Hungry for More

CHAPTER 23



The nicest thing about the restaurant business, besides the unreported cash tips, was the family meal. At four o’clock, all the staff, from dishwasher to sous-chef, sat around the dining room’s biggest table and ate whatever the kitchen dished out. Usually it was leftovers. But leftovers from a two-star restaurant were something to behold. Today, Manuel had taken leftover roasted duck and some about-to-expire greens—something peppery and sharp that Amy remembered eating once at her sister Cecelia’s place—and mixed them up and sauced them with wine and who-knows-what, then dumped the whole mess over pasta.

I could make this for Roni and Troy sometime, she thought, recalling how good it had felt to feed them over the last few days. What didn’t feel good was Roni, going on and on about doing a channeling right away. Amy knew she was stalling. But she liked things the way they were. Wished they could stay like this, for a little while longer, anyway.

Man, she was getting soft. In every way. Butter and cream sauce, cream sauce and butter. Poverty had its advantages when it came to dieting. The Gypsy diet: whatever she could steal, beg, or barter.

James wasn’t at the table, but he was present in the raucous rock music that blared from the kitchen. He rarely joined this meal. In fact, he rarely ate except for his constant tasting as he cooked. She hadn’t seen him eat except for a few choice strawberries. Last night, he fed her bread and cheese and cold meats at midnight, in bed after they had made slow, soft love. But he didn’t eat any. Said he was sated by her.

Her skin tingled at the memory.

Things were going so right on every front. She felt good about Troy and his mom. She felt awesome about James. She was at this table like a member of the family. “The family meal.” She tried not to like that, but she did. She could wait a little while to get Maddie back, but avoiding Roni and her constant urging to do another channeling was getting harder and harder to defend. And she owed Troy, although he seemed to be less worried, now that he had the pendant and his mother was feeling a little better.

“James blasts Zeppelin when something isn’t going right,” Stu whispered to Amy, breaking into her thoughts. He was on his second helping of pasta.

“Like what?” She liked Stu more and more as the days passed. He was a man who held his interests solidly in his sights. Amy liked that in a person. Made them trustworthy and predictable, which, strangely, she was starting to appreciate. Plus, he knew absolutely everything about Les Fleurs, since he was in as tight with the kitchen staff as with the floor staff.

“You know, chef stuff. Mealy tomatoes. Stringy quail.”

Amy looked around the table. Of course, the news was out that she was shacking up with James; the staff was ecstatic. The buzz had begun around town at the new dishes she and James were creating, causing a rush on tables—and an increase in tips. They were booked even more solid than usual.


The whole staff was looking at her with begging eyes. John-John nodded earnestly.

“You guys planned this intervention,” she accused.

“Si,” Eduardo said.

“He needs you,” Manuel, the sous-chef, said in his lilting accent. “The soup needs you.”

Jake, the temporary dishwasher, nodded gravely and crossed himself.

Amy regarded her half-eaten dinner. Then she thought of James, scowling in his kitchen, unable to cook. She thought of his black hair, pulled back, his intense eyes flashing. She thought of making love to him last night in his enormous bed, tender and strong. She thought of Stu’s wife and his kid who needed to go to college. Of Manny and Pablo sleeping in the hall until their shifts began, exhausted from working two jobs.

Most of all, she thought of Roni and Troy, needing this job after she and Maddie split.

And then, she thought of James.

James.

That clinched it.

“Anyone touches my dinner, I break their face. Comprendo?” They winced at her lousy Spanish. Whatever, they got the point. “Give me ten minutes. I see one of your nasty faces in the kitchen, and I’ll chop off your cojones. Comprende?” This time they didn’t wince but nodded earnestly. She must have conjugated the verb right. Her Spanish had improved way more in a few weeks at Les Fleurs than it had in years of school.

They were all grinning now. Except for Roni, who looked from face to face, confused. Thankfully Troy was still in school.

Amy saluted and the entire staff saluted back solemnly and with great feeling.

“Vayas con dios,” Raul said, crossing himself.

Why did it feel so good to be part of this crazy team?



James was alone in the kitchen, standing over a steaming pot. He was staring into it, frowning.

“I hear you need to get laid,” Amy yelled over the heavy metal blasting from the radio.

He didn’t answer. In fact, he had no idea she was there.

She strode to his ancient, sauce-splattered boom box and switched it off.

He didn’t seem to notice.

But Amy sure noticed him: his apron tied over his chef whites, his checkerboard pants like battle fatigues, his face dark and troubled. He had a smear of something white on his cheek, and she fought the urge to taste it.

He stared some more into his pot, then tore up a handful of something green and tossed it in. He stirred, the muscles in his exposed forearm tensing and relaxing in rhythm. He hadn’t looked at her. He tasted the broth with a wooden spoon and scowled. He added some more of the green stuff.

Over here, big boy! She never had so much trouble getting a man’s attention. Especially one she was sleeping with.

He was looking at the pot with such intensity, she wondered if a porno movie was playing in it.

I’m jealous of a pot of soup. Amy couldn’t stand it. She studied his mise en place, the prepped food he needed at his fingertips during the busy rush. It was beautifully arranged in front of him, an artist’s palette. Amy darted in and grabbed a handful of chopped onions.

James spun around to face her, his eyes wild with alarm.

“I have your onions and I’m prepared to use them,” she threatened, eyeing his pot with intention.

He moved between her and the pot like a basketball player on defense. “They’re not onions. They’re shallots.”

Amy bobbed and weaved. She faked left. “Whatever.”

“Whatever?” He stopped moving, as if the battle were already lost. “Onions versus shallots are the difference between my food and what people eat at home. Shallots embody the magic of French cooking. They . . .” He was beyond words to describe the glory of the shallots.

Would he ever talk about me that way?

Amy opened her palm to look at what she genuinely thought were onions. James took the opportunity to grab them. After carefully placing the shallots on the counter, he turned back to her. “What do you want?”

You. All of you. “Got your attention, chef-boy?” she asked as seductively as she could. She ran her hand up his crotch.

“I have a hundred and fifty dinners to serve,” he said.

“Not until you serve me.”

He inhaled deeply. “Can’t. I’m cooking.”

“So am I.” She looked around the kitchen, trying to think of a way to distract him. She glanced at his steaming pot. Aha. She pulled another soup pot off the shelf and put it on the burner next to his.

He looked half intrigued, half irritated.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving his face, she carefully removed her panties from under her black skirt.

“Underwear? In my kitchen—” he stuttered.

“Underwear?” she challenged. “It’s not underwear. It’s a La Romance silk string thong with imported lace.” She dropped it into her pot.

“Whatever.”

“Whatever? Thongs versus underwear are the difference between awesome sex and the sex people settle for at home.”

He realized she was teasing him and relented with half a smile.

C’mon boy. “What else would be yummy? Hmm . . . ?”

James looked back and forth between his soup pot and her untraditional stew.

Amy tried not to roll her eyes. You could lead a chef to a half-naked woman, but how to make him drink? She reached under her shirt and deftly unlatched her bra and extracted it through one of the armholes. “This should add a little zest.” She dangled the black lace playfully before she let it fall into the pot.

James took a final look at his soup. “I think yours needs a dash of this.” He moved toward her. He reached his arms around her and undid her hair so it tumbled loose over her shoulders.

He tossed the elastic into her pot.

She smiled in triumph as she shook out her loose hair. “Well, I find those hard to chew, but you’re the chef.”

For a second, they stared into each other’s eyes. C’mon James, let’s set this place on fire. . . .

He crashed into her before she had finished her thought, pressing her against the counter. He dipped his head to kiss her, igniting every cell in her body. He bit her lips, devoured them. Then pressed his lips against her cheek. He worked downward. “I can’t get the broth right,” he murmured into her neck.

“Did you stir it counterclockwise?” she asked. She was already losing herself in his divine kisses and bites. He smelled insanely good, like spices and wine. He tasted even better. She threw her head back to give him better access to work his slow, careful way down her neck. His nipping bite-kisses drove her mad, and he knew it. She wondered if the staff would really keep out of the kitchen. She wondered if she cared.

He reached under her long skirts and pulled her to him. He squeezed her with the force of a man undone, his hand on her naked flesh sizzling as if he was branding her.

Nope, she didn’t care who watched. She luxuriated in the sensation of his hand on her, working its way from back to front. Ah . . .

“This is crazy,” he said. He had kissed his way to her collarbone and settled in for a feast while his hand worked its magic below. Stroking, probing, two fingers sliding inside her to find just exactly the right spot . . .

“God, James.” She had no support save his strong arms. Her legs seemed to have turned to jelly. Well, in this place, imported quince jelly with chives . . .

He held her with one strong hand and stirred her with the other until she was delirious with the heat of it. The sensation of his tongue, teeth, lips, fingers, and tongue again on her neck made her crazy with desire. No, she didn’t care if the whole kitchen staff came in to observe. Let them learn a thing or two. Cooking school. She wanted this man here and now.


He seemed to agree, as he spun her ecstasy-weakened body across the kitchen to a clear counter with the same efficiency he used during the dinner rush. Somehow he had flicked the music back on, and under the mask of the noise, she let out an animal cry she hadn’t realized she had been holding.

He pushed her against the counter, her skirts falling around her. He shoved them back with impatience. “God, you’re incredible,” he moaned as he freed himself from his pants. His apron was already on the floor.

Unable to speak, she let him push her up onto the counter and spread her legs. He plunged into her, filling her completely. Now that’s how to stir it, baby.

Cockwise.

He rocked into her again and again, his growl barely audible under the music as he held her from behind so she couldn’t slip away. She drank in his intensity. He is good in the kitchen .

The pressure built inside her in synch with the desire unraveling on his face. Her beautiful man. Dark angel. He reared back as he came inside her full force, and a wave of bliss welled up within her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the hard counter, enjoying the vibration of her climax. This man could take her anytime, anywhere, and it would be savage and exciting and—

James .

I could love this man.

He gathered her in his arms, biting her lips and kissing her face.

She slid off the counter, letting her skirts fall around her. What she felt from him had been so savage and yet so tender. She almost felt like crying.

Crying? She didn’t cry. It was ridiculous. She kicked ass and conned losers and—

—took care of neglected teenagers and healed blocked chefs and cooked for too-skinny Gypsy moms. And worst of all, she didn’t just do it for her own purposes; she did it for Troy and James and even Stu. Stupid, wife-loving Stu and his dumb son’s college fund. And Manny’s cute, crooked smile and lilting accent. And huge John-John with his fiery temper.

What was happening to her? When had she become a team player? When had she committed to these people?

They stood together, unable to separate, gathering their breath. She wondered what he was thinking. Maybe that he felt the same way. Moved by her somehow?

He murmured, “The soup needs saffron. I tasted it just as you came. Fennel and saffron.”

For the first time since their menu planning had started, his comment annoyed her. Maybe sex in the kitchen was a bad idea. It made all too clear that sex to him was only about one thing—food. To her surprise, she found herself saying, “Take a day off, James.”

“Anywhere you want to go. Whatever you want to do,” he said.

She pulled back in shock. Now she really did want to cry. Was she getting through to him? “Really?” Soup 0, Amy 1?

“Really.” He brushed a lock of hair off her face. “I know you think this is all about Les Fleurs and food and Scottie Jones, but it’s not. I feel something more when I’m with you, Amy. It’s hard to explain.”

“Oh, you just explained it pretty well.” She pressed against him. “Let’s take off now. Fix the soup. Leave the rest to Manny.”

“Okay.”

She wanted to whisk him out the back door, before he changed his mind. This was unprecedented, unheard of. James leaving his kitchen in Manuel’s hands. He must be really horny. “You wanna go back to your place?”

“No. Let’s do something neither of us have done in ages.” He pushed another stray hair off her face, and she wondered what kinky thing he had in mind. “Do you know how to ice-skate?”

He didn’t just want to go back to his place. It felt like a triumph—a huge breakthrough. No food and no sex. Just them. Amy felt light as a feather. Except she couldn’t skate to save her life. “No.”

“Me neither. But I’ve always wanted to try. Let’s go.” He switched off the music. “Manny!”

Manuel pushed through the swinging doors. He stopped at Amy’s soup pot. “Mmm . . . looks good, Chef.” Manuel held up Amy’s bra on the end of a wooden spoon as the rest of the crew piled in, ready for work. Stu peered into the pot. “Purple,” he announced to the kitchen, and held out his hand for his day’s winnings.

After all, Amy had already tipped him off.

“You’re in charge tonight, Manny,” James said quietly to his sous-chef.

Manny looked startled. “Yeah? You sick, hombre?”

“No. Amy and I are going ice-skating.”

The whole kitchen stopped. Someone gasped.

“Ice-skating?” Manuel managed to get out.

“Yes.”

Manuel looked to Amy and she shrugged, and Manuel grinned. She felt like a million bucks even though she wasn’t sure why.

Manuel shook James’s hand. “Thanks, Chef. You can count on me. You guys go have fun.” He turned to his troops. “Hombres, let’s cook!”





Soupe de Tres Fleurs

Oyster stew with fennel and saffron

—JAMES LACHANCE, Meal of a Lifetime,

THE MENU: STARTERS