TASTE ME

by Carrie Alexander

  They collapsed. Beneath her hands the knotted muscles in his back relaxed. She petted him, caressed him, trying to wet her lips with a tongue that had gone dry.

  After a minute or two, she pressed an emphatic kiss on his shoulder. "That was something."

  His face was buried in the lone remaining pillow, but he angled it to reveal one squinted eye and the corner of a slanted grin. "Can't you come up with a better word than that?"

  "Sure." She thought about it, wondering if she should tell him that she'd turned from a swinging single into a lovestruck female who fancied herself in love with Bachelor Seventeen.

  Not yet. Her pride wouldn't let her show her heart so soon, especially when she wanted to offer it to him on a silver platter. And yet…

  Even if she couldn't tell him she was falling in love with him, she could let him know that he'd touched her soul.

  She nuzzled his neck and whispered huskily, "You transported me, Julian. I believe—" her chest tightened, barely holding back the love that wanted to pour from her heart "—I believe you've given me a brand-new definition for exalted."

  "Aw, my little sweetheart," he said, taking her into his arms. They nestled together in bed without speaking further, but for Mia that was enough. Right now, in this perfect moment, her satisfaction was complete.

  Several days later, Julian made a date with Nikki for lunch. She'd been suspiciously silent lately, and ever since he'd run into her hanging around Mia and Cress at the ballroom, he'd been nagged by curiosity. From what Mia had said—or not said—he knew only that Nikki was attempting to write an article.

  Which wouldn't be so bad, as long as his sister stuck to an innocuous story about Mia's career in decorative painting. Nikki would be safe at a design magazine, if only he could manage to keep her there. She'd probably bolt the first time an editor asked her to write a scut-work article about roofing materials or mortgage applications.

  He arrived right on time at the Columbus Avenue

  eatery and asked for an outdoor table so he could keep an eye out for Nikki, who was notoriously late. Fifteen minutes later, the September sun had grown warm on his navy pinstripe. He took off the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, watching the crowd parading past. There was no end to tattoos and goatees. A queenly woman walked by in a dress that could have passed for rags but was probably worth hundreds, and he thought he saw a famous hound-faced Italian director whose booming laugh emerged from a wizened frame.

  But still no Nikki. Julian opened a folder and began to sign various contracts that had been needing his signature for a week. When he was finished, he checked his watch, studiously avoiding eye contact with two women at an adjacent table who'd recognized him. Five more Nikki-less minutes had gone by. He hadn't brought enough paperwork.

  His cell phone chirped. "Yes, Nikki," he said once he'd retrieved the phone from his breast pocket.

  "I'm on Central Park West, a couple of blocks away. I'll be there in five minutes. I stopped off at this fabulous preseason sale and time got away from me. Well, so did my credit card! But it was totally worth it. I got a pair of knee-high boots marked down to three hundred."

  "Only three?"

  "They were originally eight! And they're pink goatskin. Like buttah."

  "Aren't you a vegan?" Nikki could never be accused of consistency.

  "They're boots. I'm not going to eat them." Sounds of a skirmish came from the phone. Julian heard Nikki say, "Whoopsie. Excuse me, sir. Yeah, well, same to you."

  "Nikki, can you please concentrate on getting your butt over here without getting arrested?"

  She laughed. "What do you want? I'm walking and talking, walking and talking."

  "Try less talking and more walking. I'll get our order in so I can get back to the office on time. You still like Caesar salad, right?"

  "Not if they use anchovies. Let me—"

  Julian beeped off before she could go off on another tangent. He waved over a waiter in a striped polo shirt who'd been hovering expectantly. "One chicken pita and a Caesar salad. Two Long Island iced teas." He thought of the alcohol. "Make one of them a virgin. My party will be here presently."

  Minutes later, Nikki arrived loaded down with glossy orange shopping bags. Julian blinked at them, suddenly remembering Mia, candied in orange paint, her body writhing under his mouth.

  "What's with you?" Nikki glanced at his face as she handed off her bags one by one to the waiter who piled them on a spare chair. "You're all sweaty. Are you sick?"

  Julian dabbed his forehead with a napkin. "It's the sun."

  Sort of. Mia did have the burning intensity of a thousand white-hot suns, especially when she was coming around his tongue.

  The waiter brought their drinks, and Julian reached for his, hoping the alcohol would knock the happy hormones out of his brain. He had to be rational to deal with his sister's off-kilter kookiness.

  Nikki smacked her lips. Her nose wrinkled and she took another sip. "What is this? Regular iced tea?" Not fooled by the look-alike servings, she grabbed his drink and swallowed a cube-rattling mouthful. "Ahh, that's better."

  "You're too young to drink at lunchtime."

  "No, you're too old. Aren't you thirty-four now? That's almost middle-aged." She jabbed him. "Ever since you took over for Daddy, you've turned into a Mr. Serious Sourpuss. Soon you'll be having three-martini lunches at the St. Regis."

  Another memory hit Julian: the first time his father had taken him to the King Cole Bar and Lounge at the fancy hotel. Just men, he'd said. Julian had been twelve, old enough to be thrilled about shedding his sisters, young enough to be impressed by his dad's largesse. He'd studied every move his father had made, from how he perused a menu to the casually authoritative two-finger signal to their waiter. Jim Silk had been the man.

  Julian shrugged at Nikki. "Got to grow up sometime. You might take a cue."

  "Remember the fun we used to have as kids, when you'd come home from school? The city was your oyster and you made us girls feel like pearls. Then you brought that weird girl home, the one who chanted three times a day, wore a driftwood necklace and convinced you to give up meat—"

  "That didn't last. Neither did she." Fiona Schuyler, who called herself just Sky. A Barnard girl desperate to be artistic despite a noticeable lack of talent. His parents had been appalled, especially because he'd never liked a girl well enough to bring her for a visit. But Sky had been heavy into the Kama Sutra and, well, he'd been nineteen.

  Julian scowled. "Nikki, it appears you're trying to distract me. You must know I want to talk about this article you're writing about Mia."

  For a moment, Nikki was struck speechless. Then she fumed. "She told you about that?"

  "Not in so many words—"

  "I thought Mia was stand-up. She—" Nikki blinked. "What do you mean—not in so many words?"

  "She didn't share any of the details, but that's not important. I saw you at the ballroom with my own eyes. It's fine with me if you want to take a stab at a feature article, but I'd like to be informed. Send it to me when you're finished and I'll see where I can place it."

  "You just want to boss me."

  "I'm offering help."

  "Sometimes that's the same thing, especially with you."

  "There's nothing wrong with that."

  She reached across the bistro table and squeezed his hand, making a moue with her pink-glossed lips. "There is if I'm trying to achieve something on my own."

  Sympathy gripped him, but only for a moment. "Then you'd better try another profession. Maybe … fashion design?"

  "Please. Every other girl I know is claiming to have her own line of clothing in the works. That's so ten years ago."

  "Magazine work is not as glamorous as you think."

  "Petra says it is."

  "Petra Lombardi, the art director?"

  Nikki bit her lip. "Well … yes. She took me to lunch."

  "Nikki, you are not working at Hard Candy."

  "Why not?" she said with a fine
whine.

  "Just trust me. It's not the place for you." He had another suspicion. "This article about Mia, is it—"

  "Here's our food," Nikki cried with ten times more enthusiasm than salad warranted. Her expression of delight drooped when the server set a plate in front of her. "Julian, you ordered me a Caesar. I told you! I'm not into anchovies anymore. I was talking to this guy who told me how fisherman have these nets that…"

  Julian let her talk, thinking that she'd distracted him.

  If she'd already been in contact with the staff at Hard Candy, he had all the information he needed. Fortunately, Petra Lombardi was easily bought. Nikki would have to be satisfied with a job at another magazine, preferably one where she wouldn't be tempted by a fast crowd that thrived on celebrities and sex. A safe magazine, such as Knitting Pretty. Yes, that would do just fine. Now he only had to convince his sassy sister. Fat chance.

  * * *

  10

  After finishing lunch with Nikki, Julian returned to the office, two phone calls on his immediate agenda. He made the pleasant one first since he wasn't especially eager to get involved with Petra again, for any reason.

  Mia picked up after six rings. He'd been about to hang up.

  "Hello. Speak fast, my glaze is drying."

  "It's Julian." He paused, expecting…

  "Oh, yeah?"

  …more enthusiasm than that. "Sorry if I'm calling at a bad time."

  "You've got fab timing. Three days after we boinked like bunnies. I'd say that's exactly what the Guy's Guide to Dating calls for. Not so soon that you look eager, but enough time to let the girl cool down on the warm gushy feelings."

  "Why are you so sarcastic? Are you mad at me?" Women.

  Mia made a pffft sound. "Men," she said, and he could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

  "I sent flowers." The next morning, after leaving Mia's studio, he'd practically rolled on boneless legs to the closest florist and picked out every flower that reminded him of Mia. The huge bouquet had been bright, unconventional and crazy colorful, just like her.

  "They're lovely. Thank you so much." Flat as a desktop.

  "You don't like flowers?"

  "I don't like them if you send them to all the women you have sex with."

  "Not all of them…"

  She let out a short laugh. "That's comforting."

  "Mia, where are you? I don't like this. I'm coming over."

  She blew out a breath. "You can't. I'm on a job. One I'm botching." He heard the clang of a paint can. "Listen, I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." She chuckled drily. "Except you. And not just that way. You're under my skin and I—I guess that I started thinking—"

  He wanted to speak, tell her that he felt the same way and maybe that's what had scared him from calling right away, but she hushed him. "No explanations, okay? For some reason, I was having an attack of morning-after remorse. But I'm better now. And the flowers were very sweet, even though I don't expect—" She drew in a breath. "What I mean is that I realize that I'm not the kind of girl you want to bring home to Mother."

  Not since the disaster that had been Sky. He had learned his lessons the first time.

  Or maybe not.

  "I'd bring you home in a heartbeat," he said without thinking it through. The reality was, he'd been the responsible one looking after his sisters for the past six years. In that time, he'd lost the part of himself that used to be fun and spontaneous. Even his well-publicized—and exaggerated—love life was more predictable than anyone might think, a matter of being photographed at nearly every event he attended. Whereas Mia was like Nikki and Very, and he wasn't sure about going there, despite their intense attraction. Maybe it was too late for him to break his pattern.

  "I'm sure your home is quite the swank bachelor pad." Mia paused. "Or did you actually mean you'd bring me home to meet Mother?" She sounded wary.

  He mulled that over. She'd given him an out, but he didn't want to take it. Maybe it wasn't too late after all. "Sure. You want to meet my mother? I'll arrange it, as soon as she returns from the summer house."

  Mia coughed. "That sounds very nice, but you don't need to trouble yourself. Really. I had a temporary brain twizzle. Must have been the endorphins you riled up in me. What I should have said is that I'm not the kind of girl who wants to be taken home to meet Mother."

  "Why not?"

  "Social graces suffocate me. I could tell you stories—" She broke off. "Let's cut this short. I'm supposed to be tortoise-shelling a fireplace surround."

  "Wait. I want to figure this out. Can't have you thinking that you're only a fling."

  Silence.

  Damn.

  "That's generous of you." She spoke archly. "But are you sure that you're not the fling?"

  He smiled to himself. She was always turning the tables on him and damn if he wasn't starting to like the new perspective. "I didn't look at it that way."

  "Of course not. The world revolves around Bachelor Seventeen."

  "I don't have an ego problem. Or a confidence problem, either."

  "True. That's one of the things I like about you. But there are the control issues…"

  "Can I help it if I know best?"

  "Father always does."

  "Don't, Mia. I can take that criticism from my sister, but not you."

  "Oh, Julian." She sighed. "You're so lucky I arrived to put some zing into your life. Without me, you'd go straight from pleasing your family to being pleased by the yes-men in your office and the yes-women in your little black book. And if those worlds ever collided—kapow!"

  He leaned back in the leather desk chair he'd inherited from his father along with the office. Mia was insightful. She knew he had placed her in one of his boxes. And she'd been right to call him on that, as uncomfortable as the idea of mixing it up might make him.

  The usual rules didn't apply to Mia. She was, in a word that defined her, different. He flipped open his appointment calendar and scanned the neatly inscribed squares. Saturday night. The Carson Peabody museum benefit he'd been loath to attend.

  "Are you busy Saturday?"

  "What do you have in mind? Another movie matinee? An afternoon in bed? Maybe get crazy and go out in public among the wannabe wise-guys at Mambo Italiano?"

  "Hey, wait. That's not fair. We've gone out—"

  "Only in my neighborhood."

  "We salvaged the Upper East Side."

  She gave a hollow laugh. "That hardly counts. And besides, you became awfully uncomfortable when you were recognized."

  "Then prepare for the sequel to Meet the Stukenvilles, Miss Kerrigan. We're going to the museum benefit they mentioned. It's only semiformal, but a very hoity-toity crowd." Too late, he remembered that some of the Silk board of directors would probably attend. If Mia pulled some crazy stunt, he'd be up the proverbial creek. Yet he was willing to take the risk.

  Mia kept up the sassy attitude, even though he detected an undertone of skittishness. "Well, my goodness. How exciting. I'll finally get to be a debutante after all these years."

  "It's not that important an event," he said, backpedaling. "If you don't want to go…"

  "Oh no. I'm looking forward to it. I'll get to see Julian Silk in his native habitat. Should I wear camouflage?"

  Anything that would help her blend into the crowd would be fine with him. But he only laughed and rang off, deciding that he'd put off his call to Petra for the time being. If he let Nikki have a little leash, Mia might be impressed with his willingness to compromise.

  Mia enlisted Cress to help her dress for the museum party, although the preparations didn't actually involve dressing as much as they did a lot of stenciling, painting and gluing. Cress thought she was nuts, but he loved her anyway and so he went along with her plan.

  She studied herself in the mirrored folding screen that she'd set up in the middle of the studio. Her dress was absolutely plain. Black, knee-length, with a full skirt and a sleeveless bodice that tied at the shoulders in prissy little b
lack satin bows. Even her hair was tamed, blow-dried into a sedate pouf anchored by a narrow headband of rhinestones.

  "What do you think?" she asked Cress, who was dabbing stickum on her behind and attaching fingernail-sized rhinestones to the stenciled lace. "Too boring?"

  "Not underneath," he said, but with admiration as his eyes flicked over his work area. "If Julian twirls you while you're dancing, the old geezers will see straight through to China."

  "Cress!" She stuck out her lip. "That sounds horrible. Maybe I shouldn't do this."

  Mia looked in the mirror again. She bunched the skirt of her dress at her waist while Cress knelt behind her, finishing the final touches of her private surprise for Julian.

  "Ignore me. I'm a grouch today. You look very tasteful."

  "That's my aim. Julian didn't actually say so, but I think he's worried that I'll embarrass him."

  "You're presentable enough, aside from … you know. In fact," Cress added, "I'd send Angelika to you for a honeymoon trousseau, if I gave a good goddamn about it."

  "It? What? A trousseau? Who's she marrying?"

  "Why not me?" He patted Mia's butt and stood. "All done. You can drop the skirt now, sweet cheeks." He'd adopted the annoying pet name after she'd told him the story of how she'd bumped into Julian at the cover shoot.

  Mia rearranged the skirt, then turned and kissed the tip of his nose. "You're a dear, Cress, but you're no more the marrying type than Julian."

  "One of us might surprise you." Cress's golden-brown eyes dimmed, and she realized he'd been putting on a good front as they chatted and teased their way as usual through the preparations.

  "But it won't be me," he continued, walking to the kitchen with less swagger than normal. "My angel has a suitor. That's what she calls him—a suitor. He's from N'Awlins. Big in crawdad futures and rich as sin. Not even that old, so there's no hope that he'll get a heart attack on the honeymoon."