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  Otis stroked his goatee and gazed deeply into her eyes. “We’re both lonely. We need each other. I know I’d be good for you, Spice. I just need a chance to prove it to you.”

  Just as she looked up into his face, Otis captured her mouth and pressed his lips softly against hers. Feeling his arms wrapping around her, she let him pull her toward him. She felt his arousal pressing her thigh as she responded to his touch. Tilting her head back to welcome his kiss, she felt his tongue slide inside her mouth, igniting a flame of passion in her that made her ache with desire. The kiss deepened, and when she felt his lowered hands caress her buttocks and inner thigh, she relaxed, until she felt his hands moving even higher.

  “I need you, Spice,” he whispered in her ear as his fingers fondled the outer lips of her vagina.

  “Mmm,” she said, backing away from his kiss and shoving his hands away. “Please go, Otis.”

  He stroked her hair and kissed her briefly once more to be sure she was sure she wanted him to leave. “I won’t rush you, Spice. I can wait.”

  As he boarded the elevator down the hall, he held back the door and asked, “You sure you want me to leave?”

  Her chest heaved as she struggled to answer. “I’m sure,” she said finally.

  “When you’re ready, you call me.” With a cocky smile on his face, he blew her a kiss as the elevator doors closed.

  * * *

  Spice descended from her apartment, arriving in Southern Spice’s kitchen to the cacophonous commotion of the weekly delivery trucks unloading meat, fish, cheese, fresh produce, and all the other necessary products for the day’s business. It was Monday morning.

  Since David’s death, Spice’s life day-to-day had changed dramatically. Gone were the peaceful days of bone-tiring work without any other demands. Now her appointments were updated daily by her secretary and publicist, and almost every minute of her day was packed.

  After exiting the elevator, Spice did a quick assessment of faces and places. She made it a point to acknowledge each of her employees, not just to be pleasant, but to keep track of absentees. Of the one hundred and twenty-five workers who were employed on two shifts, twenty-two of whom were part-time, she knew where every face and body belonged and when. In addition, each year Spice selected two African studies majors from Oakland University, a college she always supported, to work in the gift shop—Victorian Spice—in the front of the restaurant.

  The gift shop, decorated with fresh interpretations of Victorian style, was 750 square feet of wall-to-wall treasures: yards of antique laces, sterling silver wallflower holders, porcelain jewelry boxes, velvet bags for perfume bottles, antique chairs painted gold and covered in dried flowers, with matching stools, lace and needlepointed tapestry pillows, silk-fringed antique lamp shades, old jewelry, and mementos of the restaurant such as silver-plated engraved matchbooks.

  As Spice passed into the largest area of the first-level kitchen, she waved to the team of cooks in charge of vegetables, which ranged from tender collard greens and buttered cabbage to fricassée des carottes. She said good morning to the crew in charge of entrées. Today’s were grilled duck with orange sauce, pecan-crusted turkey cutlets, braised duckling with turnip sauce, honeyed barbecue spare ribs, and Southern Spice’s famous southern fried chicken with gravy.

  The workers hurriedly moved in sync with one another, knowing their jobs and most obviously loving them, probably because they did them well. Time was an important factor in the food business. The staff knew they had approximately four and a half to five hours to prepare the food daily.

  Throughout the week, sixty-three cooks alternated cooking lunch and dinner. After completing their jobs, they were responsible for cleaning their table area, including at least nine square feet of their respective circular stations. The kitchen could serve as a blueprint for a commercial kitchen. The walls of sanitized space held sparkling aluminum griddles, deep fryers, steamers, boiling pans, pressure cookers, grills, mobile convection ovens, and conveyorized infrared ovens, each stored in the place most convenient to its use.

  There was another kitchen on the second floor, with a dumbwaiter that Spice often used for late night snacks. It was smaller and used primarily for pastries and baking. Specially made chocolate candies in beautifully wrapped boxes were created fresh daily, along with the ethereal desserts, the odors of which billowed blissfully throughout the upper-level kitchen. These treats were also sold in the gift shop.

  Spice took pride in the fact that all the vast varieties of cobblers and pies had crusts made from scratch. Preparing the flaky patisserie was one of Carmen’s chief responsibilities as chef patissier. And Spice knew that no matter how much vodka Carmen imbibed, the crust was always perfect. In the winter season Carmen would create a five-layer black forest cake, a maple leaf pie with pecans, fruit crumble with prune plums, and her specialty—apricot Napoleon, a crisp pastry layered with vanilla bean custard and caramelized fresh apricots, served with blueberry compote and crème anglaise.

  During the summer months Carmen would prepare fresh fruit in red wine syrup, fruit sorbets, peaches au vin rouge, and poached pears in port. Her other duties included supervising three members of the bakery crew in preparing three dozen fruity desserts, along with a half dozen each of caramel, German chocolate, chocolate, coconut, lemon, and pound cakes.

  Now, as Spice walked through the salad section, which was separate from the main kitchen on the first floor, she heard a familiar voice.

  “You okay this morning, young lady?” asked Effie, one of her elderly employees who’d never missed a day of work in ten years.

  “Just skippy,” Spice said, returning the smile. “How ’bout you, Miss Effie?”

  “Right fine.” She smiled and then continued dicing up the meat and vegetables that went into the eight types of omelets the restaurant offered.

  “Morning, Ms. Spice,” Develle said. He was the stockman on the first shift; his duty was to rotate the supplies stored in the basement to the daily supply they housed in the kitchen for the week.

  “Morning, Develle. Any problems?” He shook his head no, but she felt his long dark stare on her as she sauntered away. There was a seductive power exuded from being the proprietress of such a big business. Anyone in such a position demanded respect and a little adoration, she’d found.

  The existence of these perks hadn’t occurred to her early on, certainly not when David was alive. Her mind went to Mink. Did her supersuccessful daughter share these goodies—and could she handle them?

  As Spice breezed through the next cooking station, she inhaled the honeyed scent that emanated from the smothered short ribs of beef Travis was preparing. She walked toward him, and when their eyes met, she hooded hers, wanting to send the message that she meant business.

  Travis leaned against the counter, his hips thrust forward slightly, his feet a few inches apart. In response to Spice’s lowered gaze, he slowly inserted his thumbs firmly in his apron pockets and brought his fingers around to point down toward his genitals.

  “I’m scheduled to attend a seminar, ‘Strategies for Opening Your Own Business for Professional Chefs,’ in Philadelphia next week. Care to join me?”

  “I’ll pass, Travis.”

  “Okay . . . another time, maybe. However, I feel that the time to discuss a five percent raise in my salary is long overdue.” His body was poised for play, but his eyes were serious. “I’ve been working my ass off, Spice.”

  She could see that he was gauging her response. “I’ll have to think that one over.” Truly, with the numerous advances against his salary she’d given him to support his increasingly expensive tastes, she hadn’t expected this from him. She had lent him fifty thousand as it was, even though she knew he was using it to start the ball rolling on his own restaurant.

  Travis watched as Spice finished her kitchen rounds. Then he followed her as they moved toward his office near the elevator. “When you return, I’d like for you and me to go over some of the problems we’re ha
ving with the downtown restaurant. Some of the equipment that’s being delivered for the kitchen isn’t what you and I ordered.”

  Where was he going with this? she wondered. Knowing Travis, she was sure there was some reason he was whining about the discrepancy. She knew he wanted control of the new business. That was no problem—she’d told him so. But nitpicking wasn’t Travis’s style. There had to be a more personal reason why he was staking his claim so early on in the restaurant. She did not want to think he would try to skim money off the equipment, as it was returned and they were credited. All head chefs knew that even though their lauded culinary skills brought in customers, they could always be replaced by aggressive, newer talent.

  The owner always maintained control. Spice instinctively moved away from him just as Travis reached out for her. Without question, the fluctuation of emotions she experienced around him was disturbing, particularly since he was obviously bedding her daughter. “Weren’t you at Sterling’s last night?”

  “I stopped by for a couple of drinks.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “So there wasn’t anything intimate that happened between the two of you?”

  “As I said, nothing worth mentioning happened.”

  “I’m not interested in your personal business, Travis, but because of what had transpired between you and me I didn’t want—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He paused. “More important, we should be discussing the continued absenteeism of your friend Carmen.”

  “She didn’t show up for work this morning?” Spice stopped, thinking. Was this Travis’s way of pushing her buttons?

  “I’m positive that she’s at home drunk. Lately, she’s been struggling to finish her work on time. If you ask me, she can’t handle her alcohol.”

  “I didn’t ask you.” Her tone was bitter. “As a matter of fact, you could use a fresh-breath mint to camouflage your own boozy breath.”

  They were interrupted by Develle. “Ms. Spice?”

  “Yes, Develle,” Spice said, answering the faint knock at the open doorway.

  “Can I speak to you privately for a moment?” Develle asked.

  “Sure.” She turned to Travis, stiffly. “We’ll finish our discussion later.” She checked her watch and headed out the door, followed by Develle.

  Develle asked if he could have an additional table brought in for his anniversary dinner the following evening—as usual, the place was fully booked. She assured him that she’d take care of it. If only all my problems were this easy.

  At 9:25 A.M. Spice and Carrie, the food and beverage manager, reviewed the bar inventory. Since David’s death, she’d fired six managers. Apparently they thought she didn’t check the stock against the bar tabs. All six had been drinking or stealing gallons of liquor a week.

  The inventory took twenty minutes, at which point she rushed through her paperwork with her personal secretary and publicist, Tracey Allen.

  As tall as Spice, Tracey was a thirty-one-old Caucasian female with thick blond shoulder-length hair, a high forehead, and soft gray eyes. Tracey possessed a movie star quality. In truth, the reason Spice hired her eight years before was that she reminded her so much of Sterling. Her relationships with the press and polite professionalism handling VIPs was the primary reason so many celebrities continued to make Southern Spice the number one restaurant in the area. Tracey was single. With all the intense publicity she garnered for Southern Spice and all her energy focused on business, it wouldn’t take long for her to open up her own public relations firm. And when that time came, Spice would wish her well.

  Spice’s office was located just down the hall from the bar and second kitchen. The elevator was accessible only to the employees who worked in the inner sanctum. When she entered her office, she sighed at the mounds of paperwork covering her desk. Cherrywood raised paneling covered the entire office, and her antique half-moon-shaped desk was also made of cherrywood. There was an ornamental rug in red, black, and gold that balanced a tufted burgundy leather couch and high back matching armchairs. A lighted Romare Bearden painting hung above a cast-iron gas fireplace surrounded by marble-and-cherrywood paneling. Spice had left the office totally intact since her husband’s death, and it reflected his simplicity as well as his masculinity. She loved it that way.

  She rifled through the telephone messages, made the necessary calls, and gave a few directives to Tracey. Then, gathering the papers she’d need for the planning committee meeting and placing them into her briefcase, she prepared to leave.

  Kia, her assistant, strolled into the room, carrying a steaming cup of coffee for her boss. “The car will be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks. You’re a gem.” Spice snapped her briefcase shut, then opened her gold-and-diamond-encrusted Carolee necklace watch, checked the time, and clicked it shut.

  “Ms. Witherspoon?” Kia asked while removing a cold cup of coffee from her boss’s desk.

  “Yes, Kia?”

  “The interviews with the CERC applicants went well, don’t you think?”

  “Extremely,” Spice said with a relaxed smile. The Committee for the Employment of Retarded Citizens was a cause dear to her heart. “We’ll begin the training program in two weeks. Think you can handle it?” Twelve CERC men and women presently worked at Southern Spice; she was adding eight more. And she planned on hiring between forty to fifty applicants to work in the new restaurant, Royal Oak Spice, and the attached hotel.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good girl.” She winked and picked up the phone.

  Through the open blinds in her executive office, Spice watched the snowflakes continue to build a thick screen. Turning away, she glanced at the cardboard sketches of the Foxphasia project in Royal Oak that took up a considerable part of the wall. For some reason they seemed more realistic in the office than on the actual construction site.

  While Kia was busy straightening the papers in Spice’s office, Spice dialed Charles Kentwood, one of the partners in Zuller, the architectural firm. His secretary put Spice on hold while he concluded his previous call.

  As she waited, her mind drifted. Spice realized that she hadn’t heard a peep from either of her daughters in days. Then Kentwood was on the phone. Just as she said hello, Kia buzzed in over the intercom: “Your daughter’s on line two.” It looked as though her psychic powers were working today.

  “Just a minute, Charles,” she said. Then, “Which one?” to Kia. She massaged her temples and waited.

  “It’s Mink, Ms. Witherspoon.”

  “Thank you,” she said to Kia, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Having Sterling call her would catch Spice off guard. For some silly reason she wanted to do the calling. Be in command of the conversation. “Please tell her I’ll call her back in ten minutes.”

  Resting her head against the back of the chair, she returned to her call with Charles Kentwood. Soon it turned into a conference call with Morgan Belder, the builder. The Foxphasia complex in Royal Oak was two weeks behind schedule. There was a problem with building codes. She’d have to meet them at the construction site. Foxphasia was not in the empowerment zone. Damn, if Otis worked for Royal Oak, I wouldn’t have this problem.

  As their conversation continued, Spice’s mind wandered. She hated the new designs for the children’s museum. She’d specifically commissioned Sterling for the museum because she loved her daughter’s original ideas to have an Egyptian exhibit, a medieval castle, a dollhouse exhibit, a children’s theater, interactive library stations, light beams, waterfalls, traveling exhibits, and a special toddler area. But since Sterling hadn’t delivered on time, she had no choice but to request Zuller to put another architect on the project. When the blueprints came in, she could only smile and say, “I love it.” But Morgan kept running into problems executing the architect’s dream (more like a nightmare, Sterling had pointed out). What had been the beginning of a happy marriage between builder and desi
gner had turned into a fury of accusations on the unprofessionalism of each. She listened to their childish threats and wondered to herself why she was doing this. And why on earth was she doing it alone?

  Spice concluded her last meeting at six P.M. and went directly home, only to find a tearful message from Sterling on her voice mail. She had warned Sterling under no uncertain terms that her credit cards would not be reinstated until she got some part-time work, plus went back to school and was stable for at least three months. Spice reached for the phone to call her back, then changed her mind.

  After changing into a pair of navy knit pants and long top, Spice moved into the library and picked up a stack of the last six issues of various food magazines that she hadn’t found the time to read.

  Spice felt the library was her special room, more so than any other in her home, and she retreated there nightly. The room was private—small but quiet, nestled near the back of the duplex, and furnished with a hand-carved Italian chest and curved built-in bookcases that flanked an Ethan Allen entertainment cabinet complete with glass lighted bar. To Spice, the room felt romantic, with a sumptuous taupe velvet sofa and circular ottoman, tapestried side chairs with yards of matching tapestry, and velvet drapes hanging on the three huge windows. On the floor a swirling, circular-patterned Axminster carpet in shades of avocado, gold, and taupe made dozing, reading, or relaxing on the floor a definitely dreamy option.

  While flipping through her favorite couture periodical, W magazine, she pulled the tasseled throw from the back of the sofa over her legs, then tore out several outfits that she planned on purchasing.

  If I were truly in the dating mode, she thought, I would be dressing right about now instead of sitting here alone cutting out pictures of expensive clothes. First I’d serve cocktails in the library, and then we’d leave by seven-thirty for our eight o’clock dinner reservations at the Golden Mushroom. I would be extremely closemouthed about my businesses because most men are . . . are . . . She yawned.