What Love Tastes Like (4 page)

I pettini al pomodoro e l'asparago,
Nick thought. Emilio's simple yet succulent pairing of scallops with asparagus was his singularly favorite appetizer in all of Italy.

“What about salads,” he prompted after Tiffany had reeled off several more variations on her scallop ideas.

“Simple, clean,” she answered easily. “Too often, cooks make the mistake of putting too many ingredients into their salad creations. Chef Riatoli teaches that less is often more when it comes to marrying flavors. I've been playing around with an arugula salad that is nothing but greens, thin slices of fennel and tomato, with a basic vinaigrette that contains—” Tiffany stopped, realizing she was about to divulge a secret ingredient. “That contains a little something extra,” she finished, her mouth pursing with the effort of not blurting out the very essences this man reminded her so much of—maple syrup with a hint of wasabi—sweet and hot.

The car turned the corner and entered a narrow street, typical of what one would imagine when thinking of Europe. The brick buildings on the left side of the street were adorned with flower-filled balconies and wooden shutters. The right side of the street was lined with cafés, all boasting outside seating enhanced with subdued lighting, candles, stark white linen, and canopies that bathed the setting in splashes of color. Belatedly, Tiffany realized she'd hardly noticed the city, so caught up had she been in sharing her dream menu. But now, as they approached the end of the block, she looked around and began reading the names of the restaurants and designer clothing and shoe shops on the other side of the street. Her heart beat faster as she read one sign that stated simply, Fia's.

“You'll love the area,” Chef Riatoli's assistant had told her when he'd provided information to help Tiffany's transition. “And whatever you do, don't spend all your money at Fia's.”

“Who's that?” Tiffany had asked.

“Only the newest and most sought-after designer in Rome,” the assistant had explained. “Her shop is largely by appointment only, and her dresses are on probably half the actresses you see on the red carpet.”

Tiffany had assured him that when it came to designer fashions, her money was safe in her purse. Now, had it been a culinary shop, with various pots, pans, and kitchen utensils? Tiffany would have been in trouble. It was designer knife sets, not designer knits, that warmed her blood.
But Fia's is right across the street from where I'll be working, he said. It's right across the street from—

“Here we are, sir.” The driver interrupted Tiffany's thoughts. “Safely delivered to your favorite place in Rome…”

“AnticaPesa,” both he and Tiffany finished together. “You know him!” she gushed to Nick. “You know Chef Riatoli!”

“Guilty as charged,” Nick said, his grin now full and unabashed.

The door on her side opened and the chauffeur waited to help her out of the car. Tiffany, however, remained glued to her seat.

“His delicacies await us,
mia bellezza,
” Nick prodded. “Shall we?”

“I can't,” Tiffany answered, feeling inadequate one minute, overwhelmed the next. “I'm here as Chef's cook, not his customer! I can't afford this place. I'm a student. I'm…What will he think of me walking into his establishment to eat?”

Nick stepped out of the car, walked around to Tiffany's side, and extended his hand. “Sweetheart, he'll think you're hungry. Come.”

The maitre d' smiled broadly as Nick entered the warm and cozy foyer.
“Dominico, mio amico! Benvenuto di nuovo a AnticaPesa. Come lei è sono?”

“Buono, grazie,”
Nick answered, before switching to English for Tiffany's benefit. “Very good, in fact. It's been far too long since I've been here, but I see you are managing well without me. The place is full, as usual.”

“Too many customers,” the maitre d' admitted, his English punctuated with a lyrical accent. “But that is a good problem to have, no?”

Nick placed a hand at the small of Tiffany's back and guided her forward. “My friend, Ms. Matthews,” he said, his voice smoky and possessive. “Tiffany, this is Rolando.”

The maitre d's eyes widened in appreciation.
“Bella donna,”
he gushed, bringing Tiffany's hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “It is my pleasure to feast upon such exquisite beauty.”

Tiffany released a self-conscious giggle as Joy's voice swam into her consciousness. “Italian men love Black women,” she'd said as Tiffany modeled the dress. “You might get ravished by a ravioli-eating—”

“Grazie,”
Tiffany answered softly, speaking the word she'd heard Nick say earlier, that obviously meant
thank you.
It was her first foray into Italian, and a blatant attempt to turn her thoughts away from the sexually oriented conversation that had preceded Joy's comment.

“Prego,”
the maitre d' responded as they reached Nick's reserved table. “Should we start with your usual wine, sir?”

“No, I think we'll go for something a bit more celebratory. It's Tiffany's first visit to Rome.”

“Ah, then let me send the sommelier to discuss an appropriate choice for you and the
giovane donna.
” The maitre d' smiled at Tiffany, nodded at Nick, and walked away.

Tiffany tried not to gawk. The last thing she wanted to do was to come across like a country bumpkin who'd been nowhere. But after a few seconds, her attempt at sophistication failed her. Because the truth of the matter was that she was a bumpkin, albeit a city one, who'd never been anywhere like this before. She looked from the beautifully set tables to the beautiful people occupying them, listened to the soft sounds of classical music providing the subtlest of backdrops for erudite conversations and, she imagined, more than a few declarations of love. The place oozed romanticism as well as wealth. Tiffany felt like Cinderella, her crystal-covered sandals as close to a glass slipper as Tiffany needed. She only hoped her dress wouldn't disintegrate at midnight, unless it was at the hands of the prince sitting across from her.

Nick sat back and watched Tiffany. Her unsophisticated wonder captivated him, made him feel good. Her energy was so unlike Angelica's, who'd become bored with Rome and increasingly unappreciative of the city's cuisine. “I'm not crazy about it,” she'd said of Riatoli's signature scallop dish, the one Tiffany had come to copy and conquer. But where Angelica had become jaded and taken life's luxuries for granted, Tiffany soaked them up with the appreciation due them. Nick was overcome with the desire to be the one who introduced her to the finer things in life, to his world. He was about to tell her so when Tiffany's eyes widened and dimples rippled with the smile that broke across her face.

One glance at her mentor walking in their direction and excitement replaced Tiffany's nervousness. This was the man who was going to fill her with the knowledge that would bring her closer to her dreams. “Chef Riatoli!” she whispered, when he stopped at her table.

Chef smiled at her but addressed Nick first. “Signore Rollins. It is my pleasure.”

“As always, Emilio, the pleasure is mine.” Nick looked at Tiffany and ignored the stab of jealousy that arose at the adoring way she stared at Emilio. “I believe you know my dining companion, Tiffany Matthews?”

“Indeed I do,” Chef Riatoli said. “It is a thoughtful student who tests the dishes she'll attempt to master.” He finally turned to Tiffany. “Welcome to Roma.”

“Thank you, Chef. I hope you don't mind my coming to your dining room instead of the kitchen on this first visit.”

“In the company of one of my best customers? Never!”

Chef Riatoli and Nick conversed a moment more before the sommelier joined them to discuss the wine list. “I'll leave you to this expert,” Chef Riatoli finished. “But may I suggest the veal for your main course tonight? It's exquisite, grown especially for our kitchen.”

“We'll take your suggestions for the entire meal,” Nick countered easily. Before turning to the sommelier, Nick looked at Tiffany. “Do you prefer sweet or dry?”

“I'm not much of a drinker,” she concluded honestly. “You decide.”

Nick and the sommelier settled on a Dom Perignon Rosé, to start, as the waiter brought out a basket of focaccia, fresh from the oven. The flat bread was golden brown, topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, and olive oil, and a bowl of red caviar.

Over the next two and half hours, Tiffany learned about the man named Dominique “Nick” Rollins and ate the best food she'd ever tasted in her life. In between the perfectly cooked scallop appetizer, raw oysters on the half shell (which Tiffany loved, to her surprise), smoked mozzarella salad, and the palate-cleansing chilled celery soup, Tiffany learned about Nick's latest venture, a boutique hotel, and their shared dream of owning a five-star eatery with a three-star Michelin rating—the highest rating awarded by this industry bible, and a difficult score to achieve. During the fifth and sixth courses, braised monk-fish followed by the medium-rare veal that tasted like ambrosia and melted in their mouths, Nick learned that Tiffany was an only child with an independent streak, a college graduate with a near four-point average, and a delicious mix of contradictions—a feisty woman with a childlike need for the security of a twenty-three-year-old teddy bear. While not spending much time talking about her parents, Tiffany showed open admiration for her grandmother, who'd encouraged her love of cooking. The food Nick and Tiffany ate was accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, and later a mellow Cabernet Sauvignon. Though she'd only had one glass of each, Tiffany was feeling as warm and fuzzy as Tuffy by the time dessert arrived. The gelato-based treat was a Chef Riatoli original, and the alcohol Tiffany had consumed was the only logical explanation for how Nick's caramel-covered finger, which he'd dipped in the sweet masterpiece, ended up in her mouth.

“Um, it's delicious.” Tiffany moaned as the mix of cool Italian ice cream danced with the warmth of the melted caramel sliding down Nick's long, thick index finger.

Nick had initiated the playful moment, almost daring Tiffany to loosen up by tasting Emilio's creation from this digit. But once again, Tiffany surprised him, this time with an unexpected show of boldness. The tables turned unexpectedly, and it now seemed as if Tiffany might beat him at his own game. He covered his growing ardor, and discomfort, with humor. “Yes, but how's the dessert?”

Tiffany finished licking the caramel off Nick's finger, laughing as she did so. “It's so good,” she whispered, dipping her finger into the saucer in front of her and presenting it to Nick. “Here, taste it.”

Nick's eyes turned almost black with desire as he fixed Tiffany with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he leaned forward and with all due deliberation sucked her finger into his mouth. He took his tongue and swirled it around, even as he licked and then swallowed the gooey treat. “Um, you taste like brown sugar.”

Tiffany sat mesmerized, like prey that belatedly discovered it had been captured. A warm heat started in her core, then spread in all directions—up her spine, down her throat, bursting into warmth like sun on her face; and down, lower, becoming wetness. Her breath caught and her nipples hardened. The caramel was long gone, but Nick continued to suck, as if her finger was a lifeline and he was a drowning man. Slowly he dipped each finger of her right hand into the dessert and methodically licked its dripping treasure. When he deigned to initiate her pinkie into this ritual, some of the caramel dripped from it to her chest and oozed down into her cleavage.

“Oops,” Tiffany whispered, wishing Nick would do the obvious and come lick the sauce off her. And Nick would have probably obliged her, had not Chef Riatoli appeared at their table, breaking the magic and bringing both Nick and Tiffany out of their passion-induced fantasy and back to the private area of the restaurant where they sat.

“Oops,” Tiffany said again, this time self-conscious of what had taken place. She hastily grabbed her napkin and wiped away what she could of the caramel down her cleavage. Her face burned with embarrassment, both at what she'd done and what Chef might have seen.
What has gotten into me?
For all intents and purposes, this was her place of employment, and here she was acting like a love-struck teenager out on her first date. Even as she tried to berate herself, her cootchie cooed at the very idea.

Nick and Tiffany would never know whether or not Chef Riatoli had observed their intimate playfulness. When he arrived at their table, he was his usual self—jovial and professional. “Was dessert to your liking, sir?”

“Perfection as always, Emilio. You've outdone yourself with this one.” Nick sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “What is it called?”

“There's no name, sir. I created it just now, just for you, Dominique.”

“Perhaps you should name it after your student,” Nick said, nodding at Tiffany. “She found it…simply delicious.”

Chef Riatoli simply smiled and bowed humbly. “Will there be coffee, an aperitif perhaps?”

Nick did have a particular chocolate liqueur in mind, one he'd like to drink from the valley of Tiffany's breasts. “Not tonight, Emilio. Just the check.”

“Please, sir, consider this dinner my treat for your belated return. You always bring us luck when you come. A week after your last visit, our president dined here!”

Nick rose and walked around to help Tiffany from her chair. “You're a good man, Emilio Riatoli. The offer still stands for your relocation to Los Angeles. It would be an honor to have you head up the restaurant in Le Sol.”

Moments later, Nick and Tiffany were on their way back to the hotel. The air between them was charged, full of unspoken desire and restrained expectation. The spell in the restaurant had been broken, or at the very least temporarily interrupted, and reality now accompanied the cool night breeze that caressed their faces. Nick tried to forget about the drops of caramel that even now he believed clung to Tiffany's skin. Tiffany tried to block the images of sucking and licking. They both had very good reasons, solid, practical reasons why the flirtation that began in the restaurant could go no further. Except for the barest of small talk, they traveled to the hotel in silence, a quiet that continued as they entered the elevator and rode to their floor.
I'll just say good night and go to my room,
Tiffany determined.
I'll suggest coffee for a nightcap and then go straight to bed,
Nick decided. These thoughts lasted until they walked into the penthouse and closed the door behind them. And then they were in each other's arms.

The first kiss was turbulent, mirroring their emotions, their tongues dueling, swirling, as hands explored and caressed. The heat was palpable, undeniable, pushing them both toward the inevitable conclusion.
Except it can't be,
the logical side of Tiffany's brain prodded. But something else was prodding her, something long, thick and hard—burning like a branding iron against her stomach. Tiffany moaned, deep and low, pressing herself deeper into Nick's arms.

“Are you all right?” Nick whispered against her ear, his breath hot and moist.

“No,” Tiffany whispered back.

“What's the matter?” Nick said as he ground himself into her, sure he knew the answer and had the cure.

But once again, Tiffany surprised him. “My feet hurt.”