Best of Best Women's Erotica (5 page)

Despite their grumblings, they couldn't help but indulge themselves at her table. Keeping Tara happy became important. They humored her by painting the kitchen a dazzling white and even put in a fan that twirled from the ceiling, diffusing the luscious smells throughout the house. When Mr. Beaumont
rewarded Tara with her own little cabin behind the big house, she smiled and waltzed her rounded figure gracefully through the kitchen, dancing the dinner into a pirouette of tastes to excite their palates.

That night she'd stood outside the door of her new house, reveling in the light of the full moon. Tara opened her nightgown up so moonbeams could caress her breasts as she whispered words of thanks to the beautiful orb shining down on her. It filled her soul. The waves of light beat in time with her heart. She wept as she seldom allowed herself to, magnificent tears of joy, grateful to the family for fulfilling her secret desire.

Since then she'd continued daily, weekly, monthly to tease out the tangiest of flavors, the juiciest of fruits, the most succulent recipes to feed her family, as she thought of them.

And now, for the young Miss's big party, they had betrayed her, cast her aside.

The Missus, obviously flustered, had called her into the parlor to talk about the menu. This surprised Tara, since the Missus usually liked to sit at the little table in the kitchen, sipping her sweet dark coffee and reviewing Tara's plans for special occasions.

Tara refused to sit in the unfamiliar territory and instead leaned against the doorframe, her arms tight over her ample bosom.

The Missus fidgeted. “Now, Tara, Cherry's coming-out party is going to be bigger than anything we've done since you've come to us. We know what a burden it will be for you, so we are going to get you some help. Clara Sue, we've had her before. She has family members who will come special for that night.”

Tara shrugged and nodded. Clara Sue would do. But that
wasn't what the Missus had called her in for. She fluttered her hands in the air under Tara's silent gaze. “Cherry's daddy wants this to be the biggest, best coming-out party ever. He's hired a band and even a real bartender, though of course the children won't be drinking anything hard. Mr. Beaumont went so far as to hire a man to come in for you. He's a chef all the way from New Orleans.”

Tara stiffened. She couldn't be hearing this right.

The rest of her employer's words came out in a rush. “Mr. Beaumont says it's good business to bring someone in from the outside, and Cherry wants something really fancy. And all the best families are fighting over this man. Studied in one of those fancy schools down in New Orleans. It will be really good for Cherry's social standing to have him coming in to help you. I know it will be an adjustment, but it might be fun. Of course, we'll be depending on you to make your best desserts. Mr. Beaumont says no one can touch Tara's desserts.” Hearing the Missus say they had hired this
man
to come cook for the party hit Tara like a slap in the face. She had been working on the menu for Miss Cherry's party for weeks—and all for nothing. After all she had given them! She stood up to her full height and glared down at the quivering woman.

The Missus, apparently seeing the impact of her words, tried to take the sting out. “This way you don't have to work so hard. He can bear the brunt of the work. See, he already sent a menu for you to look over. I think you'll love it.”

Tara didn't speak. She simply took the menu and left to prepare lunch.

In the weeks that followed, the family didn't linger much in the depths of her kitchen, nor did they complain about the bland food they had to leave uneaten on their plates. Young
Miss Cherry came in once to apologize. Tara just turned her bottomless eyes on the girl and waited until she ran crying from the room. They must have told that chef man about it too, because with each menu change he sent, a little token was included. Once, tissue-wrapped ginger candy, another time, dried rose hips. Finally, a jasmine-scented hankie edged with lace, and a written thank-you for allowing him to assist in her kitchen. She sniffed at each gift, tossed them on the windowsill, and refused to release the anger burning in her chest. That he'd chosen jasmine, her own scent, tormented her. How could he have known?

She ordered and stored the food he requested, things she seldom used. She took care to shine her kitchen to its highest polish. Late at night she reviewed cookbooks for the parts of the menu she would carry, determined to prove that she didn't need him.

The week before the party, she got on her knees in the damp, dewy grass and prayed to the moon. “Help me, Grandmother. Someone is invading my life. I'm sure you have a purpose for this, but I don't know what it could be. I've worked hard, Grandmother. Don't let me lose it all.”

Would the moon forsake her? No, not when Tara needed her support so much. The Beaumonts' house had become her home in these last five years. She would hate to leave. Surely the moon would respond. It always had, ever since her grandmother had initiated her into the old rites. But she had been lax. It had been a long time since she had come to the moon like this.

She got her answer when the moonlight filled her as her grandmother taught her it could, its power throbbing deep inside her. As always, she felt it pounding in her bones, in her heart, and in that sweet place deep between her sturdy legs.
Confident that the big house was quiet, she stepped behind the jasmine bushes, stripped off her gown, and lay in the grass. The moon made love to her, kissed her breasts, stroked the wetness between her thighs, cradled her in its warmth. Moaning and writhing, grasping the moonlight as her lover, she climaxed, peaking once, then again.

The prayer and the lovemaking completed, she lay in the lush velvet grass, confident for the first time in weeks that she would hold her own. Exhausted, she crawled to bed. She looked forward to a good night's sleep—the first since she'd gotten the news about the invading chef.

 

She waited for him, fear pounding in her chest. Trying to control it, she wiped furiously at the squeaky-clean counter. The maids assigned to help her ducked their heads and made up excuses to avoid her. Remembering last week's foray into the moonlight, she shook her head, frightened by the power of what she had felt and done. The moon had never touched her so deeply. Would it show her the way to defeat this man?

Then the Missus came in to introduce him. “Tara,” she said, her hands fluttering. “This is Mr. Charles.”

Tara stared at the small, compact black man. He winked at her. His brash laugh filled the kitchen, filled her ears. She reminded herself that she couldn't afford to like him. When his gaze traveled up and down her body and he gave her a brilliant appreciative smile, heat rose in her cheeks. She was appalled; the heat threatened to spill over into her heart. Something loosened inside her.

He swept his eyes across her kitchen and whistled through his teeth. “I don't see many kitchens this well kept,” he said to the Missus. “I don't know why you hired me. You've got your
own chef right here.” He turned back to Tara, again giving her that brazen appraising look. “I'll learn a lot from you, Miss Tara. I've heard of you clean down to New Orleans. They say your stew is the sweetest-tasting thing you could ever get your mouth around. It'll be like getting paid to train under one of the greats.”

She tried to push away his flattery, the look, the little emphasis he had put on the word
under,
but her heart thumped, and her mouth puckered from sudden dryness. Licking her lips, she chose not to respond. Instead she watched him closely, relieved when he shifted his attention back to the Missus. He obviously knew how to handle women. Teasing the Missus gently, he soon had her blushing like a youngster and giggling behind her hand. Finally, she allowed herself to be ushered out of the kitchen.

Mr. Charles turned back to Tara. He wore a crisp white jacket and black pants that hugged his narrow waist and caressed the roundness of his backside. His shoulders were broad on his small frame. She guessed at a well-muscled chest and arms under the jacket. His hair was cut sleekly against his head, a good choice for hot kitchens. He had oiled it shiny. She licked her lips again then shook her head, trying to rekindle her anger at this invader.

He watched her watching him. She saw a gentle hunger in his laughing eyes. Not a predatory all-consuming hunger, but the hunger when your appetite has just been whetted, when the saliva flows watery in your mouth and you can barely wait to be satiated. A lazy smile spread from his eyes to his mouth, exposing gleaming teeth, dazzling in the dark planes that made up his face. She squinted at him, trying to block out the glare of his smile. He beamed up at her like the rays of the hot sun searing the jasmine bushes.

For a minute he simply radiated heat and desire. Then he eased back and began talking, soft and gentle, as if to a skittish colt. “Now I know I'm interfering here in your territory, but you know these rich folks, even when they got the best already, they find it hard to appreciate what they got.” His gaze fondled her body again. “And I can see they got a lot here to appreciate.” He took a step closer. “If I thought I would be a threat to you in any way, I would walk out that door. But Missus Beaumont there has got her heart set on that menu she had me send. And it would be a shame to waste all that food.”

Casting his eyes to the floor, he stroked the gleaming countertop, making small circles on the tile with his thumb. “I sure would like to work
with
you, Miss Tara,” he said softly. “Nothing makes me happier than cooking with a beautiful woman who's an artist in the kitchen.” He kept his head down but moved his eyes up to watch her. “And from what I hear, you're known all over these parts as an artist. Mmmhhhmmm, what I hear you can do with food.” He raised his head and looked at her full on. “And when I think about what we could do together, why it just makes my mouth water. Nothing like dancing the food to life with another artist, Miss Tara.” He bowed genteelly from the waist and reached for her hand. “Will you dance with me?”

She tried to put him off with a scowl. But he just smiled. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a small box tied with a lavender ribbon. He presented it to her, holding out his hand flat and steady, waiting patiently, giving her time to come to him. Glowering, she hesitated before reaching out to take the present. Did he really think he could buy her off so easily? Resolving to give it back, whatever it was, she pulled on the bow and removed the lid. A beautiful little stone winked up at
her. She reached out a finger and stroked it, the fire of a cat's eye dancing in the light.

“It's a moonstone, Miss Tara. Now I know it's a bit on the extravagant side, but my last big party was for a jeweler and he let me have a choice of a few things as a bonus. This one was small, but when I saw it, well, I don't know why, but I just thought of you, Miss Tara. Let me help you put it on.”

Stunned, she allowed him to pick up the necklace and step behind her, draping it around her throat. Tara could feel his breath on the back of her neck and smell the sweetness of his cologne. Her heart began to pound.

“Come on, Miss Tara. Let's step out into the light and see it.'Sides, I think you promised me a dance.” Charles whispered the words into her ear, and Tara felt the heat of his presence behind her. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She stepped toward the door, more to cool off in the breeze than to accede to his endearments. Dizzily she tried to make sense of it all. He'd brought her a gift from the moon! How could he have known? Could the Missus have told him? But the Missus didn't know about that part of her life. No, this must be the answer to what she had prayed for. But was it what she wanted? Reluctantly she allowed him to pull her into a twirl. He held her close, his feet swift and sure. Then he was waltzing her around the kitchen and out the door. They danced in the sweet clover grass where just days ago she had lain with her legs spread, an offering to the moon. She closed her eyes and let him lead, faster and faster.

She floated in his arms, becoming weightless and small, her body molding to his rhythm. The sun beat down on her, radiating from him as intensely as it did from the sky. And then somehow he was behind her. Holding her close with his arms
around her, hugging her, he hummed a tune as he rocked her back and forth in the morning breeze. A trickle of sweat rolled down her neck toward her cleavage, caressing the pendant. He smelled spicy and musky, a little peppery. She inhaled deeply. His body fit behind her solidly even though she stood inches taller than he and forty pounds heavier. She leaned into his swaying, allowing herself to relax a bit, to surrender to the sun, and the heat, and the man. Sighing, she relinquished her anger and chose to follow the path the moon had offered her.

“You sure are a great dancer, Miss Tara,” he murmured. “We're a team now, and if you'll let me join you, together we'll create a feast like nobody's ever seen.”

She settled more deeply into him, not worrying that her bulk would overpower him. A soft moan escaped her. For a small man he had great strength and agility. She felt his balance shifting slightly with her, letting her know he was in control, that he was confident in his ability to lead this dance.

“Miss Tara,” he whispered again, his spicy breath tickling her neck. “The Missus thinks I came here to cook for her party, and I can do that. But I would rather make this dance with you, this whole night a joy to behold, like it must have been for the good Lord when He was creating the world. Only there'll be two of us, so we'll get more gladness out of it. Why, I expect He'll see us and be downright jealous at the way we'll dance together.” He ran the tip of his tongue lightly along the edge of her ear and the last of her resistance drifted away with a shiver. He planted a kiss in the hollow where her neck and shoulder met. “Let's make this food a part of our dance, Miss Tara.”