Monster Chef

by Margaret McHeyzer

  “Now it is my turn to say ‘I’m sorry’. I know the heartache losing a spouse can cause.”

  I wipe at a tear that has spilled over. I’m not strong enough to contain them all; a stray has broken past my control. “They said he died instantly. He wouldn’t even have known was happening. He wouldn’t have felt any pain.”

  The moments draw out. Time seems to have frozen, and both of us are quiet. I’m staring down at my plate. I’m not sure what Pierre is doing or looking at. But I can imagine he’s feeling the loss of his wife, as I’m feeling the loss of my husband.

  “This is not a very good first date,” Pierre breaks the icy silence. I can’t help but snap my gaze to him, and he’s sitting opposite me, with a pleading smile.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea,” I whisper.

  “Non, please. We know now part of what has moulded us into the people we are today. Let us finish our meal and talk about happiness.” He brings his wine up to his mouth, and takes a sip of it.

  Suddenly I find myself looking at his lips, and how they form around the glass as he drinks his wine.

  “Tell me about your daughter.”

  The moment he asks, I feel the dark cloud lift and my heart becomes lighter.

  “She’s seven, and goes to first grade at school. She’s smart and incredibly outgoing.”

  “I noticed when she approached me at the hospital.”

  Something’s been playing on my mind, and I need to know what happened.

  “Pierre?”

  “Oui.”

  “Why did you kiss me in Angus’s office?”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he takes another mouthful of food. I suspect he’s just taken that bite so he can think about his answer. I mimic him and have some more ravioli.

  “I first met Eva when she came into the restaurant where I was working in Paris. A customer asked to speak with the chef, and I saw her when I went to their table. I passed her on the way out, and the first thing I noticed was her green eyes. They were so beautiful, so deep. I think I may have even fallen in love with her then. As I was speaking to the table, I kept sneaking looks at her. She was doing the same thing, and then she smiled at me.”

  I prop my left elbow on the table, and lean my chin on my knuckles, listening to the way Pierre is talking. He’s got this spark, as if he’s the brightest candle, illuminating the entire world.

  “I got called back to the kitchen before I had a moment to talk to her. When I went back out, she was gone. I ran out the front to see if I could find her. I saw her walking away, and a man was following her. In that second I didn’t think anything of it, but then I saw him approach her and grab her derrière. That made me very angry. She turned to yell at him, and that is when I saw him grab her by the wrist and try to drag her away from her friends.”

  “Shit! What happened?”

  “I ran after her, grabbed him and beat him. I do not like men touching women without their consent, especially women I care for.”

  Um…awkward. Pierre senses my discomfort.

  “Oui. I care for you, Holly. I do not know why.”

  I burst into laughter. Was that a backhanded compliment? “Pardon, it came out differently to how I meant.” His rich French accent makes it even funnier, because he’s trying to be sincere. But it’s just not working.

  “You kissed me because I reminded you of what happened to Eva?”

  “Oui.” He looks down at his plate and picks at his food. Time to change the topic of conversation.

  “How long have you lived in Australia? I’ve noticed how thick your accent gets especially when you’re…what’s the word? Fired up?”

  “I do not get fired up!” he almost shouts.

  “My point exactly.”

  “You are difficult, insufferable.” He waves his left hand at me, and flicks it, flippantly.

  “Am I? But I’m sitting here with you, enjoying this lovely meal although you insist I’m ‘difficult and insufferable’.”

  He draws his eyebrows together, and a raw, animalistic growling noise comes from deep within his chest. The corners of his lips turn up and I notice he’s desperately trying to hold in a laugh.

  “And you’re calling me ‘difficult’?” I shrug, roll my eyes and tilt my head to the side.

  “You drive me crazy.”

  “Pfffft, come on. I think you drive yourself crazy.”

  “I am not talking to you about it any longer.” He stands and takes his plate to the kitchen, essentially ending this conversation.

  “I beg your pardon, but you can’t get up and leave.” I stand and follow him.

  “I can, and I did,” he yells from the kitchen before I’m even there.

  “You’re being irrational.”

  “I am not.”

  “You damned well are!” I shout at him as I come into the kitchen. “Talk to me. Having you react like this every time a subject gets difficult is not going to get us anywhere.”

  “Non.” He takes two large parfait glasses out of the fridge and brings them to the island counter.

  “Pierre, you’re acting like a child.” This is quickly escalating into something I’m not quite prepared for.

  “I will not discuss this with you.” He goes back to the fridge and gets two bowls out. One has whipped cream, and the other contains berries which have been chopped and are in a liquid.

  I remain quiet as he carefully, artfully spoons them into the parfait glasses, which appear to be half filled with chocolate mousse.

  “Pierre,” I start. But his head comes up and he tries to silence me with just his heated look. “This has just gone crazy. I’m not even sure what the hell we’re fighting about.”

  “We are fighting because you are intolerable.” His tongue curls around the last word. Although he’s meant it as an insult, I can’t help but be turned on. Because again, his accent has gotten thicker.

  “I’m not intolerable.” Now I’m just pushing him because I love how passionate he gets when he’s mad.

  “You are,” he says, just barely holding on to whatever control he has.

  “You’re an arrogant Frenchman. It’s your way or no way, and to me that proves just how egotistical you are.”

  His hands stop plating the berries. He drops the spoon in the silver bowl, and he balls his hands into fists. His forearms are vibrating, and his chest is rising fast, loudly trying to draw in air.

  “That’s right, Pierre, I think you’re conceited.” Oh God, what the hell am I doing? “Egomaniac.” His head snaps up, his eyes black with anger. “Self-obsessed.” My voice is rough but small.

  He rounds the island and comes to stand toe-to-toe with me.

  “You’re so far up yourself, you have no idea about reality.” Shut up, Holly.

  “You are intolerable.” Pierre’s eyes fall to my mouth.

  My heart’s beating loudly, my blood’s running quick in my veins, and without thinking just how intimate the situation is, I push my breasts into Pierre’s chest.

  His hands grab my upper arms, his long fingers wrapping around my skin. My gaze drops to look at his fingers. I can feel his breath on my face, the smell of his cologne sweetly drifting into my nose.

  “You’re impossible,” I murmur.

  His hands tighten and he slightly pulls me forward.

  His hard body engulfs mine.

  “You’re so soft,” he murmurs as his lips glide along my cheek.

  He’s pressing his firm body into mine, pulling me into him, eliminating any small gap between us.

  “Pierre,” I manage to say as I look up into his desperate grey eyes.

  “What is it you want from me?” He traces his nose along the length of my neck, as his right hand slides to my lower back.

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  My eyes automatically close, his warm lips brushing lightly on the junction of my shoulder and my throat. Pierre expands his fingers and pushes his hand into the back of my jeans, feeling the small of my back
.

  “I want to touch you,” he says as his other hand grabs onto my butt.

  “Touch me.” My voice is dripping with desire, my body alight for Pierre.

  “Look at me,” he commands.

  I lift my head and open my eyes to see an insatiable hunger burning deep inside Pierre. “This is our first kiss.” His head bends and he engulfs my mouth with his. Slowly, his tongue emerges, hesitantly exploring the contour of my lower lip. Paying attention as he worships me, his hands tugging me closer while he walks me backward.

  My back finds the cool of the wall as he gently pushes me against it. My own hands go to his butt, and I pull him closer as I lift my leg and hook it around his hip.

  “Holly,” he mumbles as he begins to palm my breasts through my shirt. With expert fingers he pinches my nipples, trying to roll them. But there are too many layers of clothes between us.

  The kiss turns heated. Pierre and I are devouring each other; I can’t think straight. “More,” I beg as I reach for his shirt and tug it over his head.

  There’s no apprehension in this moment. It all feels so right. “Tu est mine,” he sighs into my mouth.

  I reach my hand up and weave my fingers into the back of his hair, knotting my hand in the thickness of the strands. I snap my hand back, and watch as he closes his eyes and his necks becomes beautifully elongated.

  Pierre’s Adam’s apple bobs as he tries to swallow. My lips ghost past the stubble on his chin, then skim all the way to the gorgeous lump on his throat.

  “Tu est mine,” he murmurs again as his hands lace in my hair and he pulls my face to the hot column of his neck.

  “Pierre,” I plead, and kiss him, sliding my tongue across the rough surface.

  A deep guttural moan rips from his chest, I feel the force of the vibration as it rumbles against my breasts.

  We’re surrounded by perfect impassioned fire, a blaze burning beyond control. Our bodies are starving for each other. Our appetites whetted with raw carnal desire.

  I feel his arousal as he pushes his hips against mine, pinning me against the wall, immobilising me, damn well commanding me.

  “Yes,” I breathe as his lips find mine again. Pierre has turned the tables. I’m no longer in control.

  “Don’t fucking move,” he orders again, dropping to his knees in front of me.

  He unzips my jeans, pushes my panties aside and sinks his long, clever, fingers into me.

  Oh shit!

  No, no, no. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be with another man. Not yet.

  “Stop,” I say just as he bites my tummy. He does, immediately.

  “Je suis désolé. I did not mean for us to go as far we did.” Pierre gets up off the floor and takes a step back, sweeping his hands over his face then through his hair.

  “That – .” Um, what the hell can I say? I straighten my shirt and zip my jeans up, stepping away from the craziness in the kitchen. “I…um, I’m not…” My eyes dart everywhere but Pierre.

  “I must offer apologies again. I am most ashamed of my actions.”

  “Should I leave?” I ask, not really sure what’s going on.

  “Please stay. I do enjoy your company, but perhaps it would be better if we did not push each other like that again.”

  Ouch. Really? Rejected.

  “Sure,” I say, completely confused. My tone reveals my feelings, and I’m sure he can tell I feel rejected.

  “Mon chéri, it is not because I do not want you. It is because I crave you as much as the sweet berries I have been macerating all day. I will not be able to stop once my lips find your succulent skin.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  He chuckles, throwing his head back, laughing heartedly.

  “Non, my cock looks forward to being sated by your very delicious pussy. Trust me, I look forward to the time I will be inside you.” He licks his fingers and groans at my taste.

  Pop – oh yeah, there goes my other ovary!

  EIGHTEEN

  Holly

  “Hey,” I say as I lean against the kitchen counter in the restaurant. It’s before opening, and Pierre is doing mise en place as he prepares for tonight’s service.

  “I am too busy, Holly. Unless you feel like kissing me, then I have all the time in the world.” He doesn’t lift his head to look at me, but I can see his cheeky smile from here.

  “No, I’m not going to kiss you. But you didn’t answer a question I asked you at your house on Tuesday.”

  “And what would that question be?”

  “How long have you lived in Australia?”

  “I moved here when I was twenty-two. I’ve been a citizen since I was twenty-three.”

  “That tells me when you came here, but I suppose I’d like to know how old you are.”

  “How old do I look?” He turns his head, waggles his eyebrows at me then looks back down at what he’s preparing.

  “Oh I’d say you have to be close to fifty, if not mid-fifty,” I tease. I think he’s in his late thirties.

  “Intolerable,” he whispers through a chuckle. “I will be celebrating my forty-second birthday next May.”

  “Huh, and you’ve been living here since you were twenty-two. So twenty years.”

  “Oui, why? Do you plan on having me deported? Because it is way too late to do that now.”

  “Only when you piss me off,” I tell him as I turn and leave his kitchen.

  “You did not kiss me, Holly,” he calls after me, playfully. I like him when he’s like this, carefree and fun.

  “Never said I was going to,” I retort as I walk out to the bar to check that it’s stocked and ready to go for tonight’s service.

  As I’m checking the top shelf spirits, Angus comes into the bar area. He stands with his feet hip width apart and crosses his arms in front of his chest. I can feel him leering at me, and it kind of creeps me out.

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Angus?” I ask as I feel his eyes burning on my body.

  Sleaze.

  “Yeah, I’d like to see you in my office please.”

  “Sure, give me a few moments so I can finish up here and I’ll come find you.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  What is with him? The guy has some serious issues. It’s not like he’s not good looking; he’s alright. About my height, so around five foot ten, broad shoulders, short, buzz-cut hair, quite nice chiselled chin and dark brown eyes. And ordinarily I’d say he’d be a nice guy to go out with.

  But his gaze isn’t intense and provocative. When he speaks he doesn’t make my brain stutter and my heart leap out of my chest. No ripples slide over my body; his words don’t excite me.

  “Holly,” I hear the fluid, romantic French accent call my name. And I notice Pierre does all those things to my mind, and my body.

  “Yes, Pierre.” I turn to look at him, and notice he and Angus are in a silent stand-off. Two men duelling, two men prepared to joust. Although only one man has my attention and interest.

  “I need you in the kitchen.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Angus, so you’ll need to wait,” I say as I finish my inventory of the alcohol.

  Pierre snarls toward Angus, and he turns to leave, but not before he loudly says, “Imbécile.”

  “He’s a pain in the arse, but a hell of a chef,” Angus says as he shrugs his shoulders. “Are you ready?”

  “Lead the way, boss.” I try to keep it jovial.

  I worry about Pierre’s and my interactions in the restaurant during the workday, especially Angus’s and my co-workers’ perceptions of them. I’ll need to talk to him about that.

  Angus goes into his office, waits until I’m inside, and closes the door behind me.

  He sits behind the desk, and I sit in a chair on the other side of the desk, across from him.

  “I’ve not really had a chance to speak with you since the incident. How are you doing?” he asks as he sits and steeples his fingers, bringing them up to his m
outh.

  “I’m alright, back to normal. The police called to tell me when the court date is. They want both Pierre and me there to testify.”

  “Good, good, good.” His tone is telling me he wants to say more, but maybe he doesn’t know how to say it.

  “Is that all, Angus?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  I sit back in my seat and cross my legs at the knees. “Are you firing me?” I feel my eyebrows draw together as I’m about to unleash hell on him.

  “Oh God, no! You’re the only one who can control Pierre.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  Ha! Control Pierre. No one controls Pierre. He’s erratic and forceful and downright sexy and sensual.

  “I have a conference coming up soon. It’s in New Zealand and I’d like for you to come with me.” He’s not asking me as an employee. His tone tells me he wants more.

  “I’m sorry. That’s impossible. But while you are gone, I can look after the place here.” I end this before he thinks he has any chance with me.

  “If money is an issue, I’ll pay for you.”

  “Money’s not the issue. I can’t neglect my responsibilities here and besides, you’ll have no one to run your restaurant.” Take the hint, Angus. I’m being diplomatic.

  “I’d like for you to join me.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As um…” He ducks his eyes away. Whatever he’s going to say will be a lie. “As my manager.”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  Doesn’t he know there are laws which protect me under New South Wales and federal rules? Why does he insisting on trying?

  “I just thought you and I could possibly discuss your future here at Table One.”

  “Then I’m open for a discussion about it. I don’t need to travel to New Zealand for that. If you feel more comfortable, I can ask one of the wait staff to join us if there’s something tricky you’d like to broach?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I think you and I have perfectly good communication skills.” His shoulders relax a touch, and I think he understands I’m not interested in what he’s offering.