A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2) (3 page)

“That is disgusting. They don’t even go together. Who devised this atrocious combination?”
Desmond sniffed.

“It was the only thing they would agree to.
I want you to work for them, but it’s only fair I tell you now. I know they’re, like, this prominent power couple, but they both seem a little nuts to me.. I mean, the bride seemed okay but this big society party has got her in a tailspin. It’s really been a trial for me…” Annelise trailed off, scowling.

“Anyone who agrees to a menu as, shall we say, incoherent as that combination
, should be dragged out into the street and shot,” he said summarily.

“They’re not to be shot, but their preliminary hearing is on Thursday.” She shrugged.
“I wouldn’t mind much if they were shot. It’s not like they couldn’t have kept their stupid meth lab hidden for another month until the party was over.”

“Ah,
I see that you’re a refugee from the criminals at Thyme for a Taste. Stupid name, that,” Desmond huffed derisively.

“So you think your pretentious French name is better?”

“It takes a pretentious foreign name to separate pretentious assholes from their money, Annelise. You don’t make millions calling it ‘Desmond’s Delights’.”

“Now that
would be a stupid name. Millions, though?”

“Yes.” He inclined his head solemnly.
“I’ve cleared millions with only myself working as head chef, while trying to manage the financial aspect of the business and marketing as well. If I can ever find someone trustworthy to run the business side of Aux Delices, it would allow me to concentrate on the creative division…” He trailed off wistfully as Annelise mulled over what sort of favors he could trade for her management expertise.

“There are plenty of agencies in the city where you could find a manager.
I was placed at Cates through Power Staffing.”

“Thanks
. I’m not sure they have another you in stock.” He grinned flirtatiously, straddling the stool beside hers. She could feel the heat from his body, like an oven she wanted to move closer to. Not that Annelise had previously had much to do with ovens. She was more of a crockpot girl (a can of soup and some chicken, and poof! done in six hours). Annelise favored tasty and simple. And she had better damn well remember it. Now was
not
the time to develop a taste for gourmet.

“Certainly not
,” she replied crisply, although she wanted to smile back. Something in her held back from the temptation. That in itself was unusual, and was hard evidence that Desmond Blair had thrown her off balance. Annelise Hollingford was usually a woman who dared temptation to bring it on.

“Let me check my schedule and we’ll see about setting up a menu planning session.”
His cool, professional voice undid her, and made her want to undo his buttons.

He flicked through his phone efficiently, and she enjoyed the opportunity to study him further. Desmond Blair was over six feet tall,
with shoulders like a dock worker, piercing deep brown eyes, dark hair worn unfashionably short for a rich man. More practical than stylish, and a dimple low on his left cheek near the corner of his mouth sealed the deal. It was the dimple that arrested her. It was faintly visible as he grimaced at his phone. She longed to step nearer, dip the tip of her tongue into the indention until he turned ever so slightly to kiss her. His black double-breasted chef’s jacket had the sleeves turned up, revealing thick, muscular forearms and a ruinously expensive designer watch, all deep gray gunmetal with a variety of dials that probably gave the barometric pressure in Antarctica.

“Ah. Here we go. I can put together a tasting menu for you on the third if you’re free at eight
,” he offered magnanimously.

“You don’t do tasting menus. I read that
online. Your business plan has been all about maintaining creative control.”

“For you, I will.” He smoldered in her general direction
, and if she hadn’t been perched precariously on a high stool, she felt certain her knees would have failed her again.

“The bride and groom have another engagement on the third
,” she said stiffly.

“I didn’t ask the bride and groom. I asked you.”
The weight of each word as he emphasized it was like a caress.
Not them, you
, he seemed to whisper against her ear.

“They have opinions, believe me. They’ll weigh in on the food selection end of this.”

“Perhaps your recommendation would sway them. A private tasting, here at eight on third, Annelise,” Desmond offered again, his voice low and silky. He had said her name. She’d always liked her name when she was growing up, but now she wanted to answer to it more than she ever had before.

Annelise
remembered rolling her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something when Jasper Cates talked on and on about how mesmerizing and sexy he thought Hannah’s voice was. Now that Desmond Blair had leaned in and spoken to her in that cool, dark tone that made her think of shadows and the things that might happen in shadows, Annelise had a much clearer picture of how a voice might be seductive.

She pressed her lips together firmly with resolve. She was not coming to a private anything this man had to offer. Jasper and Hannah could just serve cheeseburgers and fries at their gala, because
Annelise Hollingford was not about to get involved with another man. Men were fickle, unfaithful, untrustworthy. Men complained that you didn’t have a third tit. No matter how appealing he sounded, no matter how superior his shoulders were, Desmond Blair was one thing for sure—he was all man. And men were no damn good at all.

“No thank you
,” she said simply. No excuses, no elaborate reasons. Just no.

“I’ll draw up a sample menu and e-mail it to you with a quote
,” he said briskly, standing and indicating a dismissal. “I’ve a charity gala in five hours, if you’ll excuse me.” Gone was the laconic drawl, the easy grace of his seated posture beside her. He was all business, commanding as an admiral overseeing his fleet while sous chefs bustled about, chopping things and dividing them into containers. Annelise slipped out with a mere nod in his direction and decided to put him out of her mind. It would be the most efficient way to keep him out of her pants.

Walking away, she felt deflated, as if clouds had dimmed the sun and her hair had gone flat. The afternoon seemed drab as she wandered out of the electric, Technicolor presence of Desmond Blair, a man who told the world he was the best there’s ever been. Audacity, after all, she had told Shannon, was everything.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

Desmond barked orders into his headset, navigating the back corridor of the industrial kitchen in a hospital cafeteria. It was hardly the workspace he was accustomed to, even on-site, but this foundation dinner was
n’t taking place at a posh hotel that would have a catering facility available. It was in the meeting rooms of the children’s hospital itself, and there was no other space for Desmond to set up the prep for service.

“Even a pizza joint would have a goddamn warming drawer
,” grumbled Lydia, one of the sous chefs.

“Language,
Lyd. It’s kids tonight,” Desmond warned. He was an exacting man, a perfectionist, and she nodded her apology before getting to work. He would brook no comment that the nearest kid was nine floors up and hooked to an IV drip.

Huge ovens were fired up to reheat and crisp his hand
-breaded chicken nuggets made with panko and a touch of cinnamon, the honey dipping sauce being whisked together by another assistant. Individual ramekins of mac and cheese had their gratin topping browned under the broiler while broccoli florets were drizzled with a sweet balsamic vinegar reduction and topped with a grating of Parmesan. Tray after tray was loaded onto the carts, and the uniformed assistants went to deliver supper to the children on the oncology wing.

It had been part of the deal Desmond demanded. He didn’t like the kitchen digs or the equipment. He thought the woman who headed up the hospital board was a real hag. But he agreed to light their gala with his august presence if they agreed to provide a special meal to the sickest kids in the place. She was more interested in whether they could get Chilean sea bass for the gala entrée
, but she had permitted him to include a special tray meal for two hundred fifty pediatric patients and their parents in his bid. The board of directors had accepted the astronomical figure he quoted without the slightest quibble. One didn’t quibble with the best there’s ever been.

When the trays were delivered and the gratitude of weepy parents adequately conveyed to Desmond, the assistants were put to work blanching asparagus spears and making perfect hollandaise whilst the man himself blended his own proprietary recipe for the fish. It would be flaky, tart
, oddly sweet and no one would suspect that there was coconut milk in the sauce. The newest assistant cut herself while chopping. While that was being bandaged, an argument broke out over the tablescape for the pasta station. Desmond charged into the fray, barked an order and tried not to box anyone’s ears. Frankly, he was twenty-seven years old, and he was rapidly deciding that he was too old for this shit. Anyone who wanted to diva up after watching too many Barefoot Contessa reruns could turn in his company paring knife and hit the road.

A veritable military formation of servers arrayed for instruction
. Desmond inspected each plate personally, snapping his fingers at one humiliated assistant who left a drip on the edge of a plate and was caught wiping it off with her thumb and licking the sauce off that offending digit. He held out his hand. She gave him her paring knife, removed her apron, and left without a word. Slovenly attitudes and careless actions had no business in Aux Delices, and everyone knew Aux Delices’s standards were really Desmond Blair’s lofty expectations. He approved the rest of the plates, ordered that they be loaded on the service elevator.

The man himself doffed his smudged jacket and put on an immaculate, freshly pressed black chef’s jacket and rode the main elevator up to the convention rooms
. He was greeted by the directors before he oversaw the placement of every last caper and wedge of cheese at the pasta station. The raw bar had been set up, but he didn’t like the look of the ice.  Some of it seemed weepy instead of crisp and brittle…the seafood must be surrounded by the sharp, sparkling glint of hard frozen ice chips. Two helpers bustled for fresh ice to pack around the prawns. When the presentation was perfect, even by Desmond’s standards, and the waiters stepped forward with the precise timing of Broadway dancers, he withdrew to a corner to observe, occasionally tossing together a sauce for the odd dignitary and chatting. Mostly, though, he hung back and watched.

People appreciated his food. They stopped their self-important tirades and turned their attention from their seatmates to their meals when they caught sight of the artful presentation, got a whiff of succulent smells and experienced the light richness of Desmond’s sea bass. It was all in the presentation, he smiled to himself.
Presentation was everything. After all, Chilean sea bass was nothing more than the well-marketed nickname of an ugly creature whose real moniker was the decidedly unappetizing Patagonian toothfish.

His thoughts drifted back to
Annelise Hollingford, prickly and demanding, determined to control every last aspect of her boss’s engagement party and mightily annoyed that the previous caterer had the gall to be caught by law enforcement and inconvenience her. In any other human being, he would never have tolerated that level of attitude. She was pushy and resentful and recalcitrant. She also had the softest wave to her dark hair, and his hands itched to push through that silky tangle. Her lower lip seemed to default to a pout. On her, it was probably more qualified to be a scowl, but if she let herself relax, it would be a pout. A perpetual expression of disappointment, as if life had thwarted her plans despite her superhuman effort to bring about happiness through sheer force of her indomitable will. He had the impression she’d back over him with a steamroller if her boss had anything less than a purely delightful experience with his duck quesadillas. Desmond nearly laughed at the thought. It had been a long time since anyone had made him laugh. He’d spent the last five years building his business through innovation, persistence, caffeine and insomnia. As a result, his professional life was incredible, but the personal side was barren.

Desmond checked his phone, ostensibly to see the time
, but really to determine if she had texted him. Logically, he knew that Annelise was waiting to receive the promised quote by email. He had indulged in a decidedly illogical hope that she couldn’t quit thinking of him and might send him a message of a more personal nature. He had been genuinely disappointed when Annelise declined his invitation for a tasting session. He had wanted to cook for her.

He had found his calling as a
fifteen-year-old punk forced to do community service for a series of petty offenses. His last foray into vandalism had landed him in a soup kitchen, serving up tasteless slop to the unwashed masses. He had tinkered with the stew, using what dried herbs were on hand in the cupboard. The pleased expressions and thanks and requests for seconds that he got from the patrons had gratified him. He started reading cookbooks, checking out stacks of them from the library.