Another wave of dizziness passed through her. She simply could not. She didn't have the slightest clue how to cook for forty people, much less what to make. "I can't," she repeated. "I…" She needed to just tell him the truth. She drew a breath. "Master D?"
"Yes, pet?"
"My experience is limited to the kitchen in my home. Cooking for one."
He looked at her, his expression inscrutable. "So... have you never worked in a restaurant?"
She shook her head.
"Not at all?"
"Two months," she admitted, hating to even bring up the dreadful experience. "That's it."
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. "What happened?"
Damn him. What makes him think something happened? She shook her head. "It just wasn't for me."
"What do you mean it wasn't for you?" he demanded. "You thought you were above cooking food for people so you decided to criticize those who do instead?"
"No! I... it just wasn't a good experience, okay? I didn't like the people I worked with."
He looked at her skeptically. "You think you're too good for this work?"
"No," she snapped. "Quite the opposite. Not all of us had parents who were already restauranteurs, so we could just open our own restaurant right out of culinary school. Some of us had to find entry-level jobs."
"Oh don't give me that bullshit. My parents ran a tiny Italian neighborhood restaurant; I hardly had a silver spoon in my mouth. I grew up working hard in the kitchen, and I still do."
She sagged against the counter as yet another pre-conceived notion about David Dean Marone burst. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I-I didn't picture it that way for you. I thought you came from money."
"What is the deal, Portia? Why did you quit cooking? I don't understand. Why would you go through a year of culinary school just to walk away after two months? Had you never worked in a restaurant before?"
She shook her head miserably. "No," she whispered. "I just liked to cook. When I graduated from college, I couldn't think of anything to do with my sociology degree, so I applied to the Culinary Institute."
"And then what?" he prompted.
"And then I got a job at Viviano's and I just didn't like it, that's all."
He gave her a strange look, but thankfully dropped it. "Well, you're not off the hook. You will be planning and prepping the menu for tonight's dinner, so I suggest you come up with something quickly, before the rest of the staff comes in and things get hectic around here."
Her belly did a flip. "Why me? You're the chef."
He gave her a withering look. "Really? You're asking me that?"
She slumped back. "No, sir."
"Right. Now get busy."
What in the hell should she do? She had no idea how to create a menu or prep food for a chef's special. She looked around wildly, as if something in the kitchen might pop out at her, like a Domino's takeout menu.
"The food's in the walk-in," David said drily.
"I know," she said defensively, then added "Sir."
"Well, what do you think?"
"Um... maybe a... cold raspberry soup?" she suggested desperately.
David raised his eyebrows. "You don't think that's cloying? This is a BDSM resort, not a frou-frou French restaurant."
She swallowed. "Well, I don't know."
"Yes, you do. You write about food for a living. You are the expert on fine dining. What would you want to eat for New Year's Eve dinner?"
"I don't know!" she cried, a cold sweat dripping down her ribs. Her mind was a complete blank. All she knew was she had no idea what she was doing. And that whatever she attempted would surely fail.
He picked up her hand and pulled her toward the walk-in.
She dug her heels in like a stubborn donkey. "I can't do this—I really can't." Her eyes filled with tears.
His face hardened. Still holding her hand, he picked up a large wooden spoon and dragged her in the opposite direction, out into the dining area. Sitting down in a chair, he pulled her over his knees. He said nothing, just began to spank fast and hard with the wooden spoon.
"Ouch," she cried, wriggling over his lap. As she was not in the mood, it hurt far worse than a spanking did when she was turned on. He held her tight against his torso, pushing her feet down when they involuntarily kicked up. He spanked on and on, never slowing or stopping.
"Portia," he said, distracting her from her count of the spanks, which had reached one hundred and fifty.
She couldn't manage to answer.
"Of all the punishments I have given or plan to give you, cooking was the last one I expected to break you."
Hearing his opinion that she'd been broken angered her. When he lifted her to stand in front of him, she spat, "I'm not broken," and promptly burst into tears, proving him right.
Unmoved by her tears, he peeled her tight-as-skin catsuit pants down and put her back over his knee. He continued spanking her throbbing butt with the large wooden spoon.
"No," she wailed, tears dripping onto the floor.
"Take your spanking," he said, but his voice was gentle.
His spoon was not.
She sobbed over his knees as he continued to paddle her raw. When at last he determined she'd had enough, he lifted her up and replaced her pants. Pulling her onto his lap, he held her cradled against his shoulder.
She cried great heaving sobs. Not pretty or dainty or feminine tears, but sloppy, messy, the-lady-completely-lost-it kind of crying. When they slowed, she pulled her head away from David's shoulder. "I hate you," she spat.
#
His eyebrows flicked in surprise, but otherwise he managed to hide any reaction, continuing to rub her back in slow circles.
Why was cooking such a sore spot with her?
He thumbed away the moisture on her cheek. "What are you so afraid of, Portia?"
She glared at him and sniffed. "Nothing."
He rubbed the side of her thigh, circling her knee. "Is it me? My criticism? Because I'm really not like that. I might tease, but I meant what I said about lunch—I enjoyed it."
She stared at the carpet, her brows down low.
"Or is it because I said your real name will be attached to the food?"
She gave a half-shrug.
"Do you think the food will suck so much it will ruin your career? Come on, that's just foolish."
A fresh tear skidded down her face.
"Is that it? You're so afraid of failure you'd rather not try?"
She met his face then, anger flashing in her tear-filled eyes.
"Is this why you became a critic, Portia? So you can point out other people's failures, but never get caught with your own?"
"Go to hell!"
"Hey," he said mildly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying here, in your face, until you're ready to go back in there and cook with me."
Her lower lip trembled. "With you?"
"Yeah. I'll back you up. I'll help. But the show is yours."
She gave a rapid shake of her head. "I can't."
He caught her jaw and held her gaze. "I'm not going to let you fail," he told her.
She stared into his eyes, showing something akin to shock.
"I promise."
Before she could refuse again, he lifted her from his lap and took her hand and the leash, pulling her close against his side as he led her back to the kitchen.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes, darting glances at him, which he ignored. He brought her into the walk-in and wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Okay, so pick the main dish. I'm guessing the beef and poultry is fresh and relatively local around here. Seafood probably comes in frozen."
"Steak?" she asked, twisting to look at him.
He shrugged. "You tell me. It's your show. I'm just here to support."
She looked uncertain.
"Don't pick by what you think would be the most impressive, or what you know how to make. Just choose what you would want to eat tonight, if I took
you out to a nice restaurant."
She blushed, as if the thought of going on a date with him was more embarrassing than all the things he'd already done to her. It was so sweet he had to steal a kiss, pressing his lips to her temple. She looked back in wonder.
"Is steak what you would order?"
"I might order lamb, if it was done right."
"Now we're talking. Let's see what they have for lamb." He released her and began to search the inventory boxes. "They do have racks of lamb. They're frozen, but that's okay."
She came over to him and peered in the carton. "How many are there?"
He checked the label. "Well, the carton holds twenty-four, but it doesn't look full." He shook the box. "I'd guess eighteen to twenty. That's enough for a special. We can serve three ribs per plate, and the racks come in sevens, so we'll have enough for roughly forty-five plates. And when they run out, they run out."
Portia's big green-gold eyes were on him with something akin to admiration, or maybe appreciation. His chest filled with warmth and masculine power, but in a different way than when he was dominating. More in a 'provider' sense, which he supposed was the role he played with his staff at the restaurant. He wondered what it would be like to have Portia working in his restaurant, then shook his head. Where had that thought been headed?
"So," he said, clearing his throat. "How do you like your lamb prepared?"
"With a blueberry demi-glace?"
He couldn't keep the smile from his face. Her uncertainty charmed him—so unexpected from the resilient sub and scathing food critic. "Why are you asking? It's your meal."
When she still looked unsure, he said, "Go see if they have blueberries."
She searched in the produce area. "They do," she said, holding up a large box. "Not organic or local, though."
"Check the frozen area, because wild blueberries have a much better taste, and it won't matter if they're fresh for the glace."
She searched the frozen section. "Yes," she said, sounding elated. "Organic wild blueberries."
"Great. Those will work perfectly."
She stacked the bags of blueberries on top of the carton of lamb.
"What else do we need?"
He smiled. "What do you think?"
"Shallots? Wine... or maybe balsamic vinegar?"
"Yes," he said, picking up the carton. "Shallots is an excellent choice. I would say a port wine but you're right, balsamic would be good too. Depends on what else you're serving. If it's some kind of greens, then the balsamic."
"I was sort of thinking potatoes and green beans. Is that too predictable?"
"Let me tell you something. No food critic like Portia Sands is showing up for dinner tonight. Well, except for the one in your head, who happens to be making this process excruciating. So how about you tell her to take a hike, so we can get on with our preparations?"
Portia's cheeks turned pink and she blinked rapidly.
He left the walk-in, saving her the need to respond. In the kitchen, he washed his hands, unpacked the lamb and trimmed the fat, throwing it in two large skillets.
Portia emerged with the shallots and a box of green beans. She washed her hands again, pulled the clean cutting board and knife out of the dishwasher and began to chop the shallots. "How many?" she asked.
He took out several bunches from the box and set them near her chopping board. "All of these. And you can throw them in these skillets," he said, indicating the skillets he'd begun to fill with fat.
She nodded and set to work, her head down, her expression serious.
"What we need here is some music," he said, looking around the room. Finding a radio, he turned it on and found a station playing Mumford and Sons. "How's this?" he asked, stepping completely out of Dom mode and more into caretaker.
"I love this song," she muttered, as if admitting anything about herself pained her.
"Well, then, loosen up and find your groove," he said, flicking his knife to send a piece of fat sailing directly at her. It landed on her cheek.
She brushed it off, staying focused on her work.
He sent another one sailing, this time catching her nose.
She whipped her head around, her jaw dropping with mock outrage.
He laughed and sent another piece flying with a deft snap of his wrist.
She picked up a handful of chopped shallots and tossed them all at him, showering his torso.
"Uh oh," he said, laughing. "That will cost you." He shook his knife blade at her. "I would be very careful if I were you," he said with a grin. "Don't forget who holds the leash around here."
She blushed, laughing.
He loved seeing her happy. The smile transformed her, making her look ten years younger, not that she looked her age to begin with. He returned to his work, enjoying the comfort of being in a kitchen, the best home he had.
When he'd finished trimming the fat, he rubbed the lamb with olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic and bread crumbs. Portia sautéed the shallots and added the blueberries, keeping a sharp eye on his activities.
He explained what he was doing and asked if she thought it needed anything else.
She shook her head.
"No, sir," he corrected.
"No, sir," she said with a grin.
He let her experiment with the flavor of the demi-glace, trying out both the port wine and a port wine/balsamic mixture. "What do you think?" she asked, dipping her finger and holding it out to him.
He grasped her little hand and guided it to his tongue, closing his eyes and taking her finger into his mouth, giving it a hard suck before releasing it. "It's good. Let me try the other one."
She dipped a different finger in her second test bowl and held it out to him, her cheeks flushed.
He repeated the sensual sucking, letting the taste hit his tongue. "With the balsamic. Definitely. Good call, pet."
She flushed a deeper pink. "Thank you, sir," she said, looking pleased.
She finished the glace while he began to sear the lamb on each side in a new skillet. "You cook it now?" she asked curiously.
"I wouldn't if we were working the kitchen during the dinner shift, but Connie didn't want us in here bumping elbows with her cooks. So I want to leave everything ready for them. I'll sear the lamb now and they can simply bake it for five to ten minutes before they serve."
Chapter Six
David seemed like a different man in the kitchen. No less self-assured, but not quite so dark. Happy. Clearly he did what he loved.
Her own emotions still skittered about. She wanted to let loose and enjoy herself, but the performance anxiety of putting out a special under her own name kept buzzing in the background. Still, David had promised he wouldn't let her fail. And she felt inclined to trust him. Yes, he had demonstrated a strong desire for retribution, but so far he'd been decent. About everything.
Dammit, she really liked the guy.
Here in the kitchen, his expertise shone without a single blotch of arrogance—she'd completely misrepresented him. Generous in sharing his knowledge, he'd been anything but egotistical. In fact, his sole purpose seemed to be helping her overcome her insecurities about cooking.
She found herself crying again. Not the emotional sobs of before, but a steady stream of tears dripping down her face. She sniffed and wiped at them with the back of her hand.
David looked over and turned the gas off on his burner, pushing the skillet to the side. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his white apron. "What is it?" he asked softly.
"Nothing. I don't know," she said truthfully.
He picked her up and set her on the counter, handing her a clean towel for her face.
"Do you think Connie counts tears as a bodily fluid?" she asked, laughing through her tears.
He smiled. "Probably."
"What's happening in that brain of yours?" he asked, tapping her temple with a feather-light touch.
She shook her head. "Why are you doing this?"
"What?"
He didn't say anything for a long moment, and then his jaw hardened. "It's your punishment," he said.
Well, what had she expected him to say? Even if what had started out as punishment had turned into therapy, she'd just reminded him of her sin against him. Maybe he would let her fall on her ass and become the laughing stock of the food world. Maybe he'd invited the film crew from the Food Show here tonight for a little reality television: 'Top Chef Faces off against Bitchy Food Critic.' Or maybe, 'Chef David Dean reveals Food Critic Can't Even Make A Demi-Glace.'
She slid off the counter and got busy prepping the green beans. David finished searing all the meat and stored it back in the walk-in, leaving one rack out.
She brought out boxes of both red potatoes and sweet potatoes and put them on to boil.
David looked in the pot. "You're going to mash those together?"
"Yes, sir?" she said, unable to take the question out of her answer.
He nodded. "Sounds good."
She watched his back as he steamed the green beans, and experienced the same sort of longing she'd felt when listening to his phone conversation. She wanted him. She wanted his approval. She wanted to be in his circle of influence and attention, to be near him. Beyond this experience. She wanted something she could never have.
He turned and caught her staring. They stood looking at one another, gazes locked, a current of emotional charge running between them; though she couldn't identify the precise emotion.
The arrival of Aiden caused them both to jump and turn away, as if they'd been caught doing something naughty. The rest of the staff began to filter in as she finished beating the last of the potatoes with garlic, butter and whipping cream.
David set up two sample plates for the staff, drizzling the blueberry demi-glace on the plate first, then arranging the lamb with the bones sticking up and crossing like tent poles. He drizzled more glaze over the top and near the edge of the potatoes. She'd prepared the green beans simply, using only salt and butter. Portia wrung her hands as David showed it to Aiden, giving him the run-down of how to complete the preparation on the meal and the list of ingredients for any patrons who asked.
When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle) Page 33
