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turd. Too bad I allowed him to get too close.
    She reconsidered her attitude toward Nick. It isn't as if I had much conversation with him in the pool. I certainly offered myself up on a silver platter. She resolved to try simply act as if nothing had happened. Nothing did happen , Mae reminded herself. I went after a satisfying fuck with an extremely desirable passing stranger. He thought he was shagging a kitchen wench. Enough said. Over and done with.
     
    ***
     
    Nick had not quite adjusted his circadian rhythm to Singapore. He had heard it said that you need a day of adjustment for each hour of time difference. He had days to go before his body accepted that he was no longer in San Francisco. He had dug deep into the menus, the invoices and the countless other details of his uncle's huge scope of responsibilities during the long sleepless night. Just before dawn he made his way back to his room, showered and took a couple hour's cat-nap. He wasn't exactly raring to go, but he felt clear-headed enough to face the day and Mae. He pulled on some checks from his closet and a freshly laundered chef's coat. Note to self: dress warmly Nicky-boy. Your hot little water sprite has turned into a cold fish.
    Nagging at the back of his mind, no matter how much he tried to expunge it, was the memory of his romp in the pool with Mae. How could a woman evince such passion and abandon and turn right around and cut it off just like that. Nick had had plenty of little affairs 'just for fun' and managed to part on friendly terms with most of the lovely ladies who gave themselves up so freely to the handsome, virile chef. Hell, the last few years had been a bonanza for the guys in his trade. Being a chef had garnered glamour and sex appeal what with the all the TV food channels and the celebrity chefs who made women go all dreamy over a guy who could cook. The rough language, the competitive food shows, the proficiency with knives and machines and the working knowledge of foods most folks out in TV land had never heard of lent a certain charm to a formerly pretty mundane profession (at least to the public's eye).
    Added to his profession was the undeniable appeal of Nick's strange Euro-American accent that always aroused a woman's curiosity, and sometimes the woman herself. Nick's mother was Spanish, (Basque to be exact) and his father was Dutch. But a great deal of the early years of his father's career had been spent in New York where Nick was born and spent his formative years. Then his family circled the globe with his father's increasing status as a great executive chef capable of turning loss leaders into profit centers. Consequently, Nick's deep bass voice was laced with an indefinable and unique accent that women found very appealing.
    He had learned, in San Francisco that the accent could also lead to some assumptions about his gender preferences. His staff at the hotel never missed an opportunity to razz him ruthlessly about the number of times he got hit on by men. "It's the Euro thing, man," his expeditor buddy had told him one night after a particularly persistent guy had been hitting on Nick. " Plus you're a good looking dude. It's kind of hard to tell who's who and what's what these days. The lines get pretty blurry. You know we just give you shit in the kitchen. You get a piece more often than the rest of us and we gotta see that you pay a price."
    Nick wondered if he might be able to maneuver just a wee bit more warmth out of Mae by sharing his unusual background. Why do you give a shit, man? You have got to get yourself together. This is a temporary assignment and she was a temporary plaything. Good God, you're mooning around like a seventeen year old over a piece of ass that's likely poked by any stud that strikes her fancy. Get the fuck over it and do your job!
    Right now, the job was to meet the wench and prep her on his specials. Much as he admired his uncle's creativity in the kitchen, there was always room for twists