The Perfect Ingredient (Dare Valley)

by Ava Miles

  It had taken him hours to get to sleep last night, restless time he’d spent thinking about what to cook for her tonight. Cooking for her in his home was the best date idea he could come up with. He didn’t want to take her to High Stakes, and Brasserie Dare was out. When he visited Dare Valley’s other gourmet restaurant for the first time, he and Chef Brian would have to chat and show each other the proper respect—and he didn’t want anything to eat into his time with Elizabeth.

  He’d already told himself not to assume she’d make love with him and spend the night. If she was of a different mindset, he wouldn’t pressure her. He didn’t pressure women.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to pull out all the stops, remembering all the foods she’d loved in their time together at The Peacock.

  His phone rang, and he frowned when he saw it was the president of the television network. Lane Adams was a pain in the butt—the reason he was losing a fortune to his Cuss Fund. The last thing he needed right now was a lecture. Or to lose his temper again, which is how he’d landed himself with the two-month probation period in the first place.

  Lane was no doubt unhappy about the shirtless pictures of Terrance and his buddies making the rounds. It didn’t suit the family vision he had of the network, even though plenty of the shows they aired had sex. People even cussed.

  He hated being singled out. Still, he wanted his television show to move forward, so he picked up.

  “Lane? Good to hear from you. How are things in New York?”

  “Apparently not as wild as they are in Dare Valley. Would you care to explain these obscene pictures? The ones where you’re shirtless with a bunch of guys, including Rye Crenshaw and that poker player friend of yours?”

  “There’s nothing to it,” he deflected. “We were only having some fun for Rye’s bachelor party.”

  “It looks like you had a homosexual orgy.”

  What? Terrance’s hand tightened on the phone. So Lane was a homophobe? No surprise, really—the guy seemed to hate everything. But Terrance had a number of friends who were gay, and prejudice in any form pissed him off. He took a deep breath to keep his cool.

  “That’s a pretty interesting statement given that all of the men in those photos are straight. Rye’s getting married to a woman, after all, and Rhett’s married too. Not that there’s anything wrong with homosexuals.”

  “Never make a statement like that,” Lane said, like he had a burr up his butt. “This network might not have a public policy on that abomination, but we run clean programming. As a representative of this network, you will be expected to toe that line. How many times have we been through this?”

  The urge to hurl the phone against the wall was overwhelming, but he resisted. “You mentioned curbing the cussing and any wild antics with women for two months. I’m doing that. If you have more stipulations, I suggest you call my agent and have them written down so I can make sure I understand the full picture.”

  Silence descended between them. Lane was pissed. Good. It was as close as he’d come to challenging him since their original altercation. And he was proud of himself. He hadn’t used a single curse word in their conversation. The Cuss Fund was working.

  “I told you that you’d have to clean up your image to make it in the big leagues, Waters, and this just doesn’t cut it. Cable shows starring chefs from the gutter are a dime a dozen, but primetime…”

  He ground his teeth. No one liked being reminded they were from the gutter, but he knew he had to pick his battles with Lane.

  “I don’t know how the photos got out, but it was certainly not our intention to cause trouble. It won’t happen again.”

  Because no way he was shaking it shirtless in front of a bunch of women ever again. Even if Dr. Evil had asked him if he wanted to come with her to Elizabeth’s Wednesday class.

  “You’re walking a fine line, Waters. Be careful.”

  Lane hung up, and since Terrance liked his smart phone too much to hurl it across the room, he jogged to his home gym, strapped on some boxing gloves, and went a few rounds with the bag. Punching it gave him release. Lane was a prick, but he was a necessary evil if Terrance wanted to make it to primetime.

  Compromise was a must.

  It was the strategy that had propelled him out of the gutter. He couldn’t always have what he wanted, but God knew, when he set his mind to something and worked hard, he usually got it—even if it took a few adjustments.

  Now if only it would work with Elizabeth.

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth surveyed herself in the mirror. Her stomach was a ball of knots—both with fear and lingering arousal. She’d chosen a navy silk shirt and a black skirt with her Manolo Blahnik high-heel boots in midnight black. Casual, yet sexy and sophisticated. She’d applied expert smoky eyes—cream on the brow bones and charcoal on the lids—and a pink nude lipstick. Her blond hair hung in waves down her shoulders, and she’d decided to wear the diamond necklace and earrings Rhett had bought her as a thank you after he had won his first World Series of Poker tournament. The diamond winked above her neckline like starlight.

  Vixen had always dressed boldly.

  Nothing said Elizabeth couldn’t sparkle too.

  Her phone rang, and Jane’s picture flashed on her home screen. “Hey,” she said, picking up the call.

  “Hey. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and give final approval on your outfit? I can be there in five.”

  “No, let’s not make a big deal out of this. It’s only a date.”

  “With Terrance.”

  Right. Like she needed the reminder. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you taking an overnight bag?”

  “Jane.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  They both knew what she was asking. “I haven’t decided, okay? Can we please talk about something else?”

  “Fine, but if you need me, call. I can come over tonight—or in the morning.”

  Her belly quivered. If she stayed over, there would be no going back. She’d be lost in this, in him…

  “I appreciate that, Jane. You know I do.”

  “Ah…I love you, Liz.”

  Elizabeth traced the diamond necklace, making sure it nestled directly between her décolletage. It would draw his gaze exactly where she wanted it. Nothing said she couldn’t tantalize him while she was making up her mind.

  “You’ve become such a sap since getting engaged. But you know I love you too. Okay, I have to run. He’ll be here any second.”

  “Tell him Matt laughed so hard he fell off the couch when he heard about the dance class. I showed him the pictures on the Internet so he wouldn’t feel left out. I wish someone had recorded it so we could watch it whenever we have a bad day.”

  Until she dealt with this hunger inside, she wouldn’t be able to laugh at the sight of Terrance moving his body so seductively without a shirt on. There was only so much dark chocolate espresso ice cream a girl could eat.

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now. I’ll call you…when I call you. Bye.”

  She ended their call, checked herself in the mirror one last time, and strode out to her den. Sure enough, she heard his tires crunching on the gravel of her drive. Terrance was always on time. That she remembered.

  Telling herself to take a chill pill, she grabbed her Kate Spade purse and then stopped. What had she told Jane? Always allow a man to see you when he comes to pick you up. Never grab your purse and coat like you’re raring to go.

  Take your time. Enjoy the moment his eyes rest on you.

  God, had she turned up the heat or something? She fanned herself, feeling her body flush.

  When he knocked, she smoothed her hands down her front and walked to the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

  The crisp night air cooled her cheeks somewhat, but the rest of her body went nuclear when she saw him. He was wearing tan chinos and a white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal his muscular chest. A black and white paisley pocket square was
tucked into the pocket of his blue, black, and white checkered blazer—an artistic touch perhaps, but it made him all the more masculine.

  No one could say Terrance didn’t have an eye for fashion.

  “You look ready to grace the streets of New York City tonight,” she commented. “Very chic.”

  “Not in my old neighborhood. You, on the other hand. Well, you’d stop traffic in any city on the globe.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, feeling that familiar pull in her belly—and her heart. “I’ll just get my purse and wrap.”

  “Allow me.”

  She knew it was an excuse to touch her, but it was gentlemanly and arousing.

  And she honestly didn’t need to feel any more aroused right now or she might combust right in front of him.

  Still she turned her back to him when he took her cream-colored pashmina. Biting her lip, she tensed her muscles as his hands slid the silky wrap over her shoulders. Of course his fingers also slid down her forearms, and she was unable to stop herself from shivering.

  “You smell divine. I’m glad your perfume hasn’t changed.”

  Funny how her heart squeezed at that. “Nothing more classic than Chanel.”

  “Indeed,” he said, his warm breath on her neck.

  Spinning around, she walked the few steps to her purse. “Shall we?”

  “After you.”

  When he opened the door to the passenger side of his car, she almost tripped. He’d been solicitous before, but never like this…

  “We never really had a date like this before,” he said when he came around to the driver’s seat and started the car.

  Was she so easy to read? What in the heck had happened to her poker face? Right, she’d never mastered one with him, something that had scared her to death…and still did.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My house,” his sex and spice voice told her.

  “What?” They were eating alone at his place? She wouldn’t survive the night.

  “Did you really think I would take you to a place where the food wasn’t up to snuff?”

  “I understand why you don’t want to take me to High Stakes, but there’s Brasserie Dare.”

  “We can’t go to Brasserie Dare. It’s a professional thing.”

  When he finished explaining how things worked between chefs, her hands were clenched in her lap. All she kept thinking about was the unimpeded ability to jump him at any time during the meal.

  She needed to get a hold of herself.

  “You don’t have to stay the night if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

  Now that surprised her. And a point to him for directness. “I don’t?”

  His sexy scar looked downright wicked when he smiled. “No. Of course, I’m hoping you will. I have something special in mind for breakfast too.”

  He would. He always did. When they were together, it had usually involved him waking her up by licking his way up her body and then sliding into her while the sleep cleared from her eyes. Then they’d make love again when they were all wet and warm in the shower. Followed by a large breakfast of things like pancakes stuffed with mascarpone cheese flavored with maple syrup and cinnamon or a full Irish breakfast with black pudding—which was actually delicious despite its ingredients—and cardamom-spiced oatmeal with a side of eggs.

  “You’re remembering how it used to be between us, aren’t you?” His voice was razor soft.

  “I was thinking about the food.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She looked out the window as sunset crested across Dare Valley in brilliant orange and turquoise. The mountains were still dotted with snow, but soon all that would be visible were the trees and rocks. Growing up in a trailer park, there hadn’t been a lot of beauty. Here it was everywhere.

  And no more in evidence than in the man she was having dinner with tonight.

  As they cruised through a swath of pine trees and pulled into his driveway, she found herself getting excited. This was where he lived—and it was a chance to learn something new about him. And she wanted that. He still fascinated her in so many ways, from how he managed to wear Armani so casually after growing up in a rough neighborhood to the innovative way he created to-die-for food after going hungry as a kid.

  His two-story house was a craftsman-style home very similar to her own. The gray rock walls blended nicely with the plain navy ones. The front porch had been stained a warm, inviting honey brown.

  “Are you renting?” she asked when he turned off the car.

  “No, I decided to buy. Mac said the real estate market is growing here. It will be a good long-term investment.”

  When he leaves. The words were unspoken between them. She couldn’t imagine him staying in Dare Valley, no matter how good the job was. He was too used to the carbon dioxide in New York’s streets to stay here forever. And now that Mac was building a new hotel in Vegas, he’d likely migrate to that plum position when it was completed. Many famous chefs worked in Sin City.

  He came around and helped her out. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”

  When they entered the house, her taste buds executed a dance of joy in her mouth. “My God! It smells heavenly. What did you make?”

  “Cajun. I remembered how much you love it. And there aren’t any places that serve it around here.”

  Another pinch in her heart. No, there wasn’t any Cajun food in Dare.

  “And I’ve made a cocktail you’ve probably never had,” he said, crossing the open floor plan. “It’s called a Sazerac. It dates back to the Civil War and is considered America’s first cocktail.”

  “What’s in it?” she asked, surveying the surroundings.

  There was one big room that served as both den and dining room. His staircase was nestled in the middle, showing off a fabulous window seat at the top dotted with navy and white pillows. The massive fireplace had a fire going, something he must have started before he picked her up. His leather sofa was caramel-colored and looked inviting. His art was mostly café scenes or landscapes.

  “The ingredients are a ridiculous cognac from France and bitters from The Grand, which I made myself.”

  “A man who makes his own bitters? I might faint. Who decorated for you?” she asked, noticing the table was set with gleaming white china and crystal on top of an immaculate white tablecloth.

  “Abbie. She loves to do it, and she knows me some. I figured it would be nicer than hiring a stranger.”

  “She did a great job,” she said, noting the small feminine touches that softened the masculine space, like the Irish merino wool throw in blue, white, and Kelly green folded over the arm of the sofa and the trio of beeswax candles on a curvy candelabra.

  “Come. The kitchen is this way.”

  When he held out his hand, she hesitated. Touching him this early in the night wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “You never were afraid before.”

  That cinched it. She put her hand in his, feeling the familiar jolt of attraction fan out inside her, then explode like fireworks.

  His kitchen’s industrial perfection didn’t surprise her one bit, from its Viking range to the selection of copper pots hanging on the wall. Even his knives gleamed from their perch on a magnetic strip, looking menacing—ready to slice any vegetable or fruit that dared cross their path.

  “So what’s for dinner specifically?” she asked as he made their cocktails.

  Everything he needed was already prepped on the counter. Watching Terrance cook had always been arousing to her, almost as much as having him caress her. He brought the same intensity and passion to cooking as he did to sex.

  "I didn’t think you’d go for crayfish pie, although Rye could have brought me some from Dare River.” He dropped a sugar cube and a splash of water into a glass and swirled it around until the sugar dissolved, then added ice chips.

  Crayfish? Thank God he’d refrained. She winced at the thought of those squirming bottom feeders. Rhett loved to suck their heads,
which made her queasy every time.

  “So my chef friend, Beauregard Boudin—”

  “God bless you,” she quipped.

  His easy laugh made her smile, and she knew they had found their old rhythm again. Or was it their new rhythm? Oh hell, who cared?

  He added the cognac, bitters, Pernod—an anise-flavored liquor—and more crushed ice. After stirring, he strained the mixture into an Old-Fashioned glass and then impressed the heck out of her by grabbing a cigarette lighter and lighting a lemon peel on fire to release the oil. He slid the cocktail to her.

  “I won’t tell Beauregard that. He’s wicked with a knife.”

  He made himself a drink next, giving it his full attention. As she watched him become lost in the art of mixology, she sipped the Sazerac. It was potent and sweet and spicy—just like her host.

  “I made a combination of Cajun and Creole food to be more specific,” he said as he finished preparing his drink, “but I expect you’re not that interested in the difference, right?”

  “Not when the food smells so good that I want to start eating right away. I didn’t eat lunch.” She could tell he was being purposefully vague, but she was going to call him on it.

  “Saving yourself for me, were you?”

  The double meaning had her thighs clenching. “Are you going to feed me or what?”

  “You always did have a one track mind.”

  They both remembered she had never been able to wait for anything with him.

  “Cheers,” he said and held out his glass, which she touched with her own. “To new memories with old friends.”

  Oh, the things she wanted to do for him when he was sweet like this. “Cheers.”

  “How does Oysters Rockefeller sound for starters?” he asked after taking a sip. “That sure hits the spot.”

  “I love oysters.” Of course, he already knew that.

  She’d fed him raw oysters one night after a super long day in the kitchen. The jokes he had cracked about oysters’ supposed aphrodisiac powers had made her laugh—at least until he had proven them all correct.