and walked to the stove. “I was hoping you weren't home yet.”

He strode after her, but ground to a halt a few feet away and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The way she hunched away from him, stiff and private, reminded him anew that he had no business imposing himself on her personal life and he certainly had no business touching her. “No such luck. Your car was in the driveway, so how did you get here? Did you walk from somewhere?”

With a shake of her head, she picked up the chef's knife, then set it down again, as though she couldn't quite remember what she needed it for. Her hand lighted over the jar of shrimp, then touched the rim of the grits bowl. He'd never seen her frazzled like this, not even at his mother's house, after they'd …

He shook the thought away. A little tough to establish professional distance when his thoughts kept sliding back to that night.

“I got a ride from a friend,” Emily said. “Sorry that dinner's going to be late. It couldn't be helped.” With that, she turned the burner under the pot on.

“What happened tonight? What's wrong?”

She turned to face him, but her haunted expression only left him with more questions. All he knew was, he wasn't going to let her cook. She was too distracted to be anything more than a hazard to herself. What she needed was TLC, not to serve him. “Forget the Frito Pie. And forget cooking, too. I had a great day and I'd love to celebrate. With you. Let's go out to a restaurant instead.”
Jesus, man. So much for keeping a professional distance.
“It would be an informative exercise,” he added in haste. “You could choose a restaurant that's the critics' darling right now and critique it for me. Explain how you would do it better.”

“Briscoe Ranch is out in the boonies. The hottest restaurants in Texas are hundreds of miles away and probably booked solid since it's Friday night.”

A legitimate point, one he should agree with so they could move back to solid, professional ground. “One, I have access to a helicopter. And two, Shayla's an expert at last-minute reservations for everyone at the equity firm. She has yet to be turned down for a reservation on my behalf.”

“I forget that you're a billionaire.”

“Multimillionaire. I'm still a little less than halfway to a billion in assets and investments.” And didn't he sound like the biggest douchebag in history, clarifying that for her? “But most of it is tied up.”

Her eyes lit, sharp with humor. The only trace of her former distress was the red rimming her eyes. “So you're an underachiever, is what you're saying? Okay. But just so we're clear, I'm definitely judging you on that.”

“Oh, had you stopped judging me for a moment there?”

She inhaled slow and deep through her nose, as though waking up and drawing life and hope into her body once more.

He filled a glass with water and delivered it to the counter next to her hand. “Name the restaurant and I'll give Shayla a call.”

She lifted the glass and drank deeply of the water. Her hand trembled with the effort. Perhaps she hadn't rebounded as swiftly as she wanted him to believe. “A friend of mine is in an abusive relationship. There was an incident today and I tried to help. That's why I'm late.”

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting the reason for her absence to be, but that sure wasn't it. “Is she out of the situation now?”

Emily set the glass down too hard. Not because she seemed angry, but as though her storming emotions had robbed her of complete control of her body. “No. She won't leave. She's stuck there, believing she deserves it. That's the way it is, you know? You absorb the shame of it until you're nothing. That's the most horrible part about abuse. For most victims, there is no rock bottom. It's a well that never ends.”

She shuttered her expression again and turned away, her gaze on the lake through the window.

Knox didn't know the first thing about abusive relationships, but Emily had spoken as though she did. She couldn't be talking about herself, could she? The inimitable Emily Ford was no victim, and as far as he knew, she wasn't involved with anyone. God, he hoped not, on both accounts. Then again, how could he be sure? He knew practically nothing about her outside of her culinary skills and her friendship with the Briscoes. The realization floored him. He'd slept with her, she had a key to his house, she knew his father's favorite meal, and yet she was a complete enigma to him.

“I wish there was a way to help your friend,” he said.

She sniffled, then released a long, slow exhalation. “I might hold you to that offer someday.”

The possibility rose in his mind again that she was the one in trouble. “I hope you do. And in the meantime, where should we dine tonight?”

She only had to think for a moment. “The Smoking Gun.”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“It's a restaurant in Austin,” she said. “You'd love it, if Shayla can get us in, which would be a huge
if
. They've been booking more than a month out.”

“That won't be a problem.”

She smoothed a self-conscious hand down her front, the white T-shirt stretching over her curves. “I guess I'd better borrow a dress from Carina.”

Another dress …
He wasn't sure his heart could take it. Would she let her hair down? Would she be true to her bold streak and wear comfortable flats or slip her feet into delicate, strappy high-heels? The thrill of discovery coursing through him should have been enough of a warning flag to spur him to cancel.

He watched her lift the glass of water for another drink, her hands steadier now. At least his dinner plan had succeeded in calming her nerves, though a weary sheen settled over her eyes once more.

“I'll meet you at the resort's helipad in an hour,” he said.

*   *   *

According to Emily, this was her first time in a helicopter. If the idea of death-defying height and the careening through the sky in something barely larger than the size of her car had made her anxious, she didn't show it as they boarded the helicopter that Shayla had called for them from a private airfield in San Antonio.

Even if Emily had been on edge, there was no way it compared to Knox's nervous anticipation of sitting across the table from her in a candlelit restaurant. Especially with her looking so extraordinarily beautiful tonight. She'd worn her curly hair down so that it skimmed her shoulders and brushed against the black dress that seemed perfectly molded to her every curve. Keeping his eyes on her face was proving a Herculean task.

Ty had watched their every move from a golf cart at the edge of the heliport. For all Knox's determination not to give the impression of impropriety with Emily, he sure was failing at that tonight, whisking her away for a nine o'clock reservation, right from their place of business out in the open for all to see.

“It's a rush, isn't it? Having that much money at your disposal,” she said once they were in the air.

“It has its perks.”

“It's no wonder you weren't impressed with my lowly, no-name credentials when you first came to Briscoe Ranch. Why would you be when you can dine on meals created by the finest chefs in the world with the snap of your fingers?”

He wasn't sure what to say to that that wouldn't get him in trouble. She was correct on all fronts, but her analysis was only part of the story. “Then what does it say about your charisma and your skills that you've made me see how narrow my vantage point about food was?”

She smiled a little at his words, then settled back to enjoy the view.

A car was waiting for them at the private airfield where they touched down. Knox insisted on helping her jump out of the helicopter, which she probably only allowed because the strappy black heels she wore looked precarious indeed. Her hand was small and cool to the touch. But still, he found the willpower to release it when she was safely on the ground.

She allowed for his help again when they reached the restaurant. This time, after he pulled her from the car, he didn't let her hand go, but tucked it into the crook of his arm, shocked all over again that she would allow it.