Guilty Pleasures (16 page)

“You feel incredible,” he whispered, as he moved his hips and legs to press inside her more deeply. She rotated her hips slightly, enjoying his responding shudder as well as her own sensual shivers. He kissed her slowly, his tongue corresponding with the actions of his lower body, dipping inside her, tasting her, teasing her. She tasted him as well, as her body clenched against his.

He lifted her legs a little, changing the angle of his entry. He started pushing against her, and she felt the brush of his penis against her clit as he slid out then returned, a steady rhythm, increasing in pressure. His chest was crushed against her breasts, and the wall felt cold against her backside in contrast with the inferno sliding against her.
Inside
of her.

She could feel the beat of his heart as she clutched at the back of his neck, at the firm muscles of his shoulders. He picked up in speed, and she tightened her thighs around him, trying to get as much of him in as possible as his hands clutched at her hips and pulled her to him. They were moving faster now, causing the waves of sensation to double, pulsing through her chest, making her nipples erect. “I'm close,” she gasped against his ear.

To her delight, he angled her so that he was brush
ing against her clit, making that pleasure center bloom with heat and friction, an explosion of sensation. “Ah…
ah…
” she breathed against him, moving her hips, slamming against him as the waves of orgasm rolled against her.
“Nick!”
she cried, the sound muted as he covered her mouth with his own and moved up inside her, his cock stroking against her relentlessly.

“Yes,”
he said, now her mouth muting the sounds, as he shuddered against her, the resounding pressure of his thrust causing her own waning orgasm to burst back into life. She cried out, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vise.

She might have passed out, she wasn't sure. When she blinked long moments after, her breathing slowly getting back to normal, he was practically crushing her against the wall.

“Nick,” she said, stroking at his sweat-damp neck. “Nick, I love you.”

His arms tightened imperceptibly around her. “I love you too, Mari,” he answered, and she felt the thrill of his response like it was the first time he'd said it. “More than I thought I'd love anyone.”

He eased her to the floor, and as he withdrew she felt his absence as keenly as pain. “So. I guess it's time to go back out there,” she said slowly, hating the fact that they'd have to go back to the competition, to the possible failure of her restaurant…to all that
reality.

He smiled, and to her surprise, he kissed her. “You know,” he said slowly, “we've still got about half an hour.”

“I see.”

“It'll help us to get ready.”

She rifled through her pockets for another condom, then held it up. “You sure, cowboy?” she said, winking. “I mean, I don't want you to be all tired out.”

His grin was fierce. “Give me a few minutes to recover,” he said, “and we'll see who's tired.”

 

N
ICK WAS STILL GRINNING
as the competition commenced. They were an hour in, and working busily. He couldn't remember being this loose or relaxed at a competition, ever. He felt pretty sure that Paulo, Tiny and Juan figured out what had happened, from the way they were grinning back at him. Zooey was working industriously on the Pot of Chocolate for the dessert, so he doubted that she knew that her head chef and sous-chef had just gotten it on in a utility closet.

He glanced over to where Mari was working on the flashy appetizers, and saw that she had a hickey on her neck…one she didn't have when they walked in that morning.

Well, if anybody didn't know, I guess they'd put it together soon enough.

But he didn't even care about that. The clock was running, the whole auditorium a flurry of movement and yelling in several languages as the “foodie” crowd of spectators and restaurant investors milled around and gawked. Photographers from different trade journals and newspapers snapped bright flash
photos. It was distracting and unnerving to some, but Nick was thriving on it.

“Nick! Nick Avery!”

He smiled at the reporter yelling at him. The guy looked familiar, but he didn't remember his name. “Little busy here,” Nick drawled, as he cut succulent pork rounds and marinated them.

“What's with the black clothing? Is it some kind of statement?” The reporter pressed. “And what have you got planned?”

“We like wearing what we're comfortable in,” Nick said. “And you know I'm not going to tell you what we've got planned. You'll find out when the judges do.”

A couple of other reporters stepped up and started hounding him. “What happened at Le Chapeau Noir? Is this a grudge match? Can you beat Phillip Marceau?”

Now Nick was getting annoyed. “No, it's not a grudge match. I wanted a change. Chapeau's got nothing to entice me anymore.” Even as he said the words, he realized they were true. “I'm being ten times more creative and allowed more freedoms now than I ever have. I'm having more fun, too.”

“Don't you miss it, though?” The first reporter was particularly persistent…reminding him of David's questions. “Being in a four-star restaurant, being at the top of the culinary world?”

Nick laughed. “What makes you think I won't be after today?”

The reporters laughed with him, and he felt relieved…until the guy's next question.

“So…you're not going to leave this restaurant,
Guilty Pleasures,
if you win, huh? Is that what you're saying?”

That quieted the rest of them, as they waited, poised to jot down his answer.

He hadn't thought about it. Had tried desperately hard
not
to think about it, since Bob Blackstone's proposition in Whole Foods Market.

“I doubt it,” he said, hating even that hint of uncertainty. “Put it this way…I'd have to be offered a hell of a lot more than just a head chef's position. If I had an unlimited budget, my own restaurant, and…I don't know, the keys to a Lexus or something, then I might
consider
it.” He shook his head. “But I have to tell you…it'd be hard to top what I've got here.”

They wrote hurriedly. Before they could ask some more questions, Mari moved forward.

“You're distracting my team,” she told them, with a firm but friendly tone.

“Nick…”

“Move it,” Mari added. Her gaze was like violet ice.

They got the hint and started pestering other stations. Nick looked down at Mari, who was staring at him warily.

“They're jackals,” he said with a shrug. “When you're on the way down, they can't wait to nail the coffin shut. When you're on the way up, they want to act like they put you there. You remember that?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”

He leaned down and kissed her, causing Tiny and Paulo to whistle and getting some attention from the reporters, who snapped a shot. Mari flinched at the flash of light.

“Just worry about today, okay?” Nick said, ignoring everyone and every thing else.

She nodded slowly.

“All right then,” he said, turning back to his work. “We've got a competition to win.”

But he still thought about it.

Will I leave? I doubt it. I've got a woman who loves me, a restaurant I'm happy with, a nice life.

But he thought of what he'd gone through to get there.

I doubt it,
he repeated to himself.

But as much as he loved Mari, there was still a shadow of doubt…and that really disturbed him.

 

T
HEY WERE GETTING CLOSE
to the end, working on setting up the food on broad, mirror-surfaced platters that the competition's “waiters” would parade before the photographers and judges before plating and serving the entries. Mari felt like her shoulders were stapled together with the stress of working so hurriedly, of getting everything perfect. She jumped when Nick walked behind her, rubbing at the back of her neck. “It's almost over,” he whispered in her ear.

That had two connotations in her mind—not that he knew that it. But it didn't help her tension much, either. Still, the feeling of his strong fingers massaging
her was soothing, and she needed all the soothing she could get.

“Got it,” Tiny said, letting out a breath. Everything was arranged artistically, and she had to admit, it looked fantastic. The “waiters,” all dressed in tuxedoes, carried her food away, and she felt a pang of loss.

Did we do everything we possibly could?
she asked herself feverishly.
Was everything right?

She sank back, tapping her toes as the rest of the crew watched the parade of consumables. The rest of the dishes entered didn't take the same route they had, Mari noticed. There were the usual towers of potato gallettes, the same sautés, the same foie gras and black truffles. Theirs was next in line, and they waited like expectant parents. Mari felt Nick hold her hand, and she squeezed it tight.

“The next entry is from the restaurant, ah…” the commentator stumbled. “Guilty Pleasures.”

There was a ragged cheer from the crowd, and Mari smiled.

“Their entry is called A Taste Of Love,” he said, and she could have sworn she heard a tone of disapproval. “First, an opening aperitif of Kir Royales, titled ‘First Date.' Opening appetizers are titled ‘First Kiss,' comprised of chili and mango tarts. Fish dish is a form of sushi…”

Mari waited as he listed off the rest of the entrees, the different kinds of sushi they'd concocted, designed to surprise and tantalize…the savory pork cassoulet, meant to be savory and addictive. The Meyer lemon
sorbet between courses as “the next level” palate cleanser. And finally the sweet smoothness of the Pot of Chocolate. If nothing else, it would probably wake up the deadened taste buds of a bored-looking judging panel…and remind them that food didn't have to be so painfully art-house, oversculpted, overengineered and overpriced.

From the smiles on several faces as they ate their portions, she had a real hope that they would get the point.

It was scary to hope, but they'd already accomplished more than she ever would have thought possible. At first, the other teams had been stand-offish, and she knew they didn't think much of the black-clad “Guilty Pleasures” group. Rather than being intimidated, the crew had approached the competition with a dogged determination, and best of all, with their trademark sense of humor. They'd laughed, sung, and in general made enough of a ruckus to earn the looks of censure from the gray-haired, pot-bellied head chefs from other restaurants…and, when the head chefs weren't looking, they'd gained the grins from other crews. When she'd discovered that the restaurant to their right had crushed a batch of eggs and lost a bottle of tarragon vinegar, she was thankful for Nick's overzealous preparation, and had handed them over, much to Nick's surprise. News of her little charity was spreading—partly as a sign of respect, which made her happy. But also partly as a sign of her foolishness, which made her sad, not because other people thought her foolish, but because these people were so hell-bent
on winning that they'd ignore the problems of the other teams. It seemed like a hell of a big prize to her—even if it wasn't enough to save her. But for some of the other teams, winning this was more than just the prize—it was driving the other teams into the ground. It was war.

“Jeez,” Paulo said, staring at the judges as they scrutinized every bite. “You'd think they never ate mangoes before.”

Nick laughed. “Don't worry. They do that to everybody. We did a hell of a good job today. I think we've garnered the attention of the culinary world, in fact.” He was buoyant, she noticed, and felt her spirits lift a little. That is, until he added, “Don't be surprised if a bunch of restaurant people start giving you their card and trying to steal you away, guys.”

That provoked a string of nervous laughter from the crew. “They'd have to cough up a hell of a lot of money,” Tiny said, shaking his head.

Mari felt unnerved. Once the restaurant went under…well, maybe they wouldn't have to cough up that much money. And at least the crew would have jobs, right?

She pushed herself away from the countertop she was leaning on. “I have to take a walk, get some fresh air…something,” Mari said.

Nick stopped her, nudging her chin up so her eyes met his. “You okay?” he asked, in a low voice. “Want me to come with you?”

“No, that's all right,” she said, thinking
I want you
to remind me that this was the right choice.
“I'll be right back.”

She walked down the main corridor, toward the doors that led to the bright sunshine outside. She saw that there were several chefs already beyond the front door, puffing away at cigarettes and talking amongst each other. She didn't feel up to facing them, and that wasn't the freshest air she could find. She glanced down an adjoining hallway and saw an open window. She made her way over to it, breathing in the cooling air. It was afternoon. They were one of the last teams to go through judging. An hour, tops, and it would all be over.

She thought back on her restaurant—of everything she'd put into it.

It'll all be over.

“Mari.”

She turned. “Phillip Marceau,” she said, her voice tight. “To make my afternoon complete. I saw your entry.” She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Very artistic.” Actually, it was ludicrous; there were towering, pretentious creations that looked more like modern art than something edible. But she wasn't going to start trading insults with the man, not at this point.

“I saw yours, too. Surprised you left the ‘eight inch bangers' and ‘cock au vin' off the menu. Perhaps your idea of ‘love' is just too conventional for that.”