What's Her Secret?

by Geraldine O'Hara, Natalie Dae, Nichelle Gregory, Crissy Smith, Lisabet Sarai

  “It really suits you.”

  “Honestly, though. I’m a chef, not a courtesan!”

  Lisa had styled my hair too, plastering my chin-length locks to my skull with a gallon of mousse and adding a fake knot at the back, decorated with frangipani. I’ll admit that the woman facing me in the mirror was voluptuous, glamorous and elegant, but she certainly didn’t look like me.

  “Etienne said he wanted to emphasize your cultural differences. You know—French cuisine as a universal standard, around the globe.”

  I sighed and shook my head, careful not to dislodge the hairpiece. The gold dangles I’d gotten from wardrobe brushed against my neck. Did I really want a guy like him in my life—and in my bed? He had a lot to learn about the Chinese. We’d been civilized, rulers of a vast empire, when France had been the domain of hairy barbarians.

  Then again, it might be fun to teach him…

  A knock on the dressing room door interrupted my musing. The object of those meditations entered, looking devastating in a royal blue shirt and tight leather trousers, with a ruby-hued cravat knotted at his throat. My critical thoughts scattered like a flock of cranes rising from a marsh. He favored me with one of his twenty-karat smiles. The birds seemed to take residence in my chest, fluttering and making it difficult for me to breathe.

  With a dramatic flourish that would have come across as silly for most men—but not for him—Etienne raised my hand and pressed his lips to the bare skin just below my wrist. A tingling sensation lingered at the spot after he’d released me. My nipples tightened within their silk casing.

  “Emily, you’re magnificent. Exactly what I’d planned.”

  “Um—thanks. You don’t think this is too much?”

  “Not at all. Remember, this is show business. You’re not behind the kitchen doors anymore. We have to give the audience something to look at.”

  He, at least, certainly fulfilled that objective. At that moment, I would have sworn he was the most handsome man on the planet. His makeup was subtler than mine. Somehow it accentuated his high cheekbones and strengthened the line of his already firm jaw. A hint of shadow brought out the blue in his eyes, making them warmer and more welcoming. His lush mouth, so often pressed into a narrow line of disapproval, was relaxed and full today, quick to quirk into a smile.

  Overall, he appeared to be in a far better mood than the previous day. I understood suddenly that this was because he was about to perform. Etienne Duvalier loved being in the spotlight.

  I was struggling to find some intelligent response when Harry stuck his head into the room. “Fifteen minutes, Etienne— Wow! You look amazing, Emily!”

  His gaze swept over my body like a fast-moving wildfire. My nipples burned like hot coals and my pussy turned molten as I remembered his hard, fat cock plumbing my depths. The sparkle behind his glasses and the grin on his knowing lips told me he was remembering too.

  “Uh—it’s Etienne’s doing. The costume’s his idea.”

  “I love it! You look like an empress.”

  “But you know, I’m just a chef…”

  “If you’re on my program,” Etienne interjected, “you’re not just a chef. You’re among the culinary elite. And after tasting your beef last night, I’m quite certain you deserve to be here. Pure ambrosia.”

  “Well, it would have been better if you’d been able to taste it right away, rather than reheated.”

  “Yes, exactly—and I apologize for that. Even so, it might well have been the most perfect boeuf bourguignon I’ve ever sampled, aside from my own.”

  I managed to squelch the cheeky reply that sprang to my lips. You should taste my recipe, I thought.

  “I’m—uh—happy that you liked it.”

  “The viewers will enjoy seeing the cooking process. I just hope you can duplicate it on camera.”

  “Of course I can.” I turned to Lisa to hide my annoyance. “Are we done here?”

  “Yup. Break a leg, hon.”

  I glanced down at the gold-toned four-inch heels that had come with the dress. “In these, I just might. Do I really have to wear them, Etienne? My feet are killing me already.”

  “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices, Ms Wong.” He surveyed our joint reflection with obvious satisfaction. I had to admit that we made an extremely attractive couple. In contrast with my makeup-augmented paleness and the opulence of my costume, he looked tanned, robust and outdoorsy, eminently masculine and quintessentially French. I could easily imagine him in a beret. “The shoes are ideal for the image I want to convey. You should focus on your recipes. Make the food your primary concern, and you’ll forget all about your dainty feet.”

  His smile held equal measures of patronization and approval, triggering contradictory reactions. One part of me wanted to slap the self-congratulatory smirk off his face. The other wanted to pull him into a wet, passionate kiss. I subdued both impulses. Just wait till you get a taste of Gran’s medicine.

  “Showtime in ten minutes, folks. Better get out to the set.” Before I could resist, Harry was at my side, taking my arm. “Come on, Emily. I’ll keep you from breaking your leg just yet.”

  Something sparked in Etienne’s steely eyes when Harry touched me. Could he be jealous? That would be a positive sign. The chef strode out of the dressing room, his luscious butt flexing as he walked. I resisted the sudden, sharp temptation to race after him and stroke those gorgeous globes through the supple leather. Then Harry leaned in and brushed his lips against my cheek. At the same time, he surreptitiously squeezed my silk-swathed ass, driving all thought of Etienne from my mind.

  “Good luck,” he murmured, daring a quick nip to my earlobe.

  Wild heat shimmered through me.

  “Don’t, Harry!” I whispered, fighting the urge to sink against his hard body. Today he wore baggy chinos and a faded denim work shirt, but I knew that underneath I’d find sweet, lean muscle. I forced myself to pull away from him. “Don’t distract me! I’ve got to concentrate on impressing Etienne.”

  “That’ll be a piece of cake,” he countered, letting me go with obvious reluctance. His lips were set in a thin line. “He puts on that severe, superior act, but underneath he’s nothing but a cream puff.”

  A cream puff? A wave of anxiety swept through me. Did Harry suspect that the previous day’s lust had been artificially induced?

  Tottering on my heels, I stepped onto the set and was caught in a flurry of activity. Members of the lighting crew scurried around, checking for shadows. The high-intensity spots beat down on my head like an equatorial sun. The hairpiece itched and I was sweating already, dampening the armpits of my brocade gown.

  Two cameras on dollies rolled back and forth on the cable-strewn floor. Thirty-inch monitors hung from the ceiling displayed the current views from lens. I caught a glimpse of myself hovering on the sidelines, looking pale and scared.

  Mei Lee Wong, that just won’t do. Get a grip on yourself. Straightening my spine, I smiled into the camera. Much better. With as decisive a step as I could manage given my shoes, I marched over to the main food prep counter at the center of the set, where my co-star awaited me.

  “You should let me do the talking,” Etienne instructed. “At least at first. You’ll find that it’s not all that easy to cook while focusing into the camera.”

  “Yes, sir.” In another situation, I would have found his bossiness offensive, but now that I was actually here, minutes away from being on live TV, I was willing to listen to anyone’s advice.

  Marty came up to clip a wireless microphone to the stand-up collar of my cheongsam. “Say something,” he ordered.

  “Um—good afternoon. Testing, testing…”

  “Great. Thanks!” He scurried off.

  Etienne resumed his lecture.

  “I’ll introduce you and ask you to say a few words. Then we’ll begin making the beef. You prepared the vegetables this morning, right?”

  “As you suggested.” I went to the refrigerator to retrieve the bowls of ch
opped onion, garlic, carrots, parsnips and potatoes, which I set upon the counter in what I hoped was an artistic arrangement.

  “One of the challenges of cooking for television is managing the time. We have just scant of an hour, so we have to take short cuts.” He checked out my veggies, reminding me of my old teachers in Paris. I found I was holding my breath until he nodded his approval. “The other problem is keeping the viewers’ interest while things are actually on the stove or in the oven.”

  “I’ve made pissaladières.” I indicated the tray of onion, olive and anchovy tarts I’d created just before heading off to makeup. They were still warm. The savory, thyme-laced aroma set my saliva flowing. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch.

  “Excellent. They look delicious.” His praise made me glow. “We’ll sample those and chat about you and your background while the beef is stewing.”

  “Sixty seconds,” someone called out from beyond the glare of the lights.

  I took a deep breath. My pulse was loud in my ears. I can do this, I told myself. Compared to Cordon Bleu, this will be easy.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  Without any warning, Etienne encircled my shoulders with his arm and gave me a quick squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Right. That was just what I was worried about.

  “Cue theme.”

  The Baroque melody sounded familiar, harpsichord and viol starting low and soaring higher. Lully, or perhaps Marin Marais. The spotlights grew brighter and hotter still. My smile felt glued on. A bit of sweat trickled down my spine.

  “Bon jour, mes amis. Welcome to Toutes Saveurs Francaises, the place for people who love authentic French cuisine.” Etienne’s rich, carefully modulated voice was like a fur coat on an icy day, full of luxurious warmth. He smiled broadly and extended his arms as if blessing his invisible audience. “Today we’re fortunate to have a very special guest, a talented cook from the other side of the world.”

  The music changed to the dissonant notes of a Chinese fiddle, a jingle-like tune reminiscent of old Charlie Chan movies. Behind my fixed smile, I fumed. Was that really the best they could do, when San Francisco was more than thirty percent Asian?

  “Mei Lee Wong is head chef at acclaimed Belvedere Restaurant in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong, which was recently awarded three Michelin stars. She holds a Grand Diplôme from the original Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and is renowned for her creative mingling of Asian and traditional French cooking techniques.”

  At least he was aware of my reputation!

  “On today’s show, though, Mei Lee and I are going back to fundamentals, preparing one of the classic recipes that form the foundations of Gallic cuisine. In any case, I’m delighted to have you cooking with me, Ms Wong.”

  His pause shook me out of my paralysis. “Ah, thank you very much, Etienne. It’s quite a thrill for me to be here, as you might guess. I’ve been a fan of your show since the first time I watched it.” On YouTube, five weeks ago—but why be picky? “And your book French Cooking: From Basic to Advanced was one of our texts when I studied in Paris.”

  Etienne beamed. Was flattery all that was required to win him over?

  “My overarching goal is to introduce the younger generation to French cooking—especially those of you who are not European.”

  “Thanks. Although actually, I’ve always loved French food.” My first lessons in French cooking had come from my uncle Wong Chau Wei, head chef at the Hong Kong Hilton. Guess that didn’t count. “I believe French and Chinese culinary traditions have more in common than people realize.”

  “Oh, really?” Etienne’s voice stopped just short of sarcasm.

  “Definitely.” I leaned back against the counter to reduce some of the weight on my poor tortured feet. “They share many characteristics. An emphasis on fresh ingredients, especially vegetables and herbs. A concern for contrasting color and texture as well as flavor. A tolerance—even a fondness—for complex, meticulous, many-staged cooking procedures…”

  “I doubt that the complexity of Chinese cooking can compare with the French.”

  I just smiled. Clearly he had never attempted Qi Gai Ji.

  He continued, oblivious to my displeasure. “Today we’re tackling a fairly simple dish, though. Beef burgundy, or boeuf bourguignon, a stew of succulent beef and root vegetables in a hearty wine sauce. Shall we get started?”

  He led the way around to the back of the counter. “First we boil the bacon lardons for a few minutes, then sauté them in olive oil…” As Etienne explained each step, I executed it, trying to remember to smile the whole time. He scarcely allowed me to get a word in, but that didn’t matter. I was engrossed in the cooking. I began to appreciate his talent, though. It was tough to keep up a running patter while slicing, measuring, simmering and spicing the work in progress.

  Finally I put the casserole in the oven. Etienne’s recipe specified three hours at three hundred and twenty-five degrees. With half an hour left in the show, we’d end by displaying and sampling the beef burgundy I’d made that morning—Etienne had insisted that the version from the previous day wasn’t fresh enough, so I’d been forced to duplicate yesterday’s effort. Cooking shows always cheat a little. Nobody has the patience to actually wait until a complicated recipe is complete.

  Now, however, it was time for the pissaladières.

  Uncorking the 2008 Clos Saint-Denis I’d used for the beef, I poured two glasses and handed one to the debonair host. “I’ve made one of my favorite appetizers for you, Etienne. I think you’ll enjoy the way the sweetness of the red onion offsets the salty anchovies and the pungent black olives. If you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

  I turned my back on the audience. As I’d expected, Etienne stepped in to pick up the thread of narration, holding forth on the best locales in France for black versus green olives.

  Hidden from the cameras, my body blocking the view, I wormed my fingers into the keyhole neckline of my cheongsam and extricated the little glass vial from my bra. I’d expected to be wearing an apron for the show. When I’d seen the costume Etienne had chosen, I’d realized I’d have to improvise.

  I dusted the innocuous-looking brown powder over the pastry rounds on the right half of the tray. Overall, I judged that I was using about a third of the amount I’d included in the profiteroles. I prayed that would be enough to make Etienne slightly amorous without turning him into a raging sex maniac, the way it had affected Harry.

  A pang of guilt shot through me as I remembered Harry’s enthusiastic lust. Capping the vial and dropping it back into the hollow between my breasts, I had the weird sense I was somehow being unfaithful by trying to seduce Etienne.

  Ridiculous. Harry was a smart guy. He’d understand. He saw the way Duvalier treated me. And he recognized me for what I was—hard-working, ambitious, ready to do whatever was necessary for success.

  Self-centered. Ruthless. Morally dubious. Where were these critical inner voices coming from? I pushed them away. I wasn’t hurting Etienne. Heck, it was likely he’d enjoy the rest of the show more than he’d be expecting to.

  “Here we are. Try a couple of these and let me know what you think.” I positioned the platter so that the augmented tidbits were within Etienne’s easy reach. He was sitting on one of the stools in front of the counter. His thigh muscles strained against the black leather of his pants. A lock of auburn hair had overcome the gel to settle on his high forehead. His eyes sparkled, ocean-blue in this light. He looked good enough to eat—highly appropriate for a cooking show.

  “Thank you. They look exquisite.” He positively oozed charm as he picked up a pastry round with his finger and thumb and placed it upon his tongue. I imagined all the women watching the show, eyes glued to his every sensual move.

  “Oh, Mei Lee! These taste even better than they look!” He sipped his wine, then popped another pissaladière into his mouth and chewed with obvious enthusiasm.

  “You’ll put the recipe on the channel we
bsite, won’t you?” He turned to the camera. “Ah, mes amis, this simple little dish provides a glorious mixture of flavors. And quite a straightforward process, I guarantee. Any one of you can make these in your own kitchen.”

  I helped myself to a pissaladière of my own, carefully choosing from the unadulterated side of the tray. They were good—the pastry light and crisp as spun cloud, the topping complex and savory, thyme, garlic and pepper lingering on the tongue long after swallowing. I took a second hors d’oeuvres. Etienne gobbled down two more, licking his long, elegant fingers after each one. The audience must be dying, watching that pink tongue clean away every crumb of pastry, every fragment of olive. I nursed my burgundy and smiled for the camera as he consumed a fifth pissaladière. Low-level lust hummed through me, too, though I’d been careful this time to avoid ingesting any of the aphrodisiac.

  He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and drained his wine glass. “Ms Wong—” he began. A wild light blazed in his face. “I want to ask your pardon—I want—oh, please…” The smooth, urbane voice sounded confused, ravaged by uncertainty. What was going on?

  Etienne slipped from the stool to the floor and knelt at my feet. The next thing I knew, he was pressing his lips to the gilt leather of my high-heeled shoes. “Ms Wong—Mistress Wong—please, let me serve you…”

  “Etienne? M Duvalier? What are you doing?”

  He trailed kisses up the inside of my ankle. “I adore you, Mistress.”

  “Etienne!” I snatched my foot away in alarm. He gazed up at me, a mix of disappointment and reverence shining in his face. “Stand up. Remember we’re on camera,” I added, sotto voce.

  “Yes, yes, but that doesn’t matter now,” he continued in the same crazy vein, though he obeyed my order and rose to his feet. “I am your willing slave. Let me please you, Mistress. Let me suckle your sweet, hard nipples. Raise your skirt and allow me to worship you with my mouth, the way you deserve…”