Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1) (4 page)

BOOK: Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1)
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Rich
with fine antiques, his room was a blend of refinement and masculinity. Several
authentic looking masterpieces hung on the walls in intricately carved picture
frames. A curio case in the far corner held a surprising variety of knick
knacks, most notably a porcelain figurine of a small boy kicking a ball while
being chased by his dog.  It seemed strangely innocent and charming in the
otherwise mature décor.

Running
her hand over the bed, she immediately felt a spark and knew it was a spark
borne of Errol’s touch on her skin. Why had he not continued his sensual
onslaught on her and invite her to share his large bed? She had been so aroused
by him, she wanted him to take her then and there. Why did he stopped?

“No,”
she said aloud to the darkened walls that had probably seen their fair share of
wanton acts in this room.  “I will not spend the day wallowing in angst because
some hotheaded chef doesn’t want to go to bed with me.”

She
marched out and spent the better part of the morning organizing her things. 
Her dresses, skirts and blouses fit neatly in the oversized closet while the
dresser drawer remained half empty even after she’d unpacked her last suitcase.

With
her bedroom in order, she made her way to the kitchen carrying a small
cardboard box.  Inside were the few cooking implements she couldn’t live
without. A Lamson perforated turner she treated herself to the previous year, a
wooden spoon her mother had given her after they’d concocted their first sauce
together, a professional Japanese knife from Chroma France she’d won when she’d
entered a Eurasian cooking contest and her favorite pepper mill from Peugeot; a
birthday gift from her brother, Bobby.  As a young college student, he’d had to
work many hours in order to set aside enough money for the tool he’d call, ‘a
waste of a good fifty bucks.’

She
opened the drawer to put the turner, spoon and knife away, wondering what Errol
would say when he found them.  No doubt he would balk at the wooden spoon and
call it an unprofessional utensil.  Chuckling as she anticipated his return,
she set the pepper mill on the counter.

As
the lunch hour approached, she decided to whip up a light lunch for Errol.  A
fresh summer salad, some French bread with melted Brie and confit onions, and
rolled caramels in a warm vanilla custard for dessert.

Working
in Errol’s kitchen was a dream.  Functional, practical, convenient and modern,
it had everything a chef needed to prepare meals and even a few things she
would have never thought of, like the vegetable rinsing basket incorporated
into the sink and a superimposed glass counter that stood eight inches above
the main countertop.  It allowed one to work on the main countertop while
keeping certain items close and handy on the glass shelf. 

The
entire kitchen was a far stretch from the small and sometimes confusing kitchen
she’d work in back home.  As cramped and untidy as it was, however, it never
diminished her love of cooking.

Cooking
had always pleased her, always brought out the triumphant child in her, and
even preparing a light and simple lunch brought her pleasure.  The colors,
textures, scents and flavors had always enticed her, called out the creator in
her, and she always responded.  It had always been with her; not only the love
of good food, but the pleasure of feeding those around her.  Her friends and
family had benefited from that passion on more than one occasion.

Now
it was Errol’s turn.

An
hour and a half after preparing the quick lunch, however, she realized he would
not be coming back.  Half-heartedly, she ate her meal and wondered if he’d be
home for dinner.

He
wasn’t, and arrived only shortly before she prepared for bed.

“Oh,
you’re still up.” With an overstuffed folder tucked haphazardly under his arm,
he brushed past her and headed to the kitchen.

“It’s
been a long day, but I had time to get cozy and feel at home here.”

“I’m
happy to hear that.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of
water.  “Don’t let me keep you up.  Tomorrow I’ll have a few hours free so I
can show you some of the best places to shop, if you like.”

“Um,
yeah. Sure, that’d be great.”  Had she really heard a dismissal in there
somewhere?  While she’d hardly expected him to jump all over her when he
arrived, she had expected something… a little warmth.  Okay, she silently
admitted.  She had expected him to jump all over her. So why the coldness?

She
went to bed, confused. Did she imagined this sensual man’s touch on her earlier
today? She sighed. It must have been real, but she was too exhausted to think
otherwise, and she fell asleep.

The
following morning he awaited her bright and early in the kitchen with a
steaming cup of strong coffee.

“I
thought we’d start with a tour of the local markets.  I have my favorite spots
– the freshest bread, the best beef, the crispest vegetables – but you can
decide for yourself where you eventually want to shop.”

Taryn
barely had time to gulp down a few sips of coffee and get dressed before they
headed out in search of the perfect ingredients for the day’s meals.

The
fish market produced the perfect halibut steak for dinner while various
vegetable vendors provided the carrots, onions and spinach that would accompany
it.  They picked out a lean cut of beef that would be thrown into a fresh
Mediterranean salad with pearl onions and olives.  Fresh baked bread called to
them from a distance as the heavenly scent wafted through the tightly packed
streets and Errol treated her to a warm and gooey brioche straight from the
oven of his favorite baker.

“Think
you’ll remember where all of these are?” He gestured at the many vendors as
they continued to wind their way through the marketplace.

 Taryn
licked her fingers as she finished her last bite.  “Sure.  Everything is pretty
much in the same area.”

“Don’t
get lost.  I told my editor I finally found someone to test my recipes; I can’t
afford to lose you now.”

His
statement was pure business and held no trace of the erotic proposition he’d
made the night before.

“When
do you want me to get started?”  She hoped she sounded as businesslike as he
did.

“I’ll
give you a few more days to get settled, to get accustomed to your
surroundings.  I’ll be busy at the Institute, preparing for the upcoming
classes – which start Monday, by the way.  I want to give you a chance to come
down here by yourself, test out the produce, maybe make a few meals on your own
to get to know my kitchen.”

“Which
is really fabulous, by the way.”

“I
wouldn’t have it any other way.”  He entered a small, dark store.  “What is a
great meal without a great bottle of wine?”

The
long, narrow store had floor to ceiling bottles neatly tucked away into
hundreds of cubby holes.  As if knowing the place by heart, Errol pulled a
bottle out.  “
Chateau Pepusque
of the Languedoc region. 
One of my favorites.  The 2007 is exquisite; the flavor is well-rounded and
full.  I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll
have to trust you on that.  I hardly know anything about wines.  I know white
goes with fish and red with beef, but other than that…”

He
waved the bottle at the owner, who duly jotted down the purchase.  “That school
of thought has long been followed my many wine drinkers,” he said as he led the
way out, “but the rules of the game have changed.  There are some wonderful
juicy reds that can accompany fish, while some whites are perfect for certain
cuts of beef.”

Their
arms laden with packages and bags, they returned to his apartment.  They spent
the morning preparing a more elaborate lunch than Taryn had prepared the day
before.  Shoulder to shoulder with such a master, Taryn was even more impressed
with his talent. 

He
minced onions in a flash, crushed a few garlic cloves and diced carrots, a red
pepper and some celery.

“Learned
anything yet?”  He flashed her a proud grin as he sautéed the onions.

“I
think I’m holding my own so far.” Busy whipping a salad dressing to creamy
perfection, she glanced at him and smiled.

They
brought their meal out to the sun-filled terrace.  Like a true gentleman, Errol
pulled a chair out for her and gently pushed the chair in.  He poured them each
a glass of wine before taking his seat.

“A
toast,” he said with his glass in the air.  “To a profitable, successful and
delicious relationship.”

Tapping
her glass to his, she noted the absence of words like passionate, erotic or
sensual.  Had his come-ons simply been a way of flirting with her?  Or had she
imagined it all?

“I
read in your résumé that you didn’t go to college.”

“Money
was a bit tight and Mom needed a hand down at the restaurant.”

“Are
those the reasons or the excuses?”

She
laughed.  “A bit of both, I guess.  I’ve never been academically talented.  You
have no idea how arduous it was getting through English classes; all that
mumbo-jumbo about objects and verbs and proper nouns, not to mention
prepositions and pronouns.  Math wasn’t so bad, so, yes, I can split a recipe
in two or double a recipe without messing it up.  Science was so-so and history
had a few interesting moments, but not enough to warrant me a grade I can boast
about.  All in all, I really wasn’t the best student, no matter how hard I
tried.”

“Should
I be concerned?” He cocked a mocking brow.

“This
isn’t the same thing.  I’m hungry to learn everything about cooking. I promised
my mom I’d turn our little family restaurant into a four-star gem.  Instead of
just offering deli food and a hodgepodge of international dishes, I want to
serve gourmet French cuisine.  That’s why I’m so eager to learn everything I
can here.  This is everything high school never even touched on.  You know,
it’s one thing to have to sit and try to absorb what others tell you you should
know, and quite another to have the desire to know everything about a subject
that interests you.  My brother is the complete opposite.  He can’t get enough
of learning about anything and everything. He’s eighteen and in college, and he
has that endless curiosity that keeps him wanting to learn more.  If it were up
to him, he’d be a lifelong student.”

“You
come from a big family?”

“No. 
Just the one baby brother… Bobby, though he hates it when I call him my baby
brother.  He considers himself the family protector.”

“Protecting
you from big, bad men who would take advantage of you?”  A hint of teasing
playfulness came to his eyes.

“Not
only me,” she said matter-of-factly.  “He’s always checking in on my Mom and he
guards her parents, my grandparents, with his life.”

“I
take it your father isn’t around.”

“You
take it right.  I never really knew my father.  He stuck around long enough to
conceive Bobby and he was there, on and off, after he was born, but then he
disappeared… something about another calling.”  She rolled her eyes and waved
her hand to indicate she no longer wanted to talk about him.  “What about you? 
I think I read somewhere that you had family here in France.”

He
nodded heavily.  “Nana.  Ninety-seven and still kicking butt.”

“Are
your parents back in the States?”

He
snickered and waved his fork around.  “They’re probably off with your father
somewhere.”

“Oh,”
she murmured.  “Sorry to hear that.”  She’d read that his grandmother was
immensely important to him and that she’d had a hand in raising him, but had
never known what had happened to his parents.  Somewhere in the fantasy of it
all, she’d imagined they’d had an accident and died.  It was troubling to
consider they’d abandoned him.

“Don’t
be.  If my parents had no desire to stick around to raise a kid, I was probably
better off without them.  Besides, I think Nana did a pretty good job raising
me.”

“Did
she influence your love of cooking?”

“Influence? 
She is single-handedly responsible for where I am today.  She seemed intent on
turning me into a culinary genius.  When I was six, she taught me how to make a
perfect omelet.  At eight I was already surprising her with my own take on a
croquet-monsieur.
 
For her eightieth birthday I prepared the entire menu for the whole party –
forty-five guests;
hors-d’oeuvres, pot-au-feu, crème brulée.”

“Hold
on,” Taryn said as she put her hand up.  “You did all this for her eightieth
birthday?”

He
nodded.  “Planned, prepared and helped with the service.”

“You’re
twenty-seven.”

A
curious frown furrowed his brow.  “Yeah?”

“You
said your grandmother is ninety-seven.”

“Yeah.”

She
looked up to the sky and pointed her finger in the air as she counted.  “That
would mean you were only ten years old when she turned eighty.”

“I
told you… she wanted to turn me into a culinary genius.”

“You
mean to tell me that you prepared a whole menu, for forty-five people at only
ten years old?  Come on.  I’m naïve, but…”

“Okay,
the truth?”

“Come
clean,” she dared.

“The
butcher helped by pre-cutting all the pieces of meat I needed for the
pot-au-feu

Nana always gave me plenty of freedom, but working with large, sharp knives
when I was alone was a definite no-no.  I was able to manage the dicing of the
vegetables on my own though.  Nana did give me a helping hand with the crème
brulée.”

“And
a chef was born.”

“I
have to admit I’d been bitten by the cooking bug.  Everyone there gushed over
the quality of the meal and I knew I wanted to feel that sense of victory
again.”

Taryn
looked at him and noticed for the first time the man he really was.  She’d
heard so much talk about him… how tough and brutal he could be, how
unforgiving. Many rumors circulated about the number of sous-chefs he’d fired,
all for minor offenses.

BOOK: Devour Me (Master Chefs Series #1)
3.46Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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