The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) (9 page)

“Thank you.” She picked up a plate. Poached eggs sat over a steamer along with Canadian bacon and English muffin halves, and a chafing dish next to it held hollandaise sauce. Chilled bowls held strawberries, melon slices, and grapefruit sections, their tangy scents teasing her nose. Croissants, muffins, coffee cakes, and – ye gods – even a cheesecake.

She scooped up a poached egg, added half of an English muffin, and gave herself some melon and grapefruit.

After pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe, she took the whole thing to the seat opposite him and sat down.

He frowned at her plate. “Is this all you're having?”

“Do you have any artificial sweetener?”

His upper lip curled. “I do not.”

“Fine. I’ll drink it black.” She sipped. It tasted bitter, but she refused to grimace.

He waved an arm at the sideboard. “What rational human looks at this and decides she wants that?” He jerked his chin at her plate.

She glared at him and bit into the dry muffin.

He harrumphed, tossed his napkin onto the table and grabbed her plate.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she said. “That’s my breakfast.”

“No, it isn’t.” He set the plate onto the sideboard with a clatter and picked up a new one. Onto that, he placed two English muffin halves, added Canadian bacon and poached eggs, then covered the whole thing with half a gallon of hollandaise. Eggs Benedict. Her stomach fairly groaned in anticipation.

Then, he heaped the rest of the plate with sausages and hashbrowns and brought it back to her. “Eat that, and I’ll let you have some fruit.”

The sausages tempted with their spicy smell. “What happens if I don’t?”

“Eat, Cynthia.”

She did her best interpretation of a military salute. “Yes, sir!”

She took a bite of her eggs. And then another. The eggs melted on her tongue, and the sauce tasted buttery and bright with lemon. She tried the sausage next – just the right amount of spice to get her taste buds dancing. The potatoes were toasted on the outside and fluffy inside. Whatever he’d done to this breakfast had made it into perfectly heavenly food. Heavenly food in hell - wasn’t that a kick in the head?

He watched her shoveling food into her mouth. “Now, isn’t that better?”

She mumbled her agreement. Speaking would have kept her from eating.

He laughed at that – an honestly pleasant sound. He had a gorgeous smile when he wasn’t smirking or scowling. She could get used to it if she ever got to trust him. But they still had one major issue to settle. He’d brought her here as part of a bargain in which he was supposed to make her thin. Instead, he’d coerced her into consuming more calories in one meal than she’d normally eat in an entire day. And he still wouldn’t return her to her normal life.

He finished eating his own meal while she plowed through hers. How odd to sit across a breakfast table from a to-die-for hunk in a greenhouse full of – whoa! – orchids. Even odder, the man insisted she eat huge portions of the best eggs Benedict, sausages, and hashbrowns she’d ever tasted. Hell? It felt more like heaven. There had to be a catch.

She ate the last bite of sausage and pushed her empty plate away with a satisfied sigh.

He gave her another one of his sweet smiles. “Good?”

“’Good’ doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“It’s fun to watch you enjoy it.”

“I can’t eat like this every day, Sam. I’d blow up like a blimp.”

“How do you know?” he answered. “Have you ever tried eating what you want and stopping when you want?”

“Not since I was five.”

His eyes widened in horror. “You’ve been dieting since you were five?”

She shrugged. “Probably.”

“That’s absurd. That’s no way to live.”

Jenny had said pretty much the same thing. Thin people didn’t understand.

“Life is a banquet, Cynthia,” he said, “and most people are starving.”

After a moment, she got the reference. “Auntie Mame to Agnes Gooch. You’re quoting old movies now?”

He blushed – actually blushed – and looked sheepish. “I didn’t think you’d be old enough to remember that movie.”

“I saw it when I was a kid.”

“The sentiment still holds,” he said.

“As I remember, Agnes Gooch ended up single and pregnant. So much for banquets.”

“I won’t get you pregnant.”

Great. Back to sex. Her breath caught. She’d agreed to this the night before, and only a woman made of stone would turn down the opportunity. Still, she’d met him yesterday and hadn’t learned first name until this morning. Did he even have a last name?

She cleared her throat. “You promised me fruit if I finished my breakfast.”

An evil blue glint entered his eyes. “That I did.”

Eating fruit wouldn’t buy her much time, but if that melon tasted as good as the eggs, she wouldn’t want to pass it up.

He rose from the table and strutted to the sideboard like a cowboy moseying up to a bar, or a rooster patrolling his hens in the barnyard. He loaded a plate with grapefruit sections, sliced oranges, melon cubes, fresh cherries and strawberries. Then, instead of serving her, he sauntered back to his own place and sat down. “Come and get it.”

It. Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t talking about grapefruit?

Well, she could strut, too. She set aside her napkin and rose slowly. Her knees might have trembled a bit as she walked toward him, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes widened as he watched her approach, and his nostrils did their little flaring thing. Signs of masculine appreciation, if she could believe the books she read. The ones with the half-naked people on the cover. Was this going to be like the sex in a romance novel?

Life’s a banquet, Cynthia.

When she reached him, he held up a strawberry – just a bit out of reach of her lips. The fruit's sweet scent and the man's musky one blended into a single temptation. She bent to catch the strawberry between her teeth, and he pulled it down farther. She moved closer, and he yanked the strawberry completely away and stretched up to press his lips against hers.

Whoa, Nellie, and here we go again.

His lips had lost none of their sweetness from the night before. He moved them slowly, teasing and cajoling as they left a path of warm honey over her lower lip and then the upper one.

She swayed into him and answered. She kissed him with everything she had and slid the tip of her tongue into his mouth. He groaned and reached up to cup the back of her head. His fingers twined into her hair and pulled her to him.

Miracle of miracles. He wanted this, too. The shallow puffs of his breath, the way he held her fast, the seeking movements of his mouth didn’t come just from pleasuring her. He was getting as hot as she was. Amazing. She pulled back and looked down into his face.

His eyes had half-closed, and his breath came hard. He gave her a lazy smile. “Very nice.”

If she were wearing buttons, she’d bust them with pride. She gave him a smug smile right back. “May I have my strawberry?”

He lifted the berry to her lips. “You may.”

Chapter Three

A sweet eternity later, Sam opened a door that led to the flagstone terrace and went out, still wearing his pajamas.

Cyn hung back. “Shouldn’t we get dressed first?”

“Not for what I have in mind.” He gave her a lascivious grin. The expression looked good on him.

“But what if someone sees us?”

“There’s no one here but us.”

An estate this size would need a whole staff to maintain. And someone had cooked all that glorious food. Or, had someone?

“No one?” she asked.

“We’re completely alone.”

She stepped across the threshold to join him, and he took her hand in his to lead her The sunlight had warmed the stones beneath her bare feet, and out here, the perfume of the roses made her senses swim. When they got to the edge of the terrace, he bent over a bush, picked a crimson blossom, and presented it to her with a little flourish.

She took it, dropped a tiny curtsey, and felt her skin heat in embarrassment. Who was she kidding? She was no delicate lady accepting a token of devotion from her lord. But with this man on this beautiful day, she could let her imagination run wild.

He smiled down at her. “That’s very appealing.”

Her skin got even hotter. “What?”

“Your blush. Few women blush any more.”

“I’ve always done it. Curse my fair skin.”

“Well, don’t stop.” He bent and kissed her. No great heat there, just tenderness. She rested her hand against his chest very daintily, like the women in her books. In her real life, that would be laughable. With Sam in this place, it felt righter than right.

After a minute, he straightened and wrapped her arm around his, a gesture at once formal and intimate. She rested her hand against the silk of his robe and moved closer to him as they walked. The fabulous breakfast and incredible love-making would lift the spirits of anyone but the most jaded of sophisticates, and his scent of moss and musk was irresistibly male.

Sophistication didn’t fit her, given her stature and station in life. But if Weltschmerz meant missing out on these experiences, you could keep world-weary. She’d take wide-eyed and grateful any day.

They walked along in silence. The air was full of the smell of freshly-mown grass and the sweet heady scent of roses. The perfectly manicured blades of grass tickled the bottoms of her bare feet pleasantly, and the sun warmed her skin through the black lace of her peignoir.

Eventually, they reached the corner of the huge house and turned it. On the other side lay an even more ornate garden than the roses next to the terrace, radiating out in spokes from a central point in the distance. There, low marble balustrades surrounded a circular terrace, with statues of imps and fantastic animals adorning the tops of the walls - hardly hellish images.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m overwhelmed. It’s all so…“

He chuckled. “It is, isn’t it?”

As she glanced down, a sight from her childhood made her stop right where she was. She handed Sam the rose and bent to touch the velvet pouch of a ladyslipper.

“Amazing,” she said. “I thought these only grew in the wild.”

“You like them?”

“They were my favorite wildflowers when I was growing up.”

“I’ll cut some for you later.”

She gazed at the flower’s perfection. “Never pick a ladyslipper. They’re too rare.”

“I didn’t know you were a botanist.”

“I’m not. But I know a rare and precious flower when I see it.”

“So do I.”

His tone sounded oddly like awe - or, heaven help her, affection or even love. He had a sly, little smile on his face , almost bashful again, and his gaze zoomed in on her as if she was more precious and rare than any ladyslipper. Men didn’t gaze at her like that, especially men who looked like he did. It made her stomach jump and her heart race. In another minute, she’d be blushing and fidgeting, so she looked away.

“So, are we going to stand here talking about flowers?” she said. “I thought you had something else in mind. We are going to screw, aren’t we?”

“We’re going to make love.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “Then, why are we talking? I thought you were horny.”

“Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

She looked up at him again. “Huh?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her the way Freud must have studied a particularly fascinating neurotic. “I thought only men used vulgarity as a defense against intimacy.”

Her jaw dropped. “You do this with men, too?”

“I know about men because I am one. Haven't you noticed?”

She’d noticed all right, and how. Whether or not he was a mortal man was another question. He didn’t act like Satan, unless she’d misunderstood the legends pretty badly. So, what did that make him?

“I’ve never met a woman who used sex as a defense against vulnerability,” he said.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Can you accept a compliment without making a crude joke or statement about it? Look me in the eyes.”

She lifted her chin and stared at him. He’d compliment her, and she’d thank him. No biggie.

“You’re rare and precious, Cynthia.” He lifted the rose and stroked her cheek with the petals. “A gift to any man you’ll have.”

“Thank you.” That wasn’t so hard. If he could fake sincerity, so could she.

“And you’re very beautiful,” he added. “Every ounce of you.”

“That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”

He took her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand and held her face close to his. “You’re beautiful. Now, say ‘thank you.’”

She stared at him. He wasn’t going to back down, so she might as well do what he wanted. She took a breath. “Okay, thank you.”

“Repeat, ‘Thank you, Sam. I am beautiful.’”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“’I am beautiful.’ Say it.”

It sounded silly. Not even her own mother thought she was beautiful. Her mother loved her just fine, but she kept sending diet books. How could a knock-out of a man she’d met yesterday find her beautiful?

“Say it,” he ordered.

“All right, all right. I am beautiful.”

“Good, now let’s make love.”

They continued strolling, arm in arm, toward the terrace past flowers of every color and form. Snapdragons, foxgloves, irises, and other blooms she couldn’t even name. It was a fairy tale garden, and she was an enchanted princess. She was beautiful.

They arrived at the pavilion and climbed the two steps to the surface. Marble benches circled the center of the terrace, surrounding a pool about the size of a hot tub. The water in it was so clear as to be nearly invisible.

“You approve?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

He crouched next to her. “How did I know what?”

“How did you pick this place for us to make love the first time?”

“It’s my favorite,” he answered.

“Really? You didn’t pick it to make me happy?”

“I want to make you happy, of course,” he answered. “But I’m doing this for myself, too.”

“You do want to make love to me, then. It’s not just part of your job.”

“I want to make love to you more than any man has ever wanted a woman before. I’m burning for you, lover. Why is it so hard for you to believe that?”