What's Her Secret?

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

  “Ssh!” I hissed. “Do you want to get us thrown in jail?” I peered through the glare of the lights, trying to signal to someone to stop the transmission. There was no flurry of activity there, however. No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t care, as long as you are satisfied.” He paused a moment, then unknotted his scarlet cravat and handed it to me. He held out his wrists. “Bind me, Mistress, if you wish. Torture me. I’ll bear any amount of pain for you. Test me—test my devotion.”

  He had the same rich voice as before, the same handsome features, the same lithe, muscular body—but this was a different man entirely. I searched his face, yearning for the arrogant, self-involved chef who’d been bossing me around half an hour before.

  There was no trace of him. Instead, I had to deal with this—this eager, self-effacing slave boy.

  I’d created a monster.

  I should have called for the crew to turn off the cameras. Walked off the set. Locked myself in my dressing room until Duvalier came to his senses. That would have been the rational, responsible thing to do.

  I should have ignored the buzz of arousal kindled by his gorgeous pliancy and shut out the imp of the perverse whispering in my ear.

  I must have been temporarily insane.

  “You really want to please me, Etienne?” I rose from my stool, balancing on those outrageous heels, and he seemed to shrink before me, though in fact he was at least six inches taller than I.

  “Oh yes!”

  “Remove your shirt, then. Quickly now!”

  His fingers stumbled over the buttons in his haste to obey. In less than fifteen seconds his chest was bared to my view, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle. As I’d surmised, red-brown curls dusted his pectorals and ran down from his navel to disappear into the waistband of his trousers. I stepped closer and trailed my fingertips over that tempting hair. It was soft as down.

  Etienne trembled under my touch. His breath came fast and shallow. I glanced down to see a substantial bulk distorting the leather in his groin. I ached to cup it in my palm, to squeeze it until he cried out. Fortunately I refrained from acting on my desires. Instead, I pinched one of the man’s gumdrop nipples, then twisted hard.

  I couldn’t tell whether his moan was of pain or of pleasure. I suspect he didn’t know either.

  “Will you tie me up, Mistress Wong? Will you beat me? Shall I remove my trousers as well, so that you can torture my—”

  “Hush. Did I give you permission to speak?”

  He shook his head, quick to understand my desires.

  “Then don’t—not until I tell you to.” I ran my hands over the slithery brocade of my dress, under my swelling breasts, across my belly and down over my hips—just to tease him. My nipples felt heavy and hard as marbles, and my panties were totally soaked. I could bear that, for now.

  “We have an audience, Etienne, remember? We’re hosting a cooking show. And it’s time to show them the pièce de resistance, our lovely boeuf bourguignon. Go remove it from the oven. Be sure to use the mitts. I don’t want you burning those talented fingers of yours. I may have other jobs for them later.”

  “Yes—” he began, then caught my expression of displeasure and shut up.

  High-voltage power surged through me. He really would do whatever I asked. And suddenly I realized what I wanted from him.

  Etienne returned with the covered crockery dish and set it on the counter beside the pissaladières, which he eyed hungrily. “I believe you’ve had enough of those, monsieur.” I pushed the hors d’oeuvres out of his reach then lifted the lid from the casserole. The heady aroma of garlic and spices tickled my nostrils.

  “Smells amazing, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded with obvious enthusiasm.

  “Would you like to try it? You may answer out loud.”

  “Yes, Mistress. I love your cooking.”

  “Really?” I let him hear my skepticism as I handed him a fork. “Go ahead and tell me what you think.”

  He stabbed a chunk of beef dripping with rich red sauce and put it into his mouth. Bliss spread over his face as he chewed and swallowed.

  “Well?”

  “Incredible. Unbelievably delicious, even better than the dish you did yesterday. The beef melts in my mouth and the gravy has a kind of smoky, tangy flavor. It’s truly wonderful, Mistress. May I have another bite?”

  “Certainly.”

  This time he took a spoon and scooped up a mass of carrots and onions along with the meat and sauce. He masticated for a long time, as though he was reluctant to let the morsel disappear down his throat. Finally, he swallowed and sighed.

  “Ah, Mistress. I’ve never had anything so good in my life. It’s different from what you cooked for me yesterday, heartier and yet more subtle and complex. You must give me the recipe.”

  “I must? I thought you were going to do what I wanted, not the other way around.” Fists on my hips, I glared at him in mock fury. “Some slave you are!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He cringed and looked ready to fall back onto his knees. “I’m just so overwhelmed by the astonishing flavors. Forgive me, Mistress. Punish me, if you’d like.”

  “I’ll punish you by making you eat another mouthful. Then you can tell me what special ingredients I’ve added to this version.”

  He must have chewed this portion for five minutes. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea. The different tastes are woven together so completely, I can’t separate them.”

  “You’ve failed me, Etienne. I thought nothing could defeat your culinary expertise.”

  Now he did collapse to a kneel, clutching my calves and crying. “Punish me for my failures, Mistress. I deserve it. Pull down my trousers and spank me until my butt is raw and I can’t sit down for a week. Use the wooden spoon on me. Tie up my—”

  “Enough! Here’s your punishment. You want to know my secret ingredients? Star anise.”

  “What?”

  “Plus Sichuan pepper and Chinese leeks.”

  “Sichuan pepper in boeuf bourguignon? Sacre Coeur! I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. I wanted to demonstrate that even your time-honored recipes might benefit from some variations.”

  Etienne was silent. He huddled at my feet, as if he’d lost all will to move. I suspected that the aphrodisiac was wearing off. Embarrassment, shame and anger would follow in its wake.

  I stroked his naked shoulder, then reached for his hand. “Get up, Monsieur Duvalier. The show is over and we must bid our audience farewell.”

  Gradually he straightened up. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and squared his shoulders, facing the camera. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was half-undressed, though I was willing to bet that his female fans were swooning at the sight.

  “Ms Wong is correct, mes amis. We hope that you’ve enjoyed our show and learned a bit about the classic art of French cooking. Until next week at the same time, we bid you adieu.”

  We bowed together. The theme music rose for ten seconds then died away. The spotlights cut out.

  Etienne Duvalier grabbed his discarded shirt and stomped off the set.

  Chapter Six

  I should pack, I told myself. Instead I cracked open the second bottle of Jack Daniels from the mini-bar, dumped it into a glass and downed it in two gulps. I’d already finished the vodka, mixed with some sickly sweet pseudo-orange drink. I’d devoured the over-salted peanuts and the Pringles, too, horrible as they were.

  The alcohol and junk food only served to deepen my gloom.

  I’d blown it. The biggest opportunity in my career and I’d messed up. After today, there was zero chance I’d ever work on a food network, at least anywhere in the U.S.. I just hoped the news didn’t get back to Hong Kong. The Belvedere was a venerable restaurant with a conservative management, very concerned about their reputation. I doubted they’d look kindly on the sort of antics I’d engaged in today.

  I had failed, and the worst
thing was, it wasn’t through an honest lack of ability. No, I’d had a real chance at TOF but I’d thrown it away by being vindictive and arrogant. So Etienne Duvalier hadn’t liked anyone messing with his classic recipes. So what? I should have stuck to the plan, got with the program, at least until I’d proved myself. But no, I had to be smart. I had to look for shortcuts. And when I’d had Etienne more or less eating out of the palm of my hand, I had to humiliate him by forcing him to admit I was a better chef than he was.

  I might be a better chef, but he had a lot more power. I needed his goodwill more than I needed that admission.

  Sprawled in an armchair wearing my robe and nothing else, I watched CNN’s ticker tape news flicker by. Bombs. Famine. Revolution. Official corruption. I’d turned the sound off. Images of destruction flashed before me. The darkness suited my mood.

  I’d already changed my reservation. I was leaving San Francisco early tomorrow morning. Heading home with my tail between my legs.

  Maybe I’d end up marrying Hu. Now that was a depressing thought.

  I staggered to my feet and wove my way back to the mini-bar to see what else there was to consume. The room spun around me and someone was knocking on my head with a hammer.

  No, wait. That was someone banging at the door.

  “Go away! I’m sleeping.”

  “Like hell you are. Open up, Emily.”

  Bleary as I was, I still recognized the voice. Harry. Poor Harry, whom I’d screwed even more thoroughly than Etienne. My sexy, nerdy guinea pig.

  I definitely didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want him to see me, not in this condition.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “No way. If you won’t open this door, I’ll go get the management and make them force it open. I’ll tell them you’re a suicide risk.”

  “C’mon. I’m not gonna kill myself over a stupid cooking show…” I giggled at the thought. That would serve Etienne right. Drove the poor little China girl chef to suicide…

  “Emily, please. I really need to talk to you.”

  I found that I’d drifted over to the door, that I was leaning on it as if I could feel his warmth on the other side.

  “I, um, I’m drunk.”

  “Yeah, I can tell. That’s okay.”

  “I look awful…”

  “I don’t care. Listen, I’ve got news for you. Good news.”

  “You mean Etienne isn’t gonna sue me?”

  “The network wants to offer you a contract. For a full season.”

  “What?” I must be hallucinating. My own personal type of pink elephant.

  “You heard me. Emily, love, don’t keep me out. At least listen to the proposal. I’ll leave after that, if you want.”

  Love? What the hell was he talking about? He was hammering at the door again, so hard I wondered if he might break it down.

  “Stop that racket, Harry. I feel like my head’s gonna fall off.” I couldn’t stand it much longer.

  “Open up then. I promise, you won’t be sorry.”

  It was the sweet yearning in his voice that finally convinced me. And after all, what harm could it do? It was only Harry.

  I unfastened the chain and pulled the door open. Harry stood on the threshold, concern written all over his honest face. I swayed on my feet in front of him. I’m really drunk, I realized. Drunk enough that I might be sick.

  Harry caught me as I fell. Wow, I thought, when he lifted me and carried me into the bedroom. He’s strong. I’m not one of those tiny, delicate Asian girls. My Hokkien ancestors were big-boned farmers.

  He laid my body down upon the quilted bedspread. I was limp and uncoordinated as a rag doll. My robe hung open, baring my breasts and my pussy. With gentle hands he rearranged the fabric so that it covered me.

  “Aw, Harry—so you don’t think I’m so sexy now…” My speech slurred as I tried to express my disappointment.

  “You’re always sexy. I just don’t want to be distracted.” He grinned down at me. “I’ll be right back. Got to get you some water. And do you have any aspirin?”

  “Toiletries kit, in the bathroom.”

  As he disappeared, I remembered the vial of caterpillar fungus. He was sure to find it, rummaging around in there. But he wouldn’t know what it was, he couldn’t…

  My head hurt too much to continue the train of thought.

  I drifted in and out of an alcohol-induced fog. It seemed as though he was gone a long time. Then I opened my eyes to find him sitting beside me.

  “Can you sit up?”

  With considerable help from him, I managed to prop myself up against the headboard. My robe slipped off my shoulders, leaving me effectively naked. He didn’t bother to fix it this time. He passed me an open bottle of mineral water. “Drink as much of this as you can. And take these.”

  Obedient as a child, I swallowed the two tablets and washed them down with half the bottle of liquid. Almost immediately, I felt better.

  “Thanks. Thanks for your help.”

  Harry scratched his head and hugged his own arms, as if he were at something of a loss. “I saw all the empty nips. You shouldn’t have drunk so much.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I didn’t have any idea what else to do.”

  A sooty curl of hair had fallen into his eyes. When I reached out to brush it away, he captured my wrist and pressed his warm lips into my palm.

  “Emily—I—we…”

  “Tell me the news first. What’s this about a contract? After that stellar performance I orchestrated with poor Etienne, the network still wants me?”

  “It wasn’t exactly your traditional cooking show. But apparently the fans loved it. Ratings for your segment were the highest the network has seen in months.”

  “You didn’t get calls of shock and outrage from the church-going public?”

  “A few. This is California, though. Most callers raved about the show and wanted more.”

  “God, more of that? I don’t even want to think about it!”

  “Then a clip of Etienne removing his shirt hit YouTube and went viral. Two point five million views in just a few hours.”

  I shook my head. That was a mistake. When the bedroom stopped reeling, I gulped down more water. “I’ll bet Etienne is just furious.”

  “Well, it’s funny. He is and he isn’t. You battered his ego pretty badly. On the other hand, two and a half million people want to see him bare-chested. And I’ll bet the majority of them are women.”

  “I’ll bet!”

  “Anyway, the execs want me to produce a regular show, featuring the two of you, in which you’re the obvious boss. No more overt sexual stuff—we don’t want to get in trouble—but innuendo is fine. Apparently, the viewing public—primarily female—likes the idea of having a handsome and virile kitchen slave.”

  I tried to imagine deliberately dominating Etienne on the set. At first I couldn’t get my mind around the notion. Then I remembered him kneeling before me—the look in his eyes as he offered me his scarf to bind him—and realized that some part of Etienne Duvalier craved the role of submissive. The aphrodisiac had temporarily set that part of him free, but it couldn’t create a desire that wasn’t there to begin with.

  “I don’t know. Has Etienne agreed?”

  Harry’s smile grew broader. “I managed to convince him.”

  I decided not to ask how.

  “This really isn’t what I wanted, you know. I wanted my own show, where I could cook my own dishes in my own style.”

  “That will come. This is a stepping stone, Emily—the next stage in what I’m sure will be a brilliant career.”

  I lay back against the pillows, exhausted and somewhat nauseous. “This is amazing, Harry. How can I ever thank you?”

  “I can think of a variety of ways…” Almost before I realized what was happening, he had stripped off his funky clothes to reveal the body of a god.

  He was on the wiry side, but well-muscled, with bronzed skin that suggested he didn’t spend all his time in t
he studio. Black curls, more plentiful than Etienne’s, covered his chest and meandered down his abdomen. A rich tangle framed his jutting cock, which was every bit as luscious as I’d remembered.

  I was still woozy, but that didn’t stop my nipples from peaking or my juices from flowing.

  He stretched out beside me on the bed, cradling me. His lovely cock painted wet trails of pre-cum along my belly.

  “Oh, God—Harry—I’m not sure I’m up to sex right now. It would be distinctly unerotic if I were to throw up while we were making love.”

  “That’s okay, love. Now that you’re going to be working for the network, we have plenty of time.”

  There it was again. That word. He must have felt me stiffen, for he drew me into the sweetest kiss I’d ever experienced. His mouth was tender, reverent, gentle beyond belief. He pressed his lips to mine, then to my cheeks, my eyelids, my chin. All the while he held me close, so that my breasts rubbed against his furred chest and his erection settled in the crevice between my thighs. Tears gathered in my eyes. All my fears and tensions, my self-pity and self-disgust, simply melted away in the warmth of his embrace.

  “There’s no pressure. We just met. You’re a long way from home. But when we had sex yesterday, I felt something very special, something new for me. I want to explore that feeling—to feel it again. And I have to be honest, Emily. I think it’s more than ordinary lust.”

  My mind flicked to the glass vial buried under my toothpaste and deodorant. Should I tell him? I teetered on the brink of disclosure, weighing the consequences of such a revelation. Decent and considerate as he was, Harry clearly deserved honesty. But would I drive him away? I couldn’t bear that notion. Right now I needed him as much as he claimed to need me. Maybe later…

  His kisses eased away every ounce of anxiety. I drifted in a pleasant haze, sheltered in his arms. His voice wove itself into my tipsy dreams.

  “I’m not sure what there is between us, love. But I know that it’s something powerful and important—something real.”

  What was reality? My ambitions, my career, my striving to be the best? Or this—excitement mingled with the utmost comfort? This paradoxical blend of uncertainty and trust as I lay, relaxed and cherished, in the arms of a near-stranger?