Читать книгу Just One Taste - Victoria Dahl - Страница 6

FROM BEHIND HER POST at the chocolate fountain, Vanessa Douglas watched the posh crowd of Atlanta’s social elite schmooze each other.

Prominent doctors and lawyers, board members and business moguls turned out in jewels and designer clothes, decorated by elegantly dressed first spouses or young, hard-bodied second ones. Vanessa fought the urge to yawn.

But when a girl made penis-shaped cakes for a living, a lot of things seemed staid by comparison.

“Have you seen any cute guys?” her best friend and business partner Mia Medini asked.

“Nope. And hardly anybody under forty.”

“What we expected. Your mother never listens.” She planted her hands on her trim hips, which were shown off to perfection in a silky turquoise dress that also complemented her olive-toned skin and dark hair. “People our age go to nightclubs for fun, not the country club.”

“Except my sister.” Angelica, wearing a powder-blue suit and pearls, stood across the room with a group of elderly women. Nearby, their parents socialized in an intimate circle of longtime friends, her mother in cream-colored Chanel, her father in dignified navy Brooks Brothers. Vanessa glanced down at her rebel-red shimmery cocktail dress, bought from a sample sale in midtown at Vampy Divas. Yep. All was right with the world.

Even though her mother had sent catering business Vanessa’s way instead of steering it in the other direction, hell, apparently, hadn’t actually frozen over.

“But your sister is a fifty-year-old in a twenty-five-year-old body,” Mia said.

“She hooked the best cardiac surgeon in the South.”

Mia elbowed her. “Like he’s a damn herring. And, personally, he’s too staid for me.”

“Wearing a bow tie is not a good sign.”

“Though I once knew this stripper who wore his bow tie on his—”

“Mia, please,” Vanessa said, glancing around furtively to see if they’d been overheard. “Not here.”

Mia looked wounded. “You turn into such a stuff-bucket around them.”

She knew it was true. But she was tired of the estrangement from her family. She’d had her rebellion, and she was ready for compromise. “I’m just trying for peace. For once.”

“I wish you luck on your journey, Don Quixote.”

Ignoring her roommate’s negativity, Vanessa rearranged the stack of napkins on the table, which were highlighted by elegant shrimp canapés and delicate chocolate puff pastries. No anatomically correct—or incorrect—body parts in sight.

Damn it.

“Though everybody has been complimentary,” Mia went on. “You think we’ll actually get more business from doing this shindig?”

Vanessa shrugged as if she hadn’t given the idea much thought. “Maybe. We could use it.”

Of course she’d given the idea a lot of thought. Her family was a cornerstone of the swanky society laid out before them. Her father was a senior partner in one of the oldest, most prestigious law firms in the city. Her mother was a premier society queen. Vanessa and her sister had been raised as pristine, pure debutantes.

And she’d chucked it all to slave in the kitchen making chocolate sauce and leaven bread for a living.

Crazy? Her mother thought so. As well as most of the people she’d grown up with. But Vanessa had never felt more normal, free and alive than the day she’d packed her jeans, T-shirts—and the scandalous red bra she’d worn under a white shirt once and nearly sent her mother into a dead faint—and moved out on her own.

After being cut off from the family money at the urging of her mother—she was the power behind the throne, no matter what her father claimed—Vanessa had put herself through culinary school and started her own business. After years of having to sneak into the kitchen to help their housekeeper make cookies—debs didn’t cook, they nibbled elegantly—she’d found a profession where getting messy was just part of the process.

For years, she’d wondered if the sneaking part was her only attraction to cooking, but after moving out and working in a restaurant, she’d realized that being a chef appealed to her need for excitement and variety. From a practical aspect, she could eat and get paid. Emotionally, it gave her instant gratification—she fed people, and they were happy. She didn’t disappoint them, and they didn’t try to change her.

Rejection of her efforts was rare.

Which brought her thoughts back to her family. Her sister, believing that a woman wasn’t complete until she married, constantly tried to fix her up with men who were completely wrong for her. While Vanessa fought to keep her fledgling catering business afloat, her mother discouraged everyone she knew from using her services. And her father seemed too busy to notice there was a rift in the family at all.

Still, seven years after her big rebellion, Vanessa could say she didn’t regret the choices she’d made. She had great friends who supported her, she threw her energy and hopes into her business, and she planned for the future.

And yet…she wanted nothing quite as much as a reconciliation with her family. Just not at the expense of her pride.

How’s that for a contradiction?

“Do you think her usual caterer really canceled on her at the last minute?” Mia asked, her tone as suspicious as Vanessa’s had been when her mother had called her less than a week ago to ask them to cater this party.

“It’s possible.”

She’d like to think her mother was softening, or at least getting used to the idea of a daughter in the—shudder—service industry. Or maybe, actually—big gasp—accepting Vanessa’s chosen career and lifestyle rather than doing everything possible to turn her into a society princess and carbon copy of both her and Vanessa’s younger sister. But Vanessa wasn’t holding her breath.

“I guess I’m a sap for bailing her out,” Vanessa continued.

“Since she’s done so much to help us.”

“She thinks she’s doing what’s best for me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re twenty-seven. I’m pretty sure you’ve figured out what’s best for you on your own.”

“Hear, hear.”

“And we did a classy job. I bet fifty bucks your mother didn’t sleep a wink last night, wondering if we’d show up with boob-shaped suckers and a cock-shaped champagne fountain.”

Vanessa’s eyes widened, and she temporarily shoved aside her vow for peace. She exchanged a knowing look with Mia. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“For that bachelorette party this weekend.”

“We could have champagne spurting out the top.”

“Crude, but fun.”

“My mother really would faint.”

Mia flicked her hand in dismissal. “Well, she’s not going to be there, is she? And let’s quit talking about her. It’s too frustrating.” She craned her neck to try to see around and over the crowd. “This place is a crush. Somehow the staid and boring really have found their own place in the world. Imagine that. Still, there’s got to be at least one scrumptious, eligible man—oh, my God. What’s he doing here? Hide me.”

Vanessa looked around and quickly spotted the problem—Colin Leavy was heading their way. He’d been in love with Mia ever since he’d come into their bakery and catering shop to order a cake for his mother’s birthday two years ago. Unfortunately, he was an accountant and the epitome of staid, so Mia wouldn’t have anything to do with him.

Vanessa thought he was cute, and his devotion to Mia adorable. She might even reveal her chocolate-cheese-cake recipe to have a man look at her with the devotion Colin showed Mia.

Somehow, in her relationships, Vanessa always managed to be the pursuer, not the pursuee. Because she knew what she wanted? Because she knew how to get what she wanted? Or because she impulsively jumped in with both feet without bothering to ask too many questions?

She highly suspected it was the latter, especially after the last guy she’d gone out with that turned out to have a fiancée.

“Good grief,” she said to her partner. “There are worse things in life than having a bright, successful man grovel at your feet.”

“Depends on the man.”

As Colin approached, and Mia realized she didn’t have anywhere to hide, she simply crossed her arms over her chest.

“Hi, Mia. Would you like to dance?”

“I’m work—”

Vanessa pushed her friend forward. “She’d love to.”

Mia glared at her over her shoulder. “But, I—”

“Come on, Mia,” Colin said. “Please.”

Who could resist those sweet, puppy-dog-brown eyes?

Apparently not even Mia, who sighed, but held out her hand to take Colin’s. Vanessa hoped she let him lead.

While her partner was dancing, Vanessa roamed the perimeter of the room, making sure the platters of appetizers and pastries were filled, and the waitstaff kept the drinks flowing. The party doubled as a fund-raiser for a local children’s hospital, so once her mother presented the check to the chairperson at 10:00 p.m., the crowd would probably disperse and Vanessa and Mia would be free to clean up and go. Still, it would be midnight before they got home, as they had to pack everything, then run it all through the industrial-quality dishwasher at the shop.

Dessert First had started on a whim, had quickly become a challenge, but it fulfilled Vanessa as nothing else ever had before.

She’d met Mia in culinary school, where her friend had excelled at organizing and managing much more than she had at cookies and pastries. They’d become close buds, then business partners and roommates. Vanessa knew she could count on Mia like no one else in the world, and that safety net allowed her to handle the tension between her and her family with much more confidence and panache.

Maybe, with Mia’s business savvy and Vanessa’s sugary concoctions, they wouldn’t have to struggle so much someday. Maybe this party could be the beginning of healing and understanding with her family.

Oh, yeah, and maybe the man of her dreams was going to pop out from behind the fruit bowl and whisk her to his castle in the sky.

EXCEPT FOR HER, THE PARTY was a dead bore.

Lucas Broussard prowled the edges of the room, knowing he’d have to endure many more of these things if he was going to be accepted in this city. Networking in his profession was a necessity. A sacrifice, like so many others, he’d just have to buckle down and endure.

Were they all genetically programmed for this stuff? Small talk, gossip, bragging. Trophy wives and pedigreed family trees.

At least, though his mistakes and faux pas were many, he’d never been accused of boring his audience to death.

As expected, and like everyone else, he’d flashed his Rolex. He wore a custom-made designer suit. He’d made plenty of money as a respected attorney, even if the money was a little too new to be decent and his tactics were sneered at by some. He held his champagne glass by the stem. He could even tell the brand was that old reliable Dom Pérignon and not the now hipper Cristal.

And still the boy from Cypress Bayou Trailer Park of Lafayette, Louisiana, lurked inside him. Inescapable. Maybe even necessary.

All in all, he’d much rather snag that hot blonde in the red dress, a bottle of whiskey and head home.

Even as he managed not to choke over yet another story about hunting lodges and the advantages of buying a personal Learjet, he watched her. He smiled internally as she accepted a breath mint from her dark-haired friend. His body tightened as she snitched a chocolate truffle from a tray of sweets and slid it into her mouth with a sigh of pleasure, her tongue peeking out to skim the last drop of chocolate from her bottom lip. He noticed as she slipped into the kitchen, then return moments later with a large silver platter of strawberries.

At first glance, he’d pegged her as a guest. With her sparkling dress; tall, trim body; and sleek curtain of hair falling just past her shoulders, she had class written all over her. But when he’d maneuvered himself closer, he saw her nails were painted bloodred, and she had a small butterfly tattoo on the back of her left shoulder.

And he’d smiled genuinely for the first time all night.

Now, while a local cardiologist—whom his company was panting over as a client to represent in nuisance malpractice suits—explained the advantages of jetting to Brussels in the spring, he watched the chocolate-loving blonde rearrange strawberries on the fruit platters and considered how she’d feel about comparing body decorations.

Even as the arousing picture of that played through his mind, he strangled his libido and remembered his career. His life. His future. And the future of those who depended on him.

He’d come to Atlanta to change direction. To amend for the past. To remind himself why he’d started down the road of law in the first place.

Beautiful, butterfly-tattooed blondes would just have to wait.

He tuned into the European-vacation discussion. He smiled at appropriate times. He didn’t talk too much. Or too little. And when the esteemed doctor excused himself to dance with his wife, Lucas’s business card was in his jacket pocket.

With a smile, he turned to find the next conquest. But as he continued to schmooze, she was there. He felt her. Her smile and her grace. Her glowing skin. The heat her body would undoubtedly radiate.

Why couldn’t he forget her? Or at least set her aside until the business of the night was done?

Nothing came before business. At least nothing ever had before.

Tonight, though, he knew where she was at every moment. He knew she hovered nearby. Lovely. Tempting. Forbidden.

His muscles grew tired of holding back. His fingers tingled in anticipation. He even got a crick in his neck from craning in an effort to constantly keep her in sight. For a man who’d fought for and gained control over his life and his emotions, the night was becoming both a torture and a curiosity.

Oddly enough, the moment he buckled was when he saw her holding out a tray of strawberries to an elderly couple.

After they moved away, he approached her. “I’d rather have them dipped in chocolate.”

Her head jerked up, and she met his gaze with a surprised jolt, as if she’d been lost in her own thoughts.

Smart move, chère, with this crowd.

“They’re better with a bit more sweetness,” he added, somehow knowing he wasn’t through giving in to temptation.

ALL THE AIR LEFT Vanessa’s body.

She shook her head to clear it, certain she was hallucinating.

A tall, trim, black-haired, green-eyed, strong-jawed, impeccably dressed vision of a man was not standing in front of her. Popping out while she was rearranging the fruit.

Quick, girl. Think of something clever. Knock that hard head of yours against something if necessary.

Instead, she stared.

His smile was just a tad too confident, but his eyes were bright, as if lit from within. His posture and broad shoulders communicated assurance and reliability, giving her the impression that he was capable of slaying dragons, should such a drastic measure be necessary. She noted the crystal champagne flute in his hand, and the Rolex encircling his wrist, completing the picture of powerful elegance.

Why him? Why now? she wanted to ask somebody. Yell at somebody. Anybody. She was supposed to be working. Impressing the moneyed masses. Avoiding her mother’s criticism. Denying her sister access to her neglected, impulsive and sometimes romantic heart. And, last but not least, mending the family fence—even if it was made of iron.

All desire for those lofty achievements had faded. Gone poof like a Vegas magician’s assistant.

Somehow, someway, this man drew her to him, making her forget her goals and needs. Other than the most carnal ones. By self-assurance or warmth or the supernatural, she felt herself leaning closer, eager to catch the next words he said.

You’re supposed to say something, her libido reminded her.

To stall, she glanced down to note the silver tray trembling in her hands. What had he said? Strawberries. And chocolate.

“Sweet is good,” she managed to say finally, setting the tray aside. And those impulsive, rebel genes, no matter how deeply buried, popped out like a stripper’s implants. She stepped closer, and his eyes went hot. His subtle cologne and body heat enveloped her. “Tasty. Tart. Warm.”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Desire slid through her body. When she’d first gotten out on her own, she’d picked up a few guys at bars, just to give her cramped wings a stretch, but her social life had quickly taken a backseat to work. The success of her business was vital to her wallet, her peace of mind and her pride. She hadn’t met a guy who could hold her admittedly short attention span for very long.

But her attention was riveted now. “I have strawberries just for the chocolate.” She licked her lips. “Do you need a demonstration on how to dip them?”

“Love one.”

She turned away, leading him to the chocolate fountain. Now that she wasn’t facing him, she could think a bit clearer. She thanked heaven, her lucky stars and her fairy godmother that she’d seen him before Mia. Friends they were, but wow, he would be hard to be friendly about.

When they reached the table, she felt the tip of his finger skim her shoulder. “I like the butterfly,” he said.

The warmth of his touch lingered on her skin, and she shivered as she glanced back at him. “Glad somebody does. My mother—” She had not just brought her mother into a discussion with Mr. Delectable. Mortification burned her face.

Those wicked green eyes twinkled. “Mine, too.”

“You have a tattoo? I thought Rolex cross-checked that sort of behavior before they let just anybody waltz around with their goods.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The tattoo came first.”

Damn. Another flub. He probably thought she was one of those gold-digging chicks who checked out the labels in a guy’s clothes before she tried to hook her claws into him. “What is it?” she asked in an attempt to recover.

“And here I thought you’d wanna know where before what,” he said, his voice low and seductive.

He even had a nice accent. Southern, but smooth. Not good ol’ boy and not suppressed as if he’d taken classes on how to lose his heritage like so many she knew. “Maybe you could show me instead.”

His finger trailed down her arm. “Not here I couldn’t.”

Oh, my. She swallowed. “Somewhere more private?”

“You don’t have to work?”

“Yes. No.”

Yes, you do, her conscience reminded her. Work, smirk, her libido countered.

“I’ve got a few minutes,” she said coolly, though it was hard to be cool when one’s knees were on the verge of buckling beneath the weight of Mr. Wonderful’s interested stare.

“To spend with me?”

“If you like.”

“You’re good at your job.” His gaze roved her face. “I watched you. For quite a while.” While her breath hitched in her throat, he glanced around before his gaze came back to hers. “The food is excellent. The layout and decorations shine with class. The guests…” He shrugged as he snagged two glasses of champagne from the passing waiter, then handed her one.

Though she didn’t normally drink her clients’ liquor, she sipped and couldn’t stop the eye roll for the guests.

He grinned. “A bit tedious?”

“A bit.”

“Self-importance tends to make the air thick.”

“I knew I was short of breath for a reason.” Though she very well knew the real reason. “Ninety percent of them are doctors and lawyers. Arrogance is a job qualification.” She started to smile again, but the amused expression on his face tipped her off to her blunder. Only occasionally had she paid attention during etiquette lessons. “Which one are you?”

He toasted her with his flute. “Lawyer.”

“Not around here.” No way this guy could have flown under the gossip radar, even if she was on the outer edges of the circle.

“I am as of Monday.”

She hadn’t heard this. She wondered if he’d be working with her father or rivaling him. Regret rolled over her. Why a lawyer? That hit too close to home. A home where she was no longer welcome. “Congratulations,” she said without any warmth.

“Don’t like lawyers?” He sipped. “Pity. I was looking forward to that chocolate-dipping demonstration.”

Glancing at him, at the interest, the regret in his eyes, she waved aside the old prejudice. And the memory of guys who’d used her to get close to her father. The pain of rejection she couldn’t seem to shake.

Thanks to the man before her, desire and curiosity had woven their spell, dispelling her conscience’s shouts of caution.

She turned to pick up a wooden skewer, slid a strawberry onto the end, then rolled it beneath the warm chocolate spilling from a spout on the fountain. The seductive, sugary aroma surrounded her like a lover, lulling her in its warm embrace. Mischievous thrills zipped down her spine.

An elderly couple approached and took their sweet time selecting a crystal plate and fruit, drenching it in chocolate, smiling at each other the whole time. Vanessa had seen the same effect on many people over the past few years. There was just something plain decadent about chocolate. Liquefy the stuff? Oh, boy. The sparks will fly.

With her own sparks ready to ignite, she turned.

Knowing she should take a cautious look around, but ignoring the call to respectability, she cupped her hand under the dripping strawberry and held it in front of his lips.

He turned his head. “Lose the skewer.”

She hesitated. She was a rebel, not a troublemaker. Most of the time anyway.

“Come on,” he added.

Hardly able to believe she was complying in a room filled with her parents and all their respected cronies, but unable to resist his dare, she slid the dripping strawberry off the skewer and held it between her fingers, against his mouth. His gaze never leaving hers, he bit in, his tongue catching the tip of her finger. The juices flowed over her fingers, dripping into her palm. Her body tingled; her stomach fluttered.

She wanted him. Wanted him like crazy.

Heart hammering, she popped the rest of the berry in her mouth, then chased the sweetness with champagne. As the icy drink rolled down her throat, she wiped her hand on a napkin and tried to find some balance, some reason to resist him. And came up flat empty.

“How fast can you get out of here?” he asked, setting aside his glass.

“I—” She put down her glass. “This is nuts. I don’t even know your name.”

“Lucas.”

“Is that first or last?”

“First. That’s enough for now, isn’t it? I’m tired of networking and dropping names to impress. I don’t want to compare stationery or brag about judgments and client lists.”

For a second, she was shocked by the naughty “first names only” suggestion. But it also appealed to her on a couple of levels.

First, it was naughty.

Second, if he learned her last name, he’d most likely connect her with her father. How many guys had she gone out with at her mother or sister’s suggestion, only to learn they were aspiring attorneys looking to break into her father’s firm?

“And your name?” her gorgeous companion asked.

Her mother would probably have a stroke if she found out her daughter had picked up a man—a stranger—at her dignified children’s hospital fund-raiser. Her sister would demand lineage and financial-status reports. Her father would want to see his law degree and standing with the American Bar Association.

Really, discretion was in order.

And yet she itched—in more places than just her brain—to take a chance. To plunge and then dive. To walk down an expected road and see where it led. She was literally on the edge of jumping in with both feet and not asking too many questions.

So she did. Ask a question, that is.

“Do you have a fiancée?”

He angled his head. “No.”

“A wife?”

He grinned. “No.”

She tapped her foot.

Then again, picking up a guy at a party would be a scandalous—and honest—way of telling her sister she was dating. Lately, she’d been assuring her matchmaking-minded sibling that she had all the dates she needed. Not exactly a lie. She just didn’t need any dates at the moment.

Mr. Scrumptious, however, could easily change her mind. She glanced up at him. And smiled.

“Vanessa,” she said, sliding her hand across the lapel of his suit jacket. “My name’s Vanessa.”