by MK Meredith
London sliced the onion, breathing through her mouth instead of her nose in hopes to keep her tears at bay.
Mateu found a wire brush and went to work on the mussels. He jerked his chin in the direction of the older couple. “My parents are a lot like these two. They work together and take joy in each moment. It’s honorable.”
She looked at him closely, finding it ironic that he could so easily speak of honor. “How long have your parents been married?”
“My whole life.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and it wasn’t just his mouth that smiled, but his whole face. “Almost forty years. When they got married, most of their friends had children right away, but they gave themselves time to work on their marriage and the family citrus orchard before having my brother, sister, and me. My mom is a sweetheart, and my father is feisty. Both very proud Catalans, which, in the end, may hurt them more than help them. It is paramount that I am here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
She heard the slight worry in his voice but couldn’t imagine where it came from. He was pretending to work at the orchard—and just might be playing on her emotions with the idea of his parents needing help.
She had to hand it to him. He was good. “I have a hard time imagining you with siblings.”
He piled the mussels in a bowl, then pulled the clams from the water one by one. He wiped his hand on a towel, then placed it across his chest with a smirk. “As hard as it is to believe someone as sexy as myself is a big brother…it’s the truth.”
She rolled her eyes. “Someone has a healthy ego.” But she couldn’t deny it, either. It was difficult to rectify the wealthy game player she knew him to be with the big brother and family man he was showing her.
Then he smiled, and the memory of the reason why he was even at this cooking class with her acted like a cold glass of water thrown at her face. He’d already proven to be a master manipulator. Once again, she was being taken hook, line, and sinker.
She squared her shoulders.
Well, she might have slipped, but she hadn’t fallen.
Game on.
Chapter Six
The moment she’d made that comment about his ego, Mateu had wanted to kiss London until her serious gaze melted into the dreamy-eyed one she’d had at the sight of Gaudi Cathedral. He loved the way her emotions played over her features. Intense then pensive, serious then mischievous. Watching her reactions was fast becoming his favorite pastime.
“My mother always told me how great I am,” he teased. “So the ego was bound to follow.”
“It certainly is healthy.” She laughed, wiping a few tears from her eyes. “These onions. Whew.”
Pulling the towel from his shoulder, he stepped up to the small sink. He ran cold water over one end of the cloth, then returned to London. “Here.” He carefully pressed the fabric just under her bottom lashes. Standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, his body hungered for a lot more than Spanish cuisine.
Even though he’d been telling himself all day that he shouldn’t react this way, he couldn’t seem to help it.
She blinked up at him. “It’s okay. I can do it.” Her hands slid over his, but he resisted the tug that followed.
“Hold still. It’ll help.”
“No really, I can do it.”
He hesitated but finally stepped back, leaving the towel in her hands. He’d never met someone so resistant to accepting help one moment but then so acquiescent to it the next. She never once asked about the bill for their class, accepting it more easily than the shuttle from the train station. Yes, Huntington was footing the bill, but she didn’t know that. Though he chastised himself for feeling put out, it chaffed at him all the same.
Her eyes dilated as she held his gaze, the dark green of her irises almost disappearing behind the black orbs of her pupils. When she looked at him like that, he almost forgot he was conning her. She was simply the stunning, fascinating woman he’d met and had taken on a creative date to show off his city. Too bad there was nothing simple about it—or her.
Small tendrils of hair framed her face while the rest of the thick mass was pinned up in a haphazard bun that looked chic instead of messy. His fingers itched to run through it. Her lips parted, and curiosity about her taste called out to him. He wanted to answer in every way imaginable, but he didn’t give in.
He had a job to do, and this cooking class was just the beginning. It was important to keep her happy and engaged in the hotel with positive experiences and as much exposure as he could provide.
He’d lost track there for a moment when she’d asked about his parents. The stress of their predicament had gotten the better of him, not to mention the sincerity in London’s tone when he told her about his ex-fiancée. He shrugged off the lingering fingers of betrayal always left behind from the story. He was back on point.
As soon as her culinary experience was satisfied by authentic Spanish dishes and her walls lowered by a few glasses of the best wine Barcelona had to offer, he’d suggest they do dessert.
Promising to show her the city was a great ploy, but the magic was in the hotel.
“Now, my friends.” Señor Bustillo clapped his hands. “I speak to you about the rice. The perfect paella rice is the bomba variety. It is a round rice from Levant and…” He kissed his fingers. “Perfecto. It sucks up all the juices and flavors of our paella better than any other.”
Mateu stepped next to London to hold a medium saucepan as she added the broth to warm. With the olive oil in the paella pan ready to go, she added the onions. He swirled them round and round in the pan, then spread them out to sauté. As he stirred again, she added the diced tomatoes, then the chicken.
Breathing in over the pan, she waved the aromas up toward her face. In profile, her nose had a small upturned tip that dipped the smallest bit when she smiled. She took so much pleasure in simplicity. Most women he’d dated wouldn’t be interested in something so mundane as cooking their own meal, much less in noticing the sweet and savory aroma of the tomatoes.
She looked up at him. “Smells good, right?”
“And each time we add an ingredient, the aroma becomes richer and more layered.”
She sprinkled the rice in the pan in a large cross while Mateu continued to stir. “You’ve taken this class before?” she asked.
Señor Bustillo stepped up to their stove. “Perfecto. So good. So good. Now, you crush the saffron threads and add broth.”
Mateu took care of the saffron, and London grabbed potholders for the saucepan. Once the broth was poured over the rice and vegetables, they added the mussels around the outside edge of the pan, pointing up. The clams and shrimp followed as well as slices of pepper.
“No classes. My mother. She demanded that my brother and sister and I learned to cook.” Mateu leaned against the prep table and wiped his hands with a towel. “She felt like it was her duty to whomever we married. My father never cooks, and it frustrates her being the one who goes in from the orchards early to prepare dinner with Margarida while he gets to stay out and play.”
“Margarida?”
“My mother’s sister. She lives with them and helps run the house.”
She chuckled. “My mother would love your mother. She can cook, but there were times she’d rather be in her gardens with her butterflies and hummingbirds or in her lab experimenting with organic cocktails of her favorite oils.”
“A scientist? That is very interesting. Any siblings for you?”
“No. Just me and my mom. She’s my best friend. We lost Grandpa last year.” Leaning her hip against the table next to him, she nodded toward the pan. “Now we let it simmer.”
He looked at her closely. “Simmering is what makes it interesting; it’s what melds the flavors as one and enhances each individual strength.”
Her eyes skimmed over his face, lingering on his lips before returning to his eyes. “Why do I always feel like you’re having a separate conversation from the one I think I’m having with you?”
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br /> For the moment, he quit resisting his need to touch her and ran a finger along the delicate line of her collarbone. “There’s always a duality in words—in intent. What is may not be, and what you get…may be what you never knew you wanted.”
“And what you wanted may not be what you get.” He grabbed two wineglasses and filled each halfway with the pairing for the paella.
There was something about her that made him say too much. He was supposed to be easing her into a pliant, malleable mood. Not the other way around.
“Have you ever had Mencia from Bierzo? It has layers of red fruit and tends to be a bit fuller bodied than Mencia from Valdeorras.”
She lifted a glass from his outstretched hand and swirled the wine gently. “I haven’t.” She pulled in a deep breath over the bubbles. “Makes my mouth water.”
“Wait until you taste it.”
“There you go again.” Her eyes held him in place.
She was constantly thinking, assessing. And yes, he played with words when he spoke with her, because, in a very short time, he wanted much more than was polite to ask. But he’d grown up on an orchard, and planting seeds was something of a talent of his.
“After we eat, I have a little treat for you at the top of the hotel.”
The distracted look in her eye cleared instantly. “I’m sorry. I can’t tonight. I have plans.”
He stiffened next to her, though his efforts to remain casually leaning against the table were valiant. “You have plans?”
The idea of her taking off with some Spaniard to go lie in the beds at the La Fianna bar or a romantic walk along Sant Sebastia filled him with an irrational urge to tell her no.
And he could picture how well that would go over.
Sipping from her glass, she eyed him from over the rim. “I do. Besides, I don’t want to abuse your offer to accompany me on my adventures. You need to preserve your stamina. We have a vermouth tasting tomorrow, and that’s just the beginning. You did promise me the vacation of a lifetime. Or have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten? You wound me.” He pushed away from the table and stepped close. He’d show her his stamina. She lifted her chin in challenge, maintaining her position without stepping away from his advance, and he loved it.
Slowly the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Besides, it’s going to be difficult for me to check kissing a Spaniard off my list with you always about.”
A heavy weight settled in his gut. Was she playing him? More importantly, why did he care?
“Yes, yes. Good.” Bustillo chose that moment to inspect their paella. He slid a spoon just under one edge to peek at the bottom. “See how all the liquid is absorbed into the rice? Perfecto.”
Turning to the class, he bellowed, “Buen provecho,” a fun Spanish translation of bon appétit.
Mateu held his position at London’s side. She tried to step away, but he slid a hand up her arm, making her pause. She searched for something in his eyes, her lips parting on a soft indrawn breath. With each passing moment, the beating in his chest grew to a solid drumming.
She placed her hand over his, the soft skin of her fingers sending a shiver of need straight to his dick. Then she moved his hand aside and took her seat.
Maleït.
Digging deep for willpower he didn’t know he possessed, he eased away from his reaction. “Bon appétit,” he whispered.
She blinked twice and grabbed the edge of the table.
Good.
“Aww, now that’s what we like to see.” The older couple joined them. The wife gave a sweet smile and hearts practically shone from her eyes. “We knew there was more between you than simply a Spanish tryst.”
London choked on a sip from her wineglass. Putting up her hand with a small wheeze, she said, “No. It’s nothing like that.”
Mateu threw the couple a wounded look. “I have a surprise planned for her tonight, but she’s refused me.”
“Bloody hell,” the older gentleman exclaimed. “You denied this young virile buck?”
London laughed as Mateu nodded at the man in mutual confusion. “I can’t understand it myself. Anyone who knows Barcelona knows that Catalans have chocolate in their DNA. I have a whole evening planned with Huntington Place’s very own chocolatier. Abano is a genius.”
“Oh! How lovely. You must go, my dear.” The older woman patted London’s arm as if speaking to a young kindergartner afraid to get on a swing for the first time.
London put her palms up. “Okay, okay. I can’t tonight. I really do have plans.”
Mateu opened his mouth to argue, but her raised hand silenced him.
“But if your chocolatier has another opening in his schedule, I’ll make sure to fit it in.”
The couple nodded their agreement, but he wanted to demand she skip whatever plans she’d made and go with him tonight. She wouldn’t be able to do the review if she didn’t experience the best the hotel had to offer. And that was the only argument his irritation would allow. He casually rubbed the back of his neck, feeling as if his libido were breathing down it, then finished the wine in his glass. “Of course. I am God’s gift, after all.”
London rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was wide and generous. “You are ridiculous.”
He’d schedule it for tomorrow before their visit to the Erotic Museum. She couldn’t say no.
As bowls of paella were set before them, Mateu poured more wine and raised his glass in a toast. “Voltaire said something along the lines of how you must accept the cards life deals you, but once they’re in hand, you alone must decide how to play the cards to win the game.”
They all tapped the rims of their glasses. Leaning close to London, he added, “I’ll hold my cards close to my chest until we visit the chocolatier. One taste and you’ll be glad you folded.”
Chapter Seven
At half passed noon, London’s belief in a higher power was challenged, having had to wake up at the God-awful hour of three a.m. Whoever allowed that time to exist needed to seriously reconsider their humanity—or lack thereof. But her job required middle-of-the-night service assessments, including meals and a moonlight massage. The glamour of it all quickly dissipated in the wee hours of the morning.
But at least it was easy to do her assessments without being distracted by Mateu.
Thank God for Susan. Her girlfriend was better than a triple shot latte. Susan would chat while she painted, demanding London get her ass out of bed, and today had been no different. Her girlfriend was one of those midnight oil burners whose creativity sparked to life when everyone else in the world settled in for a peaceful slumber. And she somehow—London would never understand it—managed on four hours of sleep, so no matter where London traveled, Susan was “there.”
But now, hours later, London smoothed her cobalt blazer with one hand and covered a yawn with the other as she headed back up to her room. At the rate she was going, she might just fall asleep in the elevator.
“Just the beautiful woman I was looking for. Are you ready?”
Mateu’s voice penetrated her muddled brain. Trying to hide another yawn, she asked, “Ready for what?”
He looked like a walking catalog advertisement with his pressed light gray suit, charcoal button-up, and tie that combined the colors. A vision popped into her head of his shirt hanging halfway off and that tie askew, and she shook her head. She tried to ignore the little flip low in her stomach, but apparently, her libido had no problem working on little sleep.
When he’d invaded her dreams last night, she’d been pressed up against his hard chest. She almost felt like she knew every curve of his body. Almost. But something told her the real thing would be an event she’d never forget.
With a graceful sweep of his hand before her, he dipped his chin. “We have an appointment with the chocolatier. You said you’d fit it in. Well, he has time at four.”
“But I can’t. I’m exhausted, and I haven’t eaten dinner yet.” Though the thought of more food didn’t interest
her in the least. Besides her middle-of-the-night room service, she’d visited a slew of the hotel’s restaurants, consuming several bites of six different entrees and half the hotel’s dessert menu.
Before noon.
“Why would you be exhausted?” He glanced at his watch, then studied her face in concern. “I didn’t keep you out late yesterday. Is something wrong with your room? Your bed?”
His expression was completely sincere, causing fingers of confusion to poke their way into her brain. She waved his words away. “No, the room is perfect. It always takes me a few nights to adjust.”
He raised a brow. “Oh, so you travel often? We never really have had a chance to talk about your work.”
The slowness with which her brain was functioning was going to screw up her whole plan.
“Oh, I just mean, anytime I sleep anywhere besides my own bed.” The fib slipped from her tongue much easier than expected.
The look in his eyes heated. “I can think of many more exciting things to do in bed that don’t involve sleep.”
She chuckled. There was the Mateu she’d come to know. “I bet you can.”
Snapping his fingers, he placed her hand through his arm. “No problem at all. I’ll take you to the rooftop terrace. The dinners there are exceptional.” He glanced down at her with a slow smile full of intent as if she were to be the main course. But clearly it was all in her head. She was nothing but a job to him.
She resisted a huge sigh.
Saying no to the chocolatier would be bad form, especially after refusing him the first time. Not to mention the inconvenience to the chef. Resisting a second sigh, she shook her head. “Actually, I’m not that hungry. We can go straight to the chocolatier. I’m sure he’s amazing.”
She gestured toward his suit. “By the way, you look very handsome this afternoon. Do you always dress for the day or were you working?”
Running his large hands down the front of his chest, he grinned. “Only if I think it’ll get me a yes for a chocolate date.”
She laughed.
“I had a meeting.”
