Wine, Tarts, & Sex (17 page)
Read Wine, Tarts, & Sex Online
Authors: Susan Johnson
She nodded, thinking she could use his undivided attention for the next week or so as well. But still rational enough not to utter such heresy, she dutifully waited to be rinsed off.
Nudging her legs apart, he hosed her down with the flexible shower hose, did the same for himself, and hung the shower head back in place.
“I’m sooo lazy,” she murmured as he turned off the water and reached for a towel. “Where do you get your energy? ”
He grinned. “I’m driven by hunger, babe. And I don’t need any help with cooking. Just keep me company. I’ll make us a mojito—if you have the liquor. They’re perfect on a hot day like this.”
“I should feel guilty letting you do all the work.”
She’d given him the ride of his life; she deserved a rest. “Not a problem,” he said. Lifting her onto the tub rug, he rubbed her down with a towel, then gave her a light slap on her butt. “Go get dressed.”
Exhausted by more nonstop, wild sex than she’d ever had the good fortune to experience before, she moved at a snail’s pace.
Jake was dressed long before she. Wordlessly brushing away her fingers from her languorous buttoning of her blouse, he took over.
“Jeez, you’re wired,” she murmured, perfectly willing to stand still and let him do all the work.
“I’m in a hurry for food, babe. Shorts or jeans?” he added, patting the last blouse button in place.
“Shorts. Over there.” She pointed.
Whipping a pair of lime-green shorts from the back of a chair, he kneeled at her feet. “Left foot,” he said, then, “right foot,” his voice quiet and calm, like he had everything under control. But his actions were crisp and swift, her shorts pulled up and zipped in record time. Standing before her, he gave her a questioning look. “Shoes or no shoes?”
“No shoes.”
“I knew that.” The fact that he did warmed his previously unassailable heart. Not that he was about to seriously acknowledge the fact. He waved at the door. “After you, babe.”
That they were in accord—in more than sexual passion—was apparent as Jake prepared supper. They immediately fell into a cozy, comfortable companionship as though they’d often worked in the kitchen together. Between sipping on her mojito, Liv fetched items Jake needed from the fridge or pantry, set the table with the odd dishes and glassware she collected, brought up some wine from her cellar. They conversed about nothing with ease, agreeing or disagreeing with equal amity, smiling at each other with great frequency. Feeling outrageously happy.
Janie, Matt, and Roman returned from the barn midway through the preparations. “I told you.” Janie shot a glance at Roman. “We could smell supper clear out to the barn,” she added, smiling at Jake.
“Sit down, have a drink. We’re almost ready to eat. Hey, babe.” Jake smiled at Liv. “Think you can mix a couple drinks?”
“You’re better, but I’ll try.”
“You’re plenty good at other things,” he said with a wink. “Just remember to muddle the mint.”
Janie took note of the warm intimacy between her friends, the affection in Jake’s voice particularly significant. “You two seem to be getting along nicely,” she murmured archly.
Liv pretended not to understand. “Jake got hungry,” she replied. “So I’m fetching and carrying. It’s about all my amateur status allows.”
“I don’t know about
amateur
.”
amateur
.”
Liv blushed at his sexy intonation. “So tell me, Matt,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “Did you enjoy playing with the kittens?”
“Amy an’ me named ’em.” Matt gave Liv a solemn look. “She said you dudn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. I bet they like their new names.”
A smile suddenly lit his chubby face. “Day do. Wots and wots.” He pointed at the TV. “Tartoons on?”
Saved by a child’s short attention span, Liv busied herself finding the remote. “Come, sit here.” Liv pulled out a chair for Matt near the TV. “Let’s find you some cartoons you like. We have ten channels, you know?”
Matt’s eyes lit up, and he jumped up on the chair upholstered with a chicken print fabric.
“I’ll make the drinks,” Jake offered, turning the heat down on his red sauce as Liv flicked on the TV. He glanced at Janie and Roman. “Two?”
Janie’s hand went up, Roman nodded in the affirmative, and in short order Jake produced another round of drinks.
Roman had discarded his sport coat and Glock somewhere in the course of the day. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his mood no longer wary, his lounging pose as he sat down at the table, relaxed.
Janie’s actress persona had reverted to an authenticity that was rarely in evidence. For the first time in years, the faint echo of a West Texas drawl could be heard, Liv noticed as she rejoined the adults. Raised dirt poor, Janie had worked hard to erase any trace of her hardscrabble past. Why she’d decided to jettison her affectations today piqued Liv’s interest.
Not that Liv wasn’t aware that a heavy dose of mojo was in the air.
Maybe some odd confluence of planets and galaxies had prompted everyone’s diverse moods. Whatever the voodoo reasons, the odd mix of supper guests, all remarkably different in background and circumstance, found common ground and agreeable conversation in Liv’s kitchen.
Roman entertained them with hair-raising stories of real-life villains and heroes from his years as a detective. The good guys always won, the bad guys got their just desserts. And Janie took it all in with rapt, adoring attention.
Liv wondered whether Janie’s interest was genuine or feigned. After all, Roman had been sent here to find her. But in her current benign frame of mind, Liv was willing to give a nod not only to Janie’s benevolence but to wish her all the Pollyanna luck in the world. Not that Janie wouldn’t need a boatload with Leo out to get her.
While everyone drank and talked, Jake smoothly orchestrated supper, working swiftly and competently like the professional he was. In what seemed a very short time, he wiped his hands on a towel, tossed it aside, and announced, “I’ll open the wine, and then we’re all set.”
Eighteen
In the peak of summer, most kitchens had the necessary items for tomato sauce, so Jake decided on a first course of penne in pomodoro sauce. He filleted plum tomatoes, slivered garlic, picked some basil from a pot on Liv’s back step, opened a can of Italian plum tomatoes, one of paste, then swirled and simmered and seasoned the sauce until the taste was to his liking. Cooking al dente penne, he drained it quickly into a colander and, still dripping the starchy pasta water, dumped it into the waiting sauce. Tossing it with a few splashes more of extra-virgin olive oil, he served it, knowing in his heart of hearts, he’d nailed it.
His companions agreed, their praise effusive as they enthusiastically relished the flavorful dish. By the time they’d savored the last bite of their first course, everyone was on their second glass of Liv’s full-bodied red, and conversation and alcohol-fueled appetites increased exponentially.
A bottle of Liv’s dry white wine accompanied the second course of
salade niçoise
—Jake’s menu choices determined by what was available in the larder of a woman who didn’t regularly cook. In the hands of a master, canned tuna and anchovies, hard-boiled eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, olives, red onion, and green beans quickly came together in a delectable taste of summer. Jake’s vinaigrette was basic: Dijon mustard and sherry vinegar, whisked together, olive oil added a little at a time, then minced garlic, salt, and pepper to taste.
salade niçoise
—Jake’s menu choices determined by what was available in the larder of a woman who didn’t regularly cook. In the hands of a master, canned tuna and anchovies, hard-boiled eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, olives, red onion, and green beans quickly came together in a delectable taste of summer. Jake’s vinaigrette was basic: Dijon mustard and sherry vinegar, whisked together, olive oil added a little at a time, then minced garlic, salt, and pepper to taste.
The presentation, however, was far from basic, the salad artfully arranged on a large platter, each colorful morsel gleaming temptingly from a light drizzle of vinaigrette.
Everyone was silent for a time as they ate, only soft
mmmmms
of content audible as the succulent flavors melded and tantalized taste buds—every bite fresh, vibrant, crunchy, clean-tasting.
mmmmms
of content audible as the succulent flavors melded and tantalized taste buds—every bite fresh, vibrant, crunchy, clean-tasting.
While Matt had eaten all his pasta, he eyed the salad suspiciously and only ate select items, mainly potatoes. But when it came to dessert, Jake had produced a winner for all ages.
Finding a bowl of cherries in the fridge, he’d pitted and halved them, simmered them with sugar and a little water, and spooned them warm over vanilla ice cream. He would have added a few tablespoons of kirsch for flavor if Matt hadn’t been there. But in deference to a child’s palate, he didn’t.
By the time everyone was enjoying their dessert, Liv was thoroughly convinced that having a live-in chef was right up there on the top of her list of pleasures—along with prime sex. Whether it rated first or second was still under debate. Not that her faculties were debate-sharp at this point. Between the drinks and awesome food, not to mention Jake’s can’t-keep-your-eyes-off-him good looks, she was drifting somewhere between euphoria and a ride on the gravy train.
This state of mind caused her to be just a tad slow on the uptake when Shelly walked through her back door. Liv’s first thought was: it was
way
too early for Shelly to make it this far north. She shot a glance at the clock.
Six-fifteen?
Like way,
way
too early. Shelly was always the last to leave work.
way
too early for Shelly to make it this far north. She shot a glance at the clock.
Six-fifteen?
Like way,
way
too early. Shelly was always the last to leave work.
Every inch the polished professional in a fawn-colored suit, heels, and sleek, blonde, not-a-hair-out-of-place coif, Shelly smiled at Liv. “I tried calling,” she blandly lied, “but no one answered. Am I too late for supper? It smells delicious. ”
In her blissed-out torpor, Liv was still trying to sort the discrepancies of time, distance, and Shelly’s surprising appearance. Since her brain synapses weren’t currently operating at optimum levels, the sorting was less than speedy.
“It’s not too late at all,” Jake said, smoothly coming to the rescue. Rising, he pulled out an extra chair. “Please, sit down.” He put out his hand. “I’m Jake Chambers.”
“Shelly Parks.” Walking forward, she shook Jake’s hand. “A real pleasure,” she said like she really meant it. “Now I understand why Liv’s been incommunicado.”
“Shelly, let me introduce my friend, Janie,” Liv interjected, getting her brain up to speed, desperate to avoid more of Shelly’s embarrassing comments. “Janie Rolf, Shelly. This is Janie’s son, Matt.” Liv waved her hand toward Roman. “And another friend, Roman Novak.”
Roman came to his feet and shook Shelly’s hand, while Janie looked up with a measured gaze. “Hello,” she said cooly. She’d not yet made up her mind whether Shelly was competition or not.
“It’s a pleasure to meet everyone,” Shelly murmured, ignoring Janie’s assessing gaze. In her business, assessment was de rigueur if one wished to survive. “It was soooo hot in town, I thought it might be cooler up here,” she prevaricated, as she took a seat at the table. “You painted your kitchen chairs again,” she added, smiling at Liv. “I like the wild colors.”
“Thanks. You left work early.” Nothing like a couple mojitos and wine to obliterate tact.
“I had a good day. Made a ton of money for everyone, myself included. I thought, what the hey . . . the company can get along without me for a while.”
Okay. So Shelly and the truth weren’t tracking tonight, Liv decided. Although what did she expect? She’d be just as nosy if Shelly dropped out of sight with a new guy. “Shelly’s a futures trader,” Liv said, opting for forgiveness and good manners. “She keeps the wheels of commerce greased.”
Slipping her suit jacket off, Shelly smiled. “I’m addicted to the game—what can I say. And I apologize for dropping in unexpectedly,” she added, hanging her jacket on the back of her chair.
“What do you know about offshore accounts?” Janie abruptly asked, although her voice was ultracasual. “Or is that something outside your field?”
“I know a little.” Shelly waggled her right hand. “They’re legal in some instances, but ethically—not so much. The IRS would like to get their hands on the billions they’re losing in taxes with those accounts. They’re beginning to crack down here and there. What do you want to know?”
“I’ll bet I can find you Sponge Bob on TV, Matt.” Roman gave Janie a warning look. “Or would you rather see a Disney movie?” he asked, lifting the young boy from his chair.
As Roman carried Matt away from the table, Janie leaned forward slightly. “I was just wondering. For instance, if someone was getting cash from, say, the Isle of Man on a regular basis . . . would that be legal?”
Roman glanced back and gruffly said, “Watch it.”
“It’s just a general query,” Janie said with a dismissive shrug. “People talk at cocktail parties . . . about their stocks and, well, these offshore accounts. I was just curious.”
“Legalities can always be parsed,” Shelly noted. “And they often are with these offshore accounts.” She’d seen the interchange between Janie and the large man who looked like he could snap anyone’s neck without breaking a sweat. She chose her words carefully. “If you had specifics, I might be able to give you a more definitive answer. Or if I couldn’t, I know a corporate tax lawyer who could.”
“Never mind,” Janie said with a careless wave of her hand. “Although, should I need more information at a later date, perhaps I could give you a call.”
“Certainly, anytime. By the way, I loved that soap you starred in. You were great.”
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