Free Guilty Pleasures by Manuela Cardiga Page A

grand piano filled the rest of the room.
    “Here! The third box down. It reads Caligula’s Genitalia. That’s where the purple cushions should be.”
    Huffing and puffing while balancing one tottering box against his shoulder, Lance managed to get the box without toppling anything on his head. “Mission accomplished, Boss.”
    “Right. Let’s get it back to the salon, and you can go see if Serge’s calmed down.”
    Together they scattered the purple satin and velvet cushions onto the zebra armchairs and the chaise longue .  
    “Wow!” Lance exclaimed. “It looks great!”  
    Millie moved to a discreet unit in one corner and summoned the cool sounds of a bossa nova. She nodded in satisfaction. “Great for the mood.”
    Lance grinned. “Great to dance to, too!” He swept his arm around her waist and spun her into a dramatic dip.  
    Millie gasped, and her cheeks flushed. She gripped his shoulder while he held her suspended with her back arched over his arm. “Will!” She teetered unsteadily onto her heels, clung precariously to his shoulders for long seconds, and stumbled back.  
    Lance smiled and gently steadied her, his hands on her waist. “Careful there, Boss!”  
    “Well, that’s that . . . um . . . I’ll dash out now.” Millie looked around her in flustered confusion. “Music, lights . . . all done. I’ll be back at six this evening to do final touches and shazam! Magic hour.” Millie glanced at him again suspiciously, and took a few steps backward toward the door. She nodded sharply and scurried off.
    Left in full command of the battle ground, Lance grinned. He glanced around one last time. He loved it. Every part of it appealed to the sensualist in him.  
    She appealed to him. He could still feel the tremulous warmth of her in his arms, her scent a mix of flowers and spices, and the slippery satin of her skin under his hands. He drew a deep breath to clear his mind and pushed through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

    Serge was pouring the frothy yeast mixture into the silky-fine flour when Lance walked in. “Go clean up. It’s time you got your hands dirty.”
    After watching Serge pound the dough into submission, Lance finally got his hand in. The dough was smooth and warm to the touch, with the yielding elasticity of skin. He found himself grinning. It reminded him of Millie’s skin.
    “Feels good, doesn’t it? Nothing like live dough. It’s like a lover’s flesh. Smells delicious.” Serge nodded at several large metal trays. “Butter those up and dust flour on them, then we can pop these babies in.”
    Thoughtfully, Serge ran through the to-do list. “Okay . . . Quadruple Cheeseburger with Double-fried Chips, check. A Three-sauce Deep Dish Pizza with Hot Sausage, check. Fried Bacon, Banana and Peanut Butter Sandwiches, last minute item. Great Dane Hot Dogs with relish and mustard, last minute item—as are Chili dogs and Nachos with refried beans and melted cheese . . .”
    Good God! Lance shuddered. What was this? A glutton’s suicide pact? There are enough lethal combinations on this menu to kill a regiment. He nearly gagged as Serge ticked off the rest of the menu.
    “For desserts we have Sourdough Pancakes with Maple syrup and Blueberries, Black Forest Cherry Cake with liquid truffle sauce; Strawberry Cheesecake, and last but not least, Crème-Caramel Banana Split.” Serge relaxed. “It’s all organised. All that’s left is the last-minute cooking, and presentation work. We did good.” He broke open a still-warm roll and slathered it with butter.
    Lance winced at the sight of pure unadulterated animal fat melting into the bread.
    “Here, try this out. I’ll go get a jar of peach preserves and some chèvre.” Serge poured sparkling white wine into two wine glasses. “Cook’s privilege, my boy. These are the best meals you’ll ever have. Nothing tastes as good.”
    Lance picked up the buttered roll gingerly and sniffed at it suspiciously.