What Love Tastes Like Page 5

  Tiffany laughed out loud as she anticipated Nick’s return. Figuring she’d hear him when he entered the suite, she enjoyed a stretch and walked around the room. Her gaze was casual as she ran a hand along the mahogany chest of drawers and the matching armoire. He has great taste, she thought, remembering the casual yet elegant way he’d been dressed on the plane and the stylish, chic man whom she accompanied last night. Feeling a bit like a voyeur, she walked to the closet and slowly opened it. The hangers were neatly aligned to the left of the closet—but not one stitch of clothing hung from them. Tiffany frowned, confused, but as she continued to look around the room and then walked into a bathroom devoid of personal toiletries, realization dawned. Nick wasn’t simply out having breakfast. He was gone.

  9

  A million thoughts raced through Tiffany’s mind as she walked over to the sitting area in the master suite. Where is he? Why did he leave? Is it because I didn’t have sex with him? Was I just a temporary diversion in his high-class life? Tiffany remembered the way he had orally loved her, and refused to believe the sensations she felt were simply physical. The connection was deeper, stronger, than an orgasm. Or was it?

  Even though she’d already looked, Tiffany walked around the room again. Aside from the hotel’s room service menu, stationery items, and information catalogs, the tables were empty. So was the closet. Used, fluffy white towels were strewn across the marble bathroom floor. Tiffany imagined they were still where Nick had dropped them once he’d toweled off that gorgeous, hard body. She traced a finger along the marble countertop, which still contained the hotel’s designer soaps, lotions, shampoos, and other toiletries. An unused bathrobe hung from a holder on the bathroom door. What happened? Why did he leave? A familiar feeling of abandonment began creeping into Tiffany’s mind, memories from another tall, strong man whom she’d loved from birth, only to have him leave her, time and again. Tiffany fled the room then, trying to flee the unwanted thoughts of a certain absentee male in the process.

  She didn’t get far, only to the dining room table. There, in the center, was a single piece of the hotel’s stationery. In her excitement to be with Nick, Tiffany hadn’t even noticed it as she’d passed through the room earlier, on the way to his master suite. Her spirit began to lighten and she almost laughed with relief. Of course Nick wouldn’t abandon her. He was too classy, too much a gentleman; he’d been her knight in shining armor and the only friend she had in Italy. The note would tell her where he was, and how soon he’d return. She bounced over to the table and picked up the piece of paper:

  Tiffany: Business emergency, flying back to LA.

  Keep suite as long as needed. Take care. Nick.

  Tiffany read the note once, twice, and a third time, trying to find a deeper, more personal message between the words of the brief, impersonal one she held in her hand. There was no term of endearment, not even a “dear Tiffany” at the beginning. “Brown sugar,” as he’d called her much of last evening, was nowhere on the paper. There was no mention of the magical hours they’d shared, no reference to the intimacy that had rocked Tiffany’s world off its axis. No thank you for the dinner company or the extra dessert provided by her body in the early morning hours. No, just a clinical explanation of his whereabouts, a charitable gift of a temporary roof over her head, and departing verbiage she might use with a customer, a stranger, or the cashier in the express checkout line: take care. Take care? It was impersonal and dismissive, like cold water poured unexpectedly on a warm dream.

  Tiffany slowly crumpled the paper as she walked over to the window and looked out on a picture-perfect day. The sun was shining outside, but the warmth inside had gone. Once again she felt like the frightened young woman who’d slouched on her luggage in the airport, robbed of money and of spirit. She felt rejected, abandoned, easily tossed aside for something more important: business. The feelings of discomfort around Nick that had flittered in between the love and laughter came back full force. How she’d felt when he’d taken control of the situation without conferring with her at all, his domineering and know-it-all attitude with the airport officials and officers (even though he needed to dominate the situation and did seem to know it all), and this, the way he’d been able to leave her so easily without so much as a hug and good-bye. In an instant, clarity dawned, why these acts had made her so uncomfortable, and why they felt so familiar. It was because these actions reminded her of another man and another time, someone Tiffany detested and hadn’t seen in almost five years…her father.

  10

  Thinking about her father, Keith Bronson, spurred Tiffany to action. Just as his actions had hardened her emotions—when he chose business over time with his daughter—Tiffany allowed the anger with Nick to build, quickly burning up the memory of their passion-filled night. She’d retrieved Tuffy from the bedroom after reading Nick’s thoughtless note, but now threw the bear on the sofa and went to get her computer. Moments later, headset in place, Tiffany used Skype to phone Joy.

  “Tiffany!” Joy answered. “It’s about time you called! What time is it there, anyway? I’ve been waiting, impatiently I might add, to hear from you. Tell me everything!”

  “I feel like crap,” Tiffany began, and then proceeded to tell Joy what had happened since they’d hugged goodbye at LAX Airport. From first seeing Nick on the plane, getting her purse stolen, meeting Chef Riatoli, and her near one-night stand with Nick. “It’s a good thing we didn’t do it,” she finished. “Then I’d really feel like a ho.”

  “I don’t see why,” Joy countered. “You’re in Rome, darling. You’re supposed to have one-night stands, didn’t you know? You’re much too hard on yourself. We’re talking sex here, not surgery. I told you to loosen your butt up. And you went Zane, sistah! Now, aren’t you glad you packed that dress? Looks like it did what it was supposed to!”

  “What? Get wined, dined, and dumped? Thanks a lot.”

  “You are most welcome,” Joy responded. “Anything for a friend. Look, you’re approaching this situation from an entirely skewed perspective. Here’s how I see it. You’ve met a fabulous man who owns a variety of businesses. So what that he had to leave you in a penthouse suite for as long as you need, while he takes care of business? He did say you could stay as long as you need it, right? Why are you trying to block your blessing, girl? You can save the money you were going to spend on an apartment and live in luxury’s lap in the process, for a whole month!”

  “Please, Joy. I won’t be beholden to any man, especially for this kind of money. As it is, this one night is probably breaking my budget. And I’m determined to pay him back. Look, I’ve got to go. I need to find out if my checks or new debit card have arrived and get moved to the place where I’ll be staying, the one I can afford. I’ll call you back once I get settled.”

  “You’d better. And remember what I said, Tiffany. Don’t crawl back into that shell where you feel so safe and comfortable. While you’re over there in Italy? Go Zane.”

  11

  Nick’s brow furrowed as he disconnected the call to Italy and placed his iPhone on the table. He’d fully expected Tiffany to still be at the hotel, and he wasn’t ready to admit how uncomfortable it made him that she’d rebuffed his generous suite offer and moved on. But given the quickness with which he’d had to leave the hotel in order to catch the first flight out, he’d figured offering her the use of his personal suite was the least he could do. Fortunately for him, the fire at Le Sol had been contained before it could spread to the restaurant, spa, gift shop, lounge areas, or any of the upper floors. The lobby would have to be gutted and redone, but things could have been much worse. Thanks to an all-inclusive insurance policy, the damage would be loss of time more than anything else. And most important, the worker who’d threatened to sue because of the gas leak that started the fire in the first place, had agreed to settle the matter out of court. All of this business had been handled the first day of Nick’s arrival back in Los Angeles. He’d gone home, showered, and slept. His first t
hought after waking was of Tiffany, his first action to contact her. But to no avail; management informed him that Tiffany had checked out of the hotel the night before.

  Nick walked into his kitchen and put on water for tea, still thinking of Tiffany. He’d been upset when she’d abruptly ended their lovemaking, leaving him hard and frustrated. But in the hours that followed, the frustration had turned into a fantastical, determined desire to finish what they’d started, to run his hands over the entire length of her smooth, supple body, to massage her heavy breasts and once again worship at her feminine shrine. He continued to tell himself that now was not the time for another serious relationship. He hadn’t yet forgotten the hurt that Angelica had caused, and he knew the current hotel project would take his entire focus. Still, he couldn’t get Tiffany out of his mind, the chivalrous streak of protectiveness once again blossoming where she was concerned. Where was she staying in Rome? Who was helping her navigate that sometimes unpredictable city? Then, remembering that Tiffany was there to work with his friend Emilio, it occurred to Nick how he’d reestablish connection with the woman who’d stirred his heart as well as his penis. He walked purposely to the living room and picked up his phone. The first call was to the AnticaPesa restaurant, the second, to his secretary.

  “Christina, I need something done right away,” he said as a greeting when his assistant answered the phone.

  Even though it was Saturday, her off-day, Christina knew better than to point this out or act in any way other than ready to do her boss’s bidding. “Yes, Nick?”

  “I need a large bouquet of flowers sent to AnticaPesa as soon as possible. Address them to Tiffany Matthews. Include this note…”

  12

  During the month she stayed in Rome, Tiffany rarely found the time to “go Zane” or anything else. For ten to twelve hours a day, she’d been at the elbow of Chef Riatoli, preparing sauces, making pasta, and mastering the intricacies of superior seafood preparation. At night, she was too tired to do much of anything but sleep. Her roommate at the apartment, a woman from England in Rome to perfect her Italian, tried to get her out and about to embrace the city; but aside from a couple days aboard an “on and off” tour bus, seeing such popular tourist sites as the Colosseum, Forum, Pantheon, and the now infamous Trevi Fountain, and a wonderfully enlightening afternoon at the Vatican, Tiffany could have just as well been in Rome, New York, as in the Eternal City. By the time her one-month internship was over, Tiffany was reeling with all that she’d learned, but more than a little ready to go home.

  Instead of protesting Chef Riatoli’s slave-driver schedule, however, Tiffany was grateful. The constant attention she was forced to pay in Chef’s kitchen had made her all but forget about what’s-his-name: Mr. First Class, Mr. Stiff Tongue, Mr. Disappearing Act. Tiffany had gotten her share of suggestive looks and a couple of date offers but had politely turned down all suitors. She’d conveniently left out these facts when talking to Joy. Her friend had already given her a “don’t make me come over there” warning more than once when Tiffany, exhausted but happy, would phone her with the latest.

  “Look, your learning how to make pasta from scratch is well and good,” Joy said during one of their many trans-Atlantic chats. “But don’t you think you should be working with something else long and edible while over there with all those fine Italian men?”

  Tiffany smiled at the memory as she waited for the plane that would take her from Rome to Paris and on to Los Angeles to begin the boarding process. Tuffy was by her side, as usual, but this time he was sticking out of a tote bag instead of plastered to her chest. Tiffany studied her hands as she waited, noticed the nicks and scrapes from close encounters of the sharp knife kind, and the scar that still remained from when her wrist had stayed a little too long over a boiling pot of water. These were all wounds of war, she reasoned. All part of the price paid toward her dream of owning her own Italian bistro—or something similar.

  The day after Tiffany landed in LA, the job-hunting began. Determined to pay Nick back for the twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-night suite, plus replenish the savings she’d depleted to intern with Chef Riatoli, Tiffany scoured the papers for a job that not only paid higher than usual for a sous chef, but also would allow her to use the skills she’d learned.

  After e-mailing several résumés to prospective employers and having a few unsuccessful interviews, Tiffany asked Joy to join her at a restaurant she hoped would hire her. That evening, they met in a chic Italian eatery in Beverly Hills, with Tiffany acting the part of a regular customer.

  Tiffany’s face fell after taking a bite of her seafood appetizer.

  “What is it?” Joy asked, enjoying what she felt was a delicious minestrone soup.

  “I can’t work here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if they can’t turn out a simple cioppino, then how can they have perfected the scallop?”

  “Let me taste it.” Joy took a swallow of water to cleanse her palate and then tasted the fish stew. “Hum, it tastes good to me.”

  “You’re saying that because you’ve never had Chef Riatoli’s version.” Tiffany tasted another spoonful and shook her head. “The shrimp is hard, the clams are rubbery, everything is overcooked. I don’t think the herbs they used were fresh, and I’d bet my first paycheck that these tomatoes came from a jar or can.”

  “All of my tomatoes come from a can, what’s wrong with that? The people coming into this restaurant probably haven’t even heard of Chef Ravioli, let alone eaten his food. This is LA, not Rome, Tiffany. You’re not going to find the same level of cuisine here that you do in Italy.”

  “Of course I can. I just need to keep doing my research until I find the place that has that kind of standard, that’s all. And it’s Chef Riatoli, not Ravioli.”

  “Look, whether the fool’s name is rigatoni or macaroni isn’t the point. The point is that you need to stop hiding from Nick Rollins and apply to work at the restaurant in his hotel, as he suggested. You know he has what you’re looking for when it comes to Italian cooking, and you know you want to work there. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”

  Tiffany knew Joy was right but, true to her obstinate nature, refused to agree. “Nick Rollins isn’t the only one in LA who knows pasta,” she countered. “There are plenty of places I can work besides at his hotel.”

  “Oh really? Is that why you’re sitting here fussing over some nasty shrimp? Tiffany, what would be so bad about you calling and asking about the job he offered?”

  “If he were really serious about my working for him, he would have contacted me by now.”

  “He did contact you, in a way.”

  “When?”

  “When he sent the bouquet of flowers to where you worked in Italy. Didn’t you tell me the note included a reminder to call the hotel when you got back to town?”

  Tiffany shrugged. “Girl, those flowers were an ‘I’m sorry’ bouquet. He probably didn’t think of me past the minute it took him to stop by his secretary’s desk and give her my name.”

  “You’re scared, that’s what it is.”

  “Oh, please. Scared of what?”

  “Scared that the next time Nick gets a hold of you, he’ll put his pole in the hole and turn a sistah the rest of the way out. To hear you tell it, he had you singing soprano like Whitney on a good day. You’re not used to being handled by a man like that.”

  “I think the note was a high C, I’ll admit that. And I’ll also admit that if I go to work for him, it will be strictly cooking, not coochie contact. I’m not one to mix business with pleasure.”

  “You’re not one to mix much of anything with pleasure because you don’t do pleasure much…but I digress. Let’s put the c-word aside for a minute and look at this strictly from a professional point of view.”

  They paused while the waiter came to take away Joy’s clean bowl and Tiffany’s half-eaten stew. Soon, steaming plates of eggplant parmesan and three-cheese lasagna were placed before them
.

  Joy dug into her food with gusto, savored the bite, and then continued. “What is your ultimate goal where food is concerned? To own your own restaurant, right?’

  Tiffany nodded, her mouth full of food.

  “Then what better place than an upscale hotel to make the kinds of contacts you need and gain the experience that will help you in your own business later on? I mean, besides the restaurant itself, hotels cater parties and host private dinners. At least that’s how it happens in the novels I read. You’ll probably have a variety of different menus available depending on the size of the crowds you’re serving. You’ll be able to continue to work in the upscale environment to which you’ve obviously become accustomed and, if you’re lucky, you’ll get your man back. How’s your eggplant?”

  “Better than the shrimp,” Tiffany admitted. “But I can tell that once again not all the herbs are fresh and this eggplant probably isn’t organic. But it’s okay.”

  The two women ate in silence while Tiffany pondered Joy’s words. Everything she’d said had merit. The truth of the matter was, Nick’s hotel would be the perfect place for Tiffany to work, and a real boost to her skimpy professional résumé. But it wasn’t just about the job, it was about the fact that no matter how she tried, she couldn’t get that night of ecstasy with Nick out of her mind. He’d awakened a part of her that she didn’t even know existed, a part that begged for a culmination to what had begun in a foreign country’s penthouse suite. The truth was, Tiffany was extremely attracted to Nick and at the same time afraid of what being attracted to him might cost her. He was a driven businessman, like her father, and she knew that often personal relationships suffered with men like him. She guessed he was at least thirty-five years old. That he was so driven in business was probably why he wasn’t already married. Tiffany had another thought. Maybe he was married. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried contacting her anymore while she was in Rome. He knew she was working with Chef Riatoli, knew how to reach her if he’d really wanted to. She said as much to Joy.