A Taste of Spice and Splendor Read online

  A Taste of Spice and Splendor

  Circle of Souls Book 1

  Lacuna Reid

  Contents

  Prologue: Gino

  1. Mira

  2. Gino

  3. Mira

  4. Mira

  5. Mira

  6. Mira

  7. Mya

  8. Mira

  9. Mira

  10. Theo

  11. Mira

  12. Mya

  13. Mira

  14. Elias

  15. Mira

  16. Mira

  17. Helio

  18. Mira

  19. Mira

  20. Mira

  21. Mira

  22. Mya

  23. Mira

  24. Mya

  25. Mira

  26. Mira

  27. Mya

  28. Mira

  29. Mira

  30. Mira

  31. Elias

  32. Mira

  33. Mira

  34. Mira

  35. Mira

  36. Mira

  37. Gino

  38. Mira

  39. Cliff

  40. Micah

  41. Mira

  42. Mira

  Epilogue: Theo

  A Sneak peak of Book 2

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  About the Author

  Prologue: Gino

  I step out into the humid chaos of summer in New York, leaving the consistency of the air-conditioned high-rise behind. I’m glad to be out of my meetings for the day, free to explore the city once more, before heading back to Barcelona in a few days. I can’t help but check my reflection in the glass-windowed buildings as I walk through the bustle of pedestrians. I straighten my collar and rumple my hair, not looking too shabby for 5pm after a busy day of stakeholder discussions. That’s when I catch sight of her.

  Just one glimpse and my world somersaults. The realization hits me:

  It’s her…

  I’ve been searching for her for so long that I’d almost given up hope of finding her in this life. She looks different now; her hair is much darker, but I would recognize her presence anywhere… her essence. Her green eyes flash as she walks past but do not land on me. They’re almost the same shade as mine but darker, more emerald.

  I turn and follow her. I’m no stalker but I can’t let her walk away after all this time. I vow to myself that I won’t use my tech connections to look into her life, into her past. I will allow her some privacy but I need to know enough about her and where she’s going, so that I might have a chance of meeting her.

  Her dark curls billow out behind her as she walks. She casually reaches up and twists them into a bun at the back of her head, then she turns and walks into a high-end restaurant, despite her casual clothes.

  I’ve never seen this woman before in my life but I know instantly she’s the one we’ve been looking for. It takes all my self-control not to run to her, to take her in my arms… to push her up against the wall and fulfill all her desires…

  I follow, far enough behind to avoid being obvious about it. She walks right past the Maître d’. He proceeds to offer me a table. I keep my eyes on her as she walks out the back, towards the kitchen. She works here.

  I take a seat, hoping she will be the one to serve my table, but she never emerges. I dine alone, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Meanwhile, the Vivaldi playing in the background morphs into a more ancient style of music in my mind, carrying me back into a vision of the past.

  The sound of soft dreamy pipe music plays all around us. I allow myself to sit and bathe in it, still reeling from my encounter with Priestess Mya. I have never felt fate weigh down so heavily over me than I do in her presence, as if the gods themselves are pushing us together, and nothing we could do as mortals could resist that kind of compulsion.

  I hope there will be dancing, but more than that, I hope there will be chances to be close to Mya. I’m practically salivating at the thought. I keep my eyes on her as much as possible as she leads others from the initiation over to where we sit.

  The folds of her aqua and silver robes reveal her curves in the most delicious way. Through her mask, her eyes catch mine more than once, twanging the strings of our connection like a lyre. I can feel that it won’t be long before the forces are too powerful to resist, and the inevitability of our beautiful collision causes warmth to spread through me, cascading into a wave of desire.

  Chapter One

  Mira

  “Mira Krom. You’re late,” Michel says. He almost spits the words at me, in the way that only arrogant middle-aged French men can.

  I’m less than two minutes late but I grit my teeth instead of arguing with the head chef. It’s always better to avoid him as much as possible. I go out back and change into my chef uniform. The rage still burns inside me from Michel’s rudeness.

  In the year I’ve worked here, talking to Michel has been a consistently horrible experience but I’ve stayed because I’m lucky to have a job at a restaurant with a Michelin star, and that star belongs to him.

  I get to work, dicing the basil, tuning out the other sounds in the busy kitchen, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the herb, enjoying the color.

  Green is my color. “Green like your eyes,” my mother would say – one of few precious memories of her. She would wrap me in her long silk scarf – the color of lush freshly mown grass. She’d tie it loosely around my waist, spin me into it, and then she’d pull the end, so I’d unwind like a twisted chord, set free.

  My two favorite things are food and the color green – I would list my mother, but every thought of her is mingled with sadness that she had to leave this world – and that she could no longer protect me from my father.

  “Too much!” Michel booms in my ear in his French accent. More and more, he’s reminding me of my father. “You’re murdering the basil! Basil must breathe – slice it gently – loosely – treat it like the delicate plant that it is!”

  I turn towards Michel and glare at him in all his pompousness. A fantasy plays out in my mind.

  “You know, I might just set myself free. Thank you.” I pull off my cap and apron and jab it towards his rotund belly. “I’ve had enough, find yourself a new sous chef.” I storm out, pulling my long dark hair out of its tight bun as I go, liberating myself. I don’t know what I’m expecting but it’s not silence. Maybe I can’t hear Michel’s response above the clamor of the kitchen or maybe I’ve finally made him speechless.

  That’s what I want to do, but actually none of that happens – I don’t confront Michel. I wait until he walks away and then I slink off to the bathroom, my head still swimming with shame and burning with rage from being told off – yet again – in front of the whole kitchen. I take off my apron and hat, and leave them in a pile near the sink, and then I slip out of the restaurant without anyone even noticing I’ve left.

  It’s not until I get out into the bustling street that the dread hits me.

  What have I done?!

  This job, as irritating as the head chef might be, was the only thing keeping me afloat. Now I’ve thrown it away in a moment of frustration, and the moment wasn’t even that bad. I’ve had far worse. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I know I’m not ready to go home to the large pile of bills and the mess of my life. I veer towards the fancy hotel bar two doors down from my – former – workplace. Why not? Surely anyone can go to a bar in a hotel…

  The bartender is young and cute with dark hair that falls over his equally dark eyes, but I don’t have the heart to flirt with him, even though for a moment I wonder if I could go home with him and start a new life. “What will it be?” He asks and I wonder
if he’s read my mind.

  “A Martini,” I say, because I’ve never had one, despite living in New York for most of my life. There’s always seemed to be something so sophisticated about Martinis, but for some reason they didn’t go well with cheap wine and fruity margaritas, which are my usual beverages of choice. I watch the bartender mix, shake and pour my drink. He places it in front of me with a smile and then walks to the other end of the bar to flirt with the well-dressed guy standing there. So much for that possibility.

  I scan the rest of the bar, looking for a distraction from the churning emotions in my chest. My eyes are drawn to an even more gorgeous man a few feet away, but he looks to be busy on his tablet and anyway, I know that men only create more problems.

  I take a sip of the martini and almost spit it back out into the fancy glass. I’m a chef – I’m supposed to have a refined palate, but it tastes weird and dry and frankly quite a lot like how I imagine motor-oil might taste with an olive in it. I don’t see the appeal, but at the moment, anything alcoholic will do. I take another sip and then rest my hands on the bar, and let my head sink into them.

  I’ve always wanted to be a chef, so why the hell did I just throw it all away, so flippantly? It was a good job. I should just go back there and beg for Michel to take me back... he might not have even noticed I’m gone. I could pretend it was an extended bathroom break… or if he saw me leave, I can plead with him… I can even do dishes for a week to prove how fucking sorry I am.

  Despite my pathetic inner monologue, I know I’m not going to do that, not in a million years. I’m finally free of that asshole. I take another swill of the liquid in front of me – it seems to be even less pleasant than last time – then I reach for my phone and call the only person I can trust in moments like these.

  I glance around the luxurious bar, holding my phone to my ear. On the third ring, she answers. “Hello?”

  It’s so good to hear my best friend’s voice at times like these.

  “Hi, Lana,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual.

  “Mira!” Lana replies, “I was just thinking about you. How’s it going? How’s work?”

  I sigh. “Well, that’s the thing.”

  “Oh no,” Mira says. “Seriously? Not again!”

  “The guy was an asshole, Lana. Seriously.” But I can tell from Lana’s tone she’s not buying it.

  “You always do this, Mira. You always run away.”

  I sigh and let my best friend tell me off the way my mother has never been able to.

  “Every time shit hits the fan, you take off. It was the same with Cliff – instead of confronting him you moved to Bali!”

  “That was only for a few months,” I interject.

  “Until your visa ran out, you mean.”

  I sigh again. I know that Lana is right but I also know she’s wrong. There was no other decision I could have made. She knows me best, but she doesn’t understand me.

  “I wish I could just move back to Bali again. That was great.”

  “No, honey. This has to stop. You need to learn to stand up for yourself. You’ve been lucky enough before to land on your feet before, but I know it’s taking its toll on your bank account. You have to confront Cliff. That man owes you.”

  “I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything to do with him,” I say, as tears slide down my cheeks. I brush them away before anyone notices, glad my mascara is waterproof. “I just need to find another sous chef job, Lana. That’s all – one with a nicer boss! Or maybe a nice little café… in Bali.

  “No,” Lana says firmly. “It’s time you stopped running and faced your messy life. How else are you going to clean it all up?”

  The phone call ends and I return to nursing my disgusting drink.

  “Martini is not really for you, huh?” The voice sends a shiver through me. It’s smooth and confident, with a slight European accent. I turn towards it to see the gorgeous man who was so occupied with his phone before. He has light brown dark hair and olive skin, but his eyes are almost as green as mine.

  I shrug, trying to respond casually, even though for some reason my heart is racing. “I’ve come to the conclusion that no one actually likes martinis,” I say, “and everyone just pretends to like them to save face.”

  The man laughs and holds out his hand. “I’m Gino Santoro.”

  “Mira,” I say. His handshake is firm and yet gentle at the same time. I’m not expecting the jolt of desire it sends through me. Who the hell is this guy, and why is he having such an effect on my body?

  “Let me buy you another drink,” he says. “– what do you actually like?”

  “Margarita?”

  He smiles and gestures for the barman. I take the opportunity to look at him properly. Everything about Gino Santoro is so smooth, so seamless. He turns back to me to find me staring at him. I’m flustered, and look away.

  Get a grip, Mira… It’s rude to stare…

  “Excuse my interruption,” he says, “but I have a question for you.”

  I raise my eyebrows, looking at this absolutely gorgeous man standing in front of me. What could he possibly want to ask me?

  “Go on?” I say.

  “What’s your favorite word?”

  I laugh… is this a pickup line? If so, it’s one I’ve never heard before… but what would such an exquisitely handsome man be doing, using a pick-up line on me, in my slightly-disheveled state and frumpy black clothing? Maybe this is just something he does, to keep himself entertained…

  “Why?” I ask, pretending to be more confident than I am. “Do you collect favorite words?”

  He smiles at me and his stunning green eyes light up. He looks just like an Armani model, and not at all like the kind of guy who would be interested in me… unfortunately.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he replies.

  I try not to visibly swoon, but I’m feeling it: the racing heart, the tingles, the palpitations… How the hell is this guy having such an effect over me with just a couple of sentences?

  “Quince,” I say.

  “What?” There’s a look of surprise on his face. It’s not fair that this makes him even more devastatingly handsome.

  “Quince. It’s my favorite word.”

  Gino Santoro considers this for a moment, as if he’s weighing up the word in his mind.

  “Really?” he asks, more in a tone of curiosity than disbelief.

  “Yes,” I say. “It really is my favorite word. It’s just like the fruit itself: tart and astringent, and all-together unlikely. It’s surprising and yet delicious if you treat it right.”

  “I like it,” he says, smiling at me with a look in his eye that I find quite unnerving, as if he sees something in me that’s special… as if he’s staring right into my soul.

  “Now you have to tell me yours,” I say, and then blush as my tone is much more flirtatious than I expected.

  He looks at me with those gorgeous eyes and I want to eat him for dinner. Settle down, Mira, I tell myself. The poor guy has no control over how disarmingly handsome he is.

  “Petrichor,” he says.

  “What?” I frown in confusion. “Is that in English?” I ask. It seems like a fair question, since he has an accent, and his name sounds Italian.

  “It is actually,” he replies.

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “The scent of rain on dry earth.”

  I just about swoon right off my barstool. It sounds like poetry, especially with his accent. It’s all a bit much. This man is mysterious and brilliant and gorgeous, and for some reason, he wants to talk to me.

  “Actually, I have another question…” he says. “I couldn’t help overhear your conversation before.”

  “Oh.” I feel the blood rushing to my face. What did he hear?

  “Not too much,” he continues, as if in answer to my thoughts. “Just… I hear you need a new sous chef job.”

  He leans towards me, just slightly, and I catch a whiff of his cologne
: musky, woody, expensive. For a moment I’m spellbound, then our drinks arrive. I take a sip of the icy, tangy margarita and shake some sense into myself.

  Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’m fine, and quite frankly, it’s a bit weird to approach someone in a bar and start talking to them about their clearly private conversation.

  I don’t actually say any of that, but it must be clear enough from the look I give him. He begins to apologize profusely.

  “I’m so, so sorry. Look, I just thought it was a wonderful coincidence that I happen to be looking for a sous chef and one appears right in front of me.”

  “You… are?”

  Gino reaches into his pocket and withdraws a card. “It’s not Bali, but it’s not here, and I think you might find our set up to your liking.”

  “Where is it?”

  “El Cielo, it’s a luxury retreat in the Mediterranean…”

  He reaches forward, passing me the card. It doesn’t tell me much more, just his name, email and phone number.

  “Think it over,” he says. “Give me a call in the next couple of days, or email. Just let me know if you’re interested. We’ll provide you with travel and relocation costs, and accommodations are provided.”

  He downs the last of his single malt and turns to leave. I watch him disappearing out the door and realize I don’t want him to go.

  “Wait!”