Delicious

by Jami Alden

  His thumb punched down hard on the remote, not letting up until the screen flashed the speed and noise of motocross racing on ESPN. “Not the first time I’ve made a bad decision,” he said curtly.

  Leaning down to kiss him on the cheek, Adrienne said good-bye and left him to his wallowing.

  Inexorably, the satellite box tuned back to the Cuisine Network, just in time for the live Christmas Eve celebrity bash.

  His throat swelled like he’d swallowed a softball when he saw her, wholesome good looks emphasized by her tight leaf green sweater.

  I can’t believe she’s capable of the things you said. Christ, when he looked at her, he couldn’t believe it either. Didn’t want to.

  He grabbed the bottle of single malt from the end table, this time not even bothering with ice or a glass. It was the liquor that made his eyes sting and his throat hitch, not the sight of Reggie, her lush lips spread in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Not Reggie, who, when he focused through the alcohol haze, looked thinner than he remembered, her rounded cheekbones sharpened into high relief, her collarbone standing out above the V-neck of her sweater.

  For a split second, he allowed concern to ooze through. Shit, if she looked that thin on TV, what did she look like in person? And now that he looked closer, he could see the tired, unhappy lines that bracketed her mouth, even as she struggled to keep up her bright, cheerful mask.

  Panic clogged his throat, the way it had more than once over the past month. Panic that he’d been completely, horribly wrong.

  He was actually reaching for his cell phone when she chortled at another chef’s comment. Any soft emotions he might have nurtured fled. He took another sullen gulp of the scotch.

  Look at her. Smiling, laughing. He was kidding himself thinking she’d suffered for a second over their split. She was exactly where she wanted to be, and he was an idiot if he wasted any time worrying about her.

  A week after the live Cuisine Network Christmas Eve special aired, Reggie was back in San Francisco. A mere month and a half ago, she’d envisioned spending New Year’s Eve having wild, hedonistic sex on the beach with Gabe. Instead, she was in rainy San Francisco, alone and dateless. At least she was working instead of sitting at home crying her way through another bottle of cabernet.

  “And now we put the finishing touch on the filet mignon with Gorgonzola Madeira sauce.” She discreetly scratched behind her ear as she sprinkled parsley across the plate. The headset mic itched like crazy, but she had to wear it if she wanted to be heard above the crowd gathered for the Save the Bay Fund’s annual New Year’s Eve Gala.

  Reggie was just one of several local celebrities putting in an appearance tonight. Having nothing better to do, she’d offered at the last minute to do a cooking demo and had also donated a private cooking lesson and a chance to attend a taping of Simply Delicious to the silent auction.

  She smiled aimlessly out into the crowd, unable to distinguish any faces with the spotlight beating down into her face. Max was here somewhere. And Natalie was out there, she knew, draped in a sexy turquoise spaghetti strap BCBG gown. Along with her favorite accessory—a smoking-hot, tuxedo-clad Tyler.

  Waving one last time at the crowd, Reggie absently wiped her hands on her chef’s smock. Normally she would have been as excited as Natalie to dress up and go all out on hair and makeup, but this year she was glad she had an excuse not to.

  Frumpy smock, check. Basic black pants and sensible shoes, check. The blah ordinariness of her outfit more than matched her incessantly bleak mood.

  She stepped down from the stage, discreetly trailed by the female security guard she’d hired for the evening. Working her way through the throng, she found herself suddenly blocked by a wall of hard, male chest.

  And suddenly she wished passionately that she was wearing a slinky cocktail dress, sexy stilettos, and a fresh coat of lip gloss when she looked up to see that the chest belonged to none other than Gabe.

  God, he looked good. Mile-wide shoulders encased in black gabardine, a lock of dark hair spilling over his forehead.

  Pain sliced through her, so sharp she couldn’t speak for several seconds. She stared up at him like an idiot, swallowing convulsively as her throat went as dry as Death Valley.

  “Gabe,” she finally managed in a feeble croak, barely audible above the low roar of the crowd.

  She met his dark gaze and felt like she was dying, crumbling inside as she simultaneously fought the urge to heave herself into his arms and never let go or knee him in the groin for making her feel so hideous.

  His lips were set in tight lines, and his eyes were full of grief and torment. He missed her too.

  Tell me you’re sorry, she thought frantically, trying to telepathically project her thoughts to his brain. I’ll forgive you, I’ll take you back no questions asked. All you have to say is you miss me and you’re sorry.

  Instead, he blinked, and when his eyes opened they were flat, black, revealing nothing. He nodded curtly and made to move past her.

  “Wait,” she grabbed frantically at his arm, withering inside as he pulled it gently but deliberately from her grasp.

  “I’m working.” He tipped his chin in the direction of a paunchy, tux-clad man with salt-and-pepper hair a few feet to his right.

  “Yeah, me too,” she said stupidly, then stepped aside.

  “Is everything all right, Ms. Caldwell?” Jill, the bodyguard she’d hired for the night, was at her left elbow. Unlike Gabe, who seemed to suck all the oxygen out of any room he entered, Jill was so quiet and unassuming, Reggie forgot for a moment that she was right next to her.

  And had no doubt witnessed Gabe’s humiliating brush-off.

  Was everything all right? Let’s see. She was starting the year off with a lacerated heart, a bruised ego, and, oh yeah, a crazed fan who, although he hadn’t made any moves lately, might very well be waiting for the opportunity to “punish” her.

  But on the bright side, she’d lost at least ten pounds in the last month, and even her mother told her how thin she’d looked on the live Christmas special.

  Assuring Jill she was fine, she set off to find Natalie and Tyler. She had to get out of here. As though caught in a tractor beam, her gaze kept landing on Gabe. Now that she knew he was here, she couldn’t seem to lose track of him no matter how hard she tried.

  He seemed to have no problem ignoring her.

  Reggie was sure that if she looked down at her smock, she’d actually see blood bubbling out of the left side of her chest.

  “Reggie, that was fabulous.” Max dashed up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek. Jeez, a few glasses of champagne and he was loving on everybody.

  Jill stiffened at her side.

  “It’s okay,” Reggie reassured her and performed a quick introduction.

  “Was that Gabe the gorilla I saw you with?” Max asked, lips pursing as though his champagne had just turned to cat’s piss.

  Reggie nodded tiredly. “I can’t believe how much it hurt to see him.”

  She took Max’s dark look for one of sympathy, then excused herself to renew her search for Natalie, who had also spotted Gabe, and from the looks of it was ripping him a new one as Tyler physically held her back.

  “…and I’m going to tell your client that you suck,” Natalie sputtered, flushed with anger and liquor courage, “that you fuck your clients and quit on them when they need you, because you’re a paranoid psycho who can’t see the truth when it’s in front of him.”

  Gabe, of course, remained impassive, looking somewhere past Natalie’s shoulder as he ignored her rant. When she finally paused to take a breath, he seized the opportunity to escape.

  As he turned, his gaze locked momentarily with Reggie’s, and for a split second she saw something—anger, hurt, disgust. Then the icy curtain dropped once again and he turned away without a word.

  “I’m going home,” Reggie announced. Natalie, still fuming, muttered something about
what she’d like to do to Gabe’s genitalia. But when she focused on Reggie, her gaze immediately softened.

  “Are you sure? It’s not even midnight yet, and the party’s just getting started.”

  Oh great. She could stick around and watch everyone kiss each other Happy New Year and get all drunk and romantic while the man she loved by turns ignored her or looked at her like she was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

  Sounded fabulous.

  Reggie shook her head. “I’m exhausted and…” Every time I look at Gabe I feel like someone is sticking a red-hot meat skewer through my heart.

  Natalie nodded, reading her thoughts perfectly. “I’ll come with you and spend the night.” She looked up at Tyler who, to give him credit, admirably covered his disappointment with a resigned smile.

  Touched by the show of sibling support, Reggie nevertheless refused. “Don’t let me ruin two nights,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Jill will see me home safe. Besides, I think I need to be alone.”

  Once she got home, Reggie set the alarm, poured herself a generous glass of cabernet, settled into bed, and switched on the TV.

  After forty-five minutes of channel surfing, she was both wired and disgusted with the fact that even with five hundred channels available, there was nothing to watch. She finally settled on a retrospective about the worst celebrity breakups of the year.

  Perfect.

  An idea struck her and she went into her office to retrieve her laptop, stopping on the way to refill her wine.

  Within minutes she had an outline for a show, and possibly a new book: Best Breakup Recipes.

  Cynical? Maybe. But she bet come Valentine’s Day, a lot of viewers would be relieved not to have to watch yet another special on what to make your schmoopie poopie to ensure you got laid.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the hairs on her neck stood up. And that funny, tickly, creepy sensation gripped her stomach. Muting the television, she carefully moved the laptop to the bedside table and swung her feet to the floor.

  She crept to her bedroom door, open just a crack, and peered down the dark hallway.

  There. Again. The sound that must have gotten her attention last time. A soft creak of the floorboards, a scuffing sound like a shoe across her rug.

  Someone is in my apartment!

  Someone who knows how to bypass the alarm.

  She shut the door firmly but softly, not wanting to alert the intruder that she knew of his presence. The click of the knob button lock rang like a gunshot.

  Oh God, why hadn’t she called the locksmith to install a deadbolt on the door like Gabe instructed months ago?

  Terrified, she backed away from the door, giving a sigh of relief when she saw the phone handset on its cradle charging.

  Without thinking, she dialed.

  Unable to face the loneliness of his sister’s unoccupied apartment, after Gabe dropped off the CEO and his wife, he’d opted to hit one of the hip Marina bars and get himself good and shit-faced.

  He couldn’t decide what was worse, sitting home alone wallowing in pathetic loserdom as he drowned himself in single malt, or sitting on the outskirts of what looked like a giant sorority-fraternity mixer with slightly older students.

  Cursing himself for not choosing a small dive, not that there was such a thing in this neighborhood, Gabe ignored yet another sidelong glance from yet another designer-clad cupcake showing ample but tasteful amounts of skin.

  Part of him wished he could take her home, mindlessly bang her until images of Reggie, with her too-thin face and big, sad eyes, melted from his brain for a few precious minutes.

  The bartender finally slid his drink in front of him and Gabe winced as icy scotch seared his throat. Oh, Reggie. It had nearly killed him, seeing her tonight. It took everything he had not to sink to his knees, bury his head against her stomach, and beg her to take him back.

  He wanted to kiss the frown off her soft, delectable mouth and make love to her until the sadness in her eyes was replaced with the elemental joy of sexual satisfaction.

  And feed her, for Christ’s sake. She looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

  But he’d resisted. Actually, he surprised himself with his own resolve. A sign he was getting stronger, and that someday he’d be able to think about her without feeling like Freddy Krueger was clawing out his intestines.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. Shit, couldn’t she just leave him alone?

  Finally, the damn thing went quiet as Reggie was sent to voice mail, only to immediately start ringing again.

  Though a voice screamed that turning off his emergency phone was a major breach of professional conduct, he didn’t trust himself and what he might do if he kept seeing her name on the caller ID. Besides, Reggie wasn’t even a client anymore.

  But just as he was about to flip the switch, a strange, uneasy feeling seized him. Gabe tried to pass it off as scotch in his empty stomach.

  But as the phone rang for the third time, the agitation ate at him, chewing at his insides like an alien trying to break free. The same feeling he’d struggled with for weeks now, beaten into submission but never completely vanquished.

  The feeling that he was completely wrong about Reggie.

  Again, his brain kicked in, cataloging all the evidence against her in cold, analytical scrutiny.

  His gut instinct that he’d had so little faith in recently kicked up a fierce ruckus. Something was wrong, it screamed. Something was really, really wrong.

  And what if you’re just making excuses to go see her because deep down you want her so much you don’t even care if she’s a liar.

  What’s the harm in checking on her? his gut argued. What are you afraid of? Afraid you’re so weak you won’t be able to resist her charms and you’ll fall into bed with her again.

  An idea, he admitted, that sounded pretty fuckin’ good at two A.M. on a lonely New Year’s.

  What if you do? Do you want to risk being vulnerable again? Being that raw, that exposed?

  What if something happens to her? Can you live with yourself?

  And with that, his gut rested, and won, its case.

  He threw several bills on the bar and pushed his way through the crowd, every instinct fiber of his being screaming to get to Reggie.

  “Pickuppickuppickuppickup,” she whispered frantically.

  How could he not be answering his emergency line?

  After four rings she was dropped into voice mail. She hung up and redialed immediately. Maybe he was somewhere loud and didn’t hear the phone in time.

  Still no answer.

  Was he ignoring her?

  She started to leave a message anyway. “Gabe, it’s me—I—there’s someone here—” Her bedroom door burst open, literally hanging off the hinges as a male body plowed through it.

  Reggie gave a sharp scream and dropped the phone, scrambling back over the bed when she saw the vicious-looking chef’s knife he held.

  He lunged at her, and by the light of the bedside lamp she finally got a good look at his face.

  “Max!” she gasped.

  She had no time to wrap her mind around it as he approached, slowly but steadily, the razor-sharp blade glinting in the dim light.

  “Why—why are you doing this?”

  “You were mine, Reggie, always mine. I made you what you are. I gave you your show. And how do you repay me?”

  Her heart seized as he brandished the knife near her nose.

  “You let the network steal you away, steal my ideas like I’m some two-bit nothing.”

  “They bought the rights—you agreed—”

  “And I could have lived with that, Reggie,” Max continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “but then you let him touch you. Whored yourself all over the country while I waited for you, waited for you to come back to me.”

  She froze, staring at the blade dancing in front of her as though she were a cobra and he a snake charmer.

  “Want to know
the funny thing? I was almost ready to forgive you. And then I saw you tonight.” His face pulled in an expression of fierce disgust. “The way you look at him, still panting after him like a dirty bitch in heat. You have to be punished, Reggie.”

  He lifted his left hand, revealing a coil of rope.

  Her brain seized as she tried to absorb the fact that Max, friendly, benign, gay Max was behind the strange notes, the threats, and the break-ins.

  One thing she knew with brutal certainty: She couldn’t let him tie her up.

  “You don’t want to do this, Max,” she said, backing away across the bed, awkwardly shuffling on her knees. “I’m your friend, why would you want to hurt me?”

  “Oh, darling Reggie,” his evil grin sent chills through her very core, “you are so lovely, but so stupid. Not only do I want to do this, you have absolutely no idea how much I will enjoy doing this.”

  Nausea rose in Reggie’s throat as she watched Max advance, knife in one hand, rope in another. Suddenly, he lunged, and without thinking, Reggie hurled herself onto the floor, slamming her knee into the bed frame; pain jolted up her arm as she caught her weight with her wrist. Scrambling to her feet, she aimed for the door in a staggering run.

  A hand twisted in the hair at her nape and jerked hard, nearly pulling her off of her feet. Sobbing as she whirled around, she thrashed against his grip, numb to the pain of him pulling her hair out by the roots.

  Through the echo of blood pounding in her head, she heard his vicious curses and her own harsh sobbing. In the corner of her eye she saw a glint of steel arching above her.

  With one last, desperate twist, she jerked her head from his grasp and threw her arms up in front of her. Icy heat sliced through her left forearm, followed by an oozing liquid warmth.

  He froze, as though shocked that he’d actually cut her. Adrenaline surging, she lunged for the door and sped down the hall, his footsteps thundering behind her.

  His weight hit her full force as she raced for the front door, knocking her face-first against the hardwood floor. He scrambled for her hands, struggling to grip her wrists in one hand as he tied them with the other.