Red Hot Obsessions Read Online Free PDF

cup and saucer. He returns to the buffet cabinet a second time, and this time he returns with the full array of silverware, including several pieces I've only ever seen on the rare occasions I've been to a particularly formal restaurant. But what did I expect in a dining room like this?
    I shoot another glance at the painting on the ceiling and slip into my seat. There's no reason we can't start talking about the Center while we wait.
    “Mr. Cunningham, I—”
    “What do you drink, Ms. Frazer?” he says. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
    A part of me knows that drinking is a bad idea, but another part knows a bit of alcohol in my system might make this whole thing more bearable.
    “I don't suppose you have any whiskey?”
    He chuckles. “I'll see what I can find.” He strides over to a polished mahogany liquor cabinet and flings open the door. A moment later he returns with a glass and a bottle of amber liquid, which he holds in front of me for approval.
    “Single malt. Fifty-two years old,” he says. It's a make I've never heard of—probably because I'm used to drinking the cheap shit—and I suspect that this bottle, like everything else in this freaking house, cost a small fortune.
    Ah, what the hell.
    “Looks perfect.” I try not to cringe as he pours me a glass. How much could even that much whiskey buy the Center? Some new brushes? A fresh coat of paint for the rec room?
    Calder is oblivious to my thoughts. He returns the whiskey to the cabinet and returns to the table with a glass and a bottle of wine for himself. I raise my drink to my lips and take a sip as I watch him pour his merlot. I have to admit, this expensive stuff is smooth, if nothing else. I'll have to watch myself—it would be easy to drink too much if I wasn’t paying attention.
    “Mr. Cunningham,” I begin again, setting my glass back on the table. “I really think—”
    A door at the far end of the room flies open and an older man in chef whites bursts through, a cart of food behind him. The chafing dishes rattle as the cart bounces over the threshold, and again when the man stops suddenly, apparently startled to see us.
    “Forgive me, sir,” he says, blinking at us. “I didn't realize you were in here already.”
    “It's no problem,” Calder says jovially. “Ms. Frazer and I just sat down. It's my own fault for springing company on you at the last minute.” He glances at me. “Ms. Frazer, this is Chef Martin, the best in the business. He's been with my family for, what, thirty-five years now?”
    “Thirty-seven this winter,” the chef replies with a smile.
    “And Martin,” says Calder, “this is Lily Frazer from the Frazer Center for the Arts.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Frazer,” says Martin. He wheels the cart the rest of the way over to us, and now it’s close enough for the aroma to hit me. My stomach lets out an appreciative rumble.
    “That smells amazing,” I say.
    “It'll taste even better,” Calder says.
    The chef laughs. “Mr. Cunningham flatters me.”
    “Not at all,” Calder replies. To me he adds, “Martin studied in Paris back in the day, and he spent time training in Italy and Austria as well.”
    “All that,” the chef says, “and it took me fifteen years to learn to prepare vegetables in a way that would entice Mr. Cunningham to eat them.”
    I smile in spite of myself.
    “In all fairness to Martin,” says Calder, “I still contend that some vegetables are supposed to stay in the dirt and shouldn't be eaten at all.”
    “A sentiment that I consider a challenge.” Martin grins and leans toward me conspiratorially. “When he was little, I used to purée veggies and hide them in the sauce. And you don’t even want to know how many green goodies I managed to sneak into his meatloaf.”
    This time I let out an actual laugh. The chef flashes a ruddy-cheeked smile at me.
    “His worst offense,” Calder says, feigning annoyance, “was when he told me my Brussel sprouts were