Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
As far as last meals go, I couldn’t ask for better.
My stomach flips at the thought.
Yes, it is my last meal.
But it’s worth it to have saved Belinda. She’s younger than I am. She has a chance.
I’m already ruined.
I set my hands on either side of the plate, trying to ground myself. Chef pours something red.
When I pick up the knife, it feels lighter than the one against my thigh.
I cut the first slice. It’s tender as butter. I drag the small piece of beef through the reduction and bring it to my mouth.
Oh…
For a second I forget my fear.
The meat is that good, that perfect.
The tannin in the reduction complements it perfectly.
The yucca is silk.
I close my eyes, just once. If I don’t walk out of here, at least this bite mattered.
“Good?” Chef asks.
“It’s perfect.”
My voice has a warmth to it that I don’t expect.
A warmth because I mean the words. The dish is exquisite.
Chef drops his shoulders a fraction.
If I didn’t know better, I might think his power over me slackened just a touch.
How best do I take advantage of it?
“You always loved a braise,” I say, adding a touch of seduction to my tone. I take a small bite of carrot, chew, swallow, lick my lips. “The patience of it.”
His mouth twitches. “The control of it.”
I look up at him through my lashes. “Patience is control.”
He laughs then.
Not a sharp or barking laugh.
No.
This is a real laugh. A laugh of enjoyment.
Good. Enjoyment slows men down. It makes them sentimental. It makes them talk.
“How long have you had this planned?” I take a sip of the wine.
Damn. It’s excellent with the braised flank steak, which only pisses me off because nothing about tonight should taste this good.
“A long time,” he says simply.
In my mind, I imagine a timeline. Chef watching, contemplating, planning. I haven’t been gone from Colombia very long. This was quick on his part. Things fell into place for him—his friendship with Chef Charleston, his partnership with Reyes.
It all clicked.
“Why five courses?” I keep my tone airy. Curious.
He glances at the unlit third candle. “Because luring you here and serving you takeout would be tacky.”
I stop my jaw from dropping.
Not at all what I expected from him.
I’m not sure how to respond.
He speaks again before I think of what to say.
“The dessert,” he says. “You always loved dessert.”
I spear a carrot to stop my hand from shaking. I still say nothing.
He sets his fork down. The air shifts.
He stares at me. I hold his gaze for a moment and then lower mine.
Seduction isn’t working. He’s throwing me curveball after curveball.
What the hell is this all about?
“Eat,” he says. “Please.”
Please? Why the hell would he say please?
I eat. Slowly. I cut pieces so small a mouse would complain. I dab reduction, swipe purée, mash carrot. I let the fork hover as I count drips of wax down the side of candle two. I glance toward candle three, candle four…
Candle five.
Say something, Daniela. Something intelligent.
“Do you remember the first time you taught me to braise?” I ask as I lift another bite. “You said the meat has to surrender.”
“It still does,” he says. “Everything does, in the end.”
Not everything.
Not me.
Not without a hell of a fight.
Chef eats, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy the food.
I set my fork down and reach for my wine. I take a sip and then another to buy more seconds, making sure I don’t drink enough to impair me. Then I finish the course. Slowly.
Slowly.
Achingly slowly.
When the plate is finally empty, I let my shoulders sag like I’m full. I lay the knife and fork together at four o’clock. I dab my mouth with the napkin, place it beside the plate, and meet Chef’s gaze.
“Course three,” I say lightly, “was indecent in its perfection.”
He smiles. “Wait for four.”
“Why?” I pout a little, because there’s no faster way to make a man talk about his art than to pretend you might not appreciate it. “Tell me.”
He cocks his head. “Because I want to see your face when you taste it.”
Time, he means. He wants time. To watch. To own my reaction. It’s always been that with him, more than even the sex. The taking in.
I can use that. I can slow time to a crawl.
No one knows where I am.
But Hawk and Vinnie are smart, cunning. They’ll figure it out. If I give them enough time.
He stands and reaches for the matchbox again.
Candle three.
He pauses with the match on fire and looks at me.
And I see it—the way his mouth softens.
This is a man who is a master of his art. Who believes good food can change the world. If I told him this dish healed a wound, he’d believe me.
The match touches the wick.
The flame hisses to life.
Three.
Three flames burn.
I fold my hands in my lap so he can’t see them shake. The knife against my thigh sits cool, giving me courage.