She should hate him calling her that, but it made her feel absurdly cherished. “A week.”
Maybe more.
Miserably she reflected on the meal she’d had. She couldn’t lie. It would invalidate all the work she’d done, all the places she’d given five stars to for genuinely great food. She’d built up a reputation for judging a place on its own merits, not on reputation, or clientele, or anything but the food, the wine and the service.
So if this was her last time with him, she’d better make the most of it. She lifted her face for his kiss. Smiling, happiness creasing the corners of his eyes he bent slowly, keeping his eyes open, watching her until his mouth touched hers. Then he let his lids slide over his eyes, and gave himself to her.
Whenever she kissed him, she lost time. Lost all sense of, well, sense. He opened his mouth over hers, and she let him in to play. He tasted her, a leisurely appreciation, and she felt a smile forming, a coming home.
Ah, shit, there she went again. That was why she’d asked for the break, while she wrote her review and got it out. He tasted her like she was the most precious morsel, the delicious, elusive taste of heaven and she loved it. That was why she’d risked her job and her reputation, and told nobody about her affair with Remy Girard.
As well as a strong urge to hug the knowledge to her chest, because the illicit nature of it gave her goosebumps of the very best kind.
He stroked her, moulded her close, spent time they didn’t have exploring her, slowly unbuttoning her top. He finished the kiss, glanced down. “I have to see you. You’re an addiction, Elise.”
If he didn’t seem as desperate as her, she’d worry even more. He was wearing his chef’s jacket, crisp white, and she knew how it fastened now. Reaching up, she undid the button at the top, and then the other, hidden ones. She also knew he didn’t wear a shirt underneath. Unable to resist the sight of his broad, muscular chest, she swiped her tongue over one tiny nipple, half shrouded in chest hair. He shuddered, caught his breath. “Damn, woman.”
He reached out, grabbed something from the nearest shelf. She glanced to one side as she caught a flash of colour and she smiled, drew back, because he’d need the space to sheathe himself. “You call that a preserve?”
“Of a kind.” That slow, thick drawl with the accent unique to Remy did it for her every time. A mixture of French and London, utterly irresistible. Not that she’d tried. From the first evening at the art gallery to today, six months later, they’d seen each other almost every night, shared the same bed more often than not. But her raw need for him hadn’t abated as she’d hoped it would. It just got worse.
Or better.
After unbuttoning and unzipping, he dragged his pants down and eased the condom over his hard, straining cock. Elise didn’t waste time protesting either, instead, reaching under her skirt to tug her knickers out of the way. He turned to her, lifted her and pushed her against the only bare bit of wall, where the shelves ended just before the door. While this wasn’t a refrigerator, the wall felt cool against her back, but she welcomed the chill it sent through her heated skin as she lifted her legs and wrapped them around her waist when he hoisted her up with an effortlessness that spoke of years of heavy work in the kitchen. Remy had trained in some of the best kitchens in Europe. Washed up and carried sacks of potatoes in them, too. It all showed in his powerful frame and the bunched muscles in his arms and chest, the way he held her balanced on his thighs as he thrust inside her.
Her head went back and she sighed, a long expiration of breath that matched his for heartfelt pleasure. “Remy, oh, Remy, it’s like nothing else. Ever.”
“
Je sais, ma belle
.” That throaty French phrase sent her higher, as she found purchase against the wall behind her and pushed her hips forward, into and on to him.
He bent to take one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking greedily. He plunged deep, rotating his hips, and she stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming. He knew just how to touch her, he worked her body so well, coaxing the climax to start and then nurturing it until she couldn’t keep from coming hard and fast, pulsing around his cock until he gave a muffled cry against her breast and shivered through his orgasm.
Once she could trust herself to keep her voice down, she took her hand away from her mouth and moaned, softly. “So good, Remy, so good.” How would she manage without this for a whole seven days and seven nights? She’d just have to, that was all there was to it.
He slid carefully out of her and lowered her to her feet, before drawing her close for a sweet, tender kiss. “Change your mind.”
“No.”
He drew away, dealt with the condom and his disordered clothing. Sad to see that magnificent chest disappear out of sight, she busied herself restoring herself to rights, as best she could. “We can’t, Remy. I don’t want any questions about my review.” Although nobody would accuse her of partisanship, once they read it.
“No favours,” he said, giving her that easy, sexy smile, tempting her to say what the hell. Except that he might not like what he read.
He glanced around. “I made all this,” he said softly, indicating the gleaming glass jars filled with conserves, preserves, bright, tempting colours, apricots, pimentos, onions dancing in brown malt vinegar. “Not personally, but I made it possible.” He returned his attention to her, his gaze soft. “Will you tell your boss about us?”
“After the review comes out, probably. He said it was my last chance.”
He frowned. “Because someone outed you and you can’t review incognito anymore?” He cursed, volubly and in French. “An act of sheer spite. Who was it?”
She shook her head, still standing close enough for her hair to cling to the pure white of his chef’s coat. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not? Who was it, Elise?”
She sighed. “Garner Strong at Chez Suisse. I gave him a mediocre review last week. Somebody must have worked out who I was. It was all over Twitter before Friday.”
He dropped a kiss on her list, tender, now. “I’ve never liked him.” He kissed her again, and she tasted his renewed hunger for her. Her arousal ratcheted higher, her legs weakening and her body readying itself for his possession. So soon.
She tried to distract herself. Already they’d been in here too long. “How many hygiene rules have we broken?”
He shrugged in a Gallic, one-sided way. “One or two, but everything is packed away in jars.” He nudged a jar of plums back on the shelf. It had moved precariously close to the edge. “You won’t mention this in your review?”
She smiled. “No.”
He stroked her cheek, tender where he’d been so passionate a moment before. “Come to my apartment tonight.”
Tension invaded her once more, when she recalled what she had to do. Write a review that could damage him, perhaps irreparably. If she didn’t do it, she’d lose her job and her self-respect.
She couldn’t discuss it with him beforehand, even give him a clue. She’d defended her integrity through attempted bribes from chefs and now the threat of dismissal from her boss from something that wasn’t her fault. Keeping straight had guided her through the shoals of life working for a major publication, it had stopped her becoming the victim of the gamers and the backbiters. “Not tonight. I have a review to write.”
“You loved the meal, don’t lie. Just as—’ he caught his words, and she caught her breath. Surely he wasn’t about to say—no, he wouldn’t. Their affair had been intense, uncontrollable at times, but although he’d bowled her over with his charm and charisma, she’d never fooled herself that he’d want her long-term. He was a player, known for flamboyant affairs with socially prominent women. Not the likes of her.
He kissed her again, took his time tasting and caressing her. “We have a date. A week today.”
Chapter Two
The next morning after he’d checked the deliveries, Remy went into his office and closed the door. Time to check the review Elise had written. He opened his laptop and stared at the page.
Girard’s losing its magic?
the headline read. Then underneath,
Golden boy of haut cuisine blowing it?
At the first skim, he thought he was imagining things. At the second, he knew he wasn’t. Cold anger flashed to burning fury in a flash as realization hit him full-square.
So that was why she’d been evasive last night. All the time he was dreaming of her she was planning to stab him in the back, get the scoop she needed to keep her job.
Rage drove him to his feet. Still in his chef’s coat, he strode through the kitchen and out the back door, ignoring everyone, even when Martine, his maître d’, called his name. She’d only want to discuss the review with him, and he wanted to confront somebody else with it first.
He slammed into his car, started the engine and drove like an avenging angel until he reached the Isle of Dogs. Those tall buildings pissed him off, the way they dominated what had been a neighbourhood, arrogant, as if they owned everything. Well they didn’t own him. He found a parking space in the staff area. Nobody questioned his right to be there. They wouldn’t dare.
He strode into the building, straight upstairs and to her desk. People looked up from their work, and the receptionist picked up her phone as he walked past, but he didn’t bother with any of them. There was only one person he wanted eye contact with. Her presence drew him like a magnet, as it always had.
She sat in a large office with other people, her desk littered with objects that indicated a living space—photos, novelties, a mug with a broken handle filled with pens. At his approach, Elise looked up as if drawn and her gaze flew to his. This time he saw an emotion he wasn’t used to with her; fear, her blue eyes wide, her mouth drawn tight. He didn’t like it, but that wouldn’t stop him saying what he had to.
“You know why I’m here.” She said nothing, which was fine by him. He didn’t want her to talk, just listen. “I thought we had something special, but it seems I was mistaken. I even deluded myself into thinking you returned my love. Was it all leading up to this review? Did you want me at your feet before you did this? Well, darling, you nearly managed it. You made a choice last night between me and your job. You lied to keep your job. Be happy.”
She opened her mouth, but no sounds came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I
didn’t
lie.” Her eyes sparked with anger.
He let his lips curl into a sneer. “No? I know exactly what those meals taste like. Cinnamon in mashed potato? Not in a million years. Couldn’t you have found something more plausible?”
“It’s true.”
He slashed his hand down in a vicious, karate chop gesture, furious that she dared argue with him. Nobody did that, except her. Before today, he’d charmed and intrigued him by her opinions and her counter-arguments, but he wanted none of it now. “You’re not welcome in my restaurant, and you’re not welcome in my life. A bad review I could stomach, but not downright lies. I don’t employ liars, and I don’t fall in love with them.” Even though he had, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her.
He stormed out the way he came and drove back to the restaurant, determined to carry on as normal and forget this evil episode. Even though it threatened to tear him up inside.
“We have a problem, boss,” his maître d’ murmured as he strode past her.
He paused. “Tell me about it.”
She took that as an invitation and followed him into his office. Martine had never let him down before, so he gave her leeway, although the last thing he wanted was to talk to someone else. He nodded to a chair and took his seat behind his desk. When he pulled off his jacket, a clunk against the desk reminded him of what he had stowed there inside last night—such a long time ago now. He removed the small velvet box and tossed it into a drawer.
Martine pretended not to notice, but he saw her blink before she turned her attention back to him. “We’re two sous-chefs down,” she said.
He raised a brow. “Are they ill?”
“No, they walked out.”
He frowned. “Why? I pay them well, made sure they have the time off they need. My office door is always open.” He hadn’t noticed any dissention or unhappiness.
Martine didn’t look at the firmly closed door. “Poached, boss.”
His eyes widened. His lack of judgment where Elise was concerned must have affected him badly, or he’d have noticed something. “Details.”
“They’ve gone to Chez Suisse. Jacques and Susan.” His entrée sous and the dessert sous, the ones who’d put together his signature dishes last night. Everything except the amuse-bouches, which he always took care of personally.
As reality unfolded, he let out a string of curses, French, English, Italian and Spanish. Then he started in German, a language he wasn’t as familiar with, but he knew enough words to express his feelings.