Thoroughly Kissed (20 page)

“What do you plan to do?” Michael asked.

“I don't know,” she said. Then she turned to him. “You remember what this place was like before?”

“Of course.”

“But you're not supposed to.”

He frowned. “What do you mean I'm not supposed to.”

“You're mortal. You're supposed to change with the change. It always happens. I wonder if everyone else remembers.”

She glanced out the window. She didn't seen any reporters or photographers or panicked people, but that didn't mean anything. It was still early.

“You're saying you did a spell by accident and you did it wrong?”

“Gee,” she said, “what would be the chances of that?”

He looked at her sideways. “I don't think this is anything to joke about.”

“What do you want me to do? Run around screaming? I did that with poor Darnell and see where it got us.”

“It got him changed back.”

“Not the screaming,” she said.

Darnell was looking at her, his ears back. If anything, he seemed a little alarmed.

“I'm not going to even try to spell you ever again,” she said.

He turned his head back toward the window, but his ears remained cocked. In fact, his entire body was tense. Apparently he had decided flight was the only way he could prevent another lion fiasco.

“Emma,” Michael said, “we have to do something.”

She rather liked the “we,” but she didn't say so. “There may not be anything we can do.”

“You'll leave all these chefs here, and the new restaurant?”

“Until I've learned how to fix it,” she said. “I might have to.”

He gave her a look of such utter horror that she had to turn away. Michael, who liked rules and order and everything in its place. She hadn't realized how much of a nightmare this trip might be for him.

“Come on,” she said. “Let's go down there.”

“And do what?” he said.

“Fifty world-famous chefs,” she said. “Don't you think at least one of them can cook a good breakfast?”

But she wasn't really thinking of breakfast as she led Michael out of the room and down the hall. She was hoping that her subconscious had broken a rule and that she might survive on a technicality.

Aethelstan was one of the world's greatest chefs. He had marketed his own line of cookbooks and gourmet items under the name of his restaurant, Quixotic. If luck were running with her, then he would be in that kitchen—or at least in Sioux Falls—and he would probably be hopping mad.

She smiled at the thought. That wouldn't be so unusual with Aethelstan and her.

Then she sobered. Magic wasn't supposed to be used to get her together with her mentor. But she would argue with the Fates—or have Nora, who was a very good lawyer—do it. After all, if Aethelstan were here, he would have been summoned because he was a good
chef
not because of his magical abilities. And that, Emma had learned, was one of those technicalities that could wrap the Fates up for centuries.

“There are a lot of emotions running across your face.” Michael sounded grumpy. Later she would have to warn him that he needed to be flexible to survive the rest of this trip.

“Just trying to figure out how to resolve this,” she said.

He nodded and followed her the rest of the way.

The corridors looked the same as they had the day before, but the changes first became noticeable in the lobby. Large signs with elegant writing pointed the way to
Le
Chef
. And all of the signs had that
Esquire
quote underneath.

“You have created a monster,” Michael said, looking at the signs.

Emma's stomach tightened. She walked to the front desk. Michael followed.

“Excuse me,” she said to the man behind the counter. He was fiftyish and looked tired. She couldn't tell if he was ready to go home to bed or if he had just gotten out of it.

When he looked up at her, the weariness seemed like a warning:
this
had
better
not
be
a
problem
. Then his gaze rested on her face, and he smiled. The smile held too much warmth.

“May I help you, miss?” he asked, leaning toward her.

Michael came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. The desk clerk's smile lost a bit of its brilliance.

“Yes,” she said. “We were wondering how long the restaurant's been open.”

“It's open from six to midnight, miss.” The desk clerk spoke slowly, forcing his voice deeper than it normally went just to impress her. Michael slipped his arm around her back. She stiffened, but didn't move away.

“No,” she said, “I mean, how many years?”

“Oh.” The clerk glared at Michael, who glared back. “Two.”

“Two? Wow,” Emma said. “I was under the impression that the place was being remodeled.”

“No,” the clerk said. “Why would we remodel it? Even the decor gets raves.”

“Talented designer,” Michael said.

“I wouldn't know.” The clerk didn't even look at him.

“What would you recommend for breakfast?” Emma asked.

“Anything's good,” the clerk said. “Best food I've ever tasted.”

“That's a recommendation,” Michael said.

The clerk's eyes narrowed, and Emma stifled the urge to smile. Insults, Midwestern style. Dry little comments that seemed so innocent to the rest of the world. She would miss that too, in Oregon.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him her most charming smile. As she turned to walk away, Michael turned with her, keeping his arm around her back, pulling her even closer. His body felt good against hers. He was lean without an ounce of fat on his frame. She wanted to put her own arm around his back, feeling the muscles beneath his thin cotton shirt, but she didn't.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I didn't like the way he looked at you.”

“Get used to it,” she said. “All men look at me like that.”

Michael's eyebrows went up. “Did I?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you had the grace to seem upset about it.”

They left the lobby and entered a corridor that had been built to resemble the hall of a sixteenth-century castle. The walls were high, the ceiling even higher. The space was done in gold and antiques, with stained glass on the upper edges of the arched windows.

Michael's arm tightened around her. “My God. You did this?”

“Well, if I didn't, whoever did had a great peek into my dreams last night.”

No wonder she felt odd. Dreams were supposed to be private, not be enlarged into a Disneyland-sized ride.

Two gilt doors stood open. A maître d' stood just inside, leaning on his podium as if he expected a rush of undesirables at seven in the morning. The closer Emma got, the more she realized that the area he was in was small and protected, like an anteroom. The real restaurant was behind him. She could only catch a glimpse of light and space mixed with greenery and plants before he spoke.

“Table for two?”

Michael looked at her.

“Yes,” she said, trying to peer beyond the maître d'.

“Table for two,” he said and that made her look at him, really look at him for the first time. In addition to his morning suit, he wore a microphone set like telephone solicitors did. After a moment, he nodded. “It will be just a moment. Step toward the front please.”

“I'm half ready for them to close a metal bar in front of me and tell me to enjoy the ride,” Michael said.

Emma nodded. She stepped forward and heard herself gasp.

The room before her was made mostly of glass with gold supports. Plants were everywhere, shielding tables, making dining private. The floor was a star-covered black that made all the morning sunlight somehow bearable. The ceiling had varied heights, which artificially created the sense of small alcoves in the large space.

The size of the place was what astonished her the most. It was at least as large as the hotel. Tables and plants and glass disappeared into the distance on both sides.

“You have a hell of an imagination,” Michael said.

“You've told me that before,” Emma murmured, still looking around.

“Yeah, well, I was speaking from limited knowledge then. Now I'm speaking with authority.”

A slender blond woman wearing a black suit walked toward them. She too had a microphone set. “Table for two?” she said as if she knew the answer. “Come with me.”

She led them down two steps into the main dining room. As they walked past the first set of plants, Emma realized that the dining room had been broken up into several special areas. One included a wood smoke oven and grill where a chef worked all alone—like a solo performer warming up an audience. Another had a buffet table. That area was full.

“Oh, jeez,” Michael said. “This
is
you.”

She followed his gaze. Off in a far corner was a section walled off in glass. A dozen cats sat on red cushions, gobbling food out of crystal cat bowls. One rather plump Burmese was pawing at the glass wall, and two toms were yowling at each other, fur standing straight up on their Halloween kitty backs.

She giggled. That image was straight out of the dream. “We should have brought Darnell.”

“I promise not to tell him what he missed,” Michael said with a straight face.

They had walked for what seemed like a mile before the woman stopped and indicated a glass table with a gold base. Emma pulled at her chair and grunted. The thing weighed more than she did.

“Allow me,” the woman said and slid the chair back as if it weighed nothing. Emma sat on it, surprised at how comfortable it was, and realized she was too far from the table. She had no idea how she would scoot it forward.

To Emma's great satisfaction, Michael had needed help as well.

A waiter, in yet another morning suit, handed them both menus as thick as phonebooks. “Would you like to hear the specials?” he asked.

Emma started to say yes, but Michael interrupted her. “How many are there?”

“Fifty breakfast, sir. And perhaps twenty-five more that will run all day.”

“This is not very efficient,” Michael said to Emma.

She spread her hands, helplessly. “What do I know about restaurants?”

“How to make them pretty,” Michael said.

“The specials, sir?”

“No, thanks.” Michael hid behind his menu. The waiter hurried away.

The menu was divided by chef. Each section had different fonts and designs. Emma recognized a few of them as exact duplicates of famous restaurants that she'd been too. She didn't see anything from Quixotic, but she was thumbing through quickly.

Another waiter was approaching. Emma raised a finger as Aethelstan had taught her. “Excuse me.”

The waiter stopped, looking vaguely annoyed.

“I was wondering if an old friend of mine is one of your chefs. His name is Blackstone.”

“I don't know anything about the chefs except what's in the menus.” The waiter hurried off.

“Blackstone?” Michael asked.

Emma nodded. “My mentor.”

“You think he's here?”

“My subconscious made a cat food bar, didn't it? It may have brought Quixotic here.”

“Your mentor owns Quixotic? Alex Blackstone?”

Alex wasn't his real name. No one magic used their real name. Besides, Aethelstan was so unusual, he would have had to explain it all the time. “Yes.”

“You think he's here?”

“Well, half the chefs in here have their own television show or cookbook or item line.”

“I saw that,” Michael said. “I wonder how Oprah's fairing without her chef.”

“At least Wolfgang Puck's restaurants can run without him.”

“Yeah, but a few of these European chefs never leave their kitchens.”

“They have now,” Emma said.

Michael nodded. “Do you think that's changed cuisine worldwide?”

She froze. It had. It obviously had. She knew all of the names in here, and they all had going concerns in the world she had altered. Important concerns. “I better get to the kitchen.”

“I don't think they'll let you in,” Michael said. “Not in a place like this.”

“Well, someone has to know if Aeth—Alex is here.”

Michael raised his entire arm, and one of the maître d' clones came over. “I want to know about your chefs,” he said.

“Anything sir,” the maître d' said.

“We were hoping to taste some of Quixotic's food. Alex Blackstone. Does he work for you? I understand he's been rated—”

“Fifteenth,” Emma whispered. She knew because Aethelstan was annoyed that he couldn't break into the top ten—at least, not without resorting to his magic, which in this instance, he called cheating.

“Fifteenth,” Michael repeated.

“Ah, we get that request a lot,” the maître d' said. “Unfortunately Mr. Blackstone was unwilling to come to our establishment. He claimed it was some sort of conflict of interest.”

“How could that be, with fifty other chefs?”

“I have no idea, sir. But it does seem that nothing, absolutely nothing, will get him to leave his own restaurant.” The maître d' nodded formally and then left.

Emma sighed. “I had known that, too. But I was hoping.”

“You knew that nothing would get Blackstone to leave?”

She nodded.

“Then why did you think he would be here? It was your subconscious that did this, after all.”

She shook her head. “I guess just once I want something to go right.”

Michael gave her a strange and sad look, and then turned his attention back to the menu. After a moment, Emma did too. All of her favorite meals were here, of course, and foods she had never heard of.

She and Michael ordered pastries and several different kinds of breakfasts—from waffles to kippers. They also ordered several egg dishes—Thai frittatas, huevos rancheros, and a traditional eggs Benedict.