Secret Attraction

“Will do.” The door swung closed behind him.

Spence dipped a spoon into the sauce and took a small taste. His dark chocolate eyes momentarily closed in instant euphoria. “Peter,” he called out with a lift of his cleft chin, peering across the rows of stainless-steel preparation tables, simmering pots and sizzling skillets. “Take over from here.” He wiped his hands on his pristine white apron and began his preinspection of the menu.

As owner and executive chef of Bottoms Up, one of Baton Rouge’s swankiest supper clubs, he was ultimately responsible for each and every thing that happened in his establishment, from the decor to the dessert. His goal was to make each experience for his guests an unforgettable one. Bottoms Up, since its opening five years earlier, had consistently been listed as a must-see destination in restaurant and entertainment magazines. For weekend seating, reservations often had to be made weeks in advance, and when major performers appeared, which was often, the club was packed from front to back.

Spence’s skills in the kitchen were so renowned that he had been offered his own cooking show on more than one occasion and had done a stint on Beyond Top Chefs as one of the celebrated judges.

Much of his notoriety he could attribute to his longtime relationship with Dominique Lawson, who made certain that all her well-connected friends and her father’s associates made it a point of wining and dining at Bottoms Up.

They’d been close for years, and when he’d grown tired of working for someone else and decided to pursue his dream of opening his own supper club, Dominique was behind him, pushing him along on those days when he didn’t think it would work out. She’d even gone so far as to cosign the bank loan, and tossed in some extra cash to cover a few unexpected expenses which he’d since repaid. Even though she insisted that she didn’t want it, Spence refused to be in debt to anyone, even to Dominique, who although was wealthy had her own money management issues due to impulsive spending.

Tonight’s special was seared sea bass, hence the special sauce. He’d been offered money more times than he could count in exchange for sharing the ingredients with the world. He always teased the interviewers, saying that the secret was in the whisk.

He lifted pot covers, checked the refrigerators and pantries. Satisfied that his staff had everything under control, he went up front. Less than three hours remained before the dinner crowd would begin to arrive, and with Harry Connick, Jr., as the guest performer he would not leave anything to chance.

Michelle was just signing off on the shipment when Spence walked into the main dining room. She was giving instructions to one of the staff about the glassware.

Michelle Davis was a transplant from New York who had attended college in Louisiana and had never gone back home. They’d met while he was head chef at what was now his competitor’s restaurant. She was the general manager. After a few drinks and a long night they fell into an on-again, off-again relationship, no strings, no commitment. An agreement that suited them both very well.

When Spence opened Bottoms Up, Michelle asked to work for him, and together they turned it into a showplace. Michelle’s eye for layout and detail, along with her impeccable management skills, allowed Spence to breathe easy. Their sporadic relationship came to a mutual end when Michelle came to work at Bottoms Up.

Michelle tucked the inventory sheet into a folder on her clipboard just as Spence approached.

“Everything in order?”

She pressed the clipboard to her chest. Her brandy-toned eyes sparkled with excitement behind her designer frames. “The glasses are more exquisite than when we first picked them out.”

“You mean when you picked them out.”

Her sandy-brown face heated from beneath, giving it a toasted glow. “It would have been a joint effort if you had come shopping.”

“You stick to shopping and running the club and I’ll stick to cooking.”

“Speaking of running the club.” She lowered the clipboard and tucked a stray lock of shimmering auburn hair behind her ears. “The phone has been ringing off the hook for tonight’s show. Nichole has had to turn folks down all morning. We may need to get extra security.”

Spence nodded. “You’re right. No sense in leaving things to chance. I’ll take care of it. Anything else?”

“I think that covers it for now.”

“Great. I’ll make those calls.”

“Oh, Spence …”

He stopped and turned. A thick, silky black brow rose in question.

“Is Dominique coming tonight?”

He caught the edge in her voice, but being a wise man, he chose to ignore it.

“If she does, she’ll take her usual table.”

She gave a short nod and went in search of the maître d’.

Spence walked away. He didn’t know what it was with women. They had this sixth sense or something. The thing between him and Michelle was long over, even if they often teased each other about “the times we had.” Yet anytime a woman came within sniffing distance of him, Michelle would get all … He didn’t even know what to call it. And Dominique was often the same but for different reasons. Her rationale for the arched brow and tight lips when he introduced one of his dates was that she was only trying to look out for him. “Women can be quite cunning,” she’d warn him, as if he didn’t know. The two of them in the same space was like watching two panthers scope each other out. It was all very sleek and polite but potentially dangerous.

What he did hope, barring everything else, was that Desiree would come along with her sister, if the unpredictable Dominique decided to show up.

It had been a while since he’d seen Desiree. The few times that he’d stopped by the Lawson mansion with Dominique, Desiree had been out, and it had been months since she’d come to Bottoms Up for dinner.

Even though there was no doubt that Dominique and Desiree were identical twins, they were as different as night and day. Dominique was the storm. Desiree was the calm that followed. Although he and Dominique were never a couple—although they’d come really close—he often wondered how things would be if he’d met Desiree first.

For the moment he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He had a big night ahead.

“How about I get you a date, Desi?” Dominique said as they sat on the pool deck, soaking in the last of the sun.

“I don’t want you to get me a date. How about that?”

Dominique twisted around in the chair to look at her sister. “Why not?”

Desiree lifted her sunglasses from the bridge of her pert nose and glared at her twin. “Because I don’t need you to get me a date. If I wanted one, I would have one,” she said, struggling to control her temper. Patrice, her sister … everywhere she looked someone was trying to hook her up with somebody, as if she was some sort of hopeless spinster. Their older sister, Lee Ann, used to be able to run interference, but since her marriage and relocation to Washington with her husband, Desiree had been left on her own to fight off the onslaught.

“Look, I just want you to be happy.”

“What makes you think I’m not happy?”

Dominique’s confusion drew her thin brows together. “How can you be? I mean … women have needs, too, Desi,” she said, lowering her voice as if someone else could hear.

The rims of Desiree’s ears burned. She turned away. Dominique always knew what buttons to push intentionally or otherwise. She could count on one hand and still not reach five, the number of men she’d had in her bed—or whose bed she had been in. Dominique, however, was another story. She was the female version of their very notorious playboy brother, Rafe. Dominique changed men and relationships like nail polish. They were varied and often.

Dominique reached out and placed her hand on Desiree’s arm. “I’m not saying that you’re not happy …. It’s just that I want you to have someone in your life … to look out for you, take you on great vacations, hot dates, massage your feet.” She grinned and so did Desiree.

“I want those things, too, Dom, when the time and the person are right. These two things haven’t lined up for me yet. But they will.” She hoped but didn’t say.

Dominique sighed. “Well, at least meet some of my friends.”

“I know all of your friends,” Desiree said drolly.

Dominique made a face, then suddenly brightened. “Hey, what about a dating service!”

Desiree held up her hand. “Oh, hell, no.”

“Why not? Cyberdating, speed dating and all those blind dates are the rage.” She leaned close. “I’ve done them all.”

Desiree’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

Dominique shook her head. “Nope. And it’s a blast.” She reached for her frosted glass of mango juice and took a sip.

Desiree thought about it. Blind dates, speed dating, internet dating. What happened to dating the old-fashioned way? “Okay,” she finally said on a breath.