And nine times out of ten, that was the end of it. He didn’t do reruns, and he had an assistant whose whole job was essentially to block calls from Devon’s legion of onetime bedmates.
He didn’t even know the woman’s name. When both parties were unwilling to divulge the most basic personal information, that was a pretty good sign it wasn’t a relationship that was going somewhere.
Which was, of course, exactly what Devon had in mind when he seduced her into coming home with him.
So why was he still thinking about curly dark hair and laughing green eyes?
Shaking his head to rid it of useless, unproductive thoughts, Devon concentrated on the reason he was here at Market at ass o’clock in the morning.
Adam Temple, whose fucking career Devon had fucking well launched by hiring him on at Appetite all those years ago, had called in a favor. And what did Devon do? Come running like a little lapdog.
Adam wanted a real vacation—the kind a chef with a hit Manhattan restaurant almost never got. A quick jaunt down to Atlantic City? Maybe. Enough time to go someplace anyone with half a brain would actually want to visit? No way.
Except Adam, being Adam, had found a way. Instead of leaving his precious baby in merely capable hands while he jaunted off to Europe to spend time with the woman of his dreams, Adam had hit on a sweet jackpot of an idea. He’d convinced Devon to step in as executive chef.
For two whole weeks.
Devon remembered how his chest had tightened up when Adam first asked him; how disappointed he’d been. Of course Adam wanted something from him. Eventually, everyone wanted something. The notion that any of his socalled friends weren’t simply biding their time for the perfect opportunity to suck Devon dry was laughable. It was always a bad idea to forget.
Devon glared around the empty dining room. So no one had bothered to roll out the red carpet for his first day at Market. Fine. But was it too much to ask that there at least be a peon or two polishing glassware and setting tables? Granted, Devon hated waiters of every size and stripe, but they had their occasional uses. For instance, greeting a visiting chef during off hours and telling him where the hell everybody was.
Instead of the busy, bustling front of house Devon had expected, however, he got an abandoned dining room, tumbleweeds all but blowing between the tables.
Between the emptiness of his apartment this morning and now this, it was like he was cursed. If Paolo hadn’t turned up right on time to drive Devon across town, he would’ve started to wonder if something apocalyptic had happened, leaving him the last man alive in the city.
He put his hands on his hips and waited, impatience, annoyance, and an ugly stew of anxiety about the coming dinner service turning an already black mood into a real thunderstorm.
It was such a different experience, standing in an empty restaurant without the distraction of customers. After designing and opening five fine dining establishments in the last ten years, Devon was a veteran of the décor wars. He could pick out fabrics and choose between leather seat coverings with the best of them. He scanned the still, dim Market dining room with its soft moss-green walls and hammered bronze light fixtures with their swirls of vines and leaves with a critical eye. The tables were blond wood, bright and glossy with clean, minimalist lines. Devon liked the banquettes, too, straightbacked and private, in some sort of velvety material that looked very inviting. He strode toward the horseshoe-shaped antique zinc bar that connected the smaller back dining room to the larger front room.
This was ridiculous. He didn’t have time to stand around here all day.
Hoping to find a sous chef barking orders, a pastry chef kneading dough, a freaking dishwasher, for shit’s sake, Devon pushed through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen.
There were signs of life back there; Devon heard the familiar, comforting clang of a stainless-steel pan hitting a cast-iron cooking range, followed by a breathy rasp of sound, almost like a moan.
Devon quirked a brow. The restaurant wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed. He paused, suddenly struck by the very real possibility that he was about to come upon Adam in a state of nature with the woman Devon had played Cupid to set him up with.
Well, sort of. Invading his friend’s kitchen with an uninvited camera crew and filming the very private confessions of Adam’s lady love, Miranda Wake, might not go down in history as the all-time most romantic matchmaking scheme. In fact, Adam had been beyond ticked about it, as Devon recalled. Still, Devon stood by the results. Adam and Miranda were disgustingly happy together; every time Devon saw them, he expected to hear the faint twittering of cartoon lovebirds swirling overhead.
Really, when he thought about it, maybe Adam owed Devon a favor, not the other way around.
Another clatter from the kitchen. Familiar with the aphrodisiacal effects of an empty restaurant on a newly-in-lust couple, Devon cracked open the kitchen door with a measure of caution. He could stand to go his whole life without viewing Adam’s unmentionables doing the naked mambo with Miranda’s.
Not that he’d be opposed to seeing Miranda’s unmentionables—he was willing to bet she stripped down pretty well for an obnoxious, snarky, redheaded firecracker.
But the sight that greeted Devon sent images of Miranda’s potential hotness flying out of his head.
A woman stood on the gleaming work counter running down the center of the kitchen, balanced precariously on the tips of her white canvas sneakers to reach the top shelf of stacked pots and pans. She was taller than Miranda, he registered instantly, and sported a halo of untamed dark curls obscuring her profile from view. His heartbeat quickened.
A breathy moan he’d heard before echoed through the room. Unbelievable.
He had a mere five seconds to admire the delectable roundness of the backside presented very conveniently near eye level before the woman’s ankle wobbled dangerously, causing a lightning-fast chain reaction of shriek, flail, slip, and hey, presto! Devon’s arms were full of warm, wriggling womanhood.
CHAPTER SIX
“Well, hello,” Devon said, his mood brightening like day breaking over the Brooklyn Bridge.
The woman stopped squirming and peeked out from behind her mass of sable curls. Her silvery green eyes went wide and round as saucers, and Devon savored the startled “meep” that squeaked from her strawberry mouth.
Oh, yes, today was looking up.
He wanted that mouth, so he took it in a deep kiss that exploded over his tongue with her already familiar honey-thyme flavor.
And when her tongue slipped into his mouth to explore and curl against his, Devon had to stiffen his suddenly shaky arms to keep from dumping her on her ass.
The tickle of her tongue tracing his lips combined with the memory of that pretty, heart-shaped ass brought Devon to aching hardness. The swift rush of arousal shocked him to his core. What was he, a teenager? He’d already had her once; he shouldn’t be this stirred up.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hungry after a simple kiss.
Except it didn’t feel all that simple, and when it ended, the woman pulling away slowly and with many lingering nips and bites to his sensitive mouth, Devon had to swallow down his own moan of disappointment.
“That was a heck of a hello,” she said, the molasses-slow words drawled out low and husky, making him think of tobacco and bourbon.
“It could’ve been good morning,” he told her, “if you’d stuck around long enough.”
Shit, why did he say that? Made it sound like her running out had hurt his feelings or something.
“I had to get to work,” she protested, a pretty blush mantling her cheeks. “Besides, I wasn’t, you know, too sure of the morning-after etiquette. And my Aunt Bertie always says, if you don’t know the right thing to do, err on the side of politeness.”
Devon blinked. “How is it polite to leave without saying good-bye to your host?”
“Ah!” She lifted a finger in triumph. “Exactly! Because I’m the anti-Aunt B
ertie now, I did the opposite of what she would’ve done. Not that she would ever have been in that situation in the first place.”
Devon felt his mouth pull into a reluctant smile. “You don’t think I could seduce your Aunt Bertie?”
“Doubtful. She’s a Baptist—the kind who’s referred to regularly as a ‘pillar of the church’—and also, my Uncle Roy is a peach. She’d never stray. Plus, you’re not her type. Too sexy and charming for your own good.”
“Poor Uncle Roy,” Devon murmured. His mind was finally starting to process some of the barrage of information her nervous babble produced.
“Oh, Uncle Roy’s all right,” she said, flush still high on her cheekbones. “A real good ol’ boy, but a heart of solid gold, I swear. That’s Aunt Bertie’s type; the kind of guy I always thought I’d end up with. Only that didn’t work out, so here I am, and here you are, the polar opposite of anything I ever thought I’d want!”
“Christ.” Devon stared down at her, working hard for his customary cool. “You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself. Where the hell did you come from, anyway?”
Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “From where gentlemen don’t swear in front of ladies they’ve just met,” she countered with a toss of that messy head. Her chest was still rising and falling too quickly, a sign that he was not the only one affected by the world’s hottest kiss of greeting.
“Oh, but ladies do go home with gentlemen they’ve just met?” Devon asked silkily. “Get naked? Take showers together? Spend all night making each other crazy?”
“All right, all right! I give,” she said, laughing. “I’m afraid you’re right; I can no longer lay claim to the title of ‘lady.’ But you, sir, are no gentleman for pointing it out.” She gave him a stern look, but her eyes were dancing, inviting him to share the joke.
“So what does Aunt Bertie think about you moving to New York City?”
“You mean Gomorrah? Babylon? Sin City? She wasn’t any too thrilled, I’ll admit. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“Tell the truth.” Devon curled her higher in his arms, close enough to whisper against her soft, fragrant cheek. “After last night, you’re afraid she might be right. You’re worried Sin City might already be corrupting you.”
She smiled, a slow, sweet curl of her lips. “Sugar, I’m counting on it.”
Devon stared into her eyes and counted his heartbeats in the throb of blood through his groin.
“I’d say you’re well on your way,” he told her in a voice that sounded like he’d been gargling rocks.
“Hey, not that I don’t appreciate the White Knight routine, but do you think you might be willing to let a girl stand on her own two feet?”
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “You didn’t seem to be doing such a good job of that up on the counter.”
She shrugged cheerfully, not a hint of blush or embarrassment darkening her cheeks. “I’m better on good ol’ terra firma. Well, not tons better, I’m still pretty much the Queen of the Klutzes, but at least there’s not as far to fall and therefore less chance of a broken ankle.” She twisted in his arms, eyeing the distance from her perch to the ground. “Speaking of broken ankles … Be careful when you put me down. I just got this job; I can’t afford to be limping around the restaurant.”
“Adam hired you?” Crap. Devon had a strict policy against fraternizing with restaurant employees.
“Yup,” she said. Then added, “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
She was starting to squirm again, which felt outrageously good, so Devon put her down before he got distracted and dropped her, thereby fulfilling her broken-ankle fear.
“Seems like a yes or no situation to me,” Devon probed.
She wobbled slightly when her feet hit the gleaming hardwood, but she righted herself quickly and ran a careless hand over her shirt. It was another unflattering rag, pink with embroidered blue flowers on the collar, and it hung on her, as if she’d bought the wrong size. The cut of her baggy brown pants did very little to showcase the assets he’d admired last night. If he’d seen her across a crowded gallery opening or at an opera gala, he might not have given her a second glance. And he would’ve been missing out.
She turned back to the counter for a moment, swiping her palm across the shiny metal surface as if checking for incriminating evidence. Devon eyed the way the curve of her waist flowed into her hips.
Maybe he would have given her that second glance, regardless.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, my life doesn’t really seem to work like that. I exist in a constant state of maybe, almost, and who knows. Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? Are you a customer? It’s pretty crazy you’d choose this place to come and eat, after last night and all. What are the chances? Only we’re closed. I think. You’d have to ask someone who’s been working here longer than five minutes, and they’re all downstairs, having a meeting about something top secret.”
Apparently satisfied with the state of the countertop, she turned back and looked at Devon expectantly.
“No, I’m not a customer.”
“Oh.” She got that adorable frown line between her brows. “Are you … did you come here for me?”
Devon wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the truth—that he’d had no idea she was working at Market and if he had, he probably wouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. Nor did he want to lie and say he’d searched high and low for her, or had Paolo track her down, or something equally stalkeriffic that might raise false hopes.
He stood there, trying to come up with a response, and for the first time, Devon noticed the distinctive slightly acrid scent of hot oil—was she frying something? Ugh. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to cough.
“Oh, shoot!” she said, grabbing a large spoon from the counter and whirling to check a large pot of something bubbling away on the stove.
There was a smudge of flour along one high, pretty cheekbone. She didn’t move like any line cook Devon had ever worked with. There was no economy of motion to her, no swift moves at all. She was all elbows and leaning, taking her sweet time, as casual about whatever she was cooking as Devon was about choosing a tie.
It was disconcerting; nothing about cooking had ever been casual for Devon.
“What the hell are you doing with all that oil?”
She looked down as if surprised to see her hand circling the slotted spoon through the frothing, spitting oil. “Cooking lunch,” she replied with a touch of uncertainty. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you’re performing some sort of science experiment,” Devon told her bluntly. “What are you frying? It smells … odd.”
“I found some chicken livers way at the back of that fridge over there; didn’t look like anyone was gonna use ’em for any fancy dish anytime soon, so I appropriated them.”
“Good God,” Devon said, revolted, as she began lifting golden brown nuggets of fried liver from the oil and setting them on folded paper towels to drain. “You’re not actually planning to serve that to anyone.”
“Hey, now,” she bristled. “This is my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. It won first prize at the county fair four years running.”
“I don’t care if it won an Emmy, it looks sickening and it smells worse.”
Devon had nothing against organ meats, in general; they’d been en vogue among New York chefs for years now. But these humble balls of artery-clogging noxiousness were a far cry from sautéed sweetbreads with butter and sage, or seared foie gras with quince jelly. There was something so … peasant about chicken liver. It seemed trashy, in the sense of being destined for the garbage bin. Or possibly a dog biscuit.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s rude. Anyway, you don’t have to eat it. Grant asked me to fix up a quick lunch while he talked to his boss, so that’s what I’m doing. It wasn’t easy to find anything to make in that larder, either, let me t
ell you.”
“I find that supremely difficult to believe.” Market had one of the most varied, interesting menus in the city—Adam stocked his pantry and walk-in with the freshest, most beautiful produce the local farmers’
markets had to offer, and now that it was high summer, the markets were offering quite a bit. All simple stuff that any monkey could cook.
Devon hesitated. “Grant,” he said. “That wouldn’t be Grant Holloway, would it?”
“That’s right.” Pique had pinched her rosebud mouth tight. “I’m staying with him.”
Holy fucking shit. Devon had spent the hottest night in recent memory with Grant Holloway’s … what, girlfriend? Why else would she be staying with him?
Okay, they could be just friends … but as Devon looked at the woman standing beside him, the inherent, unconscious sensuality of her, he knew, in his gut—no red-blooded, heterosexual man would ever be able to be “just friends” with her.
If she wasn’t Grant’s girlfriend, Devon thought grimly, it wasn’t because Grant didn’t want her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Devon Sparks!”
Devon winced and shot Grant’s maybe-girlfriend a swift sidelong glance, but her eyes were wide with something that looked a lot closer to panic than recognition of his famous name.
Clutching his elbow, she only had time for a quick whispered, “Please don’t mention anything about last night!” before Adam was upon them, his entire crew clomping up the stairs like a herd of rhinos behind him.
Being relegated to dirty secret status was a novel experience for Devon. He couldn’t say he liked it much, especially since it added fuel to his suspicions about a possible romantic entanglement between the woman at his side and Grant.
Although why Devon should care was a whole other story.
“Temple,” he said, acknowledging his friend, who was currently doing a great impression of an overgrown Labrador.
Adam bounced over, flush with happiness, excitement radiating from every pore. Normal, mundane day-to-day life tended to get Adam flying like a kite; the guy had the gift of passion, for sure. Still, this was something extra.
On the Steamy Side Page 5
