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

by Cara Nelson

  “You’re mothering him.”

  “I know. I always have. I think I’m the only one who ever has. He doesn’t act like someone who’s used to being looked after I’m not the only one who does it either, Annelise. I’ve seen you do the same thing. Your manner might be a little…feistier…but you stick up for him, too.”

  “I know. I think he counts on women taking the heat for his bullshit. First you, then me, probably even Hannah in any social situation. .”

  “Annelise, go take a walk. I know he made you mad, but it isn’t worth your job,” Shannon warned, concerned for her. “I’m not sure you’re not the one who needs some help right now. You’re mad about something and you’re not going to take it out on him. Go take a walk, really. I’ll cover your phone in case there’s a cake crisis or something.”

  “Fine. I know you mean well, so I’ll go. I still think we ain’t doing nobody any favors, letting a grown man act like that. I know it’s early, but I’m taking off. I’m going to pick up my lease from Legal and sign it, I guess. Get this over with.” She said with dread.

  “See you tomorrow.” Shannon said sadly.

  Back at the couch, Annelise changed out of her suit and into what she thought of as her own clothes, her armor. The way she’d dressed since she was a tough-talking high school kid learning to braid hair and mouthing off to the dealers in her neighborhood. Faded jeans with a fraying rip high up on her left thigh, a black tank top faded to dark gray softness from many washings, and three cheap necklaces—a butterfly charm, because Madame Butterfly had been her granny’s stripper name, a shark tooth charm because she thought it looked tough, and a hamsa, its curving fingers in filigree. She layered them on and stepped into her battered old motorcycle boots. She would go to Desmond not as a rich man’s secretary, but as herself. As Annelise Hollingford, who used to live in a crap neighborhood because her dad got high instead of getting work, who moved in with her boyfriend right out of high school, who did cornrows so fast when she was nineteen that she drew a crowd, who elbowed her way up the ranks to a job uptown and a taste of the finer things. Annelise Hollingford, who thought she’d get a wedding and babies and a house in the suburbs and instead got a broken heart and a chlamydia and had to sleep on people’s couches.

  She put on her dark red lipstick, the kind that came from the drugstore and had a cheap plastic tube, and blotted her lips once on a tissue. If Desmond Blair wanted her, he’d have to see her for who she was, without the tailored suit and semi-tailored manners.

  At Aux Delices after hours, there was no Kathleen to let her in, or refuse to do so, and when Annelise rang the buzzer, Desmond opened the door himself. The way he filled the door, blocking the light from the entryway, made her catch her breath from wanting him.

  “I’m glad you decided to keep our appointment,” he said with a sly smile, taking in her outfit. Her hair was wild and tangled from the wind, not tortured into pins as he’d seen it before. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them off of her.

  “I’m not sure you’ll be so happy to see me when I tell you what Jasper Cates said about the mushrooms.”

  “Not to shock you or anything, Annelise, but I couldn’t give a shit about Jasper Cates and his party right now.”

  He swept the tangled hair back from her cheek and kissed the corner of her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately, their tongues meeting in a back and forth dance not unlike the salsa that had nearly brought her to her knees a few nights before. Panting, he pulled away and drew her into his massive kitchen, its astringent tang of lemon cleaner making her wrinkle her nose.

  “I thought I’d teach you to cook,” he said, his voice as seductive as if he’d suggested something unmentionable.

  “I already know how to cook,” she said as if insulted.

  “You zest the oranges. We’re making a ricotta tart.”

  She wasn’t sure what that was, but she agreed. With the guidance of his strong hand atop hers, she learned to stroke a microplane grater along the skin of the orange, fine curls of zest unfurling beneath her fingers. It was impossibly sexy. She wanted to drop the grater and throw him down on the floor and have her way with him.

  Desmond Blair was not a man who could be hurried. She watched him break the eggs, whisking in sugar, adding pastry ingredients to a food processor and pulsing them with the pressure of one finger on the button. She couldn’t help imagining that finger pressing against her, between her legs. His every movement was sensuous. When he raised the mixer to scrape the bowl, he offered her a dollop of sweet ricotta on his finger.

  When she took his finger in her mouth, she nearly moaned with desire, but she held herself back—barely. Her thigh brushed against his as they worked side by side, assembling the tart. He slid it into the oven and started clearing the dishes into the sink. Annelise came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his back. He continued to rinse the mixing bowl.

  She opened the buttons on his chef’s jacket and parted it, rubbing across the thin t-shirt that separated his washboard abs from her touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, and she longed to set her mouth on it. Methodically, he washed dishes as she stroked his stomach, his chest, his thighs. She felt him laugh softly as he turned around, his hands warm and wet from the dishwater. He framed her face with his hands and claimed her mouth. Their tongues meshed as he trailed his fingers up and down her arms, raising goose bumps in his wake. Chills slithered across her skin.

  Annelise pushed his jacket to the floor and made short work of his shirt. In her relationship with Roger, she’d always been the initiator, the aggressor, and it was a role she was comfortable in…it was the only way she knew. So when Desmond Blair caught her hands in his and shook his head, she was startled, a little embarrassed. He kissed her palm, her wrist, his mouth trailing fiery kisses up the length of her arm as she stood there, dumbfounded. Men, in her limited experience, wanted the clothes ripped off and for someone else to do all the work. She had no problem taking charge herself, but this was new. Desmond Blair wanted to make love to her, not just get laid as quickly as possible.

  He lifted her by the hips and set her on the edge of the counter, his mouth on her neck. She felt the rasp of stubble on his face as it scraped at the tender skin of her throat, the warm wet mouth making her tremble. Slowly, languorously, he inched up the hem of her tank top, his hands warm at her sides and stroking her stomach. At last he pulled back long enough to strip off her tank top, revealing the black bra underneath. Instead of going straight for the tits—as her granny’s prophesy went—Desmond slipped one finger beneath her bra strap, teasing it down her shoulder, his mouth following its path with soft kisses. She was trembling with need, her legs snaking around him as he started on the other strap, delaying gratification so long that she felt his seduction was crossing over into torment.

  When her bra was gone and his warm hands found her breasts, she sighed with satisfaction, only to have his fingers and thumb drive her wild, leaving her writhing on the countertop beneath his hands. He unfastened the button on her jeans. When his fingers slipped down her panties she moaned aloud, his touch soft and gentle as she arched against him. Desmond kissed her neck as his wicked fingers teased her. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she came. Her legs clamped around his hand as he covered her mouth with his, capturing her cry of completion. Shaking, she wound her arms around him and he held her for a moment, kissing her hair, her cheekbone, whispering that she was beautiful.

  Annelise slid down off the cold counter, pushed him back on a stool, ready to show him a good time, when he caught her hands again. Stripping off the rest of their clothes, he lifted her in his arms, kissing her, and laid her out before him on the counter. Climbing up beside her, he leaned over her, kissing her forehead.

  “Isn’t it time you let someone else do some of the work?” he teased, too close to the truth. For so long she had labored in a relationship where she was the only one who real
ly cared. Tears pricked her eyes as she nodded assent, her arms around his neck, pulling him down over her. She had never had sex like this. Annelise had always been the strong one, the dominant one, the one who served and worked and seduced and she had always been on top. This was strange and vulnerable. She felt fragile and willing and happy, and oddly virginal. She giggled at the thought, her laughter stopping as he parted her legs with his gentle hand. He paused, ripped a foil packet, and put on a condom. She looked at him, puzzled.

  “I’m on the pill,” she said awkwardly.

  “And I’m a man who’s going to keep you safe,” he said.

  Desmond moved inside of her with a long, slow stroke that left her breathless. She looked up into his face and saw him meeting her eyes, very much there and present and seeing only her. It was intensely intimate. As he began to move, she held his gaze, determined. She wanted to give to him, to let him take pleasure from her. His skillful hands brought her to the peak again before his rhythmic, powerful movements came to a crest and he shuddered within her. She held him close, kissing him for what seemed like hours afterward. When her flesh cooled and relaxed, he held her in his arms, warming her, wrapping her in his black jacket.

  Sleepily, she looked up at him.

  “The timer never did go off on your oven.”

  “I never turned the oven on. I don’t like to make love on a timer, Annelise. You’ll have to live without dessert this time.” He kissed her lazily and she nestled against him.

  Chapter 6

  When Annelise woke up, it was well past midnight and her hip hurt from laying on the marble counter. Stiffly, she disentangled herself from Desmond and got up. He was asleep, and she was grateful that she could find her clothes and sneak out before he woke. Her underpants were on the floor by the refrigerator; her bra was hanging from a drawer pull. Gathering her stuff and putting it back on quickly, she hastened out of Aux Delices.

  On the dark street, she sat in her car for a minute, catching her breath like she’d made a lucky escape. She didn’t want to see him, talk to him. If possible, she’d like to avoid him forever. It had been too intimate, too much too soon. This was supposed to be a fling, pure pleasure and no emotions. She knew when he’d laid her down and kissed her mouth that she was in way over her head. He was playing for keeps, and it wasn’t any kind of game she could hope to win. Speeding away toward the office, she rationalized that she couldn’t stay out ‘til one in the morning and then terrify the cafeteria lady by coming in so late. She parked and rode the elevator up to her office, then determined the place was empty except for security on the main floor. She slipped into her boss’s bathroom and showered. She had brought some clothes in from her car, and she sat down at her desk, clad for work, and went over the RSVP’s again to calm herself.

  Annelise completed a lot of work and then composed an email to Desmond Blair.

  Dear Desmond,

  It was a lovely evening but you must forgive my indiscretion, my breach of professionalism. I hope we can work together to make this event a success and collaborate as professionals. Please consider this a friendly conclusion to our personal involvement.

  Annelise Hollingford

  She was well satisfied with it, but added a postscript about sourcing the mushrooms from a grocery supplier she’d found. They would doubtless be of dubious quality, but if Jasper Cates was going to be stubborn, she figured he could eat shitty pink mushrooms. Never mind that she felt sick at her stomach sending the message. Never mind that she wanted to open her mouth and howl out her sorrow.

  Desmond Blair had been the best sex of her life, but more than that, he had awakened feelings in her that she’d thought were gone, consumed by bitterness and hurt. Pain twisted in her chest, knowing she’d let herself get carried away. She never should have slept with him, never should have talked to him about Roger and the hookers and the apartments and her granny. It was too personal. She backed away from it like a bonfire that had got out of her control.

  Flowers arrived on her desk at eight thirty, a square crystal vase with tight-packed calla lilies, sensuous curves that reminded her of last night, of his hands and their shadows on the wall. She put them aside and ignored them. She also ignored the text messages and the calls. He didn’t respond to the email, although she knew he had to have read it. If he could disregard her explanation, her gesture of friendship and her tidy escape hatch to what had become a very messy entanglement, then she could ignore his goddamned flowers. Every time she glimpsed them, her heart leapt like some stupid teenager who was crooning over her boyfriend’s class ring. Finally she dumped them out in the trash and gave the vase to Shannon.

  “Was the sex that bad?” Shannon inquired, eyebrows up.

  “No. It was phenomenal. But he needs to back off and just cook for the party.”

  “And you called Cates moody,” Shannon observed.

  “I don’t want to get involved with this guy he’s too intense.” She made the excuse and then went and cried in the ladies restroom.

  For two days, she dodged his calls and his messages. She signed her lease and gave the giant bouquet of orchids Des sent her as a thank you gift to the cafeteria lady who had put up with her for so long. She bought a futon and a TV and filled the refrigerator with popsicles…a sweeter alternative to a cold shower, but one still guaranteed to lower her temperature when she caught herself thinking of Des. A weekend of satellite TV convinced her that every man on every show reminded her of him, which meant she was slowly going insane. She couldn’t sleep because of all the sugar from the popsicles she was eating. She couldn’t even text Shannon about her misery, because every time she turned her phone on, it was flooded with messages from Des.

  On Monday morning, an email in her in-box bore his name. Clicking on it, wincing, she read on.

  As all of my attempts to communicate with my contact at Cates Corporation have been ignored, I hereby terminate our contract due to breach of collaboration cause. Payment in full will be expected per the terms. Aux Delices, its subsidiaries and agents are no longer responsible for any work or product relating to the Cates event scheduled for October 12th of this year.

  Annelise felt herself go pale, her hands shaking. He was backing out of the party because she ignored him. What a nasty, manipulative thing to do! She shoved back her chair and stomped to the elevator. She was already confused, tired and brokenhearted. She was not losing the bonus and possibly her job because of some guy in the food business.

  The street in front of Aux Delices was bustling, but the shop itself was dark, empty. When she buzzed, the door was unlocked remotely. She went upstairs to the kitchen, her footsteps echoing on the highly polished slate floors. They should have been busy, with kitchen assistants everywhere, but the place was deserted except for the light under his office door. Annelise turned the knob and opened the door. Desmond Blair, so self-contained, so polished, looked like a mess. His short hair was rumpled, his jacket hung open, not crisply pressed and fresh as usual. He started to stand when she entered but he hesitated, sat back down as if deciding she wasn’t worth it. His shoulders were hunched and he stared at his desk, not even seeing the stacks of papers. Gone was the precision, the order she knew him by.

  “You are not backing out of this party. That email was a bullshit ploy to get me to come down here. Here you go. I’m here. What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” he asked softly, his voice a warning. “What do I WANT? I want a fucking ANSWER!” He slammed the flat of his hand down on the desktop for emphasis. “You leave without a word, you won’t take my calls. I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  His dark eyes looked pained. She wanted to go to him, to take him in her arms, but she wouldn’t allow herself. She felt the twist of agony in her chest, knowing she had hurt him but unable to reverse it. She couldn’t face her feelings for him, or the well of pain it would open up for her.

  “I emailed you. I told you what you needed to know. It was a mistake. We have to work together
. Just a few more days, and the party will be over and we never have to see each other again,” she said evenly.

  “A mistake. That is NOT what that was,” he said, the anger in his voice startling her. “You knew I had feelings for you. I told you as much. Why did you let me make love to you if you were just going to blow me off? You’re not a cruel person. So why?”

  “Really? You think I set out to hurt you? I didn’t. I wanted you but I got more than I bargained for. I wanted…relief. A fling. I couldn’t handle the feelings, all the other shit that came with it. I’ve only been with two other men, Des. There was Roger…we all know how that went…and then the guy when I was sixteen, the guy I did in the back of a car because he said he loved me and then he went to a revival meeting the next week and found Jesus and told everyone I tempted him and I was a whore.”

  “I’m not going to leave you for hookers. I’m not going to denounce you in a church tent. What has that to do with me?”

  “It has everything to do with me and what I’ve learned to expect, which is effort and disappointment and pain.”

  “Don’t put that on me.”

  “Men are no damn good, Des. I’ve learned it the hard way. My granny was right.” She shook her head, feeling stupid for coming to see him.

  “Your granny never knew me, and apparently you never knew me either,” he said, coming around the desk, taking her by the shoulders. “Because I’ve never given up without a fight in my life.” He kissed her breathless and she struggled away, wanting more, wanting to stay and wanting to believe him but afraid to do so.

  “I’m leaving. I have to find another caterer. I’m not playing emotional blackmail. I’m not—strong enough.” It hurt to admit that, but it was true. She reached for the doorknob.

  “I sent everyone home before I emailed you. I hoped you’d come here. I’ll do—anything, Annelise. Don’t go.”