Bidding War (31 page)

"I was assured he was no longer a licensed real estate agent and blamed me."

"So he was real big on taking responsibility for his own actions."

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, now I know under what circumstances I can use that word."

She laughed.

We talked for another hour before Moira caught me yawning.

"Bedtime for you," she said.

"Sorry."

"No, it's late. I'll see you on Saturday."

"I am looking forward to it."

"Good night, Pamela."

"Good night. Moira?"

"Yes?"

"I should have held out for you."

She laughed. "Gwendolyn was probably better than I would have been. I tend to giggle."

"Good night."

* * *

Friday I worked in the morning but left at lunch. I went grocery shopping for fresh groceries. When I got home, I changed into grubby clothes and began a batch of bread. While it was rising, I went through the house, making sure everything was perfect. I set out new candles.

And changed the bedding.

I made a flourless chocolate torte for desert. That took time. I would make fresh whipped cream and a strawberry ganache at the last minute.

The main course was going to be a rosemary herb encrusted chicken. I timed the bread so it came out and the chicken went in. If I had a double oven, I would have cooked the bread to finish just moments before Gwendolyn arrived, but I didn't, so I made do.

I had both a soup and a salad course planned. The salad was easy, and I could work on that after Gwendolyn arrived, but the soup took time. I was making my favorite, curried broccoli soup, which involves peeling the broccoli stalks. It always took me forever. I prepared that then set it in the refrigerator. I'd finish it on the stove later.

Then I prepared for pureed parsnips. Yum! They would go great with the chicken.

At four fifteen I checked my plans. Everything was on task, and I had a window with nothing to do, so I popped into the shower. I washed, shaved my legs, and washed my hair with my favorite, albeit most expensive, shampoo. I dried, fluffed, primped, dried some more, primped some more, and got dressed.

I wore my little black dress, nylons, and my favorite black boots. I adorned with shoulder duster earrings and a matching necklace. I looked hot, if I may say so myself. Plus I could wear the boots while cooking where I wouldn't have willingly worn heels at the stove.

I roamed through the house, checking on things. I wasn't sure what she wanted to do after dinner. Okay, I knew exactly what she wanted to do, but we weren't going to get to that right away, and I might still chicken out. I had some Netflix movies, so I set those out. I set out cards and a couple of games. We had options for a sweet evening in.

I was working on the salad when the doorbell rang. I peeled off the apron before answering the door.

"You look fabulous!" Gwendolyn said as soon as she saw me.

"So do you," I replied. She was dressed in bright, eye-catching red, with black hose and heels. She looked stunning. She was carrying a cloth shopping bag, and I saw the corner of her go board sticking out of it. "You brought it."

"I did," she said. She stepped in and as soon as the door was closed, she had me pressed against it and was ravishing my mouth, her hand on my breast.

I let her and moaned into the kiss.

When finally she released me, I was breathless. I fluttered my eyes open and looked at her. "Rule one. You may not seduce me before dessert. After that, no promises, but I want you to enjoy dinner. I went through a lot of work, and if you are focused on getting me into bed, you won't pay attention to what I cooked for you."

She smiled. "Agreed. Once dessert is on the table, however..." She let the threat linger. I laughed.

"No promises, Gwendolyn. That kiss was hot, but
fifty-fifty I'm going to panic if it starts to feel too real."

"I can live dangerously," she said with a smile.

I took her hand and pulled her to the kitchen. "It smells absolutely amazing," she said. "Did you really cook everything?"

"From scratch, even the bread and the dessert."

I gestured, and she took a seat on a stool at the small center island I use for prep space. While describing the meal, I took out a plate, ground some black pepper into it, then poured olive oil over it. I set it on the island near her, then grabbed the loaf from the counter and cut several hunks off, setting them on a second plate. I tore a hunk from one of the slices, dabbed it through the olive oil, then offered it to her. She took it straight from my fingers and began moaning in pleasure.

At the sounds, I immediately felt my juices begin to flow. Oh dear. But I surely did love cooking for someone who was outwardly appreciative.

"That's amazing!" she said. "There's an herb in it?"

"Rosemary." I got my fresh rosemary out, stripped some into my mortar, then ground it with the pestle and held it under her nose. She immediately went into orgasmic bliss.

"That's rosemary?" she asked. "I've always wanted to do someone named Rosemary."

I laughed. "My favorite herb. It's in the chicken, too."

She took more of the bread. "Is there more to do?"

I looked at her. "You're a surgeon. Think you can use something crude like a chef's knife without cutting your fingers off?"

"I think I can manage."

I slide the vegetables to her along with a cutting board and knife. "These are for the salad, so make them whatever size fits comfortably in your mouth. If you embarrass yourself and take a nick from the knife, I will tell everyone."

She laughed. "I will strive to avoid embarrassment." She eyed the knife dubiously then held out her hand, palm up. "Scalpel."

I laughed.

I attended to other tasks and kept an eye on her. She was slow and deliberate with the knife. I grabbed another knife and cutting board and began cutting up some of the vegetables with her. I didn't say anything.

"A surgeon with cuts on her fingers does not engender confidence in her patients or colleagues," she said.

"I imagine not," I said.

"And thus said surgeon is slow and deliberate."

"I wasn't criticizing."

Together we finished the salad, and we tossed everything into my wooden salad bowl. I set it aside, but she reached over and stole some of the cucumbers.

I fussed with a few things then sat down. "We have a little time," I said.

"Good." She reached down for her go board.

"Oh no," I said. "That waits until dessert. I know what sort of wager you want, and I need to focus on dinner."

"Teaching game," she said. "I want to go over the game we played last weekend with you. Just in the breaks you have."

"All right," I said. "But I'll be fussing more over dinner, too."

She set the board up on the island, including my nine black stones. "All right," she said. "We started like this." She played a white stone. "Do you remember your response?"

"No, but you didn't like it."

"Not exactly true." She placed a black stone on the board. "This is a very aggressive move, the sort a very strong player might play."

"So a good move."

"Aggressive. It's not the same thing. It's a good move if you can pull it off." She played through our sequence. "How did it go for you?"

"Poorly." She made me explain the results.

"Good. Exactly. Now let me show you why a very good player could do it." She showed me a completely different sequence. "Someone at my level could play that way against a professional level player, although a professional player might play that better than I just did. Do you see?"

"I wouldn't have seen that."

"No." She rearranged the board to how our game had gone, then she played the next corner. "You learned from your first corner, so you played this differently. This went better for you. When I saw you were doing well, I left that corner and played here."

She went through our first forty or fifty moves, showing me what I did right and what I did wrong. Then she cleaned the board and showed me what I could have done to her opening move, playing at my level.

Throughout all this, I was also checking on things. The soup and parsnips both went onto the stove. The chicken was looking good. We both ate a little more bread. I slapped her hand when she reached for more of the salad.

That earned me an interesting look. "Don't do that again," she said very quietly. She didn't sound angry. "It gives me the idea you might like it returned. That probably isn't accurate."

"So you're not mad."

"No. Anything you do to me is permission to do to you, that's all."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." I paused. "My grandmother used to slap our hands when we'd try to steal before dinner. I was channeling her."

She grinned. "I hope you aren't comparing me in age to your grandmother."

"Maybe my mother."

"Oh, you will pay for that comment," she said. "I promise."

I giggled.

After that I was stuck at the stove for the duration. Everything came out exactly as I wanted. I pulled the chicken out of the oven.

"Oh my god," she said when she saw it. "That looks amazing."

"Thank you," I said. I gave it some time to cool a little while I dished out the soup into two bowls. I slid them to her and asked her to put them on the table. She set the bread and salad over there as well. I then attacked the chicken, quickly cutting it into manageable pieces. I set the legs, wings and thighs on a platter, then deboned the breasts, put a little of the pureed parsnips on each of two plates, added the breasts, then poured the rest of the parsnips over the tops.

Everything went onto the table, and it was time to sit down.

"Amazing," she said, taking a deep whiff. "This is amazing, Pamela."

I smiled under her praise.

She started with a little of the soup, closing her eyes to the first spoonful and humming in joy. She was equally effusive when she tried the chicken. I beamed at her. I was proud of my cooking, but I hadn't had a new recipient of my efforts for a while. Sam, Bonnie and Suzanne were always receptive guests, but it was heartwarming to hear Gwendolyn make such pleasant noises. After all, she probably ate fabulous meals at expensive restaurants all the time.

I asked her about that.

"It's not the same, is it? You made this for me. Not for some nameless customer. You individually fondled every broccoli, and I can only imagine why it's so creamy."

"Gwendolyn!"

She put on an innocent expression. "What? Did your mind just go in the gutter?"

"It was shoved there."

"Not by me." She grinned at me. "I was wondering what you might taste like."

I started to blush horribly. "That's curry. Curry. It comes in a jar."

"Then why are you blushing?"

I covered my embarrassment by spearing at my salad. She sat across the table and chuckled at me.

"It really is amazing, Pamela," she said once my blush had faded. She wasn't holding anything phallic at the time and her tone felt sincere. "I'm sorry I teased you."

"No you aren't," I said. "But I admit, it was an effective tease."

She smiled. "Do you cook like this all the time?"

"Not for myself. Sometimes for guests. Sometimes not quite so elaborately. The girls come over a lot, and a lot of the time I just whip something up." I paused. "What I could do in a kitchen like yours though. My house is too small for full sized dinner parties, so there are never more than four of us."

She smiled then changed the subject, but I frequently caught her eating with her eyes closed. She was one of the most gracious guests I've ever fed.

"Leave room for dessert," I told her finally, explaining what I had made.

"Ooh," she said. "That sounds divine."

"It is. Very decadent. I'm going to need hours at the club. But it's worth it."

We finished the main meal, and Gwendolyn helped me clean up the table and put leftovers away. I made coffee to go with the dessert and rinsed the dishes, but would wash them after she left.

"Perhaps we should go curl up on the sofa for a while before dessert?"

"That would be lovely." We picked up our coffees and carried them with us. She set her coffee down, then crouched down in front of me and began unzipping my boots.

"Hey."

"I thought you wanted to get comfortable. I'm helping."

I hobbled over to the sofa and sat down, and she pulled my boots off, caressing each foot for a moment. Then she took off her own shoes and joined me on the sofa. I curled into her, and she immediately lifted my chin and kissed me.

It was a long, seductive kiss, and she was in control of it the entire time. My heart began beating, and I realized, all the teasing was about to become reality.

Was this what I wanted?