Authors: Lynne Connolly
“Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugged. “That part of the contract ends in a month,
when the hotel’s ready to open. Bell’s management will have worked out why I’m
here. After that, I’m just another shareholder. I get to stay here whenever I
like, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Are you’re here to say goodbye?” She wanted to move closer
but it was as if he had a ring of steel around him, something she couldn’t
break through.
“Or not.” He shrugged. “We’re writing material for the next
album and doing the tour. I could leave if I wanted to. I don’t do much writing
and I have a fan base of my own, so I could do something solo. Or I could leave
the music business and chase my childhood dream of running this house.” He kept
her gaze, his eyes as blue as the sky outside. “That’s why I’m really here. To
make up my mind.”
She swallowed. She’d given her dream up, or rather been
forced to, so she knew what it felt like. As if she’d lost part of her heart
and she’d never get it back, however hard she tried. Instantly, he saw her
change of mood.
He crossed the room and took her in his arms, holding her
close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you. At least I have a choice,
right?”
“Yes. It doesn’t matter. I made the decision to leave the
kitchen a year ago. So far, so good.” She choked a laugh. “At least most of
it.” She clutched his T-shirt at the back, but when she realized she was doing
it, she deliberately relaxed her hold. “I know enough now to know where I need
to learn more.”
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way.” He drew away and
gazed down at her face. “You’re twenty-eight and you’ve spent all but a year of
your adult life as a chef, right?”
“More or less. I’ve lived and breathed kitchens all my life.
When I was little we lived in one of the best hotels in London when my father
got his first Michelin star. Dad sent me away to France when I was eighteen and
I worked with chefs there for two years. Then I came home and I thought I was
set for life. But I wasn’t.”
“So why did Bell’s take you on?”
Heat rushed to her face. “Because my mother has connections.
She comes from a line of hotel managers, so between them my parents are a
powerhouse. Bell’s took me because they wanted what my mother would offer them
and what we could bring with us. All networking and influence.”
His mouth firmed. “And the chef.”
“Yes. The chef. Once I lost him, I lost the job. They were
always dependent on each other. Nobody said anything, but it was understood.”
“However well you did. Were you doing well?”
“I thought so.” Unable to resist, she went on tiptoe and
kissed him. He met her willingly and returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but
kept his hands anchored around her waist and back and didn’t take it any
further.
She sighed when he broke away, but didn’t pursue him because
if she did, they wouldn’t leave this room for a while. Instead she told him how
well she’d been doing. She had to give him something back for the confidence
he’d just given her.
“Most food critics said I was on my way to my first Michelin
star. A new talent, they called me. I got a job offer, a really good one, from
a big hotel on Park Lane. A week later I had another attack and I knew I
couldn’t go on.” She fought hard to keep the hurt from her face and showed him
something more tranquil, she hoped.
Already he knew enough about her to cup her face in one big
hand and speak gently to her. “It can’t be easy, I know that much. If you need
to, I’m here and I won’t tell anybody. I promise.”
She knew that, though how she knew she couldn’t say. Just by
looking up at him, his blue eyes so gravely understanding. In his arms, she
didn’t feel like crying the hot, helpless tears that had made her nights
restless over the last six months. Instead she wanted to help him, to talk to
him.
Strange. So she smiled, as she always did when anyone got
too close and although she meant to say, “I’m fine,” she actually said, “I’m
getting there.”
“You’re brave, starting all over again. I don’t know what
I’d do if I had to give up my music.”
She raised a brow. “But you’re considering managing this
house.”
“It won’t stop me playing guitar. I can still do that, I’ll
just stop chasing over half the world playing for other people. It’s not that
part that matters to me.”
“It matters to some.”
He nodded. “Yes, but not to us. The band, that is. We like
it, sure, but the music comes first.” He touched his lips to hers, so softly
she hardly felt it, but she didn’t move closer. She loved the gentle tribute,
the contact of skin and breath, barely there.
“I can do that here.” His words said that he could stay here
if he had inducements. She didn’t want to be that inducement. He had to decide
what was best for him.
“Are you happy with Murder City Ravens?”
“Yes.” He said that really fast. “After we fired Matt I
didn’t think I would be okay, but the guys gave me time. I felt so shitty about
turning Matt in. I went with him to rehab, made sure he was okay to the
detriment of my band work. But he sent me back, said I was putting more
pressure on him. I found that I got along with the new members, I mean really
got along. I knew them before, but a band throws you into a new kind of
intimacy. We rocked like I’d never known before. When we write, it’s pretty
much collaborative. Somebody gets an idea and we all work on it together. I’d
never known that before either.”
When he talked about that part of his life, his eyes
sparkled and he talked like a man in love.
Beverley cut off her thoughts right there. Not in love, not
this soon and not this man. They were going in opposite directions, literally,
she to England, he to the West Coast. And their lives—no, not happening.
Downstairs, Beverley found Jaime in possession of her
office. Having changed from her jeans into a skirt and blouse, she felt more
businesslike, more in charge of the situation. But the blouse and skirt were
infinitely better than the ones she had in her old wardrobe-—better fitting,
better colors—and the change showed in Jaime’s face when she looked up and saw
her.
“I thought you’d gone,” was all she said, although her eyes
had widened and her gaze swept over Beverley’s new clothes.
Beverley shook her head. “Not yet. I decided to work out my
notice, or at least make sure everything was in order before I went home.”
“Did you get the chef back?”
“No.” She went around the desk and stood behind Jaime. “May
I have my chair back, please?”
To her relief, Jaime rose without questioning her. Beverley
sat and tilted the computer screen to the right angle for her, a little lower
than the taller Jaime. “Want to fill me in? Has anything happened since
yesterday?”
Jaime stood next to her so she could see her face. “Rebennac
dropped off your luggage and then left, said he didn’t want to stay. Pity, he
was a good worker. A few more people called to find out when we were opening.
Oh, and the local paper called about Jace.”
Beverley refrained from telling her not to use his first
name. After all, a lot of people did that now. She just felt possessive about
it, as if it was hers alone, which, she reminded herself, was stupid. “What did
you tell them?”
“That Jace had arrived yesterday but he’d gone again. But
they knew that already. They caught up with you later.”
Beverley glanced at the screen, then stayed to study it
further. The browser was open on the hotel’s website, but Jaime had loaded
several tabs at the top. She found the mouse and hit the first one. A picture
of Jace and her, but they were moving fast, so their faces weren’t clear. That
was when they were on the way from the department store to Penny’s place,
because she was wearing the awful skintight jeans.
She hit the next tab, revealing a popular gossip site, and
this was worse. Pictures of Jace looking at her and smiling, that seductive
smile that melted her bones. And a picture of him kissing her. Shit, she should
have known someone would pick that up. In the lobby of a hotel—what had they
been thinking?
They hadn’t, that was the problem.
A tap at the door heralded the arrival of the man of the
hour. He lost the easy smile when his gaze met hers and, dropping all attempts
at insouciance, crossed the room and stood behind her so he could see the
screen. He glanced at Jaime, who smirked. “I should leave you guys together,
maybe,” she said.
Beverley hadn’t yet decided what to do. Should she claim it
was a spot of flirting, no more? After all, Jace had promised to be discreet
and now he said nothing. He didn’t touch her either.
He was waiting for her, she realized. He would follow her lead.
Fuck, why should she hide it? She was a grown woman, wasn’t
she? She lifted her chin and met Jaime’s eyes, the bright gaze of her assistant
brimful with mirth. She was enjoying Beverley’s discomfiture.
Time to turn the tables.
She shrugged. “Jaime, this is the twenty-first century.
People do that kind of thing all the time, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Smart.” Jaime planted her hands on her hips. “Making a move
on the boss. Good plan, Christmas.”
Beverley felt Jace move. He had his hand on the back of her chair
and it transmitted the rigidity of his whole body through the piece of
furniture to her. She could feel his anger. What was wrong with Jaime that she
couldn’t see it? Good hotel management included reading people, knowing what
they wanted before they expressed it, if possible. Looked as though Jaime
didn’t have that particular skill.
He straightened. “Did you speak with the woman at the
reception desk yet? I’m surprised she didn’t tell you what I told her. I have
veto of any appointment in Great Oaks for another month. I vetoed the
termination of Beverley’s contract. The job is still hers, if she wants it.”
When had he decided that? She’d hardly been apart from him
half an hour. But he hadn’t finished yet. “She has vacation time, and if she
chooses to take it I don’t want you taking her place in the interim. I just
found out some really interesting information about you.”
He moved around the desk to sit on the edge, closer to
Jaime, but Beverley could still see his face. “Here’s some background for you.
I have a manager, the kind who takes clients from all walks of life. He has
connections, and he found out a few things for me. He persuaded Monsieur
Chaballet to speak with me directly. I just got off the phone with him.” He
switched to fluid, classic French. “
Parlez-vous français?
I’ll bet you
do. Very good French. Well, Jaime, so do I.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Monsieur Chaballet is
back in France and fuming mad. An eleven-hour flight didn’t help his mood. He
said you showed him parts of the house, including the kitchens in the main
building. Far too small to cater for the expected guests here, aren’t they? You
didn’t show him the new kitchens, the main ones.
“Then you told him that he wouldn’t be allowed to bring his
staff with him, that he would be expected to oversee every session, that he
would have to provide certain dishes, which you outlined, and that management
had final word on all the menus. I know which ones, because he told me. Black
Forest cake?” He gave a derisory laugh, short and harsh. “You did everything
you could to drive him away, and it worked, didn’t it?”
He glanced at Beverley then, and despite his softened
expression, she caught the residue of anger sparkling in his eyes. He turned
back to Jaime. “Monsieur Chaballet is willing to return, under certain
conditions and for a higher price. I told him no thank you, but unlike you, I
was very polite. I don’t agree with burning bridges. Like you did yesterday.”
He paused. “Jaime, you have a choice. Either you resign by the end of the day
or I tell Bell’s what Chaballet told me and they fire you.”
Jaime left the room, and if anybody ever flounced, she did
it now.
Beverley counted to ten, then did it again. “Why did you do
that?” she demanded, her temper not helped by the enforced pause. “What makes
you think you can go over my head like that?”
He got to his feet and spread his hands wide in a gesture of
pacification. Those hands that had touched her naked body last night, put her
exactly as he wanted her. Shit. “I don’t, I swear. I just got off the phone and
I was pissed. What made her think she could get away with that?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, turning it into a
disordered mess. A disordered, sexy mess. “This is my childhood home, Beverley.
I’ll protect it as much as I can, especially from predatory bitches like that
one. I want her gone. If you were a sixty-year-old man, I would still want her
gone. You understand?”
That last part persuaded her and her temper subsided. “Yes,
I guess. But you should have told me and let me make the decision.”
“No.” He touched her hand. “I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry
she found out about us.”
“It’s all over the internet.” She indicated the pictures on
the screen.
He gave a wry grin. “Trouble is, I’m not sorry, not really.
I wanted you in the worst possible way. I still do.” He growled low in his
throat. “And guess what I found? That blouse. You are so going to wear that
again. But for me, in private, because I’m not ready to share you.”
He rounded the desk with the grace and power of a hunting
beast and dragged her up and into his arms, his mouth coming down on hers with
an intensity she wasn’t ready for. But he made her ready.
At first she struggled, but as he began to move away, the
magic happened and she moved closer, hooked her arm around his neck and dragged
him back. He came willingly, delivering a devastatingly thorough kiss.
She felt his hand on her bare thigh, sliding slowly up,
under her skirt. She’d dressed in a hurry, hadn’t bothered with hosiery, so she
had no protection against him now, as small, lacy panties didn’t really prove
much of a barrier. He slid his thumb under her panties, over her clit and came
back.