Irresistible You
A contemporary erotic taster
By
Lynne Connolly
Chef Remy Girard shouldn’t be having a hot and spicy affair with irresistible restaurant critic Elise Mason, but he can’t help himself. She titillates all his senses, including the one he’d never believed in until now; love. However, when Elise writes a bad review of his food, he can’t believe her lies. He does something that could wreck any chance he has at happiness with the woman he loves.
Elise is heartbroken, but she has to tell the truth. The food was terrible. Then firebrand Remy behaves like an ass, and she has to stand by her principles however much she loves him. Any chance at reconciliation and happiness seems hopeless, unless Remy can swallow his pride and Elise can find it in her to forgive him.
Irresistible You
Lynne Connolly
Copyright Lynne Connolly 2013
First Electronic Edition: February 2013
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They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Irresistible You Copyright © 2013 Lynne Connolly
Chapter One
Elise looked up from her nearly untouched plate to meet her friend’s disappointed gaze. “That was the worst gourmet meal I’ve ever had.”
“Girard’s’’ owned by the new, hot chef on the scene, specialised in fresh produce cooked well, but this being a two Michelin star establishment, the presentation was akin to a work of art. At least they didn’t write the menu in French. So old school.
Maybe this dish was just not to her personal taste. Rich flavours, foie gras with duck. She took a sip of the water, which was all she drank during a meal. Maybe she hadn’t cleared her mouth properly after the first course and some of the bay flavouring had lingered.
She tried again. Mashed potato and carrot. Beautifully cooked, vilely flavoured. Could she detect cinnamon in the potato? Awful. The balance was all wrong. She put her fork down with a clatter that turned heads. People sitting at nearby tables stared, then returned to their own meals.
Was the chef playing with them, or was this really the new, exciting face of haut cuisine? It seemed odd, because she’d been here before in what was best described as a non-official capacity, she’d eaten really well. And that had been leftovers.
Oh God, what could she say in her review?
She didn’t have to ask Maya what she thought of her salmon, because Maya did the same thing—pushed the plate aside virtually untouched.
The waiter arrived to collect the plates, and while she definitely noticed, she didn’t say anything, but asked if they wanted dessert. Elise knew she should, but rattled, ordered the safest thing on the menu, a chocolate concoction.
It didn’t help. “Life of Bliss’ wasn’t as blissful as she remembered. Perhaps, in the circumstances when she’d first had it, that had coloured her opinion. Yes, probably. But at least it was edible. What was the chef thinking?
“The amuse-bouches were good,” Maya pointed out. She was right. The tiny morsels of tasters and mouth-cleansers served between the courses had been delectable.
The maître d’ swanned over to their table.
Elise met the woman’s black, unemotional gaze. “M’sieu wonders if you’d like to inspect the kitchens.”
“He asks every guest if they want to see the kitchens?”
The maître’s lips quirked in what threatened to become a smile. “If they wish it. It was our pleasure to serve you. Would you like coffee here, or in the kitchen?”
What Elise wanted was to get this over with. “The kitchen, please.”
They followed the woman’s elegant black-clad back through the big double doors into the hive of activity. The evening was winding down and what must have been pandemonium earlier was merely frenetic activity now.
Her gaze inevitably went to the large, imposing figure of Remy Girard, chef extraordinaire, standing in the middle of the kitchen at his station, watching everyone with eyes of hard, grey steel. His dark hair was swept back from his face, the ends curling in the kitchen’s heat.
He looked around as if she’d called to him, and their gazes clashed. A lazy smile curled his full lips and he moved, strolling over to where they stood, as if he’d just spent an evening at leisure, instead of presiding over one of the most fastidious teams in all haut cuisine. Fastidious, because he had made it so.
Beside her, Maya gave an almost soundless groan. “I never realised he was so gorgeous.”
“I did,” Elise said.
“He looks great on TV, but hot damn…! You’ve met him before?”
She suppressed her smile at the memory. “At an art gallery. One of those champagne-and-buy-my-daub things.”
Maya didn’t appear interested in the art, any more than Elise had been. When Remy reached them, she held out her hand first. “I’m Maya Hancock and this is Elise Davis.”
He shook Maya’s hand and smiled. When Remy smiled, he changed his expression completely, from stern taskmaster to cheeky boy, a transformation that startled and fascinated most people who saw it. Elise had seen it happen and felt it, too. Especially when he turned that devastating grin on to her. His big hand enclosed hers in warmth. “Pleased to meet you Elise.”
“Again.”
He raised a brow. “Again? I feel sure I’d have remembered your devastating eyes, the colour of the sky at midnight.”
Cheesy. Did he turn that on for all the customers? Not judging by that teasing expression quirking the corners of his mouth. He was taunting her to say something back. “Clearly our meeting was more memorable for me. At Durbin’s art gallery at the beginning of the year.”
“Ah yes. Pleased to meet you again, Ms—’
“Elise.”
“Elise. And I am Remy.”
She refrained from telling him that she knew. He turned so he faced the same way they did, and put his hand at the small of her back. Perfectly acceptable thing to do, except that he knew the way her senses rioted every time he touched her. “Let me show you my—kitchen.” The small pause came as a tantalizing break, almost a flirtation.
Almost nothing. It was flirtation, pure and simple. And that touch seared through her, into her guilty flesh. She forced herself not to squirm.
He guided them around the stations in the kitchens, introducing the main members of his staff. “This is Jacques—he’s key in helping create the entrees. She schooled her face not to grimace at the memory of that awful food. He kept his hand at her back, but lowered it, just a fraction, to graze the top of her buttocks, then slid it back up again. Elise swallowed.
“You enjoyed your meal?” When Remy said it like that, she didn’t think of food.
“It was very nice.”
“Nice?” That grin ought to be outlawed. A spark of anger ignited deep inside her. Was he trying to manipulate her into doing a good review? She’d never do it, and he should know that by now. But she wouldn’t let anyone manipulate to her. Apart from anything else, her pride was at stake.
If she hadn’t been so aware of him, she’d have missed the small nod he gave to his dessert chef, who proceeded to smile at Maya with an ease worthy of her boss and draw her
in with promises of chocolate and lemon sorbet.
The way to Maya’s heart. Remy was already drawing Elise on, towards a rank of doors. “I’d like to show you how our preserves are stored.”
Good, because she needed a private word with him. He opened the door and ushered her in, perfectly politely, then flicked on the light and closed the door gently behind them.
Rows of jewel-coloured preserves greeted her, their clear glass jars glinting. “Do you make these yourself?”
“Some.” His voice sounded deeper, harsher. “Most.”
Catching her shoulders, he swung her around so their chests collided in a maelstrom of heat and need, then brought his mouth down to meet hers in a far from gentle kiss.
She opened her mouth to meet his onslaught, brought one hand up to slide through his silky hair, ruffling it into its natural curls. Dear God, she shouldn’t do this, but how could she not? He drew her close with one arm around her waist, the other higher, his hand splayed over her back in the possessive gesture she loved.
He explored her mouth in a savage, rampant act of taking but she gave as good as she got, returning hot and strong. Wanting more, always wanting more. Where Remy was concerned, she’d never get enough. She hungered for him when he wasn’t with her, and in the time they could spare from their busy lives, took him with a voracity only matched by his.
He finished the kiss only to frame her face with one hand, his fingers catching in her dark curls, before he came back for more.
So strong, so hot and so everything she wanted.
“I need you,” he muttered. “What you do to me, Elise.”
How could she resist him? ‘Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Girard?”
His answer was simple, but devastating. “Yes.”
“Now?”
“Your place or mine?” He glanced around, a wicked grin on his face. “Here?”
“It’s the only way.”
With hands that shook, she pushed, just a little, but he got the message and drew away. No way would he overwhelm her, as he always did, with hot, sweet passion. He didn’t release her, but gazed at her, his eyes softly glowing.
“Remy, we can’t. You know I can’t.” She clasped her hands together, trying to keep them steady.
He caught them, gripped her small hands in his much larger ones, brought one to his lips. His tenderness nearly undid her. “Don’t talk. Don’t say anything about the review we both know you’re doing, then we’re breaking nothing.” He kissed the knuckles of her other hand, drew her closer but gently, giving her the chance to move away.
She swallowed, but didn’t leave. “So this is our last time.” He lifted his chin, smiled wickedly. “For now. How long do I have to exist without you, ma petite?”
She should hate him calling her that, but it made her feel absurdly cherished. “A week.” Maybe more. Miserably she reflected on the meal she’d had. She couldn’t lie. It would invalidate all the work she’d done, all the places she’d given five stars to for genuinely great food. She’d built up a reputation for judging a place on its own merits, not on reputation, or clientele, or anything but the food, the wine and the service.
So if this was her last time with him, she’d better make the most of it. She lifted her face for his kiss. Smiling, happiness creasing the corners of his eyes he bent slowly, keeping his eyes open, watching her until his mouth touched hers. Then he let his lids slide over his eyes, and gave himself to her.
Whenever she kissed him, she lost time. Lost all sense of, well, sense. He opened his mouth over hers, and she let him in to play. He tasted her, a leisurely appreciation, and she felt a smile forming, a coming home.
Ah, shit, there she went again. That was why she’d asked for the break, while she wrote her review and got it out. He tasted her like she was the most precious morsel, the delicious, elusive taste of heaven and she loved it. That was why she’d risked her job and her reputation, and told nobody about her affair with Remy Girard.
As well as a strong urge to hug the knowledge to her chest, because the illicit nature of it gave her goosebumps of the very best kind.
He stroked her, moulded her close, spent time they didn’t have exploring her, slowly unbuttoning her top. He finished the kiss, glanced down. “I have to see you. You’re an addiction, Elise.”
If he didn’t seem as desperate as her, she’d worry even more. He was wearing his chef’s jacket, crisp white, and she knew how it fastened now. Reaching up, she undid the button at the top, and then the other, hidden ones. She also knew he didn’t wear a shirt underneath. Unable to resist the sight of his broad, muscular chest, she swiped her tongue over one tiny nipple, half shrouded in chest hair. He shuddered, caught his breath. “Damn, woman.”
He reached out, grabbed something from the nearest shelf. She glanced to one side as she caught a flash of colour and she smiled, drew back, because he’d need the space to sheathe himself. “You call that a preserve?”
“Of a kind.” That slow, thick drawl with the accent unique to Remy did it for her every time. A mixture of French and London, utterly irresistible. Not that she’d tried. From the first evening at the art gallery to today, six months later, they’d seen each other almost every night, shared the same bed more often than not. But her raw need for him hadn’t abated as she’d hoped it would. It just got worse.
Or better.
After unbuttoning and unzipping, he dragged his pants down and eased the condom over his hard, straining cock. Elise didn’t waste time protesting either, instead, reaching under her skirt to tug her knickers out of the way. He turned to her, lifted her and pushed her against the only bare bit of wall, where the shelves ended just before the door. While this wasn’t a refrigerator, the wall felt cool against her back, but she welcomed the chill it sent through her heated skin as she lifted her legs and wrapped them around her waist when he hoisted her up with an effortlessness that spoke of years of heavy work in the kitchen. Remy had trained in some of the best kitchens in Europe. Washed up and carried sacks of potatoes in them, too. It all showed in his powerful frame and the bunched muscles in his arms and chest, the way he held her balanced on his thighs as he thrust inside her.
Her head went back and she sighed, a long expiration of breath that matched his for heartfelt pleasure. “Remy, oh, Remy, it’s like nothing else. Ever.”
“Je sais, ma belle.” That throaty French phrase sent her higher, as she found purchase against the wall behind her and pushed her hips forward, into and on to him.
He bent to take one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking greedily. He plunged deep, rotating his hips, and she stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming. He knew just how to touch her, he worked her body so well, coaxing the climax to start and then nurturing it until she couldn’t keep from coming hard and fast, pulsing around his cock until he gave a muffled cry against her breast and shivered through his orgasm.
Once she could trust herself to keep her voice down, she took her hand away from her mouth and moaned, softly. “So good, Remy, so good.” How would she manage without this for a whole seven days and seven nights? She’d just have to, that was all there was to it.
He slid carefully out of her and lowered her to her feet, before drawing her close for a sweet, tender kiss. “Change your mind.”
“No.”
He drew away, dealt with the condom and his disordered clothing. Sad to see that magnificent chest disappear out of sight, she busied herself restoring herself to rights, as best she could. “We can’t, Remy. I don’t want any questions about my review.” Although nobody would accuse her of partisanship, once they read it.
“No favours,” he said, giving her that easy, sexy smile, tempting her to say what the hell. Except that he might not like what he read.
He glanced around. “I made all this,” he said softly, indicating the gleaming glass jars filled with conserves, preserves, bright, tempting colours, apricots, pimentos, onions dancing in brown malt vinegar. “Not personally, but I ma
de it possible.” He returned his attention to her, his gaze soft. “Will you tell your boss about us?”
“After the review comes out, probably. He said it was my last chance.”
He frowned. “Because someone outed you and you can’t review incognito anymore?” He cursed, volubly and in French. “An act of sheer spite. Who was it?”
She shook her head, still standing close enough for her hair to cling to the pure white of his chef’s coat. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not? Who was it, Elise?”
She sighed. “Garner Strong at Chez Suisse. I gave him a mediocre review last week. Somebody must have worked out who I was. It was all over Twitter before Friday.”
He dropped a kiss on her list, tender, now. “I’ve never liked him.” He kissed her again, and she tasted his renewed hunger for her. Her arousal ratcheted higher, her legs weakening and her body readying itself for his possession. So soon.
She tried to distract herself. Already they’d been in here too long. “How many hygiene rules have we broken?”
He shrugged in a Gallic, one-sided way. “One or two, but everything is packed away in jars.” He nudged a jar of plums back on the shelf. It had moved precariously close to the edge. “You won’t mention this in your review?”
She smiled. “No.”
He stroked her cheek, tender where he’d been so passionate a moment before. “Come to my apartment tonight.”
Tension invaded her once more, when she recalled what she had to do. Write a review that could damage him, perhaps irreparably. If she didn’t do it, she’d lose her job and her self-respect.
She couldn’t discuss it with him beforehand, even give him a clue. She’d defended her integrity through attempted bribes from chefs and now the threat of dismissal from her boss from something that wasn’t her fault. Keeping straight had guided her through the shoals of life working for a major publication, it had stopped her becoming the victim of the gamers and the backbiters. “Not tonight. I have a review to write.”
“You loved the meal, don’t lie. Just as—’ he caught his words, and she caught her breath. Surely he wasn’t about to say—no, he wouldn’t. Their affair had been intense, uncontrollable at times, but although he’d bowled her over with his charm and charisma, she’d never fooled herself that he’d want her long-term. He was a player, known for flamboyant affairs with socially prominent women. Not the likes of her.
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