The Chef's Choice (17 page)

He was drowned out by the chorus of cheers and the sound of dozens of glasses tapping together and the music rose.

There were moments in life, Cady thought, that were just about perfect. A bubble of pure happiness began to swell in her chest.

Tania elbowed Cady. “Speaking of things to die for, here's one coming your way.”

She looked, and the bubble threatened to lift her off her feet.

After the furious intensity of the kitchen, to walk into the dining room was to relax. And to smile. On the dance floor, Ian McBain whirled his laughing wife around to “Do You Believe in Magic?” by the Lovin' Spoonful. Nearby, a pair of women, obviously longtime friends, toasted each other. In the corner, hilarity burst out as someone hit the punch line of a joke.

No air kisses, no networking, no maneuvering to get close to the photographer.

It was, quite possibly, the happiest party Damon had ever seen. No, it wasn't hip and full of famous or almost-famous people. It was simply full of people who were having fun.

But he wasn't there as a guest, he was there to work. Skirting the room unobtrusively, he searched for Cady. He wanted to find her to discuss scheduling. He needed to find her, because it had been too damned long since he'd held her, soft and sweet, in his arms.

He rounded the DJ's booth, scanning the faces, looking for the red of her hair. And when he saw it, he felt his heart stop. After a moment, it started beating again, but fast and hard this time, as though caged in his chest. It was Cady before him, but looking as he'd never seen her before. He'd thought she'd looked dressed up at the restaurant in her prim tuxedo, but he'd had no idea.

She wore a dress of some silky material that swished and flowed in sea blues and the vivid greens of the ferns that grew around the pines, and every shade in between. It swirled around her calves and dipped low over her breasts. She'd darkened her eyes and done something to her mouth that temporarily unhinged his thought processes. Her hair looked softer, shinier, more richly red.

It was more than that, though. There was a glow to her as though she was lit from within. And she was standing next to some guy, standing next to him and laughing, even when he put his arm around her waist and leaned over to kiss her.

Damon's jaw tightened. He'd never been a jealous guy. There was no reason to be now.

So why did he feel as if he could chew nails?

Consciously, he made himself relax and crossed to her. “Cady.”

She whirled around and the smile broke over her face like sunlight. And everything was right again in his world. “Oh, Damon, hi.”

“Hi. How's the party going?”

“Everything's great.” The words were rapid, her voice breathless. “Tell Roman and the guys in the kitchen they rock.”

“I'll do that.”

“And you rock, too.” Mischief flickered in her eyes. “I want you to meet a couple of people. This is my brother, Walker.” She nodded to the dark-haired guy. “Walker, this is Damon Hurst, the chef.”

He could see the resemblance now, something in the mouth, the set of the eyes. And he relaxed, putting out his hand with real pleasure. “Good to meet you.”

“This is great,” Walker said. “My wife and I were huge fans of Pommes de Terre.”

“You live in Manhattan?”

Walker nodded. “We went to Pommes all the time. I was addicted to the sweetbreads. I don't suppose you're doing them up here, are you?”

“Not so far,” Damon said, trying to focus on the conversation when all he wanted to do was get Cady to himself and just inhale her.

Walker shook his head. “Too bad. My mom tells me I don't visit enough. If you had sweetbreads on the menu, I'd be up all the time.”

“What are sweetbreads?” Cady asked.

“Never mind,” Damon said. “You don't want to know.”

“How will I be able to avoid them if I don't know what they are or what they look like?”

“I guess you'll just have to trust me.”

She shot him a suspicious look. “This isn't like the squid brain thing, is it?”

“Wait and find out.”

It was as though for an instant they were enclosed in their own private bubble where all that mattered was the connection between them. Neither of them noticed the sharp glance Walker gave Damon.

The tall, thin brunette standing next to Cady cleared her throat.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Cady shook her head. “Damon, meet my good friend Tania. She's a big fan of yours.”

He shook her hand. “The reader,” he said. “Hair scrunchies.”

“Hair scrunchies?” Tania repeated in confusion while Cady blushed furiously.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I need to borrow Cady for a minute.”

He drew her over to the waiting area, around the corner to the maître d's desk. He ached to lose himself in the heat of her mouth, the soft press of her body, that apple scent that just about drove him around the bend. He ached to bury himself in her. Instead, he drew her hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to them.

“You're beautiful,” he said.

She stared at him, eyes wide. He practically saw her decide not to take him seriously. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“It's not flattery. I'd prove it but I figure you'd say it's not the time or the place.”

“That old problem again.” There was high color in her cheeks so that she looked lit from within. “Do you think we might arrange a time and place?”

“I think when the party's over we might just be able to do that,” he told her. “Speaking of which, how much longer do you want happy hour to go? We need to know when to start plating soups and salads.”

She pondered. “I suppose the faster dinner gets going, the sooner we get to that time and place, right?”

“Probably.”

“Well—” she glanced at her watch “—how about another fifteen minutes of cocktail hour and then I'll get people sitting down?”

He glanced at his watch. “Seven o'clock, then?”

“Seven o'clock it is.”

“I'll do my best to have them cutting the cake by seven-fifteen,” he said. As she laughed, he couldn't keep himself from leaning in just to taste her for a moment. “And after, I'll see you.”

Even the party to end all parties had to wind down sometime. The cake had long since been demolished, the echoes of the toasts faded, when people began kissing good-night and trailing out the door in small groups.

With every departure, Cady felt her pulse beat harder. With every departure, she felt more certain. She and Max walked her parents back to their house and kissed them good-night. When Max opened her car door to get in, Cady rummaged in her pocket.

“What are these for?” Max blinked at the keys Cady handed her.

“So you can get in.”

“How are you going to get home?” Max looked her up and down. “Or do I even need to ask?”

Cady let out some of the laughter that had been bubbling through her all night. “I think I can find a ride.” She hardly felt she needed one. Somehow, she felt that if she took a deep breath she'd just float off the ground and over to Damon's.

“I guess the dress was a success.”

“I guess it was. Will you be okay on your own tonight?”

Max leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I think I can figure out how to work your DVD player. Be good.”

“I'll be great,” Cady said.

And so it was that she was waiting when Damon stepped out of the restaurant, last of all the kitchen help.

“Hey.” She stepped out of the shadows.

“Hey, yourself.”

“Can I hitch a ride?”

“I'll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said.

And on this night, of all nights, it seemed anything was possible.

A full moon hung above them, silvering everything, making it dreamlike and magical as they wound through wood and field to his house. There was so much to say but they turned, instead, to touch. A stroke of a hand on bare skin, a touch of lips. They kissed when they stood at the front door and they kissed again inside, with moonlight shining through every window. And they kissed in his bedroom as the silver light streamed in from above.

There were words but no need for them as they stood together. Damon trailed his fingertips up her sides almost worshipfully, barely touching, making her shiver. Beautiful, he'd said, and for the first time in her life, she felt it. The back of her dress parted as he unfastened it, and it whispered down her body to fall in a ring at her feet. She felt him trail its path with lips and tongue. Beautiful, he'd said, and as he gazed at her, she saw it in his eyes.

Her fingers slipped through his hair, stroked his cheek as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. When he came to lie beside her, the warmth of his naked skin against hers was a benediction. And the joy just burst through her.

Pleasure led to pleasure as they sank into each other, savoring taste, savoring touch. Each caress was a treasure, each response a gift. When he poised himself over her body, she found herself breathless. Gaze locked on hers, he slid inside. His strokes were slow and deliberate. With every movement she felt as though they were connected by something beyond a physical link.

This was more than sex, she realized in wonder. This was something she'd never felt before. What usually flamed fast and furious now burned slow and deep, the naked flame becoming the smoldering coal that glowed and ultimately consumed. They were borne along by more than physical sensation. This wasn't arousal, it was emotion incarnate.

When their bodies quickened to the point of inevitability, they cried out together. When she felt the climax rush through her, she tasted her tears. After, in the spill of moonlight, he gathered her to him.

And in the spill of moonlight, she knew at last—she was in love with him.

Y
ou could always tell where you were in the growing season by how far you had to park from the farmers' market, Cady reflected as she walked in. And by how many people you had to dodge. There were easily twice the number of booths in the market now as there had been when she'd visited with Damon two months before—not to mention twice the number of bodies. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn it wasn't the same place, so much had changed.

Then again, so much had changed about her life, period. When she'd walked these rows with Damon, she'd never have guessed she'd wind up even talking to him voluntarily, let alone having an affair with him. And she never in a million years would have dreamed that she'd go and fall in love with him. The Cady she'd been then would have not-so-diplomatically suggested she have her head examined.

The Cady of today wasn't so sure that was a bad idea.

It would be okay, she told herself even as her stomach jittered. No, falling in love with him wouldn't have been her choice, but it wasn't as though she could tell herself not to feel. After all, she'd already tried that, for all the good it had done her. At heart, Cady was a realist, and her heart, it seemed, would do as it would.

She remembered waking that morning, surfacing from sleep to warmth and sunlight and the feel of Damon's arms around her. Yes, loving him was a risk with an uncertain ending, but wasn't it worth it, just once in her life to feel so treasured and cared for? Wasn't it worth it to have that feeling she'd always dreamed of?

“Hey, Cady!”

She headed into Pete Tebeau's booth. “Hey, Pete, how are you?”

“If I was any better I'd get arrested.” He winked as he weighed tomatoes for a customer. “And how about you? Whatever it is you're taking, I want some.”

“Just clean living, Pete.” She grinned. It was becoming something of a habit, she realized.

“What brings you down here? I'd gotten used to seeing Hizzoner. Didn't think I was ever gonna see you again.”

“Damon's got a photo shoot for some big food magazine today. They're interviewing him and everything. I volunteered to come here.”

“Lucky me,” he said, finishing with the customer and turning to her. “What's that you've got there?”

Cady glanced down at the tray in her hands. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself. “That's the other reason I came up. I've got a proposition for you, Pete.”

He winked. “Definitely lucky me.”

“I'm trying to be serious,” she scolded.

“So am I. What are those guys, sprouts?”

“Microgreens. Damon uses them on all of his dishes. A lot of chefs do, apparently, but they're not easy to get. He seems to think that there might be a local market for them.” She took a breath. “What do you think about putting them out here and seeing if anybody buys them? If they do, I'll give you a piece of the take.”

He considered. “I can't see people getting too wild over grass but they eat alfalfa sprouts, so what do I know? And Damon was right about those ramps,” he added. “I can't see the harm in trying. How much do you want for them?”

When she told him, he whistled. “You really think they'll pay that?”

“Believe it or not, that's less than the going rate. And they're local.”

He shrugged. “Well, set 'em down there. We'll see what happens.”

There was little Damon disliked as much as a photo shoot. Over the course of his career, he'd come to regard it as a necessary evil but one only tolerated, at best. Sure, he'd spent years on camera during his Cooking Channel tenure, but that had always been in the context of doing. Either he was joking and chatting up the live audience of his show or he was in competition, focusing on his cuisine.

With the photo shoots, it was just him and the camera. He wasn't sure which he liked least, posing or going about the business of cooking while pretending that he wasn't aware of the lens following his every move.

And Francesca watching him from across the room.

Finally, though, it was done. The photographer moved to shoot the restaurant and he and Francesca moved to the dining room.

“All right,” she said, “now feed me.”

They sat at a table covered with tasting plates and he watched her sample her way through the menu with concentration but surprisingly little enjoyment. He couldn't help remembering the pleasure on Cady's face the day he'd fed her the
croustillant
. For Francesca, it was an intellectual exercise; for Cady, it was a journey of the senses.

With her fork, Francesca prodded the bread of an appetizer. “You're doing lobster rolls now?”

“When in Maine,” he said.

She picked out a miniscule bite and nibbled. “Lobster, parsley, aioli,” she said thoughtfully, “and…”

“Lobster.”

“That's all?” She frowned. “What was all this about re-imagining the classics?”

“You've been eating it.” He nodded at the other dishes.

“I'm not eating it right now.”

“Some things don't need to be reimagined. Some things are good just as they are.”

She flicked a glance at the ceiling. “You're not on that tiresome ‘less is more' rant again, are you?”

She was a food editor. Food was supposed to matter. “I'm not on any rant,” he said. “I'm just cooking.”

“I see. Well, you cooked, I ate, I'm stuffed. Why don't we go outside and walk so I can work off some of it?” She rose.

“You won't have to walk far.” Damon glanced at the nearly untouched plates. “I can't say I saw you take a full bite of anything.”

“You chefs are always so sensitive. If I really ate everywhere I went, I'd be enormous.”

“Now who's talking about less is more?”

She patted her flat stomach. “You men have it easy with your metabolisms. Some of us have to work at it.”

Why, he wondered, would a person choose a job in food if they didn't like eating? He followed her out the door, but it was Cady he thought of. Whether it was a burger or the Dover sole he'd made her a few days before, she always ate the way she made love, with pleasure and abandon.

“How wonderfully picturesque,” Francesca pronounced as they walked toward the water. “Not just boats but a gazebo, too. It's so quaint, I can't stand it.”

He couldn't have said why her comment annoyed him. “It's just Grace Harbor.”

“Someplace has to be, I suppose. So?” She flicked him an expectant glance. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.” She stepped into the gazebo, her heels thunking on the wood floor. “Competing chefs, your take on the current state of American cuisine, what the enfant terrible of American cuisine is doing next.”

Damon looked pained. “Can we stop already with the enfant terrible bit? I haven't been an
enfant
for a few decades now.”

“Oh, but it makes such good copy, darling. Otherwise, what else will I write about?”

“It's a food magazine. You could write about the food.”

She settled herself on the gazebo's bench. “There's only so much I can gush about your cooking, as exquisite as it is. And it is exquisite. Much as it pains me to admit it, that tenderloin was nothing short of divine.”

“Watch out, Francesca, you're going to turn my head.” Folding his arms, he leaned against a nearby pillar.

“At least tell me about being a tortured genius and clawing your way back from obscurity. Because this cover story will put you back on top, you know. You'll owe me.”

She said it lightly but something told him it wasn't a joke to her. There was nothing Francesca liked better than being in control.

“Have you at least kicked a customer out lately?” she continued. “It's rather like a christening for you, isn't it? Instead of breaking champagne on the doorway of a new restaurant, you toss a customer in the parking lot.”

“I've been learning restraint in my old age.”

“I hope you haven't gotten too restrained. That can be terribly boring, you know.” She draped an arm over the railing. “You were always one of the ones I relied on for a bit of entertainment.”

“I was one of the ones you relied on for a punch line.”

“Not to mention other things,” she said, eyeing him appraisingly. “Country life seems to agree with you. It must be the air around here. Everyone is so marvelously robust.” She glanced over to where Cady stood on a ladder, trimming dead flowers off the rhododendrons.

Damon gave a faint frown. He would have used many words to describe Cady, but robust wouldn't have been among them.

“Speaking of robust, I'm staying overnight before I drive home. I'll be depending on you to keep the evening from becoming a total loss.”

“Francesca, we'll be doing a hundred and twelve covers tonight. At least. You're welcome to have dinner but I'll be in the kitchen.”

She looked at him from under her lashes. “I was talking about after service, darling.”

“This is a small town. They roll up the streets at midnight.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Then I guess we'll have to make our own fun.”

It was about this time of year that the warm weather didn't seem quite so pleasant. Cady stood on the ladder and swiped her hair back off her forehead. Hot, sticky, tiring. And of course seeing Damon with his glamorous magazine editor somehow made it all worse.

She'd watched them walk out to the gazebo together, the woman in a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a narrow leather skirt with some sort of wide, pewter-colored belt. She had wavy blond hair put up in one of those tousled, effortlessly sexy knots that probably took hours to get right. Her chunky jewelry somehow only made her look more feminine.

Cady felt her T-shirt sticking to her back.

It was a different life, she thought, clipping a faded bloom from the rhodie. And even though she despised herself for it, she couldn't help wondering if Damon found the reporter woman attractive. Cady hoped to God not, because if that truly was the kind of look he went for, he was with the wrong woman.

Or she was the wrong woman for him.

He'd called her beautiful, Cady reminded herself. Of course, that had been when she'd been dressed up within an inch of her life. It wasn't the day-to-day her. But it was the day-to-day her that he kept coming back to. That was something to hold on to, wasn't it?

She climbed back down the ladder to gather the dead heads she'd discarded into a waste bag. From over at the gazebo, she heard a low, throaty laugh. An intimate laugh. None of her business, she told herself, folding up the ladder. It was just Damon doing his job, as she was doing hers. But she couldn't help glancing over before she walked away.

They were in the gazebo, Damon at the entrance, the woman just inside. She gave that laugh again and touched his forearm and suddenly Cady knew.

He'd slept with her.

She could feel the rush of blood to her face. Paranoia, she told herself as she hurried away toward the toolshed. There was no way she could look at them and know. But there was something in the lines of their bodies, something in the way the woman looked up at him. And for all that Cady tried to tell herself she was crazy, down in her bones she knew—it may not have been recent, it may not have been often, but they'd made love.

And now she was back, just like his old life was back.

Why the hell hadn't he seen it coming? Damon wondered in frustration. He knew how Francesca worked, he should have been paying more attention. Instead, he'd let himself get distracted by Cady. If he'd been concentrating, he could have turned the discussion, packed Francesca off to her hotel with a wave and a smile. Of course, it was too late for that now—the offer was out on the table.

Subtlety had never been Francesca's strong suit. Their only liaison had happened after a charity dinner at which he'd been one of the celebrity chefs. They'd fallen into bed for a bout of gymnastic sex that had exhausted his interest long before it had exhausted her. He'd never felt any urge for a rematch.

Apparently, that made one of them.

“I'm in guesthouse two, on the top floor,” she said now, the invitation ripe in her eyes and in her voice.

And he damned well needed to find a diplomatic way to turn it down.

He shook his head. “I've got a long day in the kitchen, Francesca. I don't do the all-night party thing anymore. I like to be awake when I'm using sharp knives.”

“What are you doing working lunch and dinner? Don't you have line cooks for that?”

“Yes, and I'm one of them.”

She raised a brow. “This isn't the Damon Hurst we all know and love.”

“Right. Look, we should finish up. I've got to get back in to start lunch service.” And he hoped to God she'd take the face-saving out.