Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1) (11 page)

That
night they didn’t speak a word to one another, but quickly engaged in the
animal dance that occupied so many of their nights. There were no formalities
or niceties, just an endless hunger that kept them clamped to one another until
they were too exhausted to go on anymore.

Every
night following was filled with wild passionate lovemaking. She couldn’t get
enough of him, and her body craved him like food.

“I
can devour you all day,” Errol said, one lazy Sunday as they stayed in bed,
making love from morning to night.

“Then
devour me,” Taryn said, huskily.

Errol
grinned wickedly. “You don’t have to ask. Your taste is a constant aphrodisiac
for me, Taryn.”

Still
glowing from the effects of their white hot sex, the next morning, Taryn rolled
off the bed to get the phone that ringed with persistence.  It’d rung twice
during their love making, but they’d disregarded it.

“It’s
for you,
Monsieur King
,” she said as she held the phone out to him. 
Standing nude before him, she already anticipated his next hard-on.

With
a knowing grin, he ran his finger along the thin line of hair between her
thighs then took the phone.  “
Oui.  Oui c’est bien ca
.” He fell silent
and furrowed his brow as he listened.  His eyes reddened as tears gathered.   “
Comment? 
Mais, elle est…  Oui.” 

Hearing
the emotion in his voice, Taryn sat beside him and waited.  The husky, sexually
charged man he’d been just seconds ago now sat lost in the middle of the bed,
like a little boy.

“
Oui,
je comprend
.”  Keeping his eyes on the bed sheets in front of him, he
absentmindedly played with the corner of his pillow.  “
Tres bien. 
J’arrive.”

“What’s
the matter?” Taryn asked, taking his hand. She had never seen him so down and
sad as he was at that moment. “Please tell me, Errol.”

Errol
stared straight ahead of him, his entire face broken.

“My
nana,” he said. “She passed away last night.”

Chapter 11

T
hough she always made sure she remained just
one step behind him, Taryn accompanied Errol to his grandmother’s funeral. 
While he appeared strong and stoic to all those in attendance, Taryn knew just
how fragile his mental state was.  Since receiving the phone call he’d barely
spoken a word to her.  He’d barely spoken at all.

He’d
found himself with the regrettable task of arranging his Nana’s service;
nothing less than the Notre Dame Cathedral for his beloved grandmother. “If there’s
anything I can do,” Taryn had offered.

Pressing
his lips together, he’d shaken his head.  “It’s my responsibility.  Besides,
it’s all in French.  There’s little you can do.”

Feeling
shut out, Taryn busied herself around the apartment.  She prepared meals that
went uneaten by Errol and picked up after him.  In the brief week between
learning of his Nana’s death and the finality of the service, he’d visibly lost
weight.  The day of the service, he was gaunt and pale.

“
Notre
Pere qui es aux cieux
,” the priest said from the pulpit.

Dressed
in somber black, Taryn sat in the row behind Errol.  “Our Father who art in
heaven…”  She murmured the Father’s Prayer in English as everyone around her
prayed in French.  “… Give us this day our daily bread…”

“…
mais deliver-nous du mal.”

“Amen,”
everyone murmured in unison.  Many associates from the Institute had come, as
well as a few elderly and distant family members, friends of his grandmother’s
and some acquaintances.

At
the end of the service, Taryn put her hand to Errol’s shoulder. He looked back
at her, an appreciative, but tight smile on his face.

For
an interminable hour he stood at the doors of the cathedral, receiving words of
condolences, praise of his Nana’s life and encouragement to move on.  He
nodded, smiled and even offered a few words of solace and comfort to a few
friends overwrought with emotion.

“Want
me to drive you home?” Taryn asked Errol when the last mourner walked away.

Not
looking straight at her, he nodded.  “I just have to go back in to get the
urn.”

Taryn
brought the car around and looked at the urn as Errol got in.  “What are you
going to do with her?”

“A
long time ago she said she wanted to have her ashes thrown into the wind on the
Mediterranean.  When I have the chance…”  With his hands wrapped securely
around the urn, he sat in silence as Taryn drove off.

Though
she’d never driven through the streets of Paris, she managed to bring them home
with only two wrong turns.  She helped Errol out of the car, escorted him to
the elevator and pushed the button of his floor. 

Once
in his apartment, she brought him to the bedroom, undressed him and settled him
into bed.  He’d put the urn on the bedside table and simply stared at it,
saying nothing.

“Do
you want me to bring you anything?”

He
closed his eyes and shook his head.

She
put her hand over his, wondering how long it would take him to come out of his
stupor. 

“
Laisse
moi
,” he murmured.  Pulling his hand away from hers, he turned away from
her and pulled the blankets over his shoulder.

Her
meager French, along with his unmistakable body language told her everything;
leave me alone.

The
following morning she took a taxi to school.  After three unanswered knocks at
his door, she’d cracked it opened and had received a firm, “Leave me alone.”

“What’s
with Chef King?” Henri asked when she arrived in the class normally given by
Errol.

Taryn
shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard someone in his family died, or something.”

Yveline
Desperreault, the pursed-lip, middle-aged woman who had taken on the task of teaching
Errol’s class, looked at Taryn and snapped, “It was his cherished Nana. Of
course the boy is distraught.”  With a cluck of her tongue, she turned to face
the class.

The
lesson, a review of culinary plating techniques, was long and tedious.  Though
Madame Desperreault was reputed to have talent as a chef, her talent for
teaching was sorely lacking.  She had a droning and draining voice that could
turn the most vibrant topic into something bland and blasé.

Taryn
was happy to finally be out of the class, out of the school and into her taxi
for the ride home.  Eager to see how Errol had managed during the day, she put
the key in the lock and opened the door.

The
apartment was as it had been when she’d left that morning.  It was impossible
to believe he’d spent the entire day in bed. Worried about the depression he
seemed to be in, she tiptoed to his door and pushed it open.

His
bed was empty. She glanced toward the closet door.  Things had been pulled out
and discarded.

“Errol,”
she called out into the empty apartment. Knowing what she’d find, she went into
the bathroom. There were vague signs he’d taken a shower, and some of his
toiletries were gone. “Errol.”

Hurrying
back to his room, she looked for his grandmother’s urn.  It, too, was gone.

“Damn
it, Errol.  Where did you go?” she muttered into the room.

The
answer, simple and vague, came by way of a hastily scribbled note on the
refrigerator door.

Gone
for a few days.

Chapter 12

T
aryn spent the next four days alone, wondering
and worried.  Other than the simple note, she had absolutely no idea where he
was, what he was doing, or when he’d come home. At school many speculated on
his absence:  He’s mourning in private.  He went to the Mediterranean to
dispose of his Nana’s ashes.  He’s off partying somewhere to ease the pain.

But
the theory that most disturbed Taryn was that he’d returned to a long ago
lover; a woman who’d loved Errol dearly and who’d been greatly appreciated by
his Nana.

At
night she dwelled on that notion, envisioning him wrapped in that woman’s arms,
his body pressed against hers, and her cries of ecstasy sounding in his ears.

In
that endless week, she’d gone through hours of worry, a day of near panic and
now two sleepless nights that left her pained and increasingly angry.

Why
hadn’t he brought her with him?  Why hadn’t he even bothered to call since
leaving?  Why had he chosen to go off with this other woman?

Sitting
in front of a dinner she didn’t have the appetite to eat, Taryn finally allowed
the release of a few tears.

She’d
been naïve and stupid enough to think she could actually mean something to him.
Like so many women before her, she’d misinterpreted all those little kisses,
every tender touch, every hushed word in her ear. She’d allowed herself to
think they’d meant something.

And
in return, she had allowed him to mean something to her.  Frustrated with
herself and angry at him, she put her hands over her face and let out a
pain-filled cry.  With her elbows propped up on the table, she sat behind the
darkness of her hands, reviewing all that had happened and wondering how she’d
let herself get in so deep.

As
his playful, flirtatious, wicked ways came back to haunt her, rage slowly
simmered up to the top.  She opened her eyes and looked around the apartment
that was his playpen; the place he brought women to do with as he pleases all
while toying carelessly with their hearts.

“Shit!”
She grabbed her fork and threw it across the room.

“Is
your food really that bad?”

A
jolt of relief brought her to her feet.  She turned to face Errol and was
touched by the loss still visible in his eyes, but his playful grin brought her
rage back to consume her.

“I
didn’t think you’d miss my cooking that much,” he said as he set down his bags.

“You
really think you can just waltz in and start making cute jokes, Errol?” She
heard the venom in her voice. Though surprised, she was happy to discover she
was finally ready to stand up for herself.

His
eyes immediately hardened as did his tone.  “It’s my place.  I can waltz in and
do whatever the hell I want.”

She
stared at him, angry, hurt, frustrated and lost.  “Why didn’t you call?  Why
couldn’t you just let me know…?”

 
“Because it was none of your business.”

Her
jaw hurt from the pressure of biting down so hard.  “Bastard.”

He
shrugged.

She
didn’t want to cry… not in front of him. She couldn’t let him see…  “To hell
with you.”

“Ah,
the little New Yorker finally comes out.”  He came to stand at the end of the
dining table, his gaze condescending and belittling.  “I was beginning to
wonder if you had any of that New York fight in you.”

“If
you think I’m going to pick a fight with you, you're wrong. I’ve had enough of
this.” She hurried to the sofa, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

“What,
and you’re not bringing your things?  Old tactic, darling. Every woman who
leaves my apartment leaves something behind. Oh, sometimes it’s just a memento,
something to remember her by, but it’s usually an excuse to come back… back to
see if they can’t get me to change my mind.”

She
rushed back to her room, shoved a few things in a bag and returned. “I’ll come
back for the rest when you're not here.” Without looking back, she hurried to
the door.

“Don’t.”
The condescension had left his voice that’d suddenly reverted to that of the
lost little boy.

Her
hand on the doorknob, she hesitated and hated herself for it. When he said
nothing more, she opened the door.

“Taryn,
don’t go.  Don’t leave me alone.”

Staring
at the carpet in the hall, she murmured, “These past days, all you’ve been
telling me, in every way possible, is to leave you alone.”

She
heard his steps behind her and knew the tears would flow the moment he touched
her.

“I’ve
had plenty of time to be alone.” He grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her
back into his chest.

Her
head fell until her chin rested on her chest.  Tears burned their way down her
cheeks and dripped off to splash on the floor.

“Please
put up with me a little while longer.”

“You
don’t deserve it,” she muttered.

“I
know, but I’m asking you to all the same.”  He tugged on her shoulders, urging
her to return.

For
a moment, she held her ground. “Why should I, Errol? You’ve done nothing but
use me when you want and toss me aside when you don’t.”

“Come.” 
His voice was gentle as he guided her inside and closed the door. “How about
some wine?”

She
sat on the sofa and nodded as she wiped the tears off her face.

He
returned moments later with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. “Truce,” he
said as he sat beside her and handed her a glass.  Keeping one foot on the
floor, he leaned back, stretched one leg out behind her on the sofa, and pulled
her back to recline on his chest.  “How’s that for a truce?”

“This
does little to explain or excuse how you’ve treated me.”

“Come
now, Taryn.” He wrapped one arm around her waist. “You’ve enjoyed it just as much
as I have.  Don’t play so innocent.”

He
was right and she had little in the way of argument.  For a long while they sat
in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as they sipped their wine.  When
they’d emptied their glasses, Errol poured a little more.

“Nana’s
name was Simone,” he finally said.  He almost choked up on the words.  “I don’t
know how old I was when I finally learned that.  For the longest time, I really
thought her name was Nana.”

Smiling
wistfully, Taryn nodded.