The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,37
a day.”
“I see.”
“Try it,” Ivan said. “I’d be interested in your wine pairings for something like this.”
Fastidiously, Patrick came forward and accepted the fork Ivan held out, and sampled the tamale with a studied expression of boredom. Grinning over his head at Julian, Elena waited for the flavors to ambush her sommelier.
Ivan waited, too, his body taut and tuned, those intense and hooded eyes trained on Patrick’s mouth as he chewed, watching as the taste expanded, and as if against his will, he darted a glance up at Ivan’s face, his eyes widening. “Oh!” he said. “That’s marvelous!”
Though he raised his chin in an attempt to control his expression, a slow, pleased smile spread over Ivan’s lips. “What kind of wine would you put with it?”
Patrick frowned, moving his lips, and reached for another bite. “It would have to be a very bold wine. Maybe something stronger. Tequila? An ale?”
“Yeah?” Ivan reached behind himself and took out another neatly tied tamale. “Take this one and try some pairings, let me know.”
Julian watched Patrick leave, as did Elena. The thin white skin at the back of his neck was flushed red. She looked back to Rasputin with his ragged jeans and big hands, who was also watching Patrick depart. His nostrils were slightly flared.
Elena pursed her lips. Who would do the other more damage? For all that Rasputin had his rough edges, there was something broken in him somewhere. That lostness of wounded child came from him in waves, the same eternal appeal of every bad boy. He glanced at her, smirking, and tossed a tamale from hand to hand.
“Elena, do you have a moment?” Julian asked.
“Sure.” She put the fork down. Wiped her fingers. “Ivan, that is the best tamale I’ve ever tasted. Write it up and we’ll put it on the menu. If you can come up with some other combinations that are that fantastic, we might do a whole tamale list.”
He saluted her without irony. “Thank you.”
“And…” She waited until Julian went ahead, and took a step closer to Ivan, narrowing her eyes in warning. “…leave my sommelier alone.”
His eyes were mocking. “He’s not my type,” he drawled, and looked down Elena’s shirt.
“You heard me.” She shucked her apron as she headed to her office.
Julian stood in the center of the tiny room, admiring a red glass chile paperweight. He put it down as she came in.
She had not seen much of him these past few weeks, and it was hard not to notice too many things all at once—his elegant hands and the sunlight and apple scent of him and his cheekbones. A shimmer moved over her inner wrists, into her palms. “Shall I close the door?”
“Not at all. I was just wondering if you have some time to get out and do some sampling at the other restaurants in town. Time’s getting short. I’m particularly interested in getting a feel for prices in this market.”
“Good idea.” She crossed her arms, trying not to imagine how pleasant it would be to have him to herself for a couple of hours. “This is probably the last night we’ve got before the insanity begins.”
His black eyes were direct. Businesslike. “Yeah, we should have done it sooner, but I could see you were swamped.”
“Okay.” She yawned, and covered her mouth. “Sorry. I guess I’ll go home and get a nap. What are you going to wear?”
“A disguise.”
She gave him a quizzical chuckle. “Really?”
He lifted one shoulder. “Actually, yeah. Not much of one, but enough to make people overlook me.”
Elena doubted anyone would overlook him, even in a disguise, but that was just her hormones talking. The trouble with not having sex was that she wasn’t having sex. “What kind of disguise?”
He winked. “You’ll see.”
“But I’m still not sure what I should be wearing. Dressed up or dressed down?”
“Dressed up, but not too up.”
“Done.”
“Good.” He clasped those long hands. “One more thing. How would you feel about serving my business associates at my home instead of here?”
“The tasting menu?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated. “A home kitchen is not usually the most ideal.”
“This is…uh…” He touched his eyebrow, almost an apology. “…a little higher end than most home kitchens. I’d be happy to show it to you.”
“Is there a particular reason you want to do it that way?”
Julian inclined his head. Light skated over the high brow. “It’s more intimate. We’re working on a movie deal and I want it to go my way.”