Hungry for More

Hungry for More By Diana Holquist


“MAKE LOVE TO ME.”

James blinked hard. Was this really happening?

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s why you came.”

He crossed the room and stood beside her languid body, his heart beating a mad rhythm of desire. He steadied himself by focusing on her elaborate tattoos. A rose vine curved around her thigh. A band of black twists wound around her ankle. Amy watched him study her markings, then rolled over to reveal an elaborate dragon in the small of her back.

He bit his lower lip and sank to his knees. Her naked skin peeked out from the bold black and green lines as if sheltering behind the beast. His blood crashed through his body so violently, he could hear the torrent. He traced the scrolled dragon with his finger and she tossed him a smile, daring him.

He traced it with his tongue, enjoying her murmurs of delight, holding her hips down firmly, so she couldn’t squirm. The scent of clove and cinnamon swirled around her. He rolled her over and she complied willingly.

“How’d you know I’d come?” His voice was thick with longing.

“I’m a Gypsy, James. We’re psychics. We know everything.”



Acknowledgments





Too many cooks may spoil the broth, but they definitely help the book.

To my restaurant advisors, Shannon Hildenbrand and Hermie Kranzdorf, thank you. Everything right about restaurants and food in this book is thanks to you guys. Everything wrong is on me. To Baily Cypress, who makes the world’s best gnocchi. And to all the great restaurants of Philly and New York, whose dishes inspired me.

Thanks to my writing buddies Ellen Hartman, Leslie Daniels, and Carolyn Pouncy. I owe you all lots of toner fluid, my sanity, and a really nice meal at a great French restaurant.

This book could never have happened without everyone at Grand Central Publishing, especially my editor, Michele Bidelspach, who has impeccable taste, every time.

And, finally, thank you to my amazing readers. The support I’ve gotten from you makes it all worthwhile.





Cooking, like sex,

is best done right or not at all.


—JAMES LACHANCE, EXECUTIVE CHEF AND OWNER,

Les Fleurs Restaurant, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania





Prologue





The studio lights were hot and blinding. A bead of sweat slid down Amy’s spine and dropped onto the mike pack duct-taped to the small of her back. Focus on Oprah. Oprah is kindness. Oprah is all-knowing.

Oprah is next to me.

“Three, two, one, go!” The stage manager pointed his finger like a gun, and the ON AIR signs lit up green and glowing around the studio. A breath of silence before the live audience exploded into applause.

“Welcome back.” Oprah smiled warmly as the applause died down. “We’re here today with Amy Burns, the Gypsy who has the power to tell a person the name of their One True Love.” A pause as the cameras switched to close-up. “Ms. Burns, tell us it’s true!” Oprah leaned forward.

Amy nodded as she soaked in Oprah’s warmth. Talking to this woman was like chatting with your One True Love. Not that Amy would know; she never heard the name of her own One True Love. Her sisters called this information gap the central tragedy of Amy’s life. Amy called it irrelevant. Having her own True Love wouldn’t have landed her on Oprah, that’s for sure. You had to get your priorities straight. “I hear the voice of an all-knowing spirit,” Amy told Oprah. “When willing, she can speak the name of a person’s One True Love.”

The audience murmured in appreciation. Some clapped. Some slunk back in their seats, not meeting the eyes of their companions.

“As we all know, Ms. Burns predicted the whirlwind love affair between Josh Toby, People magazine’s sexiest man alive, and his new wife, who happens to be Amy’s sister, Jasmine Toby.”

Now, that was something the Oprahites could rally around. But were they applauding for superstar Josh Toby or for the power of True Love? Despite the lights roasting her, Amy felt the focus shift away from her as acutely as if the whole stage had gone dark.

“Ms. Burns also predicted the storybook love affair between Cleo Chan of the HBO series Agent X and her new fiancé, right here on this stage.”

The crowd went mad for the affair between the superstar and her new beau that had been smeared all over the tabloids for weeks. Amy sometimes rated a sidebar box on the third page. Sometimes, a grainy photo was attached. She sucked in her stomach farther. I’ve got more psychic power in my big toe than Cleo Chan has in her entire bloodline.

Oprah turned back to Amy, if possible more radiant and focused than before. If there was one person in the world who had a slice of True Love for every creature on earth, it was Oprah. Maybe that was her tragedy. “So,” Oprah begged, “give us details. Does your spirit-voice have a name?”

Amy melted under Oprah’s gaze. Or was it the hot-as-hell studio lights? “I call her Maddie, but I made the name up. She never says her name. She only speaks the names of others.”

“And she’s been with you your entire life?”

“On and off.” A tremor of fear raced up Amy’s spine, but she shook it off. These last few years, Maddie had been mostly off. But she’ll show today. She just has to. She always showed when Amy needed her most.

Oprah threw back her head, held out her hands, and flashed her magnificent incisors. “So touch me, baby! Tell me the name of my One True Love!” The audience sat forward as one. “Just don’t tell Steddy, okay?” She winked.

This woman was amazing. She had no fear. Her One True Love could be anyone—man, woman, black, white, drug addict, CEO . . .

Amy took Oprah’s cool, smooth hands in her hot, wet ones. Please, Mads. For Oprah. For America. For me.

Silence. Amy closed her eyes. One last time. I’ll do anything.

She felt a rustling, a disturbance in the energy patterns. Yes. Thank you. I knew you’d come.The warmth that signaled Maddie’s presence rose in her. This was going to be the biggest moment on TV ever. Oprah’s One True Love!

“She’s smiling, ladies and gentlemen. Does that mean you’re hearing the voice?” Oprah asked. The studio was silent with breathless anticipation. Dust particles hit the hot lights and exploded, microscopic portents of the fireworks that would explode when America knew Oprah’s One True Love.

Amy held still, trying to empty herself so Maddie could enter her soul. Talk to me, baby. Talk to Oprah.

The heat intensified within her. First a pinprick, then the warmth of the spirit spread through her like an opening flower. Oh, Mads. Thank you for coming! I love you. I really do. Sorry. I’ll shut up. Go ahead. Give me the big lady’s One True Love.

The voice in Amy’s head spoke in a soft but distinct whisper: “Good-bye.”

Then there was nothing.