Wine, Tarts & Sex

thought we’d eat in bed.”

Jeez, he was a humble man, even with his looks and celebrity. How unusual was that? She knew men who looked like him who had egos from hell. “Bed sounds good. For whatever,” she murmured teasingly.

He looked up from cutting chorizo sausage in a blur of motion and offered her a flashing grin. “Food first and then whatever. And I’m definitely open to suggestions.”

Ever since she’d arrived in the doorway, he’d been swiftly slicing and dicing while keeping an eye on two pans on the stove. Flipping in ingredients from time to time, he’d toss them with an effortless flick of his wrist before resuming his cutting. His movements were sure, smooth as silk, his unruffled calm Zen-like. Clearly, his expertise extended beyond the bedroom.

Leaning over to pull out a bottle of champagne from an under-counter wine cooler, he opened it with a deft twist and set it next to two glasses. “Lucky for us, Chaz left his kitchen fully supplied. I’m guessing he entertained up here.”

“He did. Chaz didn’t like to be alone. He always had people around.”

“From the looks of his stock of condoms, I’d say women in particular.”

“He was known for his beautiful waitpeople.”

She’d kept her statement gender neutral, so out of curiosity, he asked, “Was he a switch-hitter?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I just met him after I started my winery. He’s a local boy, though. Or was.”

“Very much was, according to him. Apparently, Saint Barts is his nirvana. He said he’s going to be buried there.”

“What about you?”

“About what?”

“Do you have any burial plans?”

He laughed. “Not in the near future, I hope. Do you ask that question often?”

“Not really. Coming from the West Coast, I just thought you might have some avant-garde notions… you know… like green burials.”

“Haven’t thought about it. You?” Was she into crystals and shit? Not that it was going to curb his enthusiasm in any way. As soon as he ate something, he was going to take care of his hard-on.

“My only plans are to live to a hundred.” She grinned. “So I’ve got time. What are you making?” She moved closer to the stove.

“Chorizo and chickpeas, some cubed potatoes with a few spices, and a hot green olive vinaigrette.” He pointed at one pan. “And this”-he jabbed his knife at the other pan- “is Gambas al Ajillo, Spanish shrimp. It should have garlic, but in the interests of not offending you, I left it out, but there’s some bay leaf, chili pepper, olive oil, and shrimp, of course, served with that crusty bread over there.” He nodded at an earthenware platter. “Pour yourself a glass of champagne and get two forks from that drawer”-he jabbed his thumb sideways-“while I get this food on some plates.” Opening the door on one of three waist-high ovens, he drew out a sheet pan of toasted tortillas and proceeded to break them into pieces. Setting a bowl of freshly made, chunky tomatillo salsa on a platter, he surrounded the bowl with the hot tortilla chips, briskly shoved it aside and, lifting the steaming pan of shrimp from the burner, piled the contents on another plate in a perfect mound. The chorizo dish was assembled as quickly. “After you,” he said with a smile, tucking the champagne bottle under one arm, arranging two platters on the same arm, picking up the tomatillo plate and two cloth napkins with his other hand. “I make a great steak-frites, too, if you feel like it later.”

“Are you kidding? I won’t be able to move after all this food.”

“Then feel free to lie there and think of England.”

“No joke. I might take you up on that.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“You’re way too accommodating. You must have to kick women out afterward. Between your great cooking and fabulous dick, I doubt anyone wants to leave.”

Avoiding a reply to the kicking-women-out remark, which hit damn close to home, he said, “Actually, I don’t often cook… at times like this.” He politely chose the bland phrase. “I was just hungry.” He wasn’t about to admit to either her or himself that having her stay might have figured in his decision to cook.

“Then I lucked out.”

“I’d promised you a meal, although this is just starters. Feel free to hold me to my offer.” For some reason she was making him operate way the hell out in left field. Not that he was about to parse his feelings at the moment; he had more interesting options. Such as eat, then fuck until he couldn’t get it up anymore.

He arranged the platters between them on the bed, handed her a napkin, drank down the glass of champagne she’d given him in one long draft, set the glass aside, and then, dropping into a propped-on-one-elbow sprawl, waved his hand at the food. “Please… be my guest.”

Seated opposite him, her legs crossed in an effortless yoga pose, she lifted her glass of champagne in his direction. “This is way nice.”

“Yeah… I agree.”

Their eyes met, and they both felt the freaking magic.

Absurd, he thought.

Only in movies, she thought.

“The food’s getting cold,” he said. The last person in the world to subscribe to voodoo emotion, he picked up a shrimp and took a bite.

Quickly draining her glass of champagne in an effort to dismiss the radical feeling with a dose of alcohol, she laid the empty glass on the bed, picked up her fork, and speared a piece of sausage.

They ate in silence for a brief time, both busy rationalizing away that moment when their eyes had met-words like aberrant and crackpot common to their thoughts.

Liv spoke first. She was less comfortable with silence. “This is absolutely delicious.” She waved her fork over the food. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “I’ve been eating out since I came, but fortunately, Chaz’s freezer and larder were full.”

“Having a personal chef is very nice.”

“You within reach is nice. Even if you’re doing a number on my head. But, whatever… I’m not complaining.”

“I’m feeling a little wacky, too. And it’s not as though this is virgin territory for me”-she lifted her hand to the room at large-“you know… sex.”

“No shit. Are you tired, too? I was up all night ordering stuff.” He shrugged. “That’s my excuse.”

“I slept for eight hours. I have no excuse.” She nodded at his erection. “Other than the bewitching power of that.”

“Then I’d better keep up my strength,” he said, reaching for another shrimp. “These are supposed to be aphrodisiacs, right?”

“So that’s why I’m wetter than wet.” She wasn’t about to tell him the truth-that she’d been riding a lustful wave from the first time she saw him.

He held out the shrimp. “So what d’you say? As long as we’re on a roll?”

“I guess,” she said, trying to sound blase when there wasn’t a chance in hell she could have actually refused him anything.

“Open up, babe.” A genuinely blase tone.

I am already, she thought. But she opted for discretion, since lusting women probably weren’t a news flash for Jake Chambers.

Easing upward, he slipped the shrimp into her mouth. “Now bite.”

His softly enunciated command shuddered through her vagina with an electrifying jolt. He was sure of himself, confident, familiar with women doing what he wanted. She shouldn’t have responded to such arrogance, but a hot rush of liquid longing flooded her cunt, and as though she were without will of her own, all she could think of was, Please, please, fuck me NOW, NOW, NOW!

Maybe he could read minds. His gaze narrowed slightly. “How about five minutes from now?” he said before falling back into a sprawl.

“Thanks.” She didn’t pretend not to understand; although it took effort to offer an urbane smile when she was