Chapter Six
The moment she’d made that comment about his ego, Mateu had wanted to kiss London until her serious gaze melted into the dreamy-eyed one she’d had at the sight of Gaudi Cathedral. He loved the way her emotions played over her features. Intense then pensive, serious then mischievous. Watching her reactions was fast becoming his favorite pastime.
“My mother always told me how great I am,” he teased. “So the ego was bound to follow.”
“It certainly is healthy.” She laughed, wiping a few tears from her eyes. “These onions. Whew.”
Pulling the towel from his shoulder, he stepped up to the small sink. He ran cold water over one end of the cloth, then returned to London. “Here.” He carefully pressed the fabric just under her bottom lashes. Standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, his body hungered for a lot more than Spanish cuisine.
Even though he’d been telling himself all day that he shouldn’t react this way, he couldn’t seem to help it.
She blinked up at him. “It’s okay. I can do it.” Her hands slid over his, but he resisted the tug that followed.
“Hold still. It’ll help.”
“No really, I can do it.”
He hesitated but finally stepped back, leaving the towel in her hands. He’d never met someone so resistant to accepting help one moment but then so acquiescent to it the next. She never once asked about the bill for their class, accepting it more easily than the shuttle from the train station. Yes, Huntington was footing the bill, but she didn’t know that. Though he chastised himself for feeling put out, it chaffed at him all the same.
Her eyes dilated as she held his gaze, the dark green of her irises almost disappearing behind the black orbs of her pupils. When she looked at him like that, he almost forgot he was conning her. She was simply the stunning, fascinating woman he’d met and had taken on a creative date to show off his city. Too bad there was nothing simple about it—or her.
Small tendrils of hair framed her face while the rest of the thick mass was pinned up in a haphazard bun that looked chic instead of messy. His fingers itched to run through it. Her lips parted, and curiosity about her taste called out to him. He wanted to answer in every way imaginable, but he didn’t give in.
He had a job to do, and this cooking class was just the beginning. It was important to keep her happy and engaged in the hotel with positive experiences and as much exposure as he could provide.
He’d lost track there for a moment when she’d asked about his parents. The stress of their predicament had gotten the better of him, not to mention the sincerity in London’s tone when he told her about his ex-fiancée. He shrugged off the lingering fingers of betrayal always left behind from the story. He was back on point.
As soon as her culinary experience was satisfied by authentic Spanish dishes and her walls lowered by a few glasses of the best wine Barcelona had to offer, he’d suggest they do dessert.
Promising to show her the city was a great ploy, but the magic was in the hotel.
“Now, my friends.” Señor Bustillo clapped his hands. “I speak to you about the rice. The perfect paella rice is the bomba variety. It is a round rice from Levant and…” He kissed his fingers. “Perfecto. It sucks up all the juices and flavors of our paella better than any other.”
Mateu stepped next to London to hold a medium saucepan as she added the broth to warm. With the olive oil in the paella pan ready to go, she added the onions. He swirled them round and round in the pan, then spread them out to sauté. As he stirred again, she added the diced tomatoes, then the chicken.
Breathing in over the pan, she waved the aromas up toward her face. In profile, her nose had a small upturned tip that dipped the smallest bit when she smiled. She took so much pleasure in simplicity. Most women he’d dated wouldn’t be interested in something so mundane as cooking their own meal, much less in noticing the sweet and savory aroma of the tomatoes.
She looked up at him. “Smells good, right?”
“And each time we add an ingredient, the aroma becomes richer and more layered.”
She sprinkled the rice in the pan in a large cross while Mateu continued to stir. “You’ve taken this class before?” she asked.
Señor Bustillo stepped up to their stove. “Perfecto. So good. So good. Now, you crush the saffron threads and add broth.”
Mateu took care of the saffron, and London grabbed potholders for the saucepan. Once the broth was poured over the rice and vegetables, they added the mussels around the outside edge of the pan, pointing up. The clams and shrimp followed as well as slices of pepper.
“No classes. My mother. She demanded that my brother and sister and I learned to cook.” Mateu leaned against the prep table and wiped his hands with a towel. “She felt like it was her duty to whomever we married. My father never cooks, and it frustrates her being the one who goes in from the orchards early to prepare dinner with Margarida while he gets to stay out and play.”
“Margarida?”
“My mother’s sister. She lives with them and helps run the house.”
She chuckled. “My mother would love your mother. She can cook, but there were times she’d rather be in her gardens with her butterflies and hummingbirds or in her lab experimenting with organic cocktails of her favorite oils.”
“A scientist? That is very interesting. Any siblings for you?”
“No. Just me and my mom. She’s my best friend. We lost Grandpa last year.” Leaning her hip against the table next to him, she nodded toward the pan. “Now we let it simmer.”
He looked at her closely. “Simmering is what makes it interesting; it’s what melds the flavors as one and enhances each individual strength.”
Her eyes skimmed over his face, lingering on his lips before returning to his eyes. “Why do I always feel like you’re having a separate conversation from the one I think I’m having with you?”
For the moment, he quit resisting his need to touch her and ran a finger along the delicate line of her collarbone. “There’s always a duality in words—in intent. What is may not be, and what you get…may be what you never knew you wanted.”
“And what you wanted may not be what you get.” He grabbed two wineglasses and filled each halfway with the pairing for the paella.
There was something about her that made him say too much. He was supposed to be easing her into a pliant, malleable mood. Not the other way around.
“Have you ever had Mencia from Bierzo? It has layers of red fruit and tends to be a bit fuller bodied than Mencia from Valdeorras.”
She lifted a glass from his outstretched hand and swirled the wine gently. “I haven’t.” She pulled in a deep breath over the bubbles. “Makes my mouth water.”
“Wait until you taste it.”
“There you go again.” Her eyes held him in place.
She was constantly thinking, assessing. And yes, he played with words when he spoke with her, because, in a very short time, he wanted much more than was polite to ask. But he’d grown up on an orchard, and planting seeds was something of a talent of his.
“After we eat, I have a little treat for you at the top of the hotel.”
The distracted look in her eye cleared instantly. “I’m sorry. I can’t tonight. I have plans.”
He stiffened next to her, though his efforts to remain casually leaning against the table were valiant. “You have plans?”
The idea of her taking off with some Spaniard to go lie in the beds at the La Fianna bar or a romantic walk along Sant Sebastia filled him with an irrational urge to tell her no.
And he could picture how well that would go over.
Sipping from her glass, she eyed him from over the rim. “I do. Besides, I don’t want to abuse your offer to accompany me on my adventures. You need to preserve your stamina. We have a vermouth tasting tomorrow, and that’s just the beginning. You did promise me the vacation of a lifetime. Or have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten? You wound me.” He pushed away from the table and stepped close. He’d show her his stamina. She lifted her chin in challenge, maintaining her position without stepping away from his advance, and he loved it.
Slowly the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Besides, it’s going to be difficult for me to check kissing a Spaniard off my list with you always about.”
A heavy weight settled in his gut. Was she playing him? More importantly, why did he care?
“Yes, yes. Good.” Bustillo chose that moment to inspect their paella. He slid a spoon just under one edge to peek at the bottom. “See how all the liquid is absorbed into the rice? Perfecto.”
Turning to the class, he bellowed, “Buen provecho,” a fun Spanish translation of bon appétit.
Mateu held his position at London’s side. She tried to step away, but he slid a hand up her arm, making her pause. She searched for something in his eyes, her lips parting on a soft indrawn breath. With each passing moment, the beating in his chest grew to a solid drumming.
She placed her hand over his, the soft skin of her fingers sending a shiver of need straight to his dick. Then she moved his hand aside and took her seat.
Maleït.
Digging deep for willpower he didn’t know he possessed, he eased away from his reaction. “Bon appétit,” he whispered.
She blinked twice and grabbed the edge of the table.
Good.
“Aww, now that’s what we like to see.” The older couple joined them. The wife gave a sweet smile and hearts practically shone from her eyes. “We knew there was more between you than simply a Spanish tryst.”
London choked on a sip from her wineglass. Putting up her hand with a small wheeze, she said, “No. It’s nothing like that.”
Mateu threw the couple a wounded look. “I have a surprise planned for her tonight, but she’s refused me.”
“Bloody hell,” the older gentleman exclaimed. “You denied this young virile buck?”
London laughed as Mateu nodded at the man in mutual confusion. “I can’t understand it myself. Anyone who knows Barcelona knows that Catalans have chocolate in their DNA. I have a whole evening planned with Huntington Place’s very own chocolatier. Abano is a genius.”
“Oh! How lovely. You must go, my dear.” The older woman patted London’s arm as if speaking to a young kindergartner afraid to get on a swing for the first time.
London put her palms up. “Okay, okay. I can’t tonight. I really do have plans.”
Mateu opened his mouth to argue, but her raised hand silenced him.
“But if your chocolatier has another opening in his schedule, I’ll make sure to fit it in.”
The couple nodded their agreement, but he wanted to demand she skip whatever plans she’d made and go with him tonight. She wouldn’t be able to do the review if she didn’t experience the best the hotel had to offer. And that was the only argument his irritation would allow. He casually rubbed the back of his neck, feeling as if his libido were breathing down it, then finished the wine in his glass. “Of course. I am God’s gift, after all.”
London rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was wide and generous. “You are ridiculous.”
He’d schedule it for tomorrow before their visit to the Erotic Museum. She couldn’t say no.
As bowls of paella were set before them, Mateu poured more wine and raised his glass in a toast. “Voltaire said something along the lines of how you must accept the cards life deals you, but once they’re in hand, you alone must decide how to play the cards to win the game.”
They all tapped the rims of their glasses. Leaning close to London, he added, “I’ll hold my cards close to my chest until we visit the chocolatier. One taste and you’ll be glad you folded.”