Taste Page 14

  Shirts were not required for this conversation.

  “You want something to eat?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I want you to talk.”

  He sighed.

  “Why do you keep getting this look… this angry, shadowed look, whenever I say anything about your plan?”

  He scrubbed hand over his face. “Elle…”

  “Just say it, Spencer. I’m a big girl.”

  “The threat to your life isn’t going to just go away when everyone thinks the president is dead.” He rushed the words out like he couldn’t bear to speak them.

  “But he said…” My voice trailed away.

  “He lied, darlin’. That’s what murderers do.”

  I felt stupid. Of course he lied. What kind of person actually believed if I did what he said he wouldn’t kill me?

  Me.

  I thought that.

  Or maybe I was just in denial.

  But now that I thought about it, I knew how ridiculous it was. Of course they wouldn’t leave me alive. I was a witness. Someone who could put them away.

  “They’re going to kill me to keep me from talking,” I echoed.

  Spencer stepped closer. “They’re going to try.”

  “And Jack?” I asked, hoarse.

  “He’s just a kid. I don’t think they care about him. He’s just a bargaining chip to make you do what they want.”

  “Who would leave a little boy without parents?” I asked, horrified.

  He tried to hug me, but I pushed him away. I didn’t need comforted right now. I needed this to be over.

  “You have protection, Elle,” Spencer said. “The Secret Service isn’t just going to let these assholes get to you.”

  “But what if they do?”

  He swore. I knew he hated this. The way he felt radiated off his body. It soaked the room with frustration. I hated it, too. But I also realized it was an advantage.

  “That’s how we can get them,” I said.

  His eyes snapped up. “What?”

  “When they come to kill me. You can take them into custody then.”

  “No,” he said, flat.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not using you as bait.”

  “I already am bait.”

  He began pacing the room. “No,” he said again.

  I opened my mouth to argue. To tell him he wasn’t my mother and couldn’t just tell me no.

  He stopped, held up his hand. “Remember how I said when I moved here, I wanted something that felt permanent. Something that felt like home?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been chasing that feeling most of my adult life, Elle. I bought this place, I painted the walls, redid the floors. I filled it with nice, comfortable furniture and got the address on my driver’s license. I made this place somewhere I never had to move from.”

  “I understand that, Spence.”

  “No,” he said, cutting me off. “I don’t think you do.”

  I didn’t argue with him. If he said I didn’t understand, then I didn’t. I wouldn’t want someone telling me how I did and did not feel, and I wouldn’t do that to him. I’d let him tell me.

  “The truth is it didn’t matter what I did here. This place… it never felt like home.”

  He ran a hand over his head, and the damp strands of his hair stuck out randomly with the movement. It made him look vulnerable and endearing all at once.

  Spencer looked up. His eyes were sincere. “You feel like home to me.”

  His words seared me, branded me, claimed me.

  “I thought a home was furniture and paint. I thought it was an address you didn’t have to leave. Maybe for some people, it is. But not for me. You’re it for me. You can’t ask me to put that in jeopardy. I will not put you in jeopardy.”

  There was nothing.

  Nothing I could say that would ever be more beautiful than that.

  Nothing I could say to change his mind. In fact, after that, I didn’t want to change his mind. For the first time in my life, I was seeing myself through someone else’s eyes… and it was amazing.

  “Okay,” I said. It was lame and stupid, but I had no clue what else to say.

  “Yeah?” he asked. Vulnerability shone in his eyes.

  It was a new look for him.

  I closed the distance between us, slipping my hands around his tight, narrow waist. “Did you really think I could say anything else?”

  He grinned crookedly. “I hoped not. That was the best I got.”

  “Thank you, Spence,” I whispered, tipping my head back to look up.

  “For what?” he asked, his brows drawing down.

  “For coming home.”

  He kissed me slowly. The strokes of his tongue went deep. His full lips were lazy in their exploration, and he nibbled at my lips gently, enticing me to melt against him completely. When I began to feel dizzy from his intoxication, Spencer lifted me and spun. My back went against the wall and my legs wrapped around his waist. He smiled and kept kissing as I plowed my fingers through the damp strands of his hair.

  “You’re going to stay here,” he said, lifting his head. “With me, until this is over.”

  “But that will look suspicious,” I protested, resting the back of my head against the wall. “Whoever this is will think I told you.”

  “Let him.” He shrugged. “If he really is on the inside, he already knows anyway.”

  I really didn’t want to stay at my place anyway. “I guess it will give me time to fix the window.”

  A slow smile spread across his face.

  “But don’t get any ideas. As soon as Jack comes home, I’m going back to my place.”

  “Fine. I’ll stay with you.” He dipped his head to kiss me again, but I turned my cheek.

  “I will not be parading men in and out of my house in front of my son.”

  “Not men. Just me,” he countered.

  “I’m serious, Spencer,” I said, pinning him with a stare. He realized I was being serious and this was important to me. “I can’t let you be there all the time. It will confuse him…”

  “Can I sneak in when he’s in bed?” he asked.

  Clearly, he was good at compromise.

  Or maybe I just really, really liked him.

  “That could be arranged.”

  He dipped his head to kiss me again. I turned away, again.

  He groaned.

  “You understand, right?” I worried. Now that I knew Spencer was going to be in my life, I felt this sense of urgency to make him understand that I had to put Jack’s needs before my own.

  “I understand, darlin’,” he drawled. “You’re just doing right by him. I respect that.”

  “You aren’t mad?”

  “I will be if you don’t kiss me.”

  I kissed him.

  Not once, but twice.

  After we’d fixed a couple of fast sandwiches in just the glow of the light from the fridge, we climbed in the giant bed in his room. My limbs were tangled around his, my cheek pillowed on his chest as the sound of his silent breathing filled my ears.

  I couldn’t sleep. Not because I didn’t feel safe and not because I wasn’t in my own bed. I couldn’t help but think about what Spencer said. How he refused to use me as bait.

  I wondered if he would have a choice.

  20

  Being back in the kitchen felt good. I was in my element here. The sound of meat searing in a pan, the process of chopping fresh vegetables for a perfectly seasoned medley, and the usual chaos of the kitchen environment were all music to my ears.

  Most creative types were thought of as singers, writers, painters. But I was an artist in my own right. I designed dishes that not only pleased the eye, but the palate as well.

  One of the reasons I liked cooking so much was because I didn’t have to play by the rules. Sure, there was always a recipe to follow. But I could add a dash of this and a dash of that and experiment. Sometimes the results were awesome, and some
times they were horrible. But it was okay. I could always dump out the awful and try again.

  I also loved to watch other people enjoy the food I made. It was like serving them a little piece of myself and them loving it. It gave me a deep satisfaction to know I was good at something, something I worked so hard for.

  The last couple years hadn’t been easy—going to school, holding down sometimes two jobs at a time. I worked in kitchens all over D.C. I waited tables. I washed dishes. I did every job there was to have in a kitchen. When I was pregnant with Jack, I had horrible morning sickness and the sight of food made me want to puke all the time.

  But I made it through.

  I prepared the dishes. I experimented with new flavors and menus. I earned a reputation for being a young master with cuisine.

  When I got a callback for the position here at the White House, I was stunned. Working for the first family was a high honor, and being considered at such a young age was even better. I worked a lot of long hours those first couple months. I had to prove myself. I had to earn the respect of the others in the kitchen.

  I sacrificed some time with Jack, a lot of sleep, and my entire social life. In the end, it was worth it. I got to do what I loved and make good money doing it. Yeah, the hours were long, but not so long that I still didn’t have time with my son.

  I missed him.

  I missed him every second of every day. I wondered where he was, who he was with. I wondered if he missed me, if he was confused. I wondered if he would look bigger when I saw him again.

  And I would see him again.

  I hadn’t worked this hard, swam uphill for this long, to lose it all now.

  I was nervous about the plan. Some of the details were still being worked out. Very, very few people were being told about this information. Spencer and I barely saw each other during the day. Not like before. He was usually shut up in Walsh’s office, making plans and going over everything a million times.

  I missed him, too. Yeah, I saw him daily. I spent my nights in his bed. I can’t say we got much sleep, but when Spence was around, it wasn’t sleep I wanted. My body tingled just thinking about him, and I forced my thoughts away from the bedroom and focused on what I was doing.

  Making cookies. Chocolate chip.

  The jar needed refilling, and well, if I was totally honest, I hoped Spencer might somehow sense I was making his favorite and come snooping around to steal one.

  As I was sliding the last few cookies off a baking sheet and onto the cooling rack, voices drew closer, one that wasn’t familiar to the kitchen staff, so I glanced up.

  The vice president’s aide was walking through the kitchen, discussing something with the manager. Both of them had their heads bent over a clipboard and were discussing whatever was on the paper.

  As they walked by the island I was working at, Mr. Caroway stopped and smiled. “Elle!” he said. “Those smell divine!”

  He was wearing an expensive three-piece suit in navy blue with a gold tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back away from his face, making him appear sophisticated.

  “Thank you, Mr. Caroway. Please, help yourself.”

  He snatched one up off the counter and bit into it. Melty chocolate clung to his lips as he chewed. Sounds of appreciation came from his throat as he took another bite. “Best cookie I’ve ever had,” he said.

  I laughed. “Thank you.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of my cooking. When I first started back in the kitchen, I was afraid everyone would react like Langdon and not want to eat anything I touched. So far, no one said or did anything that made me think they were suspicious. In fact, it seemed no one knew about what was going on at all. The Secret Service was clearly very good at keeping secrets.

  “We were just going over the menu for the big dinner coming up,” he said, motioning toward the kitchen manager.

  “I hope everything is to the vice president’s liking,” I said.

  “Oh yes, everything looks wonderful.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said, pushing another cookie in his direction.

  He grinned and picked it up.

  “Elle is the one who created the menu for the dinner,” the manager told Mr. Caroway.

  “Is that so?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yep. I plan almost all the dinner party menus here.”

  “Well, if the rest of the dishes at the dinner are as good as these cookies, then I declare the night will be a great success!”

  “Do you mind if I take just one more?” he asked, reaching for another cookie.

  “As long as you leave me some,” Spencer said, stepping into the kitchen. I couldn’t stop the grin from splitting my face. He reached out to shake Mr. Caroway’s hand and winked at me over the man’s shoulder.

  “How’s it hanging, Felix?” Spencer asked.

  “Buried under paperwork,” Mr. Caroway replied. “Figured I deserved a cookie break.”

  “I like your way of thinking,” Spencer said, shoving an entire cookie in his mouth.

  I shook my head. You’d think he’d use his manners.

  “Well, I better get back to it,” Felix said. The kitchen manager inclined her head. “I look forward to sampling the menu,” he told me before turning away to leave.

  When he was gone, Spencer looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You sharing my cookies with other people?” he asked, coming around to my side of the island.

  I laughed. “I didn’t know they were exclusively yours.”

  He caught me around the waist and towed me in to him. “Oh, they’re exclusive,” he murmured. “The only man reaching his hand in this cookie jar is me.”

  He made a growling sound and kissed me swiftly. Then he shoved another cookie into his mouth.

  “I knew making these would get you in here,” I said, amused.

  “You miss me?” He smiled.

  “Maybe.” I sniffed.

  “I miss you, too.”

  He caught me around the waist again and pulled me close. “It’s almost over,” he whispered against my ear.

  Nerves bunched in my belly, but I forced them down. The plan was in place. We were going through with it. I wanted my son to come home.

  “I miss Jack,” I said quietly.

  “I know, darlin’,” Spencer said. “He’s doing good. I promise.”

  “Can’t I just talk to him?” I asked. It wasn’t the first time.

  He groaned. “You know how hard it is to say no to you?”

  “You could say yes.” I tried.

  Spencer grabbed me by the waist. “Give me two days. Three tops.”

  The dignitary dinner was the day after tomorrow.

  “You really think things will move that fast after…?” I kept my voice low.

  Someone walked by and Spencer covered up our conversation by kissing me. Apparently, PDA was a good way to look inconspicuous.

  I heard some muffled giggles fading, and Spencer pulled away. As usual, he dropped a quick second kiss to my lips. “Thanks for the cookies, babe.”

  He shoved another in his mouth and picked up at least four more.

  I knew our conversation was over. We weren’t supposed to be talking about anything here anyway.

  “Elle.” The kitchen manager appeared. “Could we go over some last-minute changes and additions to this menu?” She held up her clipboard.

  “Of course,” I replied. “Mr. Caroway requested changes?”

  “On behalf of Vice President Snyder.”

  I gave Spencer a small smile and he winked. “Catch ya later,” he said.

  “Bye,” I called, going back to work.

  As the changes were outlined to me (they were fairly minor and easy to accommodate), this odd feeling came over me. Sort of like a terrible foreboding, like my subconscious was trying to tell me something.

  But how could it tell me something it didn’t really know?

  It couldn’t.

&
nbsp; I just hoped by the time I figured it out, it wouldn’t be too late.

  21

  By the evening of the dinner, I was strung out. My nerves were frayed, and I just wanted this to be over, one way or another. It seemed like the anticipation of this situation was turning out to be far worse than the actual act.

  I hoped anyway.

  Spencer seemed distracted, going through profiles of the White House employees over and over again. They added extra secret security to the event and were disguising them as guests. He told me not to worry.

  I worried anyway.

  Thankfully, I couldn’t stress too much because I was too busy in the kitchen. Preparing a sit-down dinner for a ton of people required most of my attention.

  The main course was comprised of rack of roasted lamb, roasted garlic asparagus, and creamy chive mashed potatoes. Before the main course, we were serving chilled melon soup and a mixed green salad with homemade balsamic vinaigrette. There were crusty French rolls in the warming drawer, freshly whipped sweet butter, and tons of wine.

  For dessert, we chose to serve something light, strawberry granita with mint and shortbread cookies.

  Very few people knew about what was going to happen tonight. Me, Spencer, Walsh, and two other Secret Service members. I was supposed to “poison” the president with dessert.

  That meant I had to sweat the entire dinner, waiting.

  These dinners were not short affairs. They lasted for hours. I understood they were necessary and part of the political world, but my God, they were boring.

  As the chef, I needed to be present in case issues came up with the food, adjustments needed to be made, etc. So it wasn’t unusual for me to be here in the kitchen during the dinner.

  I hadn’t heard from the men who were threatening me since the night at my apartment. But I didn’t need to see them to feel the threat hanging over my head. There was a clock inside me, ticking… reminding me that tonight was my deadline.

  Please let this work, I prayed for the millionth time.

  Spencer was here, too, but I didn’t see him. He was doing his job and I was doing mine.

  When dessert finally came around, my entire body ached from my muscles being so tight. I was only too glad to prepare the president’s dish and carry it, by hand, out to the server. “This is the president’s,” I told her.