“Sure.” Now this was something I could do, I thought as I drilled into the bottle cork. A wine connoisseur, my father had trained me to open bottles and sniff corks when I was in junior high. I splashed some into a glass, then paused. What was the etiquette here? Should I offer some to Greg, or was it against the caterer’s code of honor to drink on the job?
“Would you like a glass?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Wine is a wonderful taste enhancer for many foods.”
I nodded, pouring a second glass. When I brought it over to the stove, he was stirring the browned beef into the delicate sauce. “I hate to cook,” I admitted as I handed him the wineglass. “Is it a drag to cook for a living? I mean, it seems to me you would either want to eat all the profits, or else you’d begin to hate food.”
“I love a well-cooked meal.” He held the glass under his nose and took a deep breath, then sipped. Then he sighed deeply, and I felt a twinge of jealousy at the way he could shut out everything and savor the wine.
When he opened his eyes, I was still staring at him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He faced me head-on, his face a mask of beauty, his obsidian eyes a window to some dark, exquisite world. “Is it a drag to work on a magazine for a living?” he asked.
I took a sip of cabernet and smiled. “Only when I’m working—which is most of the time. Publishing seems more glamorous than it is. Most of my job involves fixing jams in the copy machine and slugging—checking to see that typos are fixed.”
“And is it satisfying?” he asked as he dumped fat rice noodles into a pot of boiling water. The water seemed to flare for a second as Greg worked his magic over it.
I let out a breath, a little unnerved that Greg was able to zero in on my fledgling career within five minutes of our reunion. “Hardly ever.” I leaned against the counter, watching as he folded in mushrooms. “That would be nice,” I mused, “a job that brings satisfaction.”
“It’s a necessity,” he said. “You need to find work that fulfills you, Madison.”
At the moment my mind was on a totally different type of fulfillment as my eyes went over Greg’s broad shoulders and down his back. His butt was smooth and flat, but from the fit of his jeans there was definitely a round rise of flesh to grab on to. My body was warming to him—or maybe it was the wine. Either way, I couldn’t deny the glimmer of heat that permeated my body, making everything warm and fuzzy, like a photo in soft focus. I wanted to move closer to him, to feel him brush against me, but I didn’t have the nerve.
Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, I told myself. He’s here to do a job, not to jump your bones!
But there was no denying Greg’s attraction. I wondered if he’d ever gotten married. I wanted to ask, but of course, I chickened out. “How long have you been working with your father?”
“A little over four years. I went to Berkeley for two years, but it seemed like a waste of time, since I knew I’d end up in the family business.”
“Really? You were so sure of that?”
“I always knew I belonged in a kitchen.” Greg scooped up a dollop of beef burgundy and cupped his hand around the spoon to blow on it. “And I think Dad has been grooming me for the family business since I was old enough to hold a chopstick. We always got along well.”
Even when you were tearing through the hills of San Francisco on a minibike? I wondered. How was it that Greg’s life was so beautifully ordered, with all the aesthetics of a Japanese tea garden, while mine seemed to bump along a road full of potholes?
“Try this,” he said, extending the spoon toward my lips. The gesture seemed intimate, especially since he’d blown on it. As I parted my lips and leaned forward to taste, I felt like a budding sex goddess, partaking of Greg’s nectar.
It was ambrosia. I closed my eyes to savor the sauce laden with wine and garlic and rich flavorings I couldn’t identify. “Delicious.” When I opened my eyes, Greg had already turned back to the stove. He dished up two plates of noodles and beef and motioned me over to the table, where we sat opposite each other.
Under the Tiffany lamp, we ate at the kitchen table like an old married couple. The food was to-die-for, but I still felt like I hadn’t cracked Greg’s shell. The untamable bad boy of high school was as elusive as ever.
I decided to take a shot. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised,” I said. “That you take cooking so seriously . . . that you’re so into the family business. You were such a rebel in high school.”
“You mean the motorcycle? Yeah, I was a punk back then.” He grinned. “How could you stand me?”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “It was difficult. But then again, we weren’t best friends or anything.”
“Not like you and Ryan Wilkinson.”
“Ryan?” I scrunched up my nose. Enough with Ryan already! Was my life’s reputation tainted by that cling-on? I could just imagine my biography: Despite her accomplishments and their global impact, Madison was always pegged as Ryan Wilkinson’s girlfriend.
“You guys were tight.”
“For about a month,” I lied. “Anyway, that’s way behind me. I’m a free agent now.” I figured it didn’t hurt to advertise.
“Me, too.” He took a long sip of wine, but his dark eyes stayed on me.
Did he know that those words had started my heart hammering in my chest? Hard to believe that Greg was still single, but I wasn’t about to question my good fortune.
With the ice broken between us, we ate and drank wine and talked about classmates. Greg wasn’t really friendly with anyone, but he seemed to know the whereabouts of kids who had stayed in the Bay Area.
“James Min is going for a master’s at Berkeley,” he said as he sipped a second glass of wine. “Something like folklore—or is it philosophy? Anyway, I was teasing him that it’s a master’s of bullshit.”
We both laughed. “Sounds like James,” I said.
“And Sara Vega.” He paused. “She’s had some hard times. I don’t see her much, but she moved to the Midwest for a while.”
“To Kansas,” I said, having heard about Sara from my best buds. “For nine months.”
He blinked. “So it’s true?”
“I heard she put the baby up for adoption, but then the father showed up and demanded custody. Her parents have disowned her, and now she’s living with a brother in Seattle.”
Greg shook his head. “It’s sad. She had a lot going for her.”
“But her parents were always lunatics,” I said. “She’s way better off living hundreds of miles away from them. Weird how we know such personal details about some of our classmates.”
I scooted my chair back. “That was delicious, thanks.”
“It’s all part of the package,” he teased. At least, I think he was joking.
I took our plates to the sink and started rinsing. Greg went to the stove and turned on another burner.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got another course planned,” I said.
“Dessert, of course.” He spooned a glob of something into a saucepan and stirred.
I turned back to the dishes, enjoying the presence of Greg in our kitchen. While I rinsed, he dished up two small bowls of vanilla ice cream, then poured a thick sauce on top. I dried my hands and smiled. “Hot fudge sundaes.”
“Not quite. This sauce comes from a secret family recipe. It contains an ancient Japanese ingredient that’s known to be a love potion.”
“An aphrodisiac?” I stabbed at the sauce with a spoon, then lifted it to his lips. “You taste first and we’ll see if it works on you,” I said, amazed at my brazenness.
Greg parted his lips and I slipped the spoon in. “Mmm,” he groaned, sucking on the spoon. “Better than sex.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, taking a taste of the rich, dark chocolate swirled with melting ice cream. I closed my eyes and sighed. “Not better than sex, but close. Damn close.”
“I see the secret herb is working.”
“You’re full of shi
t,” I said. “I know chocolate when I taste it. Though it’s been known to be an aphrodisiac for some people.”
With a laugh, he pushed the bowl to the back of Mom’s granite counter and lifted me into the space he’d cleared. It happened so quickly, I was still reeling when he pressed against my knees and ran his hands over the denim of my skirt. “Do you feel it?”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the aphrodisiac effect or the incredible chemistry between us, but I definitely felt something. I nodded, reaching out to his shoulders. So broad and warm beneath my hands.
Greg parted my legs and pressed against me until his body was against mine, his lips on mine. I let him kiss me, softly first, then with urgency. As I ran my tongue over his smooth teeth, he dug his hands under my skirt, up my thighs, to my hips. Swiftly, he grabbed my panties and pulled as I wriggled back and forth. He dropped them to the floor and began to explore along my inner thighs, up, up, until I gasped with longing.
He ended a kiss and left me sitting on the counter while he pulled over a low kitchen chair. For a second I didn’t get it, but then when he sat down and I noticed that his head was just at counter level, his face just inches from my knees . . . I think it made me moist all over again.
I sucked in my breath as he gently parted my legs and buried his face in my skirt. I gasped when he licked me, but he seemed to find the right spots quickly, bringing my body to the edge of a frenzy.
My head rolled back and my eyes closed as he stroked and sucked, smoothly and steadily, sending shivers of sensation radiating through my body. I felt primed and ready, so ready to find pleasure with him. I was a tense knot of desire, and then suddenly, I was rocking with him, howling out loud as sweet sensation shot through my body.
Greg held me close as I waited for my heart to stop pounding so wildly.
“Oy,” I whispered. “I haven’t felt that good in a long time.”
He leaned back to look at me, then ground his hips against my pelvis. I could feel his erection, and that excited me all over again.
“What do you think?” he said, rubbing my thigh. “Should we try another course?”
I smiled as a new wave of lust licked through me. “Tell me you’re not charging my mother by the hour, and I’ll eat all night,” I teased.
He grinned. “You are a bad, bad girl.”
“Coming from the bad boy of Nob Hill High, that’s quite a compliment.”
From that day on, I decided, I would have a new respect for cooking . . . and my feelings about the family kitchen would never be quite the same. Yes, there was something to be said for eating in.
4
The next day, I waited until Leo and I were firmly ensconced at a table at Enrico’s, one of my favorite tapas brunch spots, before I sprang my news on him.
“No, no way!” His eyes were lit with amazement. “I’m aghast . . . and a little impressed.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, slicing off a piece of salmon bruschetta. “I’m a little shocked myself. The guy barely gave me the time of day in high school, but everyone was so insecure and evil then.” I stirred the celery stick in my Bloody Mary. “He’s not married. Man, I wonder if . . . no. I can’t go there.”
“Dreaming of white picket fences and two point five kids?”
I shook my head. “That would be stupid, wouldn’t it? I mean, Greg is not relationship material. I should think of him as a conquest.”
Leo stabbed a fat fried oyster. “A notch on that cute little French provincial bed that your mother hand stenciled?”
“Why the hell not? Men do it all the time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of forcing monogamous morality on you,” Leo said, dishing up a smashed olive concoction. “So, Julia Child, do you think you’ll be dining with him again?”
“I sure hope so. God, it’s going to be so awkward if he doesn’t want to see me again, with him setting up for the Christmas party.” I smacked my forehead. “Oh, I didn’t think of that! I’ll be so embarrassed if he wants to cut it off.”
“Before you go cutting out a big scarlet ‘A,’ ” Leo began, “remember that you’re outta here in January, anyway, and there’s no reason for him to cut it off, if you two shellacked the kitchen counters all night. Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t show up for breakfast.”
“I wonder if he’ll call,” I said. “Or maybe I should call him?”
Leo shook his head. “Give it a few hours. Besides, you promised to take me shopping this afternoon. Christmas shopping, although I’m not sure what that means. Will we be buying mistletoe and pine boughs? Fat red ribbon and Santa hats?”
“I was hoping to find a gift for my mother. I love getting her the perfect gift, but she’s always such a challenge.”
“Tell me about it,” Leo said, dropping crushed olive onto a crust of bread. “Buying a gift for Robin is like saying a prayer for the Pope—we’re talking major overload.”
“But Mom really appreciates a thoughtful gift,” I said defensively. “For Dad, I usually just pick up some cologne or a bottle of brandy. He’s so cheap himself, he always tells me to save my money, but Mom is different.”
“Aunt Sophie gave me my Christmas gift last night,” Leo said, unwrapping the gold chenille muffler around his neck and flinging it back. “Do you like?”
“I love! It’s so you.”
Leo chewed rapidly, nodding. “I think my mother tipped her off, but who the hell cares? When the label says Neiman Marcus, my little heart just goes ka-ching!”
I laughed, choking on a piece of bread. “Please,” I coughed. “You’re going to make me snort up an oyster.”
“Now there’s an attractive image,” Leo mused. “Hold on to your lunch, Sally. We’ve got some major shopping to do. Neither of us has attire for the illustrious Robin Greenwood Red Carpet Christmas Party. I say we’d better scope out some of the couture collections, then head down to Marshalls to find the appropriate knock-offs.”
“Oh, please, let there be something on the clearance rack at Saks,” I prayed. “Besides, aren’t you just going to rent a tux?”
It was Leo’s turn to choke. His eyes bulged as he tried to blink away the dreadful thought. “Does Michael Jackson rent a tux? Did Rock Hudson dress like an overgrown penguin? I see my work is cut out with you, Pygmalia. We’d better finish eating and get shopping.”
Pressing a napkin to my mouth, I tried to run the schedule for the next few days through my mind. Shopping for gifts, shopping for wardrobe, tree trimming, cookie decorating. Leo and I had tickets to the Nutcracker, and amid all those activities I knew Greg would be a fixture at the house. In fact, Mom had mentioned he would be stopping by this afternoon. Would he want to see me? Did he like me? Just thinking of him made hormones wiggle through my blood.
Trying to tamp down my adolescent worries, I took another sip of my Bloody Mary and glanced at the twinkling white lights on Enrico’s blue and silver tree. I was going to have myself a sexy little Christmas, indeed.
After brunch we strolled through North Beach, peeking into a few boutiques while Leo expressed uncertainty over the attitude he wanted his clothes to express on Christmas Eve.
“I’m not so into emoting through attire,” I said, shoving my hands into the pockets of my well-worn jeans.
“Well, that’s obvious,” Leo muttered, guiding me toward a vintage shop that I’d been in once or twice before. Rarities was a North Beach institution, but I’d always found the help there a little pushy, and I’d never been charmed at the prospect of wearing someone else’s castoffs.
Just inside the door, Leo was immediately drawn to a rack with colorful jackets and vests—a profusion of sparkling beads and bright, flouncy feathers. He whipped off his jacket, and a tiny woman dwarfed by dark hair was suddenly there to hold it while Leo slipped on a patchwork jacket with gold fur lapels.
“Don’t you love it?” Leo crooned, smoothing his knuckles through the fur. “The gold matches my highlights.”
“It’s glorious!” the mound o
f black hair raved.
Personally, I thought the gold fur was a bit too close to Leo’s highlights, blending so well that the fur was a continuum of gold swirling around his shoulders. But I knew he would never stick with his first pick, so I kept my mouth shut and smiled.
As I expected, Leo quickly moved on to a beaded vest in Christmasy red and black. Although it made him look like a matador, the salesclerk, who’d introduced herself as Angelique, praised it as “Marvelous!”
I faded into the back of the store as Leo made his way through the sales rack, eliciting bountiful compliments from the dark, vapid Angelique. Sinking into the shadows, I tried on a vest covered with rich emerald-green sequins, but it smelled musty and felt grimy, so I browsed through a pile of sweaters, pretending to be interested while Leo modeled “glorious” fashions for Angelique.
Eventually he came to the back of the store with two pairs of slacks. “I’m going to try these on,” he said as Angelique swished open a dressing room curtain, then retreated tactfully to the back of the store.
“Don’t you love this place?” Leo exclaimed as he ducked into the booth and closed the curtain. “I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”
“Actually, I’ve always felt preyed upon here.” I lowered my voice to whisper, “The sales staff is a little intimidating.”
“Not Angelique!” Leo called out merrily. “She’s a regular gal pal! Doesn’t she remind you of Cher?”
“More like Morticia Addams.”
The curtain opened, and a pair of pants emerged in a hand. “These will never do. Be a mensch and tell Angelique I want to try the faux snakeskin slacks.”
“Blech, but okay.” Reluctantly I took the pants to the sales counter, where Angelique was ringing up a purchase for a tall, dark-haired man in a ponytail. When I approached the counter they both turned to me. The man squinted, studying my face.
“Wolfie?” I asked, recognizing the stately browridge over jet-black eyes.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 5
