Hot to the Touch (17 page)

He laughed, and for one second she felt again the camaraderie they’d had—she thought they’d had—as chef and sous chef, before she found out his true colors.

“See you tonight, honey.”

She sighed loudly, mouth twisting into a reluctant grin. “If it can’t be avoided, yeah, I guess I will.”

He hung up, chuckling, and she hung up, face hot, feeling triumphant. Troy had been right. Acting as if she couldn’t care if he lived or died was much less damaging than being actively hostile. She couldn’t do anything about his restaurant—he had every right to open it, so she could either let it eat her up and destroy her peace and sanity or she could accept it and keep enjoying running Gladiolas.

She stretched her arms up again, thinking of Troy’s handsome face, his body taut over hers, the fierce desire registering in his face before he reached his climax and slumped over into tenderness and sweet caresses.

Oh, the way he touched her…

A darkening at her door wiped the dreamy smile off her lips in a big hurry. Amy, holding her ubiquitous cup of coffee in one hand and a paper in the other. Darcy beckoned her in. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Just wanted to confirm that salad is being served
after
the entrée tonight.”

“Yes, that’s how they wanted it.”

“Good.” Amy slid the paper onto Darcy’s desk, looking at her curiously. “Candy called earlier this morning. She said having the next planning session for the Milwaukeedates party would work fine at your usual Women in Power meeting. She chose this menu preliminarily.”

“Good, thanks.” Darcy skimmed the menu. Mostly finger foods, nothing exotic or too complicated. They had most of the ingredients and could easily order the rest in time. “How are things with Colin? Is he behaving?”

“He is. I’m crazy about this guy.” She patted her heart. “And ridiculously hopeful. And ridiculously terrified.”

Darcy put the menu into her upright file. Yeah, she got that. All too well. “Things do work out. Maybe this guy is right for you.”

Amy narrowed her eyes over her mug. “They’re right.”

“Who?” Darcy looked up sharply. “About what?”

“You. You’re different.”

“Me?” Darcy put her hand to her chest, doing her best to sound incredulous. “Different?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Amy perched on the edge of Darcy’s desk. “There’s a rumor going around, both kitchen and dining-room staff.”

“Rumor? About what?”

“You.”

Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“Apparently big, tough, invincible Chef Darcy…” She broke off to examine her nails as if they were the most fascinating things in the room.

“What?”

Amy looked up, blinking in fake surprise. “Oh, did I not mention it? Silly me.”

Darcy growled. “A-
my.
”

She did a bad job suppressing her trademark waterfall of giggles and leaned forward conspiratorially. “They say Chef Darcy has fallen in love.”

DARCY OPENED HER FRONT DOOR, arms full, damp from the rain. On her way out that morning, she’d taken a look around her house through a stranger’s eyes, thinking of Troy there that evening, and had been dismayed by how bare-walled and sterile the place looked. Coming home, she’d passed by her favorite independent bookstore, which had been featuring an irresistible vibrantly colored series of framed food prints in the window: fruits, vegetables, cheeses, cakes, pastries—she’d ducked in and bought them all. At the supermarket where she’d gotten last-minute ingredients for Troy’s favorite meal, she’d added to her cart three generic but cheerful mixed bouquets of flowers.

Troy was coming over after his workout; she expected him about nine, which gave her an hour to cook and redecorate.

The meal was the easy part. She remembered exactly what he’d said were his favorites: burger, medium rare, on a sesame roll with a slice of tomato, sweet onion, lettuce, pickle, catsup and mustard, French fries, coleslaw and ice-cold beer. For dessert, chocolate milkshake. In the interest of time, she’d gotten the French fries from a burger joint, but the hamburgers would be made from beef raised at her favorite local farm, the sesame buns fresh from a nearby bakery, the coleslaw homemade and the chocolate to flavor the shake was from Ghana, sixty percent cacao.

Entice Your Man Burger, with Flirty Fries and a Shimmy Shake.

She bustled around the kitchen preparing the hamburgers, flavored with salt, porcini mushroom powder and plenty of pepper, slicing tomato, onion and pickle, tossing the French fries with herbed parmesan cheese to reheat later, shredding cabbage, mixing the dressing and adding cream to the melted chocolate for the milkshake flavoring.

After setting the dining table with her nice blue-rimmed plates and pilsner glasses for the beer, Darcy glanced at the clock. Half an hour. She took a lightning-speed shower, yanked on form-fitting black knit pants and a hot pink sweater, threw on makeup.

Now. Twenty minutes to transform the apartment.
Please let him be late.
Darcy dragged a chair over to the refrigerator and stood to reach into a cabinet above for vases. Holding three, she stepped down gingerly, hopping to maintain balance on the landing like an Olympic gymnast, ran water into each, yanked the plastic off the bouquets and stuffed them in.

One on the counter by the window. One on the table where they’d eat. One…she frowned, then ran into her living room and set them on one end of the coffee table, not in the center as was her instinct. She pulled a couple of books out of the bookshelf and scattered them next to the vase, then dashed into her room, grabbed her slippers, neatly stowed under the bed, and tossed them at the foot of the wingback chair by the fire.

Good.

Posters next. She ran to her supply closet, found a hammer and a rarely used assortment of nails she’d gotten five years ago from the hardware store when she bought the house, a pencil and a measuring tape. In fifteen minutes she’d hung all but one, maybe not perfectly aligned, but not terrible. Troy was due in five minutes. Maybe he’d help her hang the last one?

In her bedroom, she grimaced at the perfect order, scattered mail across the bare desk, then spilled out a couple of pens from her supply neatly stashed in a mug that said, “Before you tell a man you love his company, make sure he owns one.”

Wait. Again into the kitchen, she got a glass from the cabinet, filled it with an inch of water, raced back and put it on her desk. Better. Could she stand leaving socks on the floor?

No. Darcy had to draw the line somewhere.

At her bedroom door, she surveyed the intentional damage to the house. Much better. The posters added perfect color; her red slippers made a casual statement in the living room. The plates of food on the kitchen counter, and the few dishes in the sink added even more.

Ace would be proud. Now her house looked “human,” too. He’d given her another look of astonishment that evening when Raoul had come swaggering back into the kitchen to say hello, and Darcy had managed to fight down bile and be fairly gracious. Or at least she hadn’t slugged him when he managed a few veiled insults to their location and chances of making a big success, and bragged that his restaurant would be called Raoul’s Place.

Ew.

So let him talk. He’d still have to prove himself in the kitchen. She’d even managed to feel the tiniest bit sorry for Alice, who’d apparently been replaced in Raoul’s affections, and now had to serve him as a guest with the entire Gladiolas staff watching and whispering, remembering the scene in linen storage.

One minute until Troy was due. Darcy unlocked her front door, stood carefully on the chair with the last poster, depicting a wide range of colorful chili peppers, and measured the inches to where the top of the poster would hang, then eyeballed the spacing and hammered in the nail.

The buzz of her doorbell nearly knocked her off the chair. Butterflies were alive and well and living in her stomach; her heart pounded madly. Would she ever feel blasé about this man?

“Come in,” she said in a who-can-it-be casual voice she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of.

The door opened; Troy’s dark head peered around its edge. He caught her eye and broke into the grin she was already wearing.

The man made her absurdly happy.

“Redecorating?” He came in, closing the door behind him.

“More like decorating.” She hung the last print, studying it as if she were tremendously concerned with its placement, when she was actually overcome with a need to fling herself into Troy’s arms and kiss him until he pleaded for mercy. “Martha Stewart I’m not.”

“Place looks nice. You look nicer. I brought you something.”

She turned and gasped with pleasure. He was holding an armful of flowers. Gladiolas, in varying shades of orange, yellow, red and white. “Oh, Troy, how gorgeous. How perfect.”

“Tell me where the vases are?”

“I’ll get one.” She got down and dragged her stool back over to the refrigerator, touched and a little shaky.

“I never asked why you named your restaurant Gladiolas.”

Darcy brought down a large wide-mouthed vase that would be perfect for the huge bouquet. “My grandfather used to grow them. He did the flowers for Mom and Dad’s wedding, including a bridal bouquet of white glads. Every year my father gave my mother the flower for their anniversary.”

“Romantic.”

“Well…” Darcy grimaced, filling up the vase with water. “I’m sure it started out that way. By the time we were aware of the custom it was probably just grudging duty.”

Troy handed her the blooms. “So I assume you know what the flower symbolizes.”

“Strength, integrity and generosity.”

“There’s one more.”

“Yes?” She waited expectantly.

“I told you Mom was a decorator. She also knew her flowers. Glads were one of her favorites.” He came up behind her; his hands settled on her waist and she decided she didn’t care what the last mystery characteristic of glads was because she’d just caught fire with longing.

He turned her and kissed her as if he couldn’t stand being physically apart from her any more than she could.

She liked that about him.

“How did the rehearsal dinner go tonight?”

“Mmm, fine.” She pressed herself against him, inhaling his clean, male scent, feeling as if she’d been starving for it. “Raoul showed up.”

His body stiffened. “Why?”

“Apparently he was invited.”

“How did that go?”

“I was very good. You would have been impressed. He left with all his equipment intact.”

“I am impressed.” His hands covered her back, stroking firmly, making her feel securely adored. “The less you react, the less power he has. How did he act?”

“He’s a dick. But tonight he was a well-behaved one.”

“Hmm.” Troy looked thoughtful. “How do you define a well-behaved dick?”

“Not poking around where it isn’t wanted.” She had her hands up under his shirt, caressing the hard, satisfying planes of his chest, sprinkled with coarse hair that absolutely made male torsos as far as she was concerned.

“I’d like to show you how well-behaved mine is.”

She giggled into his chest, kissing, inhaling shamelessly, using her fingers to tease his nipples. “I’d love to see that.”

“Okay.” Her shirt lifted over her head. His hands cupped her breasts in the thin, clingy bra she’d worn to drive him wild. “Darcy. Oh, man…”

His voice broke with passion. Apparently, the bra was doing its job.

Three seconds later, he’d wrenched up the material, baring her breasts, latched on hard and worked her nipple with his mouth. Darcy gasped, desire shooting through her. She arched back, shoving at her loose-knit pants until they fell to the floor and she could kick them off. Freed, she plunged her fingers in among his dark curls, holding him at her breast.

He made a fierce, primal noise, wrapped her in his arms and lifted. She wound her legs around him and let him carry her to the couch, thrilling at his strength. He placed her reverently on the cushion, then continued down until his breath came warm between her legs. Mouth pressed to the thin material of her panties, he blew hot, moist air that brought her to the point of desperation.