Sweet Tarte (Sweet Enough to Eat, #5) Page 2

  “I do care. No one treats you that way. No one. Not on my watch.”

  She gives me a quizzical look, this sweet angel standing here with worn red heels as she fidgets with the strap of her purse, her eyes darting around as other patrons give her passing dismissive looks, and honestly? I want to kick them all out. I would, if I didn’t think such an action would make tomorrow’s headlines.

  “Well.” She takes a deep breath, looking at the front door. “I can’t pay for the food we ordered, or the wine...”

  “No?”

  I’m a bastard for thinking the way I am, but if it gets me what I want, I’ll use every trick I can think of.

  She shrugs, a defeated look on her angelic face. “I’m sorry. I have no cash, I don’t have a credit card. Maybe I could bring you the money next week, part of it at least. The wine was over two hundred dollars for the bottle, I’ll just make payments until...”

  She stammers and I can’t take it any longer. The embarrassment in her face is something I never will tolerate again.

  “Have dinner with me as my guest. That is how you can repay me. No other charge.”

  Her eyes are wide. “No, I couldn’t...” She starts for the door. “I’m sorry, I swear I’ll pay you back, just give me some time...”

  I dart my hand forward and grab her elbow, the simple touch setting off a concussion in my chest that reminds me what it must feel like to have a heart. “Wait.” I half bark, the domineering tone I’ve become accustomed to using with nearly everyone in my world. I force my voice to soften, at least a little, “You are here for dinner, correct? So have dinner. That’s my final offer, otherwise I’ll have to call the cops.”

  Her eyes go wide and she looks around as if to be sure I’m not talking to someone else. Then she licks her lips and raises one cute as fuck eyebrow.

  “That’s shitty. I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, of course, you’re Dimitri Dolce Cossack. I know all about you. You can be sort of an asshole.”

  “How so?”

  She’s not wrong, I just want to keep her here, talking, in any way possible—even at my own expense.

  She gives this little shrug and it makes the dainty silver hoops in her ears sparkle under the lights. I think about tracing my tongue around them, telling her all the filthy things I want to do to her.

  “I just do. I’ve read about you. You own lots of the best restaurants in the world. But everyone knows you’re sort of a jerk.”

  I force myself to glare, but honestly I like that cocky, defiant streak. This is going to be fun. And the fact she knows a little about me, and I know absolutely nothing about her, is just a delicious bit of power she’s holding. What she doesn’t know, is my reputation and the reality aren’t quite the same thing. Like I said, she’s not wrong, I can definitely be an asshole. But you don’t open a chain of restaurants known for romance and marriage proposals—particularly around this time of year—without having at least lukewarm blood in your veins.

  Valentines Day, which is in three days from now, is our busiest time of the year, and one of my favorite holidays even though I’ve never celebrated it in any meaningful way. I have the Hallmark Channel and I read about ten books a week.

  Yes, romances. From start to finish in one sitting usually. But these are things that I keep to myself, because if the outside world found out it would spell the end of the publicity I get for being a hard-assed businessman and lady killer which is far from the truth but the reputation serves me in other ways. Lots of free publicity and that helps the bottom line and I’m always about the bottom line.

  “I don’t deny my reputation. But there is another side to me. Please, accept my apology for the disgusting behavior of a member of my staff. Give me a chance to show you I’m not always an ass, and we will call it even. Seems fair to me.”

  She twists her lips and I can’t help but think of how they will feel kissing my balls. I’ve been celibate for so long; women offer, but my interest was long ago lost. No one ever felt, right I guess. Maybe too many of the books but they all seems to want something from me, not just me. Fair I suppose, because I never felt I wanted any of them as well.

  I still play the part. Take the photos. Go to the events. Invite celebrities for dinner. It’s all part of the show.

  She crosses her arms, giving me a defiant glare. “Fine. I eat, I leave. No cops.” She shoves her hand out between us. “Shake on it.” She tosses her dark waves back over her shoulders and I want to feel those silky waves hanging down in my face as she mounts herself on my cock.

  The edge to her voice only makes her more perfect. I’m so used to everyone kissing my ass that she’s a breath of the freshest air I’ve enjoyed in far too long. She’s everything I could have wished for and more, all packed into this soft, pint sized bottle of sweet and sassy.

  I take her hand, gripping it hard, never wanting to let go, and I nod.

  She stares at me with those green eyes and I feel parts of me come alive I’ve never known before. Her tiny hand is so soft, my mind races, thinking of how my fingers will feel in the softest parts of her.

  “What is your name? If we are to dine together, I should know what to call you.”

  Mine is what I want to call you, but for now, I’ll settle for your name.

  “Victoria Hart. H.A.R.T.”

  Victoria Hart Dolce Cossack.

  It’s got quite a ring to it.

  “Very well, Ms. Hart. Shall we?”

  I settle my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the dining room to stares and whispers, my balls twitching and my dick throbbing. Watching her magical ass sway in front of me, all I can think about is how I will manage to get through the main course without cumming in my fucking pants.

  3

  Victoria

  I FEEL LIKE I’M IN a fairy tale.

  Or a dream.

  But that could be the nearly empty bottle of wine. I glance across at it, sitting cloaked in a white linen napkin on a side table that’s apparently specifically there for that purpose.

  I don’t know a lot about wine prices, but from the scan of the menu I had downstairs while I waited for Doctor Shithead to return, the one sitting to my left isn’t a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.

  When the sommelier came in after Dimitri had ordered our dinner, they chatted and decided on a Chateau something, something Rothschild Paul-something. From the look on the sommelier’s stoic face, it’s some big deal, because Dimitri had to give him a special key as well as a code to apparently bust it out of some vault in the private wine cellar—probably guarded by former C.I.A. wet works dudes, wearing all black ready to go all John Wick on somebody’s ass.

  “What do you think?” He asks as I set my glass down, the warm liquid igniting my tastebuds.

  I shrug as I spin the glass on the linen tablecloth, then lift it once again to my mouth, the room warming and my head feeling light. “S’good.” I whisper into the glass as the burgundy liquid kisses my lips and I draw the smooth, complex wine into my mouth.

  “S’good?” He smiles this wicked smile that is so sexy, my already damp panties take another direct hit. “Do you have a similar response to the risotto?”

  “Yes.” I nod, licking my lips. “It was slightly oversalted, and a tad more white truffle would have balanced the egg yolk flavor a little better. Otherwise, yes, s’good.” I can hardly believe I just said that, but I am totally blaming the wine. I’ve never had alcohol before, and Dimitri didn’t even ask if I was old enough to drink; which I’m not.

  He stares across the table at me for a long moment, then nods.

  “You are spot on correct.” He raises his eyebrows. “You are a mysterious creature, Victoria Hart. Now, I must ask, why were you here with that horrible, horrible man?”

  I swear I hear jealousy in his question, and if I wasn’t already half in love with him this odd protectiveness he has about me has me sliding quickly down that slippery slope.

 
“Uh, let’s just say it was a favor to my mother. A set up, if you like.”

  “Wow. Really? Your mother set you up with that?” The distaste in his tone gives me another jolt of comfort around a man I barely know. “I have to say, I definitely do not like.”

  I’m rarely even this open. But there’s something about Dimitri—and the wine, I’m sure—that makes the conversation feel natural. I know he’s some big muckity-muck restaurant financier and critic. I know he grew up in New York with Russian parents who ran a clothing company. I know he started cooking in their warehouse kitchen, so the workers wouldn’t leave for lunch.

  The story goes, one day a buyer from Harrods came to see their fall clothing collection, but when he walked in, the smell of Dimitri’s cooking was the only thing on his mind. From there, he took him under his wing. Taught him the business, sent him to train with the best chefs in the world then backed his first restaurant in New York, The Baltimore.

  Now, here I sit. Victoria Hart, culinary school defect and line cook at Big Jim’s Steak and Cheese.

  He runs a hand over his mouth as the waiter silently removes the plates and replaces them with our main course: beef short ribs, with something called Pommes Anna and pickled beetroot.

  I’ve never come close to eating a meal like this, except when I cook for myself. And, although again, I’m sure it’s the wine, I feel this connection to Dimitri as we eat and I flirt. Something I wasn’t sure I even knew how to do before tonight.

  “So, what do you do Victoria Hart?”

  I shrug. “Right now, I am going to school. Working part time.” I’m embarrassed to tell him I would give my left breast to work in a place like this. To be involved in his world.

  “What’s your major?” He leans back, calmly waiting for my answer so I blurt it out trying not to sound like a wannabe.

  “I’m in my first year at culinary school. Just community college and I’m a line cook at a diner sort of place. Just trying to figure things out still I guess.”

  He licks his lips, considering my answer and I feel like I can’t breathe.

  We eat a few bites in silence, sipping our wine as my body heats and I can’t believe how good he looks sitting there in that black suit. I’ve never considered it before, how good a suit could look, but right now I don’t think I could be more turned on if he was sitting there naked.

  And I’ve imagined that about a thousand times in the last ninety minutes since I set my eyes on him in the bar.

  He puts his fork down and folds his hands in front of his mouth, leaning in and watching me with those blue eyes that make me feel lightheaded.

  I take another bite, letting the flavors meld in my mouth as he watches and I shift in my seat under the intensity of his gaze. Just as I’m trying to swallow the last of the bite in my mouth, I nearly choke as I feel the brush of his foot against mine under the table.

  Now, I’m almost twenty years old, I’ve thought I’ve found guys or men attractive before in a sort of distant, sure that’s hot but who cares sort of way. But this? A simple brush of a foot under a table and I’m ready to crawl underneath, lick my lips and find my own dessert—where I saw a fairly nice-sized bulge behind the black fabric of those trousers Dimitri is sporting.

  “Are you alright?” He moves his hands from his mouth and from the look in his eyes, I swear there’s a bubble above my head betraying all my less than pure thoughts. Here’s Victoria, currently so aroused she’s about to leave some of her DNA on the fabric of the chair when she leaves.

  I clear my throat. “Yep. I’m good.”

  I manage to get a few bites of food to my mouth without utter humiliation. But after barely a few minutes of eating in comfortable silence, Dimitri’s eyes are on me, his fork down, hands folded in front of his chin.

  “And what do you think of the beef dish?” He is genuinely interested in my opinion, and I wonder if this really is a dream. Dimitri Cossack is asking what I think of his restaurant’s food.

  “Well.” I try to keep my voice low, disinterested. “The beef is cooked to perfection. The potatoes are seasoned well, the beets are surprisingly well balanced with the flavors.”

  “But? Come on, there’s obviously something you want to say.”

  I draw a deep breath, but what the hell, right? He’s asked. “But I think it needs something else to tie it together. A sauce, perhaps.”

  “You think?”

  I shake my head. “No, it does need something. But overall I’d give this dish my seal of approval.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but what I see in his eyes has the temperature in the private dining room climbing. His eyes are like blue flames as he reaches out and takes a slow drink from the wine glass and I swear it’s sexual. The food, the wine, the way his foot is deliberately pressing against mine.

  I think I’m having some kind of fine dining intercourse, and for it being my first time, I gotta say it didn’t even hurt.

  My heart jumps in my chest when he sets the wine glass down and his hand reaches out for mine. I pull my shoulder to my ear, a habit I have when I’m nervous, and look down at where our fingers are now entwined, wondering if this is somehow a joke because shit like this doesn’t happen to girls like me.

  “You’re right. It does need something else. And I need—” Just as he is about to say something else, the glass door opens and our waiter for the evening, Michael, enters, carrying a tray with our dessert.

  We sit in silence as he clears our dishes, then sets the last of our meal in front of us. A delicate strand of white chocolate arched over a thin pastry, layered with salted caramel yogurt, candied capers and a green apple brandy reduction.

  “Anything else I can bring?” Michael looks from me to Dimitri.

  “Not for now. If we require anything further, I will call for you.” Michael nods without another word, his services on hold until otherwise notified.

  The dessert smells amazing, but my mouth is watering for other reasons. I’m intoxicated. From the food, the wine, sure, but most of all from the scent, sight and presence of this man that feels as though he’s tugging at a strand of invisible cord, connected not just to the throbbing between my legs, but also to the thumping of my heart.

  His hand doesn’t leave mine as he brings his other to take the chilled fork that accompanied my dessert plate and gracefully slice off a bite before bringing it to my lips.

  “Open.” His voice is deep and calm, and without a moment of hesitation my mouth is wide as he places the decadent bite between my lips and onto my tongue. I choke back a moan, both from the explosion of flavors as well as the erotic nature of being fed.

  The cool dessert contrasts with the warmth of his hand on mine, and the tension that is pooling in my nether regions has me on the edge of a full-on Scarlett O’Hara fainting spell.

  My breath catches as he feeds me another bite, and I want to scream out things that would make a porn star blush.

  Instead, I nod on a soft moan, trying to pretend there is some blood left flowing to my brain.

  “Wonderfully complex. The candied capers with the savory ricotta and caramel mix intimately with the green apple and yogurt. It’s impossibly brilliant.”

  “You could be writing for Bon Appetit with a review like that.”

  Sure, it’s just...I can’t write. Or, write anything anyone could read.

  “Thanks.” I manage, my breath catching in my throat as thoughts cascade through my mind, thoughts so dark and yet so wonderful they feel as though they are illuminating the darkest and most wondrous corners of parts of me yet unknown.

  Something dark flashes across Dimitri’s expression, making me draw a sharp breath and brace myself for a wave of something that may just drag me out to sea never to be seen again.

  “Victoria.” He starts, and all I can think of is how good he smells and how impossibly perfect his lips are when he says my name. “I’ve wanted to say this for the last hour.”

  He rubs his forehead with two fin
gers just above the bridge of his nose, then squeezes my hand and I brace myself, because what I want him to say, and what I think he is about to say, are having an all out fist-to-cuffs inside my head.

  “What? Did I say something wrong? I mean, the meal was incredible. I don’t know what you know about food, I’m sorry if I sounded arrogant and silly...”

  “No.” He snaps. “You were perfect. Everything...” He withdraws his hand from his face and gives a soft wave toward me, then around the room. “Tonight was perfect. But, I want more, Victoria.”

  His voice thickens on the last few words and there are places in my body tingling I never knew about before tonight.

  This is crazy.

  This is crazy.

  This is...

  “I want more too.” I blurt out, shoving my chair, listening to it topple over onto the floor as I lean across the table, spilling probably eight hundred dollars worth of wine on a table cloth worth more than I make in a week and planting my mouth directly onto Dimitri Dolce Cossacks’ lips.

  Discretion be damned.

  For the first time in my life, I’m taking a chance—even if the odds are most definitely not in my favor.

  4

  Dimitri

  PEOPLE OUTSIDE OF THE restaurant world might find it surprising that on a daily basis, I’m offered more ass than most men could get in a lifetime.

  But I don’t mix business with pleasure, and I’ve become a master at shutting down advances almost before they’re offered. I’m no saint, in my younger years I dated a bit, but building my business and honing my craft always took point over meaningless sex and the sense that I was more a conquest or a prize to be won than anything else.

  I’ve never had a one-night stand. Never slept with a woman on a first date. Never had this sort of driving urge to fill someone with all of me. My balls feel like they weigh ten pounds, drawn up and ready to give her every drop of something I’ve never given another woman.

  I don’t ever remember feeling like this with anyone. When Victoria’s lips met mine, lights of colors I’ve never seen before exploded behind my eyes. I knew there was an instant attraction to her when I saw her come into the restaurant, but what I’m feeling right now is new—and quite frankly, it’s scaring the shit out of me.