Tantalize Part 11

"Hi!" I handed him the bag. "This is going to look stupid on you, but try it anyway. I'm desperate."

He humored me. The traditional chef's hat - white, pleats - made him look too stretchy overall and he'd never clear the hallway ceiling.

I buried my face in my hands, defeated. My uncle had his heart set on Countess Ruby Sanguini.

Brad slipped the hat back into the bag. "How about I give it a shot?" He rapped his knuckles on the top of my head. "Quincie?"

I set my chin on my palms. "Hm?"

"Your uncle is paying a lot of attention to Ruby, but we're a team, right?"

We had been spending a lot of time together.

"You've already laid the groundwork," he said. "Let me do my part."

What was left to lose? Ruby would show up tomorrow looking her usual vampish self anyway, and I was out of ideas. "Okay," I said. "Thanks."

At least someone in my life was cooperative.

"It's settled then. Hungry?"

"Thirsty, but I can eat." And I was curious.

Brad excused himself and returned carrying two menus. Two. Two.

I tried to imagine. Tomorrow morning, the tables would be rearranged. Tomorrow afternoon, staff would arrive to rehea.r.s.e and the dance floor would be installed. Tomorrow night, Sanguini's guests would be seated and served . . . something.

"Prey or predator?" Brad asked at the table.

"Beg your pardon?"

His smile had a confidence I hadn't seen since that first night with the police. "Have you yet been blessed into a vampiric being?"

"No," I said, amused. "Not yet."

He handed me the prey menu. "It's about the dance. Predator and prey. That's what seduction is, dancing."

Was that s.e.xy? I'd give it a C-/D+, like the ones I was getting in all my cla.s.ses back when I bothered to regularly attend. Borderline s.e.xy. "Can I see both?"

He handed me the predator menu, brus.h.i.+ng his long fingers against mine. "I've prepared a tasting for you, a sampling of everything we'll serve."

Setting the menus side by side on the table, I ran my fingertips over the white, pressed leather, traced the gothic-style crimson lettering, and toyed a moment with each of the gold ta.s.sels. Opened both menus.

Oh my G.o.d! To think Brad had talked for hours about ba.n.a.l issues like northern versus southern versus pan-Italian and nixing heavy cream sauces because of the climate.

He touched the tip of his tongue to each of his fangs, then started showing off.

It wasn't like being served dinner so much as being offered tribute. Each pet.i.te selection - two or three bites only - perched on a bone-white china plate.

Time and wine to clean the palate between.

We didn't talk, Brad and I, alone in the dining room. He made offering after offering, and I accepted. He strolled between my table and the kitchen, my wine gla.s.s - Chianti with the prey dishes, Cab with the predator - never less than half full.

"These will make up the whole wine list," Brad mentioned in pa.s.sing. "Nothing else will be offered - no coffee, no tea. We'll serve water only upon request."

The prey menu first, few surprises, a sampling of the best dishes I'd vetted already. The predator menu, more daring, designed to t.i.tillate. Amazing for someone who wasn't even Italian. Even Vaggio would've been wowed.

I refused to be intimidated, though. The veal tartare was exquisitely raw, the foie gras terrine predictable, the main courses - from pig's feet to boar's head pie - a toe-to-top invitation for the eager carnivore, the sides obligatory, but the desserts . . . The desserts were something else and something else, else, at least one of them was. I lingered over the last bite of rice pudding blood cakes. "You're brilliant!" I declared. "Bravo!" at least one of them was. I lingered over the last bite of rice pudding blood cakes. "You're brilliant!" I declared. "Bravo!"

"Ready for the grand finale?" he asked.

I met Brad's eyes, realizing how used to the red contacts I'd become. To me, that's what he looked like. Otherworldly, but rooted in khakis and oxfords. Saucy, but safe. "Bring it on."

Big talk. When the culinary virtuoso returned with the chilled baby squirrel, simmered in orange brandy, bathed in honey cream sauce, I . . .

"Problem?" Brad asked.

It wouldn't taste bad. Everything had been delicious, decadent, and on the predator menu, devilish. The other dishes had been tiny, but on this one, he'd gone all out. Problem was, it still looked like a squirrel. A darling squirrel, skinned and naked, curled like it was trying to keep warm. It was enough to turn a cattle rancher vegan.

"I'm pretty full."

That had sounded neutral enough, I hoped. Not like someone with bile pooling at the base of her throat.

"It's not about volume, not this particular dish. It's about the drama. A certain type of predator will order the squirrels to show that despite the hokey restaurant -"

"Hey!" Though he had a point.

"And cliched counterculture staff, it's just possible -"

"He's a vampire," I finished, impressed. "I get it."

"Or she's a vampire," Brad put in.

I gave him a wry look.

"What?"

"Nothing. Ruby, I guess. She's such a freak."

The fingertip tracing a blue vein in my wrist was light, cool, attentive. It made me wonder how it might feel somewhere else.

"But we're in the freak business," he replied. "Aren't you dressing up?"

Uncle D had mentioned that vamp duds and accessories would be available tomorrow in the break room in case anyone needed to augment their wardrobe. He'd looked at me in my typical blah denim and cotton T as he'd said it, though he wasn't pus.h.i.+ng. "I have to, I guess. It's a huge deal, the party, and we have so many new hires. My uncle's going to need my help."

Brad was still touching me. "You've had to grow up fast."

This was a date, I realized, Brad and me, sitting together in the black leather booth in my otherwise empty restaurant. This time, I didn't feel guilty.

On impulse, I threaded my fingers between Brad's, squeezed, and let go. Unscathed. I wasn't Vaggio's buddy anymore, I realized. Wasn't Uncle D's sidekick. Wasn't Kieren's girl. The honor-roll n.o.body, little orphan Quincie.

I felt adult. In control. Tantalized.

That in mind, I picked up my fork, picked up my knife, swallowed my revulsion, and ate the squirrel.

Delicious.

The afternoon before the debut party, Clyde found me in the break room. I had been quizzing three of the waiters, Xio, Jamal, and Mercedes, on the new menus and explaining to Xio that Brad hadn't seemed inclined to add a whole-wheat pasta dish.

"I've got a delivery for you," the Opossum said, jiggling a bag. "From Kieren."

It was impossible to look at Clyde and not remember him clutching my pink panties. But I took the bag, peeked inside, and smiled in spite of myself.

It was a plastic container filled with habanera-stuffed olives, like Vaggio used to make. I guessed Kieren had turned to his mama's favorite caterer. I slipped into the chaotic kitchen, stashed the olives in the fridge. Brad wasn't in there at the moment, which was unusual, but he was around somewhere.

After much internal debate, I decided it was only polite to call. Taking a gla.s.s of Cabernet with me, I went back into the break room, where the servers were doing the happy dance over their mental brilliance. Then I went into Uncle D's office instead.

"Hi."

"Hi," Kieren answered, his phone voice cautious.

When did this become so hard? "I wanted to say thanks for the olives."

"You're welcome."

I took a sip. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Kieren replied. "I just got back from the police station. More questions. The same questions over and over."

The police hadn't called me back in. I remembered what Brad had said about a pending arrest. "Detective Sanchez?"

"Who?" He paused. "No, it was Bartok and Matthews, the ones who came to Vaggio's memorial service. You know, who questioned us the night he died."

"What do they want?" I asked.

"I don't know. Matthews said something about running my DNA -"

"Can they do that?"

"My lawyer says he'll try to fight it, but that's our worst-case scenario."

When did Kieren get a lawyer? I wondered, putting down my gla.s.s.

"They don't want me hanging around the restaurant," he added, "what with the cops and everything."

Who were "they"? His parents?

"But I'm going to try to sneak out later tonight, okay?"

His parents. Jesus. What should I say? "Okay. Um, is there anything else you want to tell me?" I wasn't about to use the word "confess."

"Like what?" Kieren asked.

I closed my eyes. "Nothing."

He hung up, and so did I.

It was then that I remembered the hang-up phone call on the night of Vaggio's death. I guessed I'd been so traumatized it had slipped my mind before now. I realized that anyone familiar with the restaurant redesign would know the phones were in the foyer, the break room, and the office. They'd know that at least for the moment of the call I hadn't been in the kitchen. If it was Vaggio's murderer, maybe he'd seen an opening, taken a chance on entering through the back door while I was elsewhere in the building.

It might be nothing, I realized, but I should probably tell the police.

I decided to talk to Uncle D first, though, when we had a moment. After all, if Kieren needed a lawyer, maybe I did, too. The list of people who'd seen the inside of Sanguini's up to that point was a short one. Outside of my family, just Kieren, the renovation folks, and some delivery people. I lifted my gla.s.s and drank deeply.

Speaking of deliveries, as if life didn't suck enough, a beefy guy - the name sewn onto his s.h.i.+rt read "Sid" - appeared at the office door looking for a manager to accept responsibility for a fortune in wine. "He's not here." Uncle D had left a few minutes ago to pick up more napkins. "But Davidson Morris is my uncle. I can sign."

"There's nothing here about leaving all this with some underage . . . niece."

He'd said it as though my familial claim was suspicious, eyeing my drink.

"Whatever you say," I replied. "Go ask for Sebastian at the bar."

"I don't know," Sid said. Like he was going to leave and take the wine with him.

I stood, slamming my gla.s.s onto the desk, breaking it at the stem. "d.a.m.n!" The top rolled off, exploding as it hit stained concrete. "d.a.m.n it!"

"Quincie?" Brad asked, hurrying through the door to my side. "Are you hurt?"

"I . . . no, I'm . . . He He won't leave the wine." won't leave the wine."

Brad introduced himself to Sid as the head chef and signed on the clipboard.

"Babes in Toyland," Sid muttered, wandering out. Sid muttered, wandering out.