A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2)

by Cara Nelson

  “So, you have no appointment.” The chirpy voice affected a faux tinge of disappointment, and Annelise knew she was about to be sent away like the goddamned little match girl. “Unfortunately, no one is available to speak to you at this time. Do call and schedule so we will have an opportunity to discuss your event, as it may relate to our booking availabilities. Have a lovely day.” The lady on the intercom clicked it off abruptly.

  “Lovely day, my foot.” Annelise muttered harshly.

  Annelise took a long breath, which Shannon always told her to do when she was about to rip someone a new one. Shannon mistakenly thought it would calm her down. Instead it reinvigorated her small, angry frame with plenty of oxygen for the fight. Fully oxygenated and ready to rumble, she pressed the buzzer nine times in rapid succession. She felt the grind of the buzzer straight to her teeth and was satisfied by the vindictive rush it gave her.

  “Miss, I’ll have to ask you to step away from the buzzer please,” the cultured chirp of the receptionist had grown testy now. “As you have no appointment, there is nothing we can do for you today. Please call ahead next time. Have a lovely day.”

  “Listen, I would have a lovely day if you would let me in. I’m betting that you’re the Kathleen I spoke with on the phone. My employer is the CEO of Cates Corporation, which he founded. He is hosting an engagement party for seventeen hundred guests in the gardens of the exclusive Greenwich Estate, which we have already secured. No matter how elite you think your food business is, your boss can’t afford to blow off the most dazzling and sure-to-be most talked-about social event of the year.”

  The door swung open, but instead of looking smugly upon the obstructive blonde receptionist, Annelise found herself face-to-face, or rather face-to-broad-muscled-chest, with Desmond Blair himself.

  “Did you just call Aux Delices a ‘food business’?” He smirked.

  Desmond Blair’s smirk had the most bizarre melting effect on Annelise, who retained enough presence of mind to feel only the barest hint of aggravation that her entire body seemed to liquefy under the heat of his dark-eyed gaze.

  “That’s what it is. You peddle appetizers, no matter how French your name is.” Annelise managed to marshal her feistiness enough to retort, even under the duress of his seductive glare.

  “Do you suppose that being rude is going to get you an appointment?” His voice was low and buttery, completely devoid of the haughtiness in the receptionist’s cultured chirp that riled her.

  “No. I assume that being the appointed agent of a prominent billionaire will get me an appointment. Further, that being rude will stop you from trying to push me around.”

  Annelise stood up straighter, trying to get an extra half-inch of height from her five-foot-three and finding herself wishing she’d worn some heels. As it was, her chin was jutting in the air stubbornly and she had, as her granny would say, got her back up over something. Some intangible quality about Desmond Blair unnerved her, put her off balance. It could have been the fact that she was still raw from her breakup and she felt oddly threatened by her instant attraction for him.

  Or maybe it was the chip on her shoulder left over from growing up in a rotten part of town, the chip that seemed to enlarge when she was faced with the entitlement complexes of the rich and self-important. Possibly, just possibly, it was the fact that she wanted to bite his shoulder. Well, to be truthful, she’d take his shirt off first, which was an entirely separate problem…and Annelise realized that he was speaking and she had paid absolutely no attention to one single word that came out of his mouth.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said that I have no need of your business. My clients provide me with ample free publicity. Consequently, it isn’t actually necessary to my prosperity that I take every high profile, high maintenance event that turns up at my door without an appointment and proceeds to press the buzzer ten times.”

  “Nine.” Annelise felt that she was losing ground with him.

  “Not counting the first time you buzzed.” Desmond countered. “What was your name again?”

  “Annelise Hollingford. I’m the personal assistant to Jasper Cates, chief executive officer of Cates Corporation.” She produced a vellum business card, which he took, stroking the edge of it slightly in a way that made her bite her lip.

  “Desmond Blair. Food business,” he said, offering her a glossy black card with his name embossed in matte gray. Annelise fingered the slick finish and decided he was overcompensating.

  “My employer’s highly anticipated engagement party is being touted as the social event of the season. No expense has been spared. The event is in three weeks.”

  “Three weeks? Not possible,” he said dismissively, still blocking her passage into the hall, his rather magnificent shoulders nearly filling the doorway.

  “Nineteen days, if you want precision. According to Kathleen, you had a cancellation that weekend. Now, that was phone-Kathleen who, might I say, is much more accommodating than door-buzzer-Kathleen, who is something of an appointment Nazi.”

  “Even so, that timetable is insufficient to prepare a menu and special order any artisanal ingredients—“

  “The bride couldn’t boil an egg and the groom lives on kale shakes. I sincerely doubt either party knows much about the food business. They want it to look fancy and for all the guests to think it was fabulous. Now, the groom has a thing about some kind of fancy mushrooms he saw on a documentary. I’ll spare you the details, but they’re hot pink.”

  “Lobster mushrooms. Only nineteen days to prepare a menu for seventeen hundred guests at an outdoor venue,” he said thoughtfully.

  “It would be quite the challenge. If you pull that off, it would be an achievement. Everyone would talk about it, how you did the impossible.” She warmed to the idea. “Having to pull it together on short notice would shake things up for you. Keep it from getting dull at the top.”

  “It’s never dull on top,” Desmond Blair promised, his voice just husky enough to make even Annelise’s cynical eyes widen.

  Flustered, Annelise dropped her eyes to his business card and a plan began to take shape in her mind. Annelise pulled out her phone, her chevron nails quickly clicking in the number listed on his posh, dark business card. Seconds later, the phone in his pocket chimed to life. He answered it, staring straight in her eyes.

  “Aux Delices. This is Desmond.” His voice was low, confidential.

  “Desmond, this is Annelise Hollingford. I’m calling to inquire about your availability to cater an event for my employer. I’d like to schedule an appointment to discuss an upcoming engagement gala.” She smiled slyly.

  “Annelise, may I call you that? Annelise, we’re quite booked up at the moment. Perhaps I could refer you to the food business down at the intersection. They sell chicken by the bucket.”

  “Perhaps I should mention that my employer is Jasper Cates, one of the most respected and discerning business figures in the recovering economy,” Annelise shot back.

  “Perhaps I should mention that I don’t give a shit who you work for. I just want your personal number,” he said, his voice low.

  “You have it.” She plucked her business card from his pocket boldly and presented it to him again, indicating the digits at the bottom.

  “I might have a little time in, perhaps, five minutes.” He wavered with a grin, flashing white teeth and a knockout smile that took him instantly from brooding bad boy to George Clooney-level stratospheric hotness and charm. Annelise literally had to grip the doorframe to keep from swaying on her weak knees from the tidal wave of attraction that struck her.

  “I’ll just press the buzzer.” She leaned past him and pushed the button again. When Kathleen’s exasperated voice said, “Yes?” they both dissolved into laughter.

  Desmond reached out and pressed his thumb to the screen of her phone, ending the call. He had only touched her phone, but somehow, Annelise felt it down to her toes. He had the nerve to smile at her, as if he knew the effect he w
as having and enjoyed it. Cocky bastard, she thought indulgently.

  Desmond Blair finally stepped aside and admitted her to an immaculate black and white tiled entry. A vast round mahogany table was topped with an elaborate centerpiece of tropical fruit in an antique silver urn. She was tempted to drop her messenger bag on the table and take a piece, but didn’t. She followed Desmond, admiring his muscular back and butt as she watched him climb stairs. Once, she was concentrating on his flexing so hard that she stumbled and missed a stair. He’d cast an amused look over his shoulder and she almost blushed. Annelise Hollingford hadn’t blushed since she was in the seventh grade.

  Trailing him up two narrow flights of wooden stairs, Annelise emerged into a massive, gleaming kitchen and prep space. The walls were lined with an army of stainless steel appliances, a walk-in freezer, and a row of tables for food assembly. Open shelving held pots and pans, mixing bowls, and a variety of cooking implements Annelise couldn’t begin to identify. A couple of kitchen workers chopped and measured ingredients, studiously ignoring them as they entered. He led her to a large marble-topped island and invited her to sit on a high metal stool. With a nod of acceptance, Annelise attempted to hitch up onto the counter height stool in her snug pencil skirt and nearly toppled off in her inability to bend freely. When Desmond caught her by the arm and steadied her, Annelise felt warmth flood her cheeks. So much for her record since seventh grade—Desmond’s touch made her temperature rocket and her composure flee for the mountains. His touch was practical and brief, but it sent a shock through her. She took a long breath to steady herself.

  Situated on the stool, she withdrew a folder from her messenger bag and passed it to him in her most businesslike manner.

  “This is a copy of the menu we were negotiating with our previous caterer,” she said to him briskly. “They want gazpacho shooters, prosciutto-wrapped Mission figs, a curry station, the duck quesadillas, and the cedar plank grilled salmon entrée.”

  “That is disgusting. They don’t even go together. Who devised this atrocious combination?” Desmond sniffed.

  “It was the only thing they would agree to. I want you to work for them, but it’s only fair I tell you now. I know they’re, like, this prominent power couple, but they both seem a little nuts to me.. I mean, the bride seemed okay but this big society party has got her in a tailspin. It’s really been a trial for me…” Annelise trailed off, scowling.

  “Anyone who agrees to a menu as, shall we say, incoherent as that combination, should be dragged out into the street and shot,” he said summarily.

  “They’re not to be shot, but their preliminary hearing is on Thursday.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind much if they were shot. It’s not like they couldn’t have kept their stupid meth lab hidden for another month until the party was over.”

  “Ah, I see that you’re a refugee from the criminals at Thyme for a Taste. Stupid name, that,” Desmond huffed derisively.

  “So you think your pretentious French name is better?”

  “It takes a pretentious foreign name to separate pretentious assholes from their money, Annelise. You don’t make millions calling it ‘Desmond’s Delights’.”

  “Now that would be a stupid name. Millions, though?”

  “Yes.” He inclined his head solemnly. “I’ve cleared millions with only myself working as head chef, while trying to manage the financial aspect of the business and marketing as well. If I can ever find someone trustworthy to run the business side of Aux Delices, it would allow me to concentrate on the creative division…” He trailed off wistfully as Annelise mulled over what sort of favors he could trade for her management expertise.

  “There are plenty of agencies in the city where you could find a manager. I was placed at Cates through Power Staffing.”

  “Thanks. I’m not sure they have another you in stock.” He grinned flirtatiously, straddling the stool beside hers. She could feel the heat from his body, like an oven she wanted to move closer to. Not that Annelise had previously had much to do with ovens. She was more of a crockpot girl (a can of soup and some chicken, and poof! done in six hours). Annelise favored tasty and simple. And she had better damn well remember it. Now was not the time to develop a taste for gourmet.

  “Certainly not,” she replied crisply, although she wanted to smile back. Something in her held back from the temptation. That in itself was unusual, and was hard evidence that Desmond Blair had thrown her off balance. Annelise Hollingford was usually a woman who dared temptation to bring it on.

  “Let me check my schedule and we’ll see about setting up a menu planning session.” His cool, professional voice undid her, and made her want to undo his buttons.

  He flicked through his phone efficiently, and she enjoyed the opportunity to study him further. Desmond Blair was over six feet tall, with shoulders like a dock worker, piercing deep brown eyes, dark hair worn unfashionably short for a rich man. More practical than stylish, and a dimple low on his left cheek near the corner of his mouth sealed the deal. It was the dimple that arrested her. It was faintly visible as he grimaced at his phone. She longed to step nearer, dip the tip of her tongue into the indention until he turned ever so slightly to kiss her. His black double-breasted chef’s jacket had the sleeves turned up, revealing thick, muscular forearms and a ruinously expensive designer watch, all deep gray gunmetal with a variety of dials that probably gave the barometric pressure in Antarctica.

  “Ah. Here we go. I can put together a tasting menu for you on the third if you’re free at eight,” he offered magnanimously.

  “You don’t do tasting menus. I read that online. Your business plan has been all about maintaining creative control.”

  “For you, I will.” He smoldered in her general direction, and if she hadn’t been perched precariously on a high stool, she felt certain her knees would have failed her again.

  “The bride and groom have another engagement on the third,” she said stiffly.

  “I didn’t ask the bride and groom. I asked you.” The weight of each word as he emphasized it was like a caress. Not them, you, he seemed to whisper against her ear.

  “They have opinions, believe me. They’ll weigh in on the food selection end of this.”

  “Perhaps your recommendation would sway them. A private tasting, here at eight on third, Annelise,” Desmond offered again, his voice low and silky. He had said her name. She’d always liked her name when she was growing up, but now she wanted to answer to it more than she ever had before.

  Annelise remembered rolling her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something when Jasper Cates talked on and on about how mesmerizing and sexy he thought Hannah’s voice was. Now that Desmond Blair had leaned in and spoken to her in that cool, dark tone that made her think of shadows and the things that might happen in shadows, Annelise had a much clearer picture of how a voice might be seductive.

  She pressed her lips together firmly with resolve. She was not coming to a private anything this man had to offer. Jasper and Hannah could just serve cheeseburgers and fries at their gala, because Annelise Hollingford was not about to get involved with another man. Men were fickle, unfaithful, untrustworthy. Men complained that you didn’t have a third tit. No matter how appealing he sounded, no matter how superior his shoulders were, Desmond Blair was one thing for sure—he was all man. And men were no damn good at all.

  “No thank you,” she said simply. No excuses, no elaborate reasons. Just no.

  “I’ll draw up a sample menu and e-mail it to you with a quote,” he said briskly, standing and indicating a dismissal. “I’ve a charity gala in five hours, if you’ll excuse me.” Gone was the laconic drawl, the easy grace of his seated posture beside her. He was all business, commanding as an admiral overseeing his fleet while sous chefs bustled about, chopping things and dividing them into containers. Annelise slipped out with a mere nod in his direction and decided to put him out of her mind. It would be the most efficient way to keep him out of her pants.

  Walkin
g away, she felt deflated, as if clouds had dimmed the sun and her hair had gone flat. The afternoon seemed drab as she wandered out of the electric, Technicolor presence of Desmond Blair, a man who told the world he was the best there’s ever been. Audacity, after all, she had told Shannon, was everything.

  * * *

  Desmond barked orders into his headset, navigating the back corridor of the industrial kitchen in a hospital cafeteria. It was hardly the workspace he was accustomed to, even on-site, but this foundation dinner wasn’t taking place at a posh hotel that would have a catering facility available. It was in the meeting rooms of the children’s hospital itself, and there was no other space for Desmond to set up the prep for service.

  “Even a pizza joint would have a goddamn warming drawer,” grumbled Lydia, one of the sous chefs.

  “Language, Lyd. It’s kids tonight,” Desmond warned. He was an exacting man, a perfectionist, and she nodded her apology before getting to work. He would brook no comment that the nearest kid was nine floors up and hooked to an IV drip.

  Huge ovens were fired up to reheat and crisp his hand-breaded chicken nuggets made with panko and a touch of cinnamon, the honey dipping sauce being whisked together by another assistant. Individual ramekins of mac and cheese had their gratin topping browned under the broiler while broccoli florets were drizzled with a sweet balsamic vinegar reduction and topped with a grating of Parmesan. Tray after tray was loaded onto the carts, and the uniformed assistants went to deliver supper to the children on the oncology wing.

  It had been part of the deal Desmond demanded. He didn’t like the kitchen digs or the equipment. He thought the woman who headed up the hospital board was a real hag. But he agreed to light their gala with his august presence if they agreed to provide a special meal to the sickest kids in the place. She was more interested in whether they could get Chilean sea bass for the gala entrée, but she had permitted him to include a special tray meal for two hundred fifty pediatric patients and their parents in his bid. The board of directors had accepted the astronomical figure he quoted without the slightest quibble. One didn’t quibble with the best there’s ever been.