Hilary Fields - Bliss

That was what Sera told herself—and reassured Pauline—with as much conviction as she could muster. But Blake’s opening salvo had her more nervous than she let on. A few innuendos might not be enough to keep people from shopping at Bliss, but who knew what he had planned next? Blake’s takedown back in New York had started similarly. And the worst of it was, the article had mentioned he was still in town—intended to stay through the holidays, apparently, to see his new venture through its maiden voyage. He could do a lot of damage in that time.

She’d never been able to figure out exactly why he was so relentless, so ruthless in his pursuit of her downfall, until a former associate had explained it to her after apologetically turning her down for a job.

“Look, Sera. I’d love to hire you,” the burly executive chef at a certain Midtown staple had said to her one afternoon. His ruddy face turned ruddier as he spoke, and he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. Instead he fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers that graced the linen-draped two-top he’d invited her to share with him between the lunch and dinner shifts. At least he’d given her the courtesy of an interview—few others in his position had been willing to do as much, as Sera had learned to her chagrin over the months since her showdown with Blake in the Hamptons. “Meltdown at the Maidstone,” they were calling it, or so she’d heard from those few friends whose loyalty she’d managed to retain. Ever since, she’d been pounding the pavement like nobody’s business, and getting nothing but doors slammed shut in her face.

“But you’re not going to hire me, are you?” She’d gulped the tepid water from her glass, wishing it were wine—or hell, a whole flock of Grey Geese—but knowing she was through with all that. Pauline hadn’t gotten her into that twelve-step program for nothing, and Sera was clinging to her new sobriety with all ten claws. But at times like these… well, a double vodka would go down pretty smooth. She fiddled with the stem of the glass, daring a glance up at the chef she’d always admired for being a straight shooter as well as a damn good cook.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “You’re talented as hell and any kitchen in this city would be lucky to have you—but I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it. Chef Austin’s put the word out that you’re untouchable, and he’s got too much clout for me to go against him. He could have health inspectors on my ass. He could get me negatively reviewed. He could pressure my suppliers to stop selling to me. Hell, I once saw him get a fishmonger barred from the Hunts Point Market just for selling his mahimahi to another customer instead of saving it all for one of Blake’s restaurants—when Blake didn’t even have an order in that day. And that ain’t the worst of what Austin’s done when he’s out for blood. Sorry, Serafina. You’re a great pastry chef, but no dessert, no matter how delicious, is worth that kind of grief.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Sera had whispered, hating the break in her voice that betrayed her. “Why is he doing this?”

“Way I see it, it’s pretty simple,” the chef said with a sympathetic grimace. “I know Chef Austin, and that is one bastard who does not like to be crossed. I heard all about that day—hell, half the kitchens in Manhattan are still buzzing over it—and bad as that whole business was for you, it’s been a slap in the face to Austin, too.” At Sera’s uncomprehending expression, he explained. “Honey, you’re the only woman—hell, the only person—who’s ever managed to make a fool of Austin. He’s a man who expects complete loyalty, blind obedience, and most of all worship. Hooking up with another guy, right there in his own domain in front of all his minions, was the ultimate humiliation, even if he would never cop to it in a million years. And when you dared to yell at him afterward, you challenged his rule. You showed spine, if only for a second. He can’t have that—his whole reputation is built on being an iron-fisted tyrant. If girlfriends start sassing him, if fellow chefs mutiny, his whole empire could crumble. Or at least, that’s how he sees it.”

“That, and he’s a total freaking psychopath,” Sera had muttered.

“Yup.” The chef had patted her hand sympathetically. “There’s definitely a screw loose with that one—or maybe one that’s wound too tight. Dangerous either way. Once Austin locks on to a target, he doesn’t stop until it’s utterly annihilated. But hey.” He brightened. “Maybe you should try catering. I bet you could fly under the radar, and the money’s not bad.” He’d hesitated, calculating. “I could put in a good word for you with a coupla places. I can do that much, at least. But stay away from Blake Austin—seriously, Serafina. The guy’s like a pit bull, and I don’t wanna see you get mangled.”

Too late.

But a year was long enough for Sera to spend rolling over and showing her belly in submission. It was time to put this rabid dog down.

She still had no idea what she was going to say to the reporter on Monday. She only knew she had to cut Blake off at the knees, before his slanders ruined the fledgling happiness she’d carved out for herself here. But she had all weekend to dream up a scheme, and Pauline had promised to convene the Back Room Babes to help them brainstorm after work on Monday evening. Tonight, she told herself, was for turkey.

And tomorrow, her date with destiny…

If by “destiny,” one meant the scrumptiously fine Asher Wolf.

You look lovely.”

“I believe that’s my line, Bliss,” Asher said with a smile.

Sera blushed, wishing her internal censor hadn’t chosen tonight to take a hike, allowing her to blurt out her admiration for her new beau like the dork she profoundly didn’t want him to know she was.

Asher didn’t seem to mind. He leaned in and kissed Sera’s cheek, stroking it, as was his wont, with a gentle caress of his fingers. Despite the chill in the air, the inch or so of snow that had fallen over Thanksgiving Day, his hand felt hot to her as he stood in her doorway, tall enough so Sera had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “I hope you won’t mind if I borrow the sentiment back from you. You are stunning this evening.”

“Thank you, Asher,” she said, feeling absurdly formal. In honor of the occasion, she’d worn the earrings he’d given her, along with a forties-style V-neck dress in cherry red that managed to look retro-cute while not being too costume-y. She’d found it in a boutique on Water Street this morning after the belated realization that her regular uniform of jeans and a ratty tee probably wouldn’t cut it for tonight’s big date. Wrapped in the dress’s flattering folds, she was fairly confident she looked her best. She just wasn’t sure her “best” put her in the same league with her dashing landlord, who looked effortlessly elegant in a black button-down and black slacks that showed off his lanky frame to mouthwatering effect. He had the peacoat on again, open despite the cold, and she saw that he wore a sharp black corduroy blazer beneath it.

He did say we’re doing it up fancy—or at least as fancy as Santa Fe gets. Good thing I took him seriously. She’d even dug out a pair of black pumps from deep in her wardrobe, and was glad of the extra couple inches they added to her less-than-towering physique.

“You want to come in?” she asked, gesturing behind her to the living room, where Pauline was doing her unsubtle best to eavesdrop while pretending to point out items from the Ecstasy Emporium’s catalog to an indulgent Hortencia.

Asher shook his head. “Normally I’d love to, but I’m afraid we’re on a tight schedule.” He waved at the two women on the sofa. “Hello, Pauline. Hello, Hortencia.”

“Heya, studly,” Pauline called out, dropping her pretense of catalog shopping. “You got that little item we talked about?”

“Got it,” Asher called back. “Your aunt’s a lifesaver,” he said with a wink for Sera, ignoring the look of alarm she shot in his direction.

Pauline better not have slipped Asher any of her darn sexual aids, Sera thought darkly. The potential for humiliation was practically limitless. Then again, if things get hot and heavy, this date is about 99 percent likely to end with me in a state of extreme mortification anyway. Why worry about a few stray sex toys?

Asher had refused to tell Sera where they were going tonight, promising that she’d be well fed and pampered but denying her any details. My mystery man. Sera wasn’t sure she liked surprises, but if she couldn’t trust Asher, whom could she trust?

Trust yourself, Sera, said a voice in her head that was part Margaret, part Pauline, and part finally growing-up Serafina Wilde.

“Are you all set?”

His question jolted her out of her thoughts. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Sera said, giving him a smile that was only half bravado.

* * *

“Ohhhhhhh!”

Sera clapped her hand over her mouth, ashamed of the frankly carnal noise she’d just emitted. But seriously, how could she help it?

“This is delicious!” She put down her fork and looked around. “Wait, where are we, and how did I just put such a fantastic piece of food into my mouth without knowing it?”

Asher laughed. “I must be slipping. I can see I’ve failed to capture your attention.”

Quite the opposite, in fact. Her attention had been so focused on her date that she’d failed to notice where he was taking her.

The short journey in Asher’s Land Rover from Pauline’s place to the restaurant on Canyon Road had passed in something of a blur (caused, in large part, by the kiss her landlord had laid on her just as he was helping her into the car). She remembered being ushered inside a farolito-lit adobe compound that looked like it must be a historic property, then sitting down and folding her napkin in her lap automatically, but she’d barely taken note of their surroundings as the hostess seated them. She’d been too homed in on Asher—his attentive behavior, the hand he’d placed on the small of her back. Now, mouth full of lingering delight from the delicate truffle-infused amuse bouche their waiter had started them with, Sera gathered her wandering wits and gazed about her.