Page 48 of Aftertaste

“I dunno? They’d probably come for you.”

“I take it you don’t mean that in a sexy, Patrick Swayze–pottery wheel kinda way.”

“I was imagining more of a ‘There is no Dana, only Zuul’ sort of scenario.”

“Oh. Cool. Cool cool.”

She laughed. “But you just did it the one time, right? With that drink?”

“Uh, yeah.” He nodded, unable to meet her eye. “More or less.”

“And you’re gonna keep it that way?”

“That… that’s the plan. One and done.”

He told himself it wasn’t an outrageous lie. More like a fib. A fiblet. And he hadn’t prepared a dish since Hell’s Kitchen had been shut down, over a month ago. So who knew? Maybe he’d never bring another ghost back. And he’d tell Maura the whole truth. As soon as they gave this a chance.

“Okay. Well. In my experience, it’s repeat offenders that get on the naughty list.” She gave him a decidedly subject-changing look. “Speaking of which”—she nudged him back against the counter—“winner, winner, chicken dinner, I think I owe you a prize.”

A tingle went up his spine, his pulse blending through his body—mix, stir, liquefy. She leaned in, kissed him like she meant it. His hands slipped beneath her shirt. She gave a little moan. Check please.

And right on cue, his phone exploded, a badly digitized rendition of “Afternoon Delight” (Frankie’s idea of a joke that Kostya couldn’t bring himself to deprogram) belting from the speaker.

Seriously!?He tugged it from his pocket. That 917 number again.

His immediate instinct was to chuck it across the room, but a small voice in the back of his head wondered if his mom was okay, if Lower Manhattan was underwater, if some apocalypse had befallen the world while he was over here acting out several fantasies.

He groaned. “Sorry. I better get it.”

“Should I start without you?”

“Don’t you dare,” he told her, and picked up the call. “Hello?”

“Da, hello,” the voice on the other end said, in an accent so unmistakably Russian it could have been a Bond villain. “I looking for Konstantin Duhovnik.”

Oh,come on!

His mother was probably behind this, trying to get Uncle Vanya to give him his old trucking gig back. She never trusted him to figure things out on his own. Well—Maura fiddled with his belt buckle—this wasnotthe time.

“It’s Duhovny. And this is Kostya,” he said quickly, “but look, I told Vanya I wasn’t going to drive anymore, so—”

“Drive?Nyet, nyet.My name Viktor. Musizchka. I ownTainaclub Miami,Passagein Brooklyn,Russian DollLA. You know these?”

“No.”

The belt clattered to the floor.

“I want you be chef.”

“Thanks anyway, but I don’t really do Russian cuisine—”

“No Russian. New place. I hear about Hell Kitchen Supper Club. Ghost food, yes or yes? I want make restaurant like this. In Manhattan. High-concept. High-end. Five-star. You interesting?”

Maura was kissing his neck. Somewhere, Satan was cackling.

Kostya gave her a stricken look, mouthed,One sec.

“Yeah,” he said into the receiver. “Very interested.”

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