Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1)

by Gow, Kailin

  How hard could it be?

  Biting her lip she looked down at his hands. How many breasts had they cupped? And as his lips continued to play along her neck she wondered how many lips had he kissed. How many women had pleased him?

  Did it matter? she thought as he gripped her hips and pulled her back into him, pressing his hard-on more urgently into her backside. She let out an involuntary moan. He was the man of her dreams…now she could have him, and he wanted her, too…

  She’d come to Paris to get an education, to build a career and she had every intention of proving herself…to Errol, to Paris, to the culinary world. She had no intention of simply being a man’s plaything. She had to do well at the Institute, learn everything she could, and go back home to run her mother’s restaurant. Her mother gave up her chance to date and get remarried for her and her little brother. Now it was Taryn’s turn to give up her dreams to save the family restaurant and take care of her family. Once she returned to New York, once her time at the Institute was over, she’d go straight to work as hard as her mother at the restaurant and probably never have time for herself.

  Taryn’s thoughts were interrupted by Errol, and she soon became lost in the pleasure he was giving her. Oh God, his touch felt so good. He smelled good, and whatever he was doing to her, it consumed her, made her whole body and mind respond to him and chased away any other thoughts, except having more of him. He turned her around and pressed his hard-on against her sensitive core and rubbed against her, while his fingers played with her nipples, squeezing them and then circling them. “Errol…” she began to say, but his mouth pressed into hers, his tongue seeking out her tongue. Her head swam in pleasure, while her body took over with desire for him. It’s time to put the little girl behind. It’s time to stop turning guys away. It’s time to see what all the fuss is about. Why couldn’t I enjoy this just one time before I give up my own dreams and a chance for my own life?

  “What do you want, Taryn?” Errol mumbled between kisses.

  “I want,” she let out. “I want this arrangement, Errol,” she confessed. For the first time in her life she was ready to jump into a meaningless and purely physical relationship with a man… and who better than Errol King?

  Chapter 2

  Just as Taryn prepared to lean back and give in, Errol backed away, released her and headed to the bedroom door.

  “I know you’ve had a big day, so I’ll let you get settled. If you want to do some shopping tomorrow – buy a few things you might have forgotten – I’d be happy to take you to a few shops. We can also stock the refrigerator with whatever you like.”

  Chilled by his sudden turn toward the pragmatic, Taryn hugged herself, willing the chill to leave her. She wanted his arms again and couldn’t understand how he could be so hot and passionate one moment then turn around and treat her as though she were a mere houseguest.

  You are a mere houseguest, she reminded herself.

  “Thank you,” was all she could say as she followed him out.

  “I have to get to the Institute. I’ll see you later.” Without so much as a peck on the forehead, he left.

  Though dismayed, Taryn’s spirits soared as she reminded herself where she was… in the heart of Paris. Letting out a childish yelp, she spun around in the living room, ran to the kitchen to check out the contents of each cupboard then ran to Errol’s room to see what the room said about him.

  Rich with fine antiques, his room was a blend of refinement and masculinity. Several authentic looking masterpieces hung on the walls in intricately carved picture frames. A curio case in the far corner held a surprising variety of knick knacks, most notably a porcelain figurine of a small boy kicking a ball while being chased by his dog. It seemed strangely innocent and charming in the otherwise mature décor.

  Running her hand over the bed, she immediately felt a spark and knew it was a spark borne of Errol’s touch on her skin. Why had he not continued his sensual onslaught on her and invite her to share his large bed? She had been so aroused by him, she wanted him to take her then and there. Why did he stopped?

  “No,” she said aloud to the darkened walls that had probably seen their fair share of wanton acts in this room. “I will not spend the day wallowing in angst because some hotheaded chef doesn’t want to go to bed with me.”

  She marched out and spent the better part of the morning organizing her things. Her dresses, skirts and blouses fit neatly in the oversized closet while the dresser drawer remained half empty even after she’d unpacked her last suitcase.

  With her bedroom in order, she made her way to the kitchen carrying a small cardboard box. Inside were the few cooking implements she couldn’t live without. A Lamson perforated turner she treated herself to the previous year, a wooden spoon her mother had given her after they’d concocted their first sauce together, a professional Japanese knife from Chroma France she’d won when she’d entered a Eurasian cooking contest and her favorite pepper mill from Peugeot; a birthday gift from her brother, Bobby. As a young college student, he’d had to work many hours in order to set aside enough money for the tool he’d call, ‘a waste of a good fifty bucks.’

  She opened the drawer to put the turner, spoon and knife away, wondering what Errol would say when he found them. No doubt he would balk at the wooden spoon and call it an unprofessional utensil. Chuckling as she anticipated his return, she set the pepper mill on the counter.

  As the lunch hour approached, she decided to whip up a light lunch for Errol. A fresh summer salad, some French bread with melted Brie and confit onions, and rolled caramels in a warm vanilla custard for dessert.

  Working in Errol’s kitchen was a dream. Functional, practical, convenient and modern, it had everything a chef needed to prepare meals and even a few things she would have never thought of, like the vegetable rinsing basket incorporated into the sink and a superimposed glass counter that stood eight inches above the main countertop. It allowed one to work on the main countertop while keeping certain items close and handy on the glass shelf.

  The entire kitchen was a far stretch from the small and sometimes confusing kitchen she’d work in back home. As cramped and untidy as it was, however, it never diminished her love of cooking.

  Cooking had always pleased her, always brought out the triumphant child in her, and even preparing a light and simple lunch brought her pleasure. The colors, textures, scents and flavors had always enticed her, called out the creator in her, and she always responded. It had always been with her; not only the love of good food, but the pleasure of feeding those around her. Her friends and family had benefited from that passion on more than one occasion.

  Now it was Errol’s turn.

  An hour and a half after preparing the quick lunch, however, she realized he would not be coming back. Half-heartedly, she ate her meal and wondered if he’d be home for dinner.

  He wasn’t, and arrived only shortly before she prepared for bed.

  “Oh, you’re still up.” With an overstuffed folder tucked haphazardly under his arm, he brushed past her and headed to the kitchen.

  “It’s been a long day, but I had time to get cozy and feel at home here.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. “Don’t let me keep you up. Tomorrow I’ll have a few hours free so I can show you some of the best places to shop, if you like.”

  “Um, yeah. Sure, that’d be great.” Had she really heard a dismissal in there somewhere? While she’d hardly expected him to jump all over her when he arrived, she had expected something… a little warmth. Okay, she silently admitted. She had expected him to jump all over her. So why the coldness?

  She went to bed, confused. Did she imagined this sensual man’s touch on her earlier today? She sighed. It must have been real, but she was too exhausted to think otherwise, and she fell asleep.

  The following morning he awaited her bright and early in the kitchen with a steaming cup of strong coffee.

  “I thou
ght we’d start with a tour of the local markets. I have my favorite spots – the freshest bread, the best beef, the crispest vegetables – but you can decide for yourself where you eventually want to shop.”

  Taryn barely had time to gulp down a few sips of coffee and get dressed before they headed out in search of the perfect ingredients for the day’s meals.

  The fish market produced the perfect halibut steak for dinner while various vegetable vendors provided the carrots, onions and spinach that would accompany it. They picked out a lean cut of beef that would be thrown into a fresh Mediterranean salad with pearl onions and olives. Fresh baked bread called to them from a distance as the heavenly scent wafted through the tightly packed streets and Errol treated her to a warm and gooey brioche straight from the oven of his favorite baker.

  “Think you’ll remember where all of these are?” He gestured at the many vendors as they continued to wind their way through the marketplace.

  Taryn licked her fingers as she finished her last bite. “Sure. Everything is pretty much in the same area.”

  “Don’t get lost. I told my editor I finally found someone to test my recipes; I can’t afford to lose you now.”

  His statement was pure business and held no trace of the erotic proposition he’d made the night before.

  “When do you want me to get started?” She hoped she sounded as businesslike as he did.

  “I’ll give you a few more days to get settled, to get accustomed to your surroundings. I’ll be busy at the Institute, preparing for the upcoming classes – which start Monday, by the way. I want to give you a chance to come down here by yourself, test out the produce, maybe make a few meals on your own to get to know my kitchen.”

  “Which is really fabulous, by the way.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He entered a small, dark store. “What is a great meal without a great bottle of wine?”

  The long, narrow store had floor to ceiling bottles neatly tucked away into hundreds of cubby holes. As if knowing the place by heart, Errol pulled a bottle out. “Chateau Pepusque of the Languedoc region. One of my favorites. The 2007 is exquisite; the flavor is well-rounded and full. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’ll have to trust you on that. I hardly know anything about wines. I know white goes with fish and red with beef, but other than that…”

  He waved the bottle at the owner, who duly jotted down the purchase. “That school of thought has long been followed my many wine drinkers,” he said as he led the way out, “but the rules of the game have changed. There are some wonderful juicy reds that can accompany fish, while some whites are perfect for certain cuts of beef.”

  Their arms laden with packages and bags, they returned to his apartment. They spent the morning preparing a more elaborate lunch than Taryn had prepared the day before. Shoulder to shoulder with such a master, Taryn was even more impressed with his talent.

  He minced onions in a flash, crushed a few garlic cloves and diced carrots, a red pepper and some celery.

  “Learned anything yet?” He flashed her a proud grin as he sautéed the onions.

  “I think I’m holding my own so far.” Busy whipping a salad dressing to creamy perfection, she glanced at him and smiled.

  They brought their meal out to the sun-filled terrace. Like a true gentleman, Errol pulled a chair out for her and gently pushed the chair in. He poured them each a glass of wine before taking his seat.

  “A toast,” he said with his glass in the air. “To a profitable, successful and delicious relationship.”

  Tapping her glass to his, she noted the absence of words like passionate, erotic or sensual. Had his come-ons simply been a way of flirting with her? Or had she imagined it all?

  “I read in your résumé that you didn’t go to college.”

  “Money was a bit tight and Mom needed a hand down at the restaurant.”

  “Are those the reasons or the excuses?”

  She laughed. “A bit of both, I guess. I’ve never been academically talented. You have no idea how arduous it was getting through English classes; all that mumbo-jumbo about objects and verbs and proper nouns, not to mention prepositions and pronouns. Math wasn’t so bad, so, yes, I can split a recipe in two or double a recipe without messing it up. Science was so-so and history had a few interesting moments, but not enough to warrant me a grade I can boast about. All in all, I really wasn’t the best student, no matter how hard I tried.”

  “Should I be concerned?” He cocked a mocking brow.

  “This isn’t the same thing. I’m hungry to learn everything about cooking. I promised my mom I’d turn our little family restaurant into a four-star gem. Instead of just offering deli food and a hodgepodge of international dishes, I want to serve gourmet French cuisine. That’s why I’m so eager to learn everything I can here. This is everything high school never even touched on. You know, it’s one thing to have to sit and try to absorb what others tell you you should know, and quite another to have the desire to know everything about a subject that interests you. My brother is the complete opposite. He can’t get enough of learning about anything and everything. He’s eighteen and in college, and he has that endless curiosity that keeps him wanting to learn more. If it were up to him, he’d be a lifelong student.”

  “You come from a big family?”

  “No. Just the one baby brother… Bobby, though he hates it when I call him my baby brother. He considers himself the family protector.”

  “Protecting you from big, bad men who would take advantage of you?” A hint of teasing playfulness came to his eyes.

  “Not only me,” she said matter-of-factly. “He’s always checking in on my Mom and he guards her parents, my grandparents, with his life.”

  “I take it your father isn’t around.”

  “You take it right. I never really knew my father. He stuck around long enough to conceive Bobby and he was there, on and off, after he was born, but then he disappeared… something about another calling.” She rolled her eyes and waved her hand to indicate she no longer wanted to talk about him. “What about you? I think I read somewhere that you had family here in France.”

  He nodded heavily. “Nana. Ninety-seven and still kicking butt.”

  “Are your parents back in the States?”

  He snickered and waved his fork around. “They’re probably off with your father somewhere.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Sorry to hear that.” She’d read that his grandmother was immensely important to him and that she’d had a hand in raising him, but had never known what had happened to his parents. Somewhere in the fantasy of it all, she’d imagined they’d had an accident and died. It was troubling to consider they’d abandoned him.

  “Don’t be. If my parents had no desire to stick around to raise a kid, I was probably better off without them. Besides, I think Nana did a pretty good job raising me.”

  “Did she influence your love of cooking?”

  “Influence? She is single-handedly responsible for where I am today. She seemed intent on turning me into a culinary genius. When I was six, she taught me how to make a perfect omelet. At eight I was already surprising her with my own take on a croquet-monsieur. For her eightieth birthday I prepared the entire menu for the whole party – forty-five guests; hors-d’oeuvres, pot-au-feu, crème brulée.”

  “Hold on,” Taryn said as she put her hand up. “You did all this for her eightieth birthday?”

  He nodded. “Planned, prepared and helped with the service.”

  “You’re twenty-seven.”

  A curious frown furrowed his brow. “Yeah?”

  “You said your grandmother is ninety-seven.”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked up to the sky and pointed her finger in the air as she counted. “That would mean you were only ten years old when she turned eighty.”

  “I told you… she wanted to turn me into a culinary genius.”

  “You mean to tell me that you prepared a whole menu, for f
orty-five people at only ten years old? Come on. I’m naïve, but…”

  “Okay, the truth?”

  “Come clean,” she dared.

  “The butcher helped by pre-cutting all the pieces of meat I needed for the pot-au-feu. Nana always gave me plenty of freedom, but working with large, sharp knives when I was alone was a definite no-no. I was able to manage the dicing of the vegetables on my own though. Nana did give me a helping hand with the crème brulée.”

  “And a chef was born.”

  “I have to admit I’d been bitten by the cooking bug. Everyone there gushed over the quality of the meal and I knew I wanted to feel that sense of victory again.”

  Taryn looked at him and noticed for the first time the man he really was. She’d heard so much talk about him… how tough and brutal he could be, how unforgiving. Many rumors circulated about the number of sous-chefs he’d fired, all for minor offenses.

  But as she looked at him now, she saw the little boy who’d found a passion thanks to the loving hand of a sweet old woman he called Nana. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he was just one of those horribly misunderstood celebrities.

  She looked into his brilliant blue eyes, eyes made all the more intense by the dark waves of hair that framed his face. As much as she enjoyed the thought of ending up in his bed, she was pleased with this side of him. Maybe it was for the best.

  Chapter 3

  The week continued with the same leisurely and casual pace as that quiet and intimate lunch. Taryn and Errol discovered each others’ little quirks, their strange idiosyncrasies and one or two neurosis.

  Errol had an almost military discipline when it came to keeping his kitchen clean. No sooner was a dish no longer needed that it was cleaned, dried and put away. Taryn tended to leave things lying around until her space was a tad crowded then she would rush to clean everything at once, something Errol told her to correct.

  “I know,” she had said. “Clean as you go. My mom has told me often enough.”