Tantalize (15 page)

I ran into Uncle D and Ruby coming out of the front door.

“How’s it going?” I asked, my shopping bag in hand.

Uncle D shook his head. “It’s too late to do the two or three days of run-throughs with the staff. They’ll pick up menus and ingredient lists at 9
A.M.
tomorrow and try to memorize them by sunset.”

Ruby trailed her long nails down my arm. “How’s your vampire chef coming along?”

Witch. I jiggled the bag and tried to look optimistic. “Under control, but it’s not like we
need
someone to play vampire, do we?”

“I’d hate to cut the midnight toast,” Uncle D said. “It’s the crowning moment.”

I just couldn’t win. “Well, have fun.” I pecked his cheek, taking a giant step back when Ruby leaned toward me. Then, waving bye-bye, they left.

At my fave booth, I admitted to myself that, whether I liked it or not, Ruby
was
Uncle D’s only choice to play the head vampire.

Brad strolled in from the kitchen, fangs glistening, eyes glowing red, receding hair still pale blond — he’d refused to consider dying it. He was sporting his standard business casual. Geek chic, like he’d just stumbled out of a tech office on a casual Friday. Brad was tall, too, I realized. I’d noticed before of course, but tonight he wasn’t slouching. Shoulders straight, he had to top 6 feet 4 inches.

“Hi!” I handed him the bag. “This is going to look stupid on you, but try it anyway. I’m desperate.”

He humored me. The traditional chef’s hat — white, pleats — made him look too stretchy overall and he’d never clear the hallway ceiling.

I buried my face in my hands, defeated. My uncle had his heart set on Countess Ruby Sanguini.

Brad slipped the hat back into the bag. “How about I give it a shot?” He rapped his knuckles on the top of my head. “Quincie?”

I set my chin on my palms. “Hm?”

“Your uncle is paying a lot of attention to Ruby, but we’re a team, right?”

We had been spending a lot of time together.

“You’ve already laid the groundwork,” he said. “Let me do my part.”

What was left to lose? Ruby would show up tomorrow looking her usual vampish self anyway, and I was out of ideas. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

At least someone in my life was cooperative.

“It’s settled then. Hungry?”

“Thirsty, but I can eat.” And I was curious.

Brad excused himself and returned carrying two menus.
Two.

I tried to imagine. Tomorrow morning, the tables would be rearranged. Tomorrow afternoon, staff would arrive to rehearse and the dance floor would be installed. Tomorrow night, Sanguini’s guests would be seated and served . . . something.

“Prey or predator?” Brad asked at the table.

“Beg your pardon?”

His smile had a confidence I hadn’t seen since that first night with the police. “Have you yet been blessed into a vampiric being?”

“No,” I said, amused. “Not yet.”

He handed me the prey menu. “It’s about the dance. Predator and prey. That’s what seduction is, dancing.”

Was that sexy? I’d give it a C-/D+, like the ones I was getting in all my classes back when I bothered to regularly attend. Borderline sexy. “Can I see both?”

He handed me the predator menu, brushing his long fingers against mine. “I’ve prepared a tasting for you, a sampling of everything we’ll serve.”

Setting the menus side by side on the table, I ran my fingertips over the white, pressed leather, traced the gothic-style crimson lettering, and toyed a moment with each of the gold tassels. Opened both menus.

O
h my God! To think Brad had talked for hours about banal issues like northern versus southern versus pan-Italian and nixing heavy cream sauces because of the climate.

He touched the tip of his tongue to each of his fangs, then started showing off.

It wasn’t like being served dinner so much as being offered tribute. Each petite selection — two or three bites only — perched on a bone-white china plate.

Time and wine to clean the palate between.

We didn’t talk, Brad and I, alone in the dining room. He made offering after offering, and I accepted. He strolled between my table and the kitchen, my wine glass — Chianti with the prey dishes, Cab with the predator — never less than half full.

“These will make up the whole wine list,” Brad mentioned in passing. “Nothing else will be offered — no coffee, no tea. We’ll serve water only upon request.”

The prey menu first, few surprises, a sampling of the best dishes I’d vetted already. The predator menu, more daring, designed to titillate. Amazing for someone who wasn’t even Italian. Even Vaggio would’ve been wowed.

I refused to be intimidated, though. The veal tartare was exquisitely raw, the foie gras terrine predictable, the main courses — from pig’s feet to boar’s head pie — a toe-to-top invitation for the eager carnivore, the sides obligatory, but the desserts . . . The desserts were something else and something
else,
at least one of them was. I lingered over the last bite of rice pudding blood cakes. “You’re brilliant!” I declared. “Bravo!”

“Ready for the grand finale?” he asked.

I met Brad’s eyes, realizing how used to the red contacts I’d become. To me, that’s what he looked like. Otherworldly, but rooted in khakis and oxfords. Saucy, but safe. “Bring it on.”

Big talk. When the culinary virtuoso returned with the chilled baby squirrel, simmered in orange brandy, bathed in honey cream sauce, I . . .

“Problem?” Brad asked.

It wouldn’t taste bad. Everything had been delicious, decadent, and on the predator menu, devilish. The other dishes had been tiny, but on this one, he’d gone all out. Problem was, it still looked like a squirrel. A darling squirrel, skinned and naked, curled like it was trying to keep warm. It was enough to turn a cattle rancher vegan.

“I’m pretty full.”

That had sounded neutral enough, I hoped. Not like someone with bile pooling at the base of her throat.

“It’s not about volume, not this particular dish. It’s about the drama. A certain type of predator will order the squirrels to show that despite the hokey restaurant —”

“Hey!” Though he had a point.

“And clichéd counterculture staff, it’s just possible —”

“He’s a vampire,” I finished, impressed. “I get it.”

“Or she’s a vampire,” Brad put in.

I gave him a wry look.

“What?”

“Nothing. Ruby, I guess. She’s such a freak.”

The fingertip tracing a blue vein in my wrist was light, cool, attentive. It made me wonder how it might feel somewhere else.

“But we’re in the freak business,” he replied. “Aren’t you dressing up?”

Uncle D had mentioned that vamp duds and accessories would be available tomorrow in the break room in case anyone needed to augment their wardrobe. He’d looked at me in my typical blah denim and cotton T as he’d said it, though he wasn’t pushing. “I have to, I guess. It’s a huge deal, the party, and we have so many new hires. My uncle’s going to need my help.”

Brad was still touching me. “You’ve had to grow up fast.”

This was a date, I realized, Brad and me, sitting together in the black leather booth in my otherwise empty restaurant. This time, I didn’t feel guilty.

On impulse, I threaded my fingers between Brad’s, squeezed, and let go. Unscathed. I wasn’t Vaggio’s buddy anymore, I realized. Wasn’t Uncle D’s sidekick. Wasn’t Kieren’s girl. The honor-roll nobody, little orphan Quincie.

I felt adult. In control. Tantalized.

That in mind, I picked up my fork, picked up my knife, swallowed my revulsion, and ate the squirrel.

Delicious.

T
he afternoon before the debut party, Clyde found me in the break room. I had been quizzing three of the waiters, Xio, Jamal, and Mercedes, on the new menus and explaining to Xio that Brad hadn’t seemed inclined to add a whole-wheat pasta dish.

“I’ve got a delivery for you,” the Opossum said, jiggling a bag. “From Kieren.”

It was impossible to look at Clyde and not remember him clutching my pink panties. But I took the bag, peeked inside, and smiled in spite of myself.

It was a plastic container filled with habanera-stuffed olives, like Vaggio used to make. I guessed Kieren had turned to his mama’s favorite caterer. I slipped into the chaotic kitchen, stashed the olives in the fridge. Brad wasn’t in there at the moment, which was unusual, but he was around somewhere.

After much internal debate, I decided it was only polite to call. Taking a glass of Cabernet with me, I went back into the break room, where the servers were doing the happy dance over their mental brilliance. Then I went into Uncle D’s office instead.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Kieren answered, his phone voice cautious.

When did this become so hard? “I wanted to say thanks for the olives.”

“You’re welcome.”

I took a sip. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kieren replied. “I just got back from the police station. More questions. The same questions over and over.”

The police hadn’t called me back in. I remembered what Brad had said about a pending arrest. “Detective Sanchez?”

“Who?” He paused. “No, it was Bartok and Matthews, the ones who came to Vaggio’s memorial service. You know, who questioned us the night he died.”