Reviewing restaurants is normally a safe pursuit, but Lorne and Catherine face torture and death when they try to unravel organised crime's infiltration of the fine dining scene.
Their longstanding friendship deepens when they meet again seven mont...
They enjoyed the remainder of the sail across the Straits with much lighter conversation and a fine wind that allowed them to make English Bay with only minor sail adjustments. They fell off to a wallowing run up the bay in the building following wind and seas, then shortly past noon Lorne rolled in the sails at the entrance to False Creek and motored toward the marina.
As they found lee from the wind, Catherine looked up at him at the port helm. "Seems to be a good blow coming."
"A few hours earlier than previous forecasts. That's why I was playing your mister programmed life." He smiled at her and chuckled. "In a couple of hours, it'll be quite nasty out there."
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A while later, he noted the 1226 showing on the cockpit clock as they arrived alongside his slip. He stepped off with the breast line and secured it to the float cleat.
"Do you always make it that easy for your line handlers?" Catherine called from the bow after she had dropped a bight of the line over the cleat on the float.
"I don't know. You're the first line handler I've ever had. Guess I'll have to become accustomed to having one." He walked along the float toward the bow and took the back spring off its hook, then paused and looked up at her. "I'd like to do that."
"Have to be careful, then. Have you ever noted, the more line handlers at the rails, the sloppier the skipper's approach?"
"Seems it sometimes, doesn't it? And the louder." He reached up and brushed her ankle with the back of his hand, smiled and pointed to the cleated line. "Take the bow line turns off the cleat and ease it out to the red mark, then turn it down. That allows the stern to sit just off the cross float."
"I guess you need many tricks when you solo a boat this size. The tricks and systems have become your crew."
"I'll gladly replace all of them for one of you." He continued with the mooring, securing the springs and the stern lines, showing her the marks on the lines and explaining his process as he did.
He checked the time on the cockpit clock as he completed the log. "We've nearly an hour and a half before the tasting begins and five hours before it ends. I've fresh clothes here aboard."
"I still have the outfit I'd packed for The Driftwood. It's hanging in the locker. I'm okay for clothes here."
"Do you need to go home for anything?"
"I've everything I need here, packed for tastings and dining. The only thing I can think of needing at home..." She paused and put her hand on his butt. "Need to see how you fit in my bed."
"Fuck! You know where my switch is and how to flip it — so fast." He sent a hand down to adjust himself. "You've damn near made me rip my trousers." Their hands and lips were all over each other as they merged.
They grabbed their garment bags from the lockers, and he picked up her small duffel. He locked up the boat, set the silent alarms, and they stepped out through transom gate to the float. As they walked around the crescent hand-in-hand, he asked her, "So the inspiration for your novels, you have such a marvellous turn of phrase, creative imagery — Here I am reviewing your novels, and I've not read any of them, only listened to you do impromptu excerpts — So hot. Where's the inspiration?"
"I wrote from frustration. The central heartthrob in every one of my novels is based on you, and on my fantasies with you."
He spun her gently into a hug in the middle of the sidewalk, and they explored mouths. For a long time. A very long time.
"People are staring at us," she said as they unlocked and moved to random face kissing.
"Good. Let them see love, see bliss, see communion. Let them see reality, not fantasy."
They continued more briskly around the crescent to her townhouse, where she unlocked and opened the door to lead him in. She flopped her garment bag to the floor, kicked off her shoes and looked at the stairs. He set down her duffel, laid his garment bag on top of it and submitted to the tug of her hand, kicking off his shoes as he followed her.
The stairs were left littered with discarded garments as she led the way up to her bedroom. She flipped the duvet off the bed and now nude, stepped onto it, moved to the middle and stopped, then turned slowly, speaking in her low voice. "She turned to face him, taking a wide, defiant stance, hands on her hips and lifting her chin at him. So you think you can take me, do you?"
He peeled off his last sock as he watched her, mesmerised, fully stiffened and wondering what was coming.
She stared at him. "Fuck, I can't do this kind of fantasy with you, Lorne. You're too gentle and tender, too loving." She extended her hand. "Come, make love with me, not to me. Softly, lovingly."
As she lay on top of him recovering from her third orgasm, she said in a quiet voice, "Crazy of me, I didn't even think. That kind of thing always worked for Nathan when he was hot. But it's the difference between plundering and sharing. My God, I love you, Lorne."
"We should think of showering and dressing. Do you want to come again?"
"Silly question. Silly, silly, silly. What about you? Are you sure you're okay holding off until this evening?"
"I'm happy if it gives the next thirty or forty million in line an extra bit of time to mature." He smiled at her as he began slowly thrusting his hips and tweaking her nipples.
Half an hour later they were showered, dressed and heading out the front door. He pointed to the darkening sky. "Appears we've time to make it on foot before the arrival of the deluge from the front. Or do you want to take the SkyTrain?"
"I've missed my walks the last few days." She tugged his arm, and they started up through Yaletown. "Do you realise we're still on our first date?" She smiled as she looked up at him. "Lots of exercise, but not much walking."
They arrived at the hotel in building blustery winds which were announcing the imminent start of rain. In the lobby, he pointed to the sign, and they followed its arrow toward the ballroom. As they approached the registration table, they saw many familiar faces. "This will be interesting." She squeezed the arm she was holding. "I hadn't even thought."
"Act normally." He patted her hand on his arm. "Most everyone knows we've known each other for years. We're usually a close pair at these events, anyway."
"I guess you're right. Besides, we've nothing at all to hide." She smiled up at him. "It'll be fun seeing how long it takes for someone to notice. If Cynthia's here, I bet she's the first. She must have sensed something was cooking the other night. God, that seems so long ago now."
They picked up their badges, nodding to and greeting others and engaging some in light pleasantries as they moved toward the door. They were among the first wave of tasters, the full-time trade. The full-time writers, the store owners and managers and a few others who'd managed to beg off work mid-afternoon from day jobs. Soon, in the lull between lunch and dinner, the restaurant managers and sommeliers would arrive.
