The Missing Ingredient Read online

  “I really do like that shirt on you, Marcus. Is it cotton?”

  “Egyptian cotton,” said Marcus absently.

  “Looks comfortable. Mind if I…?” Tom held a hand out as if waiting for permission to touch the material.

  “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  Tom reached across the distance and pinched the material beneath Marcus’s collar between his thumb and forefinger.

  “This Indian tailor round the back of Edgware Road makes them for me. Has done for a couple of years. If you want, I can—”

  When Marcus raised his eyes to meet Tom’s, all thoughts left him, the dark heat in that gaze blistering. A sudden memory came back, of Tom sitting on the garden rug, staring angrily at him. Except it had not been anger at all but lust. Instinctively he inhaled a deep breath as Tom fisted the shirt and pulled Marcus out of his chair toward him. Even as Tom brought their mouths together, Marcus hesitated, fully expecting him to recoil, to reevaluate in disgust what he had initiated. But the moment never came. Closemouthed lips pressed onto Marcus’s own—firm, urgent, yet still a little unsure. And then, a second later, the essence of Tom Bradford hit Marcus hard, spicy aftershave mixed with Tom’s natural body scent and heat, so masculine, intoxicating and addictive. Instinctively Marcus’s arms found their way around Tom’s neck and he stepped into the man’s body, molding himself into the embrace. When he pushed his tongue between Tom’s lips, forcing them to part, Marcus took control of the kiss, touching, stroking, exploring, snaking his own tongue around Tom’s. In response, Tom shuddered and released a deep moan, before lifting Marcus off the floor and walking him backward until he had him pinned up against the fridge door. Breathless, Marcus pulled his mouth away.

  “Well. That’s one mystery solved,” whispered Tom as he lowered Marcus back to earth, his lips tickling Marcus’s ear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wondered if my attraction to you was all in my head” came Tom’s husky voice before he thrust his substantial rock-hard groin into Marcus’s own arousal. “Apparently not.”

  Once again Tom sought out Marcus’s mouth, more emboldened and self-assured. This time, however, Tom smoothed his palms around Marcus’s back, grasping his backside, while he moved his mouth along the line of Marcus’s jaw, nipping slowly as he went. Marcus took the opportunity to lift out Tom’s shirttails and push his hands up into Tom’s chest. Firm, hot stomach muscles gave way to solid pectorals with aroused nipples. When Tom gasped, Marcus almost came where he stood.

  “Stay the night,” Tom whispered urgently.

  “Tom, I can’t. We—it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Shit,” said Tom, dropping his head on Marcus’s shoulder and releasing his hold. “I’ve misread things, haven’t I?”

  “What? No!” said Marcus, pulling Tom’s head back and kissing him deeply. Once he felt Tom’s arms around him again, sensed him relax a little, Marcus brought their gazes together. “Tom, there is nothing in the world I would like more than to spend the night with you. And believe me, if it were only the two of us in the house right now, I’d be ripping your clothes off.”

  Still confused, Tom followed Marcus’s gaze to the rising stairwell. With a soft sigh and a shake of the head, comprehension dawned on him like an avalanche. “You see? This is why I need you around. My common sense guru.”

  “Wouldn’t be fair on the girls. In case they woke during the night.”

  But the idea had lodged firmly in Tom’s head, and he was not letting up. “How about tomorrow? Monday’s your day off, and I’m sure I can get a few hours away in the afternoon—”

  “I’m in Birmingham until Thursday afternoon, remember? And you’ve got the girls Thursday night. Friday night you’re seeing Brenner and his chums for the UEFA game on the big screen down the Castle. And then Saturday—”

  “Fuck Brenner and his chums.”

  “I’d rather not, if that’s all right by you.”

  But Tom’s gaze shone hotly, and he didn’t even acknowledge the quip. “Friday night. I’ll ask Mum if the girls can stop over. We’ve got the barbecue in their back garden the next day. Please tell me you’re free.”

  Marcus beamed at the eagerness of Tom’s plea. Friday nights remained the busiest night of the week in both restaurants. He’d purposely planned to be back in London on Thursday so that he could be in the kitchen on Friday. But as a precaution, he had also asked both chefs to make arrangements for Friday and Saturday nights in case the deal in Birmingham dragged on. And this was not an opportunity he wanted to pass up.

  “I’ll make sure I am. But not here, Tom. Come to my place. I’ll cook a TV dinner. And after we’ve watched the game on my hundred-inch flat-screen, I will lead you to my bedroom and teach you some of the ways of the dark side. As long as you promise to stay the night. How does that sound?”

  Instead of replying, Tom lowered his grinning lips again onto Marcus’s but kissed less urgently this time, his tongue gently exploring Marcus’s mouth, his body still crushing rhythmically against Marcus, causing bottles to clink softly in the fridge behind him. Then Tom transferred his attention to Marcus’s ears, and his hungry mouth started flicking hotly around his left lobe and then nipping gently at his neck. Just as Marcus had made up his mind that he would give Tom the best blow job of his life, a voice sounded faintly from abovestairs again.

  “Daddy.”

  “You need to let me go now, Tom,” said Marcus, twisting out of Tom’s reach and heading for the front door.

  “Friday,” said Tom. “What time?”

  “How does seven sound?”

  “Perfect. Prepare to have your world rocked, Mr. Vine.”

  Little could he know, but those words would echo around Marcus’s head for the whole of the following week.

  Chapter Eleven

  ELEVEN thirty Wednesday night, Marcus lay on top of the thick cotton quilt in his hotel room in Birmingham, mulling over the lease signing meeting, which had gone so much better than expected. As usual, a lot of the negotiation points had been complicated, but since the opening of Shepherd’s Bush three years ago, he surprised himself at how much he now understood. Nevertheless, that kind of detail bored him—Marcus preferred to be holed up in the kitchen, playing with knives and fire and creating magic.

  Which was one of the reasons he had excused himself to use the washroom on Tuesday during a particularly long and arduous debate on renewal clauses. Wandering the corridors of the large law firm, he had tried one door after another until he had stumbled upon a fully kitted-out kitchen. Inside, one of the suits from the firm, taking a break to use the snazzy Italian coffee machine, had explained that the kitchen was only ever really used for firm functions. After getting directions to the toilets from the guy, and then having a quick snoop around the surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, he had found his way to the restroom. And as he had pulled out his phone to check messages, the small piece of paper Daniel had given him fell out of his pocket. On impulse, he’d decided to give the number a ring.

  “Brackley Moor Manor House. How may I help you?”

  “Yes, hello. May I speak to Laura Kitchener in bookings?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Yes, hello there. My name’s Marcus Vine.”

  After a slight pause at the end of the phone, the woman continued.

  “Marcus Vine?” A touch of suspicion crept into the tone. “As in the well-known chef?”

  “It is, actually. But I wouldn’t exactly call myself famous.”

  “Oh my goodness, it is you. I would recognize your voice anywhere. My husband and I saw you on the celebrity chef feature on Channel Four on Tuesday. We’ve been to your Edgware Road restaurant three times. Every time the food has been amazing. We’re both huge fans.”

  “I’m honored. And thank you so much for your support. The thing is, Laura—is it okay to call you Laura?”

  “Of course! Oh my goodness. Wait until I tell Bobby, my husband, that you called here.”

  “The th
ing is, Laura, a good friend of mine made a booking at Brackley Moor around eighteen months ago. I just wondered if you’d have kept any details. Her name is—was—Mrs. Lorraine Bradford.”

  “Yes, I certainly do. A policeman asked me the same question recently. Told me what had happened to her. And he also said a friend of his might call, but I never imagined it would be you.”

  “Police Sergeant Mosborough? Yes, we’re good friends.”

  “That’s the one. Mrs. Bradford—God rest her soul—placed a tentative booking for the second Saturday of last November. A hundred people. Said it was for a seventieth birthday party. But we never received the deposit or any follow-up confirmation, so we naturally had to let the booking go, I’m afraid. Don’t tell me you were going to do the catering?”

  “No,” Marcus laughed.

  When he returned to the boardroom, Tina had been on fire and had already managed to negotiate everything he’d wanted within budget, down to the kitchen overhaul and structural modifications to the shop front. Once the legal paperwork had been signed, they had estimated opening a month earlier than planned. Which was why Marcus surprised them all that lunchtime by slipping out early to cook everyone a hot lunch selection from his new menu, using their underutilized kitchen—he’d bought all the ingredients on his way back to the hotel—a nice change from cold sandwiches, and much to the delight of those gathered.

  After the high of the day before came the bombshells from Tina the next morning. Not only had eager American shareholders been in touch overnight wanting to kick off the New York venture, requesting Marcus to be physically there in the kitchen for the first few months of opening, but Millstone Publishing had sent an email requiring his approval of the first draft of his very own Old Country recipe book. With that, came the deadline of getting everything ready for the Christmas market. Typical of Marcus’s life, everything seemed to happen at once. Stress he was used to, having worked in a kitchen for most of his adult years, but right now work was becoming overwhelming, and that unsettled him.

  Just then his phoned beeped with a message.

  U awake?

  Tom. And just like that, he found himself smiling and his spirits lifting as his thumbs flashed eagerly across the keys.

  Nope. Fast asleep. What’s up?

  Cant sleep. Keep thinking.

  About?

  Friday night and what I’m going to do to u.

  Marcus gulped, even as his heart sped up. He still had trouble processing Tom’s feelings for him.

  U still there?

  You’re killing me Tom.

  Killing isnt what I have in mind. Can I call you?

  You know you can. Anytime.

  Seconds later the phone rang and Tom’s deep breathing came down the line. Before he could prepare himself, Marcus’s erection began stretching his sweatpants.

  “Good evening, Thomas Bradford. To what do I owe the pleasure? You want me to count sheep with you?”

  Tom’s deep laughter rumbled pleasantly down the phone. “You know something, Marcus? Just hearing your voice does it for me these days.”

  Marcus smiled and his neck warmed. For all Tom’s past insensitive behavior, every now and then he had a way of stalling Marcus with his frank and honest sentiment. “And to think you were going to dump me.”

  “Shit. We both know I was wrong.”

  “Tossed out with the garbage.”

  “Not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Not on your life.”

  Tom’s chuckle warmed Marcus to the core.

  “By the way, Tom, don’t forget Katie has to take a cake tin to school tomorrow.”

  “Shit. Where—?”

  “I’ve put it in the cupboard beneath the sink. In the blue recycled shopping bag. Don’t worry, she’ll remind you in the morning. And Charlie has her piano lesson after school. But I’ve arranged for Moira—”

  “Marcus—”

  “—to pick her—what?”

  “I’m losing my erection with all this baby talk.”

  “You’ve got a hard-on?”

  “Rock solid.”

  “Fuck,” said Marcus before groaning softly into the phone and throwing himself into the pile of pillows along the headboard. “Now I wish I was there.”

  “You are. Just keep talking. But please, no more cake tins or piano lessons.”

  “What, then?”

  “Whatever. Ask me what I’m wearing?”

  Marcus pulled the phone away and stared at the display. Did Tom want to have phone sex with him? Ah well, in for a penny…. “So, what are you wearing, Thomas Bradford?”

  “Tonight, sweat bottoms and a T-shirt. In case the girls call for me in the middle of the night. But I’m planning on leaving them at home when I come to you on Friday.”

  “Christ, I’m so nervous about Friday.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m worried I won’t be enough for you. Or that as soon as I see you naked, I’ll embarrass myself.”

  “Now that I would pay to see.”

  “I’m serious, Tom. I want it to be really special for you.”

  “It will be. Stop worrying. You’re the one with the man-on-man experience. Although I admit, I have been doing some homework.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Internet.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Went onto a couple of gay porn sites with guys going for it. To be honest, it didn’t really do anything for me at first. Not until I stumbled on one guy built a lot like you. Totally different face, but when I covered that with my hand and thought of you… well, let’s just say we definitely had liftoff. And now I can think of nothing else. Certainly gave me some ideas for Friday. So come on, talk to me. If I was with you now, what would you like to do to me?”

  And there it was. In reality, Marcus would have liked to have tapped Tom’s fine ass on Friday, but he knew the idea might freak the man. In his early twenties, Marcus had bottomed twice, but both times he’d never really felt it, not the way some of his bottom partners had, rolling their eyes back, genuinely aroused and stimulated beneath him. Maybe that’s simply how he was built. Or maybe he’d never been with the right man. But if that’s what it took to get Tom Bradford in his bed, then he would get himself physically—and, moreover, mentally—prepared. Still, there was something else he had always wanted to do to Tom Bradford.

  “I’d pull down your sweat bottoms and suck you dry.”

  “Details. Give me details.”

  “Tom. Can we have real sex before we get into the phone variety?”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Not really. I want to know what sex with you actually feels like before we resort to talking about it. You know, I want to know what it’s like with our hot bodies wrapped around each other, or to suck you into my hot moist mouth while my lips squeeze around the head of your cock and my tongue caresses around the salty head before I take you deep in my throat and swallow hard. Or the sensation of straddling your lap with you buried deep inside me. Especially while I’m lubed up and nuzzling your ear and neck, or licking and biting your hardened nipples while I ride you home like a seasoned jockey. Should I go on?”

  Tom’s ragged voice came down the phone. “You bastard.”

  “Gay phone sex is a breeze. It’s the real deal beneath the sheets that matters.”

  They both fell silent for a moment, Marcus enjoying the simple sound of Tom breathing down the phone.

  “Can I ask you something else?” came Tom’s voice.

  “Anything.”

  “Why were you never with anyone? In all the time we knew you, I don’t think you ever introduced us to anyone.”

  “Nobody fancied me.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe that for a second. What’s the real reason?”

  “Honestly? I did meet a couple of people, but none were keepers. Maybe it’s because no matter how I tried, I never found anyone who lived up to you and Raine?”

  “So what? It was our fau
lt? We ruined you?”

  “You didn’t ruin me, but—I don’t know—everyone needs role models, something to aspire to. And you two did set the bar pretty bloody high.”

  At the mention of Tom’s late wife, Marcus thought back to the telephone call he had made the previous day.

  “Tom, how old is your father?”

  “Seventy-three. Why?”

  “And Moira’s sixty-nine, yes?”

  “Yes. Why the interest? Is this about their anniversary?”

  “What anniversary?”

  “They’ll have been married fifty years this year. But if you were thinking about offering to do something special for them, they’ve already said they don’t want anything overelaborate. Just a small dinner with close friends and family.”

  Marcus mulled the words over, wondering if now would be a good time to tell Tom what he’d found out about the day Raine died. Whether wise or not, he decided against it, not wanting to ruin the intimate moment they were having together. As though he’d heard Marcus’s thoughts, Tom’s voice came down the phone.

  “I wish you were here. Lying next to me.”

  “So do I.”

  “Are we still good for seven on Friday?”

  “Yes. I’m off the whole day.”

  “As long as you’re on the whole night.”

  “Night, Tom.”

  Chapter Twelve

  JUST before six, an hour earlier than their planned time, a knock came at the door to Marcus’s second-floor apartment. In the midst of chewing on a handpicked mint leaf from his windowsill herb garden, he looked up and froze, his stomach churning like a KitchenAid. Absorbed in his food creation mode—he had been assembling slices of marinated apple on top of pastry in a flan dish—he hadn’t even showered or spruced himself up. For a moment he wondered if his wooden spoon wall clock—a Christmas present from Katie and Charlie—had run out of battery, but then he noticed the second hand still merrily circling the clockface. Wiping his hands on a nearby tea towel, he decided the caller had to be Ruth, the neighbor from across the hall, probably returning his juicer. She’d said she might pop by at the weekend, and in his book, anyway, Friday was part of the weekend. Besides, Tom couldn’t get in without either keying in the entry code or using the video phone at the main entrance. Marcus padded barefoot over to the door and yanked it open.