And she wouldn’t, not for a while. Just now, she didn’t want to think about sex, not even the do-it-yourself variety.
What mattered was that one of the Wilde jets was waiting.
After that, sink or swim, she was on her own.
* * *
Once in L.A., she didn’t bother going to her apartment.
The old saying was true. The time to strike was while the iron was hot and, dammit, she was hot. She did make one quick stop at a store she’d passed a couple of times on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Then she headed for Raoul’s.
The restaurant was almost empty. She’d figured on that; this was the standard restaurant lull between late lunch and the early dinner hour.
“Hi,” she said to the maître d’, and breezed past him.
“Lissa,” he said, “wait—”
But she had waited too long already.
She moved quickly, through the dining room to the kitchen, past the cooks who looked up from dinner prep and blinked with surprise, through the door that led to the basement, down a short hall and straight to Raoul’s office.
His door opened before she reached it. Evidently, the maître d’ had called to tell him that she was coming.
Raoul’s handsome face was drawn up in a dark scowl.
“I would have thought you would have more sense than to show up here again, Wilde.”
Lissa smiled as she shut the door. “You mean, you thought you’d scared me off.”
“Get out, or I’ll call the police.”
“To do what? Protect you from me? You’re, what, six feet tall? I’m five four on a good day.” She held out her hands. “I’m not even armed, see? No knives. No fish stock.”
Raoul reddened and reached for the house phone.
“John? Come down to my office, please.” He hung up and looked at Lissa. “If you’re going to beg me for a recommendation…”
“A recommendation as what? As the chef who established this restaurant? Designed the kitchen, hired the staff, planned the menu, chose everything from your suppliers to the cutlery to the dishes?”
An unctuous smile curled over his lips. “Prove it,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Or are you going to recommend
me for the blow job I didn’t give you? Dammit, I wish I had a picture of you standing there with your fly open, your pathetic weeny weenie hanging out while you told me to get down on my knees and be quick about it.”
His smile fled.
“You should have dropped to your knees like a stone. Being made executive chef at a restaurant like this was worth whatever price I chose to put on it.”
“Including fellating you.”
“Absolutely including fellating me,” he said coldly. “You owed me, big-time, for giving you a break like this. Now, if you’re done…” Someone knocked at the door. Raoul moved past her and opened it. “John is here to show you out.”
The maître d’, looking uncomfortable, stepped into the office.
“Sorry, Lissa, but we all know how it is, that you buckled on opening night and Raoul had to fire you and—”