Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(12)
When Trisha had gone up to their suite, Aji, Esha, and Mishka had been completely absorbed in their game of rummy. So Trisha had done no more than drop quick kisses on all three heads before coming back down to join the party. For years she had come and gone to the house and blocked out what had grown into the soul of the family—Yash’s political career. Being here today she wondered how she’d done it.
“Mishka is having fun with Esha and Aji up there. Good luck taking her home tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on taking her home tonight.” Nisha’s eyes danced. “Neel has the day off tomorrow and I’ve been plying the good judge with fine wine all evening.” Her smile turned so suggestive that Trisha blushed, and she remembered that her sister had promised her something!
“Hey, I believe I was promised a butt that has to be seen to be believed!”
DJ CAINE STOPPED short at the kitchen door. His hand stilled on the heavy, tastefully antiqued brass handle. Something about the voice on the other side locked him in place and made him smile. DJ hadn’t smiled all day.
“I’d rather hear about the promised butt than your . . . your plans for later tonight,” the voice said. “And if you tell me he’s gone because the dress you chose for me took half an hour to put on, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”
DJ couldn’t help but laugh at that. There was something about that voice, husky and sultry with an underlying lilt of sweetness. It hit him exactly the way the blast of sunshine had hit him when he’d stepped out of San Francisco airport last month. And it made the tension that had clamped his shoulders all day ease in a quick rush. He leaned his forehead into the door and listened, enjoying how completely comfortable the person was laughing at herself.
DJ was almost afraid to push the door open and see what she looked like. A strange kind of anticipation bubbled inside him. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but a gnawing sadness that he indulged himself by standing there and soaking it in. Just for a few seconds before he got his arse back to work.
“There you are, boss,” Rajesh said behind him and DJ spun around with a little prayer that his assistant didn’t come bearing bad news. “The timer on the soufflés just went off and I’m not risking my job by—”
DJ sprinted past Rajesh and was at the ovens before the kid could finish that thought.
A chef never runs in the kitchen, Andre had taught him. Never ever. The soft scrape of Andre’s French r’s sounded in DJ’s head as he skidded to a stop in front of the ovens. He took a moment to allow his hands to steady before pulling the water bath lined with soufflé ramekins out. Plump and perfect. He held his breath, counting the seconds to see if they’d hold. He had yet to sink a soufflé. But every single time he made them, the experience shaved a bloody month off his life.
Leaning over the tray he inhaled deeply, letting the steam-laden aroma flood all the way through him. The soft green clouds edged with the most delicate golden crusts smelled as perfect as they looked. Pistachio with a hint of saffron. Was there even such a thing as a hint of saffron? It was the loudest understated spice, like a soft-spoken person you couldn’t stop listening to. Like the hidden lilts inside a well-held aria. Like the beauty within making what someone looked like on the outside meaningless, slowly, one encounter at a time. No matter how subtle you tried to make it, saffron always shone through, it became the soul of your preparation.
He nodded at Rajesh, who stood at the ready with the cashews DJ had candied to perfection with butter and brown sugar. He started to arrange three at the center of each ramekin in a clover of paisleys, then tucked a sugarwork swirl next to it to top things off just so.
“Have you seen the maal here, boss?” Rajesh said, pulling DJ out of his plating reverie.
Based on the glint in his assistant’s kohl-lined eyes, DJ was quite certain he wasn’t talking about the soufflé. Not that Rajesh talked about much other than women. DJ just wished he would stop calling them things like “packages” and “freight.” He’d asked him not to often enough, but Rajesh was twenty-one and blessed with the thick skin of the truly obnoxious. He was determinedly impervious to criticism.
“Have you ever seen Indian chicks so fancy? Strutting about as if they’re goris? Soft like rasgullas, hot like halwa!” He wiggled his eyebrows lecherously.
Good thing that plating the soufflés required the lightest touch and all his focus, because that meant DJ could block Rajesh out.
That didn’t stop Rajesh from blathering on. “Usually, I keep away from Indian chicks. Too much emotional drama. But doing these would be like drinking desi booze from fancy English crystal.” He made a sipping sound. “What say, boss?”
DJ straightened up. “How about we stay out of our client’s guests’ knickers and focus on work, what say you, boss?” he snapped and Rajesh looked appalled at the idea of staying out of anyone’s knickers.
DJ reminded himself that he needed an assistant and he could only afford this one because he worked for room and board. Add to that the whole moral obligation to Rajesh’s grandmother for her saving-his-life thing and DJ was well and truly stuck with him. The man was competent enough. And uncouth as he was, DJ couldn’t exactly set every wanker straight, now could he?
However, DJ could not afford to have Rajesh go anywhere near the client’s guests.