The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,74
be lit.
Elena admired it all happily, hands on her hips. “Wow, this is fantastic, Patrick!”
“Thank you.”
Julian leaned over the mezzanine. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, hey! I thought you must be entertaining.” Elena waved a hand toward the beautiful table. “Very well, as you see. Is the music ready?”
“It is. Anything else you need?”
“Would you like to come down and take a few nibbles of the food?”
“No, I trust you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get showered and get ready. Guests will be arriving within an hour. If you need anything, ask Katya. She’s pretty familiar with it all.”
“Got it,” Elena said. As she returned to the kitchen, she felt stiff and—dismissed. Her temples burned as she realized that she had been creeping up on the possibility that there might be more between them than just the restaurant.
Better to know now. “Let’s get this party started,” she said. “What’s left, Rasputin?”
He flashed a sideways grin. “It’s gonna be a show, Jefa, trust me. We’re gonna knock them right on their asses.”
For the first time, Elena was grateful for his endless flirtations. It was impossible not to feel sexy and clever in his company. “Good man.”
Ivan’s gaze flickered toward Patrick. “You have no idea.” He winked, and Patrick bustled out of the room.
Elena put thumbs up. “Let’s dazzle them, shall we?”
By seven, the guests were mingling in the great room, their understated laughter and elegant natural fabrics filling the room with the unmistakable perfume of Money. The women were exquisite, the men middle-aged and older, some balding. Elena eyed them through the door warily, admiring the Jean Harlow fall of a peach silk halter over the narrow back of an actress who was beautiful on screen. In person, she was so luminous as to be practically unreal. Her husband, the producer, was a tidy man in his fifties, with gray temples and the granite-clean jaw of a brush shave. He wore a nubby jacket and a silk turtleneck and sipped scotch.
Over her shoulder, Ivan said, “They’re so rich they’re not even Republicans anymore.”
She chuckled. “They have their own foundations.”
“The boss cleans up pretty well, huh?”
Patrick had paused in front of Julian with a tray of stuffed zucchini blossoms and chunks of mango on toothpicks. “Yes,” she said. Julian’s long and angular form was cloaked in a lord’s finery, his magnificent hair brushed back from the high brow, his beautiful hands gesturing. “Which one are you lusting after?” Elena asked. “Patrick or the boss?”
“Given my druthers, I’d go for the number over there by the windows.” Ivan crossed his arms easily, gesturing toward a vision in turquoise. “Excellent cleavage. Not as good as yours, but not bad.”
Elena rolled her eyes, but noticed that she didn’t mind taking top billing. Over Ricki Alsatian, Portia’s beautiful mother. Who might be aging in terms of Hollywood, but barely seemed mortal as she stood in the middle of the party. Her eyes were enormous, the irises twice the usual size, and her skin seemed to leak light. Transcendental. “That’s Julian’s ex. They were married twice.”
“You can see why.”
A sharp green tongue of envy lapped at Elena’s belly. She gave a curt nod. “It’s time to start serving,” she said as Patrick gestured toward the table.
“That’s a gorgeous table,” Ivan said, his bear voice growling. “Your Patrick is a very talented guy.”
“Tell him,” Elena said, turning toward the stove. She hauled a large steamer from the burner and put it on the counter. Steam billowed out as she took off the lid. Using tongs to gently remove the tamales within, she said, “Start splitting them.” When Patrick bustled in, she asked, “Do you want Rasputin to help you serve?”
“Yes, please. We’ll carry out the trays and set them down in intervals of three. If you will tell them about the tamales, I’ll serve the wine.”
“Ivan can describe the tamales,” Elena said. “They’re mostly his invention.”
Across the counter, Ivan paused, eyes narrowing. “It’s your kitchen, Jefa.”
She glanced up from plating the tamales, alternating them by color—they’d dyed corn husks with green, blue, and red food coloring. Ivan wore his chef’s whites, with a bandana tied over his head and silver hoops in his lobes. For this occasion, he was cleanly shaved except the small goatee that surrounded the overly sensual mouth. The women would love him, his voice, his sultry eyes and slow smiles. “They’ll love you, Rasputin. Just do what you do.”
“They’ll want the chef,” Patrick said. “They’ll want you.”