by Unknown
Copyright© 2009 Tracey Richardson
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First Edition
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Cover Designer: Stephanie Solomon-Lopez
ISBN 10: 1-59493-143-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-143-7
About the Author
Tracey Richardson is a daily newspaper editor who lives in the Great Lakes region of Ontario, Canada. She is the author of The Candidate, published in 2008, and wrote several novels in the 1990s for Naiad Press, Inc. In her spare time, Tracey enjoys playing sports such as ice hockey, golf and skiing. She also enjoys the tasty benefits of her partner’s wonderful culinary skills (which is why she has to play so many sports!). E-mail the author at [email protected]
Dedication
To all those who appreciate a great dish and a perfect golf swing
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Bella for continued support and belief in me. The women in the Bella family are truly wonderful! The readers get my biggest thanks, because without them, so many wonderful things in my life would not have happened. The loyalty and dedication to this genre are remarkable, and it’s what helps propel me on. I want to thank my right-hand readers Brenda, Stacey, Cris S. and Barb. Their observations and suggestions were invaluable to me. Brenda is also my dedicated webmistress, for which I’m very appreciative. My editor Cindy Cresap, as always, brought her extraordinary skills to this novel and helped make it (and me!) better. My thanks, as always, to my partner.
CHAPTER ONE
Grace Wellwood leaned heavily against the mahogany-paneled wall at the back of the ballroom and tried to ignore the slightly portentous feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She wished that things in her life were simple, or that at least one thing in her life was. Just once, she would love to melt anonymously into the crowd, slip in and out of the room unnoticed, or at least retreat into an unclaimed corner. The idea of getting a little drunk was particularly appealing. It would be just the tonic to get through the grind of pretending to be happy in this room full of strangers and pragmatic bloodsuckers. But Grace was too responsible and much too chained to her obligations to do anything but smile and nod and look far more interested than she was.
“Grace. Congratulations!” It was George Iafrani, one of Grace’s main produce purveyors for her Boston restaurant, and he was coming straight for her with his thick, wet lips puckered and looking much like the ripe tomatoes he sold. She turned her cheek just in time.
“Thank you, George. It’s so nice to see you.”
“No, really, Grace. I really mean it.”
He had that repetitive, maudlin, sloppy demeanor of having had too many drinks, and he couldn’t stop gushing about her new cookbook.
“It’s a wonderful book, Grace. Just wonderful. I keep pushing it on all my customers. ’Course, it’s good for business when I tell them I know you.” He leaned too close to drive home his last point, his alcohol-infused breath forcing her back a step.
George was short and thick and looked like an ex-wrestler. He meant well and was a decent guy, but Grace was in no mood to be cornered by him. He was blathering on now about the poor tomato growing conditions in Mexico this year.
“Grace. There you are.” Grace’s business partner and best friend, Trish Wilson, swooped in to save the day, a second glass of champagne in her hand like a reward being dangled. “There’s someone we need to talk to. Hi, George. Sorry, hope you don’t mind me stealing her away.”
Trish had her elbow and briskly guided her away.
“Oh, God, thank you for saving me. Another minute and I swear I would have been a rude bitch, and then we’d get nothing but overripe tomatoes for the next two months.”
“You, rude? That’d be the day.”
Grace gave her a teasing wink. “Still, I could kiss you right now, Trish.”
Trish offered her the champagne. “Hmm. I could see that would open up a whole new market for us, wouldn’t it? And good ’ol George would probably be first in line.”
Grace laughed at the vision. “Straight men getting turned on by two women making out is not a market that interests me, I can honestly say.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
Grace sipped her drink thoughtfully. “I guess there’s no chance of sneaking out of here early, is there?”
Grace Wellwood and Trish Wilson were America’s hottest chefs, also known as the Kitchen Cuties, the Hotties of Haute Cuisine and any number of equally silly monikers the media had anointed them with. They were fiercely popular, thanks to their new cookbook, their ridiculously successful restaurant that was booked solidly two months in advance and their chart-topping weekly television show, Wellwood and Wilson’s Everyday Cuisine. They were the evening’s guests of honor, and so Grace knew Trish’s answer before she gave it.
“Never mind,” Grace muttered, and cast another furtive glance toward the heavy, double wooden doors across the room. Her heart dropped another unsatisfying notch. If only Aly would show, the evening might actually mean something…
Trish sighed deeply, took a sip of bubbly and studied Grace with dark eyes that could be so brutally frank in their appraisal. “You know, Gracie—”
“Don’t say it,” Grace hissed. She knew that she and Trish could say anything to each other because they understood one another, even if they didn’t always agree. And often they didn’t, but they loved each other with a simple clarity that kept them grounded and honest, especially when things got crazy around them as they had the last two or three years. She just wasn’t in the mood tonight for Trish to remind her that she was in for another disappointment—that her lover had no intention of showing up. As usual.
“Honey, I just want you to be happy,” Trish said gently, her eyes softening.
Grace took a long drink of her champagne and took an equally long look around the expansive room, jammed with an assortment of well-wishers, business contacts, journalists, colleagues and people who just wanted to be seen in the right crowd. They talked animatedly in clusters, gesticulating with a tiny crab cake or a delicate canapé of salmon, cucumber and caviar, each one’s motivation for being here temporarily lost in the aura of alcohol, music and good food. Laughter and conversation swelled over the string quartet, and Grace longed to feel a part of the lively bonhomie, rather than a spectator. They were all here for her, after all, and she knew she should be basking in the admiration for her and Trish’s accomplishments. But it was a role to play, just like every other time she was the main attraction at an event.
Successful businesswoman, popular celebrity. She was about as far as she could get from mucking about in the kitchen, and there were times, like tonight, when she longed for the good old days of just her and Trish and a couple of line cooks struggling to fill orders. She closed her eyes for a moment. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel the heat of the kitchen, smell the dozen or so different aromas all mixing and competing with one another, hear the sizzling grills and sharply clinking pots.
“Did you hear what I said, Grace? I just want to see you happy.”
Grace forced a smile and absently ran a hand over her upswept hair to check for strays. “What’s not to be happy about? It’s a great night for us,” she said without feeling.
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Trish’s voice was rigid, though not unkind. “She’s not coming, Grace.”
<
br /> Grace reeled a bit at the bluntness of the statement. The two of them, friends and colleagues for over a decade, often spoke in verbal shorthand, so Grace knew exactly what Trish was referring to. Or rather whom. And it rattled her, because Grace had made it clear long ago that talk of her very closeted, very married and almost always absent lover was not grist for the casual conversation mill. Aly was a subject Grace very rarely talked about, and the few times she had, it made her nerve endings prickle. Her mouth automatically tightened and her shoulders straightened, and she hated how it showed that talk of Aly bothered her so much. “I never said she was.”
“But you hoped.” Trish took a step closer, touched Grace’s bare forearm affectionately. “Grace, honey—”
“Look, can we just not talk about this?” Grace snapped. Anguish was beginning to supplant her anger, and she was afraid she might lose it. Going solo to these kinds of events was nothing new, but tonight the loneliness was as sharp as the edge of a knife. While she knew Trish was always there for her, always in her corner, Trish was her friend, not her lover. And tonight Grace needed a lover—someone to look at her with possessive pride, affection and admiration. Someone to go home with, to cuddle with, to rewind the night’s events with. Someone with whom she didn’t have to be the star attraction.
“Well, there you both are!”
James Easton was their slick, well-groomed business manager with a voice like syrup and a personality as bubbly and sickly sweet as the champagne in their glasses. And while his flaming effervescence could be a bit much at times, James was indispensable to them. He was indefatigable, and not only was his energy boundless, but his contacts, his business acumen and his ability to push them into an ever higher sphere of success knew no limits. He was the engine that drove their success.
“Tsk, tsk, girls. We’re not having a little disagreement are we? Now, kiss kiss. C’mon,” he trilled. “ Wine Aficionado magazine is still waiting for that interview I promised on your behalf. Let’s not keep them waiting, shall we? Ooh, and then there’s the big announcement we have planned.” He clapped his hands enthusiastically. “I can’t wait!”
He cupped their elbows and began to guide them back toward the crowd, but Grace could not resist another glance over her shoulder at the doors. She caught an “I told you so” look from Trish. Annoyance and embarrassment surged hotly through her until her neck and ears burned.
Everyone had a weakness, Grace knew. Hers just happened to be a bright and beautiful but infinitely unavailable woman who could melt her with just a look or a small touch. Grace drew a deep, painful breath and clutched the stem of her glass tightly. She definitely needed something stronger than champagne if she was to get through the rest of the night.
Her tension had finally begun to ebb. The surprise announcement that she and Trish were opening a second location of their popular Boston restaurant, Sheridan’s, in Manhattan was met with immediate and overwhelming approval. After a short speech, a throng of supporters quickly knotted around them, their enthusiasm confirming Grace’s private belief that everything they touched right now turned to gold.
Well, except for her love life, which had the distinct tarnish of failure. But it wasn’t a total lost cause, she told herself, and began to play the “if only” game—the one she couldn’t seem to resist after a couple of drinks. It was the one that let her pretend for a few moments that she was madly in love with Aly O’Donnell and that Aly was madly in love with her, and that any day now the relationship’s complications would magically evaporate, like the reduction of a watery sauce. They would be, in her mind’s eye, the perfect blend of ingredients, the unique and unforgettable merging of distinct flavors that formed the consummate creation. And if it was not to be, if they were not to make it to the plating up stage, then at least they were sizzling hotly on the grill together. That, at least, was something. Wasn’t it?
Grace sipped the expensive cognac and let James and Trish hog the spotlight and do most of the talking, as they often did. She let the warm alcohol tranquilize her, and after a while, its numbing effects and the constant well-meaning distractions began to pry Aly from her thoughts. She flashed a long overdue smile at Trish and was rewarded with a wink.
Things couldn’t be better. Business was booming. She was a culinary household name in North America. Her peers admired her. Her dog thought less of her because she was almost never home, but what the hell—success did have its price. She was at the pinnacle right now, and it occurred to her that it might never get better than this. Really, what did she have to complain about? Success at work, a hot woman in her bed—even if Aly’s presence was infrequent. She sipped the blazing liquid again, her muscles relaxing to the point where she feared she might not be able to walk very steadily. It was good. It was all good, except for that constant emptiness in the pit of her gut. Her mood shifted again, like sand, just as a small commotion drew her attention to the entrance. She caught a flash of that rich auburn hair, and her stomach dropped straight down to her Jimmy Choo heels.
Oh, God. She’s here. She’s actually here. Panic gripped her for an instant and then gave way to sweet satisfaction.
“Well, well.” It was Trish’s low and quiet voice in her ear.
She’d disengaged from their supporters long enough to notice the flashy entrance of Aly and her husband, Tim O’Donnell, the Deputy Mayor of Boston. She squeezed Grace’s wrist for reassurance, then turned back to her audience, leaving Grace alone.
Why did she have to bring him, Grace wondered bitterly, as she watched the power couple move in graceful choreography through the crowd toward her and Trish, stopping periodically for a quick handshake with someone or a private greeting. She didn’t know Tim O’Donnell well enough to hate him, but she knew enough about him to know she intensely disliked him. Everything he had done since marrying Aly out of law school was calculated to bring him success and advancement up the social and political ladder. He’d been smart enough to know that the fastest way out of his blue-collar background, besides his law degree, had been to marry the very beautiful and well-bred Aly Fitzsimmons, member of one of Boston’s oldest and wealthiest families, whose father was a federal appeals court judge and her mother a Harvard University professor. Now, the forty-twoyear-old politician was in the middle of his first term as the city’s Deputy Mayor, and he had been making noise that it was merely a stepping-stone.
As the couple approached, Grace stole a quick but sweeping glance at her lover. Aly was as beautiful as ever, and it made Grace’s breath catch in her throat. The thick, chestnut hair hung loosely on her bare shoulders. A dark green, off-the-shoulder designer dress perfectly matched the shade of her eyes, which now flicked to Grace and widened with pleasure as they settled softly but thoroughly on her, like a hot summer breeze. Her knees went weak, the same as they had the first time Aly had looked at her like that, almost three years ago at a political fundraiser Grace and Trish were catering. Aly had sauntered up to the buffet table, introduced herself and asked flirtatiously which dish would give her the most pleasure. Her eyes had never left Grace’s, and while her motive was completely transparent, Grace couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the unspoken promises of carnal pleasure in that solicitous look. Her desire for Grace was red hot and irresistible, and it wasn’t long before they were enjoying each other in suburban hotel rooms, in Aly’s Mercedes on back roads, even on the tile floor of a mutual friend’s oversized, luxurious bathroom once.
“Ah, Ms. Wellwood.” Tim O’Donnell shook Grace’s hand with the artificial enthusiasm of a used car salesman and gave her a greasy smile. His dark eyes dropped to her cleavage, which she knew her V-necked Halston gown showed off magnificently. She had to suppress a shudder.
“Congratulations on your latest success,” he said to her boobs. “My, there’s just no keeping you down, is there?”
Did he mean her boobs or her? What she really wanted to do was slap him, but that was sure to be a party killer. Be good, Grace. She forced a smile that was eve
ry bit as superficial as his. Never knew when she might need a minor variance for major renovations at the restaurant. “Thank you, Mr. Deputy Mayor. It’s good to see you, as always.”
“Please. My friends call me Tim. And I hope you’ll consider me a friend.” His smile turned predatory, but he blinked in confusion when Grace’s gaze shifted anxiously to his wife. Aly waited serenely beside him, but the intensity of her passion for Grace bubbled just below the placid surface. She could see it in Aly’s eyes and in the slow upturn of her pink glossed lips.
Wanting him to move on so she could have Aly to herself, Grace momentarily dragged her attention back to the Deputy Mayor, the muscles in her face tightening as he went on about nothing. You have no clue I’m fucking your wife, do you, asshole? Grace made all the appropriate noises and muttered the necessary ego-stroking lies. She hated every minute of this phony crap, but politics and business were natural bedmates, and Grace couldn’t afford to let personal biases get in the way of good business.
Finally, Aly nudged her husband along and stood before Grace. She grasped Grace’s hand with both of hers and gave a gentle squeeze that shot a bolt of electricity through Grace. They exchanged a brief, longing look, and Aly’s smile was charged with a sexual hunger so burningly familiar to Grace. They had not seen each other in more than three weeks, and it was at least two since they had last spoken over the phone. Aly had just returned from a couple of weeks in Palm Beach visiting her parents, and while Grace was used to long absences, they had not gotten easier with time.
“It’s so good to see you, Grace.” Aly’s voice was husky and low with an intimacy Grace knew was reserved just for her. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” Grace managed, trying to remain cool, even though she couldn’t help but stare worshipfully at those soft, full lips, and wishing she could smudge them with urgent kisses. “You look spectacular yourself. I can’t believe you came.”
