Читать книгу What Love Tastes Like - Zuri Day - Страница 11

Later, Tiffany would congratulate herself on not gasping. Nick’s penthouse suite was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. Unlike the small, almost claustrophobic European rooms she’d seen online and for which she’d prepared herself, this suite was spacious, with towering ceilings and silk-covered walls. A large living-room window offered views of a well-landscaped park and beyond that the sparkling city lights of Rome. A large marble fireplace anchored one wall, while a formal dining room occupied the other end of the rectangular space. The velvet couch and love seat, upholstered in a rich sienna, was soft and inviting—the perfect contrast to the ivory-colored carpeting that anchored the living and dining room area. Beyond that, a deep cherry wood adorned the cabinetry as well as the appliances. Tiffany could only imagine what the bedrooms and bathrooms looked like. She began to feel as if spending twenty-four hours in the lap of luxury might not be such a bad experience after all.

“Do you like it?” Nick asked, basking in the joyful wonder that shone on Tiffany’s face. It pleased him that she was as appreciative of beauty as he was.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I fell in love with it the first time I stayed here. Especially this.” Nick stood at the large picture window and swept his hand to indicate the view of Rome, with the ancient ruins of the Colosseum outlined against a near-dark sky.

“You come here often?” Tiffany walked over and stood by the window.

“Not as often as I’d like. But when I do, I stay here.”

They were silent a moment, taking in the greenery of the landscape, the water spouting from a fountain, a full moon overhead, and the city center’s beckoning lights.

“What brought you here in the first place, to Italy?”

Nick hesitated before answering. The memory of his first visit to Rome, ten years ago, brought with it subtle heartache. That trip was a thirtieth birthday present to himself, one that Angelica had encouraged. They’d been just friends then when she, along with eight of Nick’s good friends, had swept into the Eternal City like a cyclone, partied like it was 1999, took the tours, ate the food, and promptly fell in love with all things Italy.

But as he stared out the window, watching the moon rise higher in the sky, Nick was all too aware that the woman beside him now was not Angelica. She was an exquisite woman-child, vulnerable yet independent, fearful yet determined, with skin the color of rich dark chocolate, the kind that even doctors agreed was good for you. Don’t go there, Nick cautioned himself, even as the thought to do so quickened his heartbeat. Now is not the time.

Nick’s silence caused Tiffany to look away from the sensually dusky scene out the window and over to the picture of perfection standing less than five feet from her. She almost did gasp this time, the reality of her situation suddenly hitting her like a bolt of lightning. She was in the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel in Rome, Italy, with one of the finest men she’d ever seen up close and personal. She guessed he was around six feet tall, solidly built, his muscular frame perfectly proportioned. He had the type of body that in hugging, a woman could lose herself, Tiffany imagined. One that could communicate “Don’t worry, I’ve got you” with one good squeeze. She followed Nick’s tongue as he unconsciously licked a set of lips that were just the right size, casually nibbling on the lower one as he pondered some event to which Tiffany was not privy. His brow was furrowed slightly, and Tiffany took in the perfect arch of his thick, black eyebrows and the long, curly lashes that framed the bedroom eyes that had melted her in the airplane aisle. Before she could stop herself, her eyes traveled over his broad shoulders, down his strong back, stopping at his nicely rounded derriere before continuing to peruse a set of sprinter’s legs and big feet that hinted at the promise of…

Promise of what? Tiffany mentally shook herself and hurried away from the window. The air had suddenly grown heavy and she found it hard to breathe. Where is Tuffy? In that moment she realized it wasn’t her teddy bear, but the bear of a man on the other side of the room that she’d rather hug and squeeze right now. And just as quickly, she extinguished the thought. While she hadn’t seen a ring on his finger, she was sure nonetheless that he belonged to somebody—maybe several somebodies. She thought of Joy, her best friend, and figured she was more the type of woman Nick would go after. Joy was a Tyra Banks type: tall, beautiful, long hair courtesy of European and Native grandparents instead of a weave, and confident beyond belief. And here she was, Tiffany, looking for an old-ass teddy bear! Get your head out of the clouds, Tiffany! Janice Matthews’s voice rang in her head. Her mother was right, and Tiffany decided to obey her.

“Look, I’m going to—”

“Would you like to join me—”

Nick and Tiffany spoke at once, both silently aware that somehow, surreptitiously, the atmosphere between them had shifted.

“I—I was just going to thank you again for everything you’ve done, and then take a shower and lie down. It’s been a long day.”

“Surely it has, but aren’t you hungry?” Nick knew that while there was food service in coach, it was nothing like first class.

“Not really.”

Tiffany’s stomach chose that exact moment to become vocal, and a loud, sustained growl emanated from its core. The sound of this base bodily function chased away the discomfort they both felt—brought about by unsolicited and unwelcome thoughts.

Tiffany’s eyes went wide with embarrassment. How dared her body betray her, sounding common in front of this classy man and calling her a liar with pronounced vigor. “Ooh, excuse me!” she muttered, even as she pressed a hand against her flat stomach, mentally daring it to speak again.

Nick’s laugh was deep and unfettered. “You may not be hungry, but your stomach is. Join me for dinner. I’m going to one of my favorite restaurants and I detest dining alone.” Actually, Nick was quite comfortable eating solo, and once through the doors of AnticaPesa, he was rarely alone for long. But he felt not one twinge of guilt playing the sympathy card to get Tiffany’s agreement to be his dinner date. Something about her hesitation—and again, that flash of trepidation quickly replaced by resolve—made him want to be the one who relaxed her, who helped her feel comfortable in what was for her a strange, new place.

Thirty minutes later they were on their way to fine dining in the center of Rome. The slight discomfort returned, and was reflected in their silence as they waited on the chauffeur. Tiffany tried to still the nervousness combined with physical need that sprung up as soon as she walked from her bedroom to the living room. Nick was there, standing in front of the window, talking on the phone. It gave her a moment to behold him in all his glory: dressed casually in a black silk pullover and black pants. Joy would probably know the designer, Tiffany thought as she stopped and sipped the sight of him like one would a tumbler of fine brandy. Even with her lack of knowledge of all things fashion, Tiffany was sure the outfit had been tailor made. There’s no way that any piece of clothing could come off the rack and fit that perfectly. She forced herself from the hall into the main living area and thanked her best friend for forcing her to pack the jersey dress she now wore.

“Joy Lynn Parsons! You know you shouldn’t have gone shopping for me! How much did this cost you?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just make sure it ends up in your suitcase.”

“Look, my days will be spent in the kitchen and my nights will be spent in bed, alone. This is a crash course in upscale Italian cuisine, girl. I’m not going to have the time or place to wear something like this.”

Joy had rolled her eyes. “Didn’t your daddy ever tell you to always be like the Boy Scouts—prepared?”

“Sure. As long as I was preparing myself for something he wanted me to do.”

“Well, these gifts to you are because of what I want, which is for you to stop being so serious and single-minded, and remember to have a good time.” With that, Joy had reached into another bag and pulled out a pair of jewel-toned, strappy sandals.

“Girl, I don’t wear stuff like this!” It was true. Tiffany was more likely to be found in cotton tops and jeans.

“You will in Rome. Who knows? You might star in your own Kiki series and become a rich man’s wifey.”

“Who’s Kiki?”

“Kiki Swinson.”

“Is that somebody at Randall’s job?”

“Fool, this woman is far from working at UPS with my husband. She’s a bestselling author!”

“Oh, please, you and your book addiction. Those fairy-tale endings only happen in fiction.”

“And sometimes life imitates art,” Joy fired back.

“Well, even if Kiki writes about a rich man who works in a kitchen, I’m sure my story’s ending will differ from the one you read.”

“No, you’ll have to navigate the world of thugs and drugs to be in her story.”

“Like I said, fiction isn’t fact.” Tiffany dangled the shoes in front of her, turning them this way and that, frowning as if what she held were foreign objects. “You need to take these shoes and stuff back to the store and get a refund,” she said somberly.

“Tiffany, you’re my best friend in the world, but as God is my witness, I’m going to beat your ass with those stilettos if you don’t stop acting ungrateful!”

The women laughed and continued joking around as Tiffany tried on the outfit and modeled it for Joy. Her friend’s taste was excellent and the choices spot on. The dress, which stopped a couple inches above the knee, spotlighted Tiffany’s assets and hit her curves in all the right places. The sandals not only gave Tiffany height, but accented surprisingly long legs for someone so short. Tiffany looked gorgeous in the outfit.

Nick felt Tiffany’s eyes on him and turned slowly, the words he was about to say to one of his partners dying on his lips. His eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the vision in front of him.

“Nick? Buddy, are you still there?”

“Let’s touch base tomorrow,” Nick said into the phone. He disconnected the call without waiting for a reply.

Tiffany’s nerves increased under his intense perusal. Had she chosen the wrong outfit? Was this too dressy for where they were going? Was it too much, did it suggest something that she hadn’t intended? Why does he keep staring at me without saying anything?

“I can change if this isn’t appropriate,” she blurted, suddenly feeling like the little girl who’d chagrined her father, which, with her choices, had often been the case.

“It’s perfect,” Nick breathed. He was trying to rein in feelings and emotions that had no place in this room, in this city, with this woman. It had been easier with the teddy-bear clutching girl in jeans; the task would be much harder with this sexy vixen with the hourglass figure he wanted to sculpt with his hands.

Once they were settled in the town car, Nick forced his thoughts away from how good Tiffany looked in the satiny dress she wore and turned them toward those good for casual conversation. After all, it would be another fifteen minutes before they reached their destination.

“I know this is your first trip to Europe, but have you ever been out of the States?”

Tiffany nodded. “If you count Mexico…Cabo San Lucas.”

“I see.”

Tiffany glanced over at Nick, who observed her thoughtfully while rubbing his mustache, something she deduced was an unconscious habit.

“Why Rome?” he asked.

Tiffany smiled, thankful for the familiar territory they were entering. “I’m studying to be a chef.”

Nick’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Yes. I just graduated from culinary school and am here to train under a master of Italian cuisine.”

Nick’s interest piqued, and he turned to face Tiffany. “Who?”

“You probably don’t know him; he’s famous in cooking circles, but not a name often heard in the outside world.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be Emilio Riatoli, would it?”

Tiffany’s mouth opened in shock. “You’ve heard of him?”

Again, Nick blessed Tiffany with the deep, throaty laugh that made her love lair tingle. His eyes sparkled as he answered. “I’ve heard of him, yes.”

Tiffany looked at Nick with new appreciation. Anyone who was enthusiastic for, let alone knowledgeable about anything or anyone in the culinary world gained credence in her eyes. “How do you know of Chef Riatoli?”

“This is one of my favorite cities, remember?” His smile deepened, but he said nothing further.

“He was on tour in the States and conducted a class at our school,” Tiffany continued. “It was mainly on sauces, but he also demonstrated a couple dishes from another of his areas of expertise…seafood. He’s a genius at what he does,” she added, with more than a little admiration in her voice. “My dream is to open a restaurant in LA, one with cuisine similar to Chef Riatoli’s specialties—but with my own interpretation, of course.”

Nick’s interest in and appreciation for Tiffany grew. Here was a woman after his own heart, with dreams that complemented the future he visualized.

“What types of specialties would your restaurant serve?”

Tiffany sighed and sat back, at ease when talking about her ultimate life goal. It was the first time she’d felt totally comfortable with Nick since they met.

“I’d have several scallop-based appetizers,” she began. “Served in various sauces, richly embodied yet never overpowering the fish’s delicate taste. I love working with asparagus, especially white asparagus, and it’s a perfect complement to this seafood. Chef Riatoli makes a dish that is amazing.” Tiffany’s mouth watered of its own accord as she remembered the dish Chef had prepared in their classroom kitchen.

I pettini al pomodoro e l’asparago, Nick thought. Emilio’s simple yet succulent pairing of scallops with asparagus was his singularly favorite appetizer in all of Italy.

“What about salads,” he prompted after Tiffany had reeled off several more variations on her scallop ideas.

“Simple, clean,” she answered easily. “Too often, cooks make the mistake of putting too many ingredients into their salad creations. Chef Riatoli teaches that less is often more when it comes to marrying flavors. I’ve been playing around with an arugula salad that is nothing but greens, thin slices of fennel and tomato, with a basic vinaigrette that contains—” Tiffany stopped, realizing she was about to divulge a secret ingredient. “That contains a little something extra,” she finished, her mouth pursing with the effort of not blurting out the very essences this man reminded her so much of—maple syrup with a hint of wasabi—sweet and hot.

The car turned the corner and entered a narrow street, typical of what one would imagine when thinking of Europe. The brick buildings on the left side of the street were adorned with flower-filled balconies and wooden shutters. The right side of the street was lined with cafés, all boasting outside seating enhanced with subdued lighting, candles, stark white linen, and canopies that bathed the setting in splashes of color. Belatedly, Tiffany realized she’d hardly noticed the city, so caught up had she been in sharing her dream menu. But now, as they approached the end of the block, she looked around and began reading the names of the restaurants and designer clothing and shoe shops on the other side of the street. Her heart beat faster as she read one sign that stated simply, Fia’s.

“You’ll love the area,” Chef Riatoli’s assistant had told her when he’d provided information to help Tiffany’s transition. “And whatever you do, don’t spend all your money at Fia’s.”

“Who’s that?” Tiffany had asked.

“Only the newest and most sought-after designer in Rome,” the assistant had explained. “Her shop is largely by appointment only, and her dresses are on probably half the actresses you see on the red carpet.”

Tiffany had assured him that when it came to designer fashions, her money was safe in her purse. Now, had it been a culinary shop, with various pots, pans, and kitchen utensils? Tiffany would have been in trouble. It was designer knife sets, not designer knits, that warmed her blood. But Fia’s is right across the street from where I’ll be working, he said. It’s right across the street from—

“Here we are, sir.” The driver interrupted Tiffany’s thoughts. “Safely delivered to your favorite place in Rome…”

“AnticaPesa,” both he and Tiffany finished together. “You know him!” she gushed to Nick. “You know Chef Riatoli!”

“Guilty as charged,” Nick said, his grin now full and unabashed.

The door on her side opened and the chauffeur waited to help her out of the car. Tiffany, however, remained glued to her seat.

“His delicacies await us, mia bellezza,” Nick prodded. “Shall we?”

“I can’t,” Tiffany answered, feeling inadequate one minute, overwhelmed the next. “I’m here as Chef’s cook, not his customer! I can’t afford this place. I’m a student. I’m…What will he think of me walking into his establishment to eat?”

Nick stepped out of the car, walked around to Tiffany’s side, and extended his hand. “Sweetheart, he’ll think you’re hungry. Come.”