Read Tempting Donovan Ford Online
Authors: Jennifer McKenzie
Tags: #romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Women, #Fiction
Tempting Donovan Ford
There’s sizzle in this kitchen!
Chef Julia Laurent has poured everything into her late mother’s restaurant. When the time is right, she’ll buy it herself. Before she can, though, the Ford family swoops in and acquires it out from under her! Suddenly Julia has a new boss—the sexy and intriguing Donovan Ford.
Donovan and his family are legends in the restaurant business, so Julia will go along with his plans…for now. The chemistry between them is undeniable, but Julia remains focused on her goal of owning this place. Donovan has the power to help her—Julia simply has to convince him that he wants to.
To a bright and satisfying future.
Donovan
Julia recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card attached to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, that a bottle of wine, even if it did cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.
Well, that might be so, but she didn’t have to act on it.
Couldn’t
act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more.
Dear Reader,
As much as I love to cook (and oddly enough, it’s one of my great joys to slave over a hot stove—no, this isn’t sarcasm), I also love eating in restaurants. And I love Paris. And siblings who support and snark in the same breath. So I put them all together in
Tempting Donovan Ford
and whipped up what I hope is a tasty treat. As an added bonus, no calories will be consumed during the reading of this book. Unless you add chocolate. Because everything is better with chocolate.
If you’re curious about the music I played and the actors I pictured while writing the book, visit my website,
jennifermckenzie.com
.
Happy reading,
Jennifer McKenzie
Jennifer McKenzie
Tempting Donovan Ford
Jennifer McKenzie
lives in Vancouver, Canada, where she enjoys being able to ski and surf in the same day—not that she ever does either of those things. She spends her days writing emails, text messages, newsletters and books. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, eating chocolate, trying to talk herself into working off said chocolate on the treadmill or spending time with her husband.
Books by Jennifer McKenzie
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
That Weekend…
Not Another Wedding
This Just In…
Visit the Author Profile page
at
Harlequin.com
for more titles
This is for my aunts who were the first to buy my books, tell me how proud they were and brag about knowing me in grocery stores.
Shelley, Bonnie, Anna, Kathy and Pam. (No, you were not listed in order of importance. Or age.)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
J
ULIA
L
AURENT HAD
always liked traditions. Turkey at Thanksgiving, cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, strawberry pie in the summer. Classics. Things that stood the test of time.
She hummed as she stepped out of the cold, midmorning January air and into the back entrance of her restaurant, La Petite Bouchée. Though her name wasn’t on the deed, in every other way the space was hers. As executive chef, she’d lovingly tweaked the menu, hung some of her own personal photos on the walls and trained the staff. She’d spent the past two years building traditions and trust, taking the routines her mother had started in the kitchen and making them better. In time, she was certain her name would be listed on the deed, too.
Assuming she could ever get Jean-Paul, current owner and massive pain in her ass, to agree to terms.
Still, she was satisfied. Jean-Paul had no interest in the restaurant. He’d inherited the Vancouver property six months ago and had been looking to sell it ever since. And she had financial backers and an offer on the table. As soon as they could come to an agreement, La Petite Bouchée would be hers.
Julia unwound her scarf as she passed through the delivery bay and into the long hallway that led to the staff rooms and her office. The kitchen would already be buzzing. Prep chefs would be chopping, dicing and julienning the mise en place for tonight’s service. Stocks and sauces would be simmering on the burners. Veggies tourneed, beans soaking.
And Sasha, her closest friend and sous chef, flying out of the swinging doors toward her. “Julia.”
Julia stopped and stared. Sasha looked harried and not the normal busy-kitchen harried. More like the sky was falling. Or they’d run out of chicken.
“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” There was a spatter of brown sauce on Sasha’s chef coat and a dusting of flour on her cheek.
“My phone?” Julia frowned and pulled the device out of her bag. A black screen looked back at her even when she tapped the power button. Obviously, she’d forgotten to plug it in last night. Again. Which was why people rarely called her on it. Something Sasha well knew. “It’s out of juice. Why?”
“Never mind.” Sasha waved away the concerns of the dead phone. “You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?” Julia felt a trickle of unease run down her spine, but she kept her expression cool. Sasha might be one of the few people she felt close to, but at the restaurant, Julia needed to appear in charge at all times. It was key to the authority structure of the kitchen.
“Jean-Paul sold the restaurant.”
Julia’s stomach dropped. Actually it took a skydive off a skyscraper and splatted on the concrete sidewalk. But she didn’t even flinch. She’d trained in some of the toughest kitchens in Paris. She’d mislabeled food in the walk-in and had her chef throw it all over her and the floor before insisting that she clean the cooler and relabel everything. She’d fired salmon too early and put the entire kitchen in the weeds on a night when they were serving the prime minister and other heads of state. And she’d made it through without losing her job or her cool. She knew how to hide fear. “He sold the restaurant.”
“Yes.” Sasha’s huge green eyes looked worried. “And the new owner is here.” Sasha’s gaze darted back toward the kitchen door. “I tried to call you.”
Julia dropped her phone back into the depths of her bag, where she’d probably forget to charge it again tonight. “I see.”
But she didn’t see. Jean-Paul had sold? And not to her?
“Where is the new owner?” Julia fought back the rise of terror. She had no information, nothing to make an informed decision with.
“I set him up in the dining room. He’s been waiting there about twenty minutes. He’s a Ford.”
Julia knew the name. The restaurant industry was a small one and everyone either knew or knew of each other. The Fords ran a string of well-respected, well-run wine bars that populated Vancouver’s hot spots. She’d been to one last month and been pleased with the friendly service, decent selection of wines and small plates that could be ordered à la carte or in pairs with the wine. But running a bar was nothing like running a restaurant. Nothing at all.
Oh, God. Her restaurant.
La Petite Bouchée
had a great location on Granville Island, which was actually a peninsula not an island, located on False Creek across from the downtown core. Once a premier eating spot, over the past couple of decades it had fallen out of favor with local foodies and been replaced by hipper establishments that catered to the city’s adventurous palates. But Julia thought—no,
knew
—she could turn that around, given the necessary time and money.
The restaurant didn’t need a complete overhaul. It was full of old-world charm and she’d put her food up against anyone else’s. But... A chilly dread crept over her. Was it possible that the Fords had bought the place simply to turn it into another wine bar? Was the owner here now to tell her to pack her things and get out?
Julia swallowed the sick feeling that was trying to rise. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, show weakness. “I’ll go speak with him.”
She used her chef voice, the one that accepted nothing but absolute obedience. The deference of cooks to those above them in the line of command was key. One person who didn’t follow orders could lead to a complete breakdown. An entire table’s meal needing to be remade because someone didn’t fire the steak on time or the veggies weren’t ready. And that didn’t just affect one table—it was a domino effect, rippling through the restaurant as other orders backed up. Julia’s biggest job was ensuring that this happened. Every service. Every night.
But she wished she’d worn something nicer today. Of course, she hadn’t expected to meet a new owner. Up until two minutes ago, she’d thought she would be the next owner of the restaurant. At least her jeans were clean and her sweater was cashmere. Julia didn’t have closets full of clothing, but the pieces she owned were expensive and classic. Something she’d picked up from living in France for six years before returning to Vancouver.
Julia took the time to open her office and remove her scarf and coat, to check her teeth and smooth her hair. Then she steeled her spine and headed out to face whatever might be waiting for her. She had no clue what the Fords intended to do with the restaurant or with her. But if she was going to get fired, she’d do it in style, looking as cool and chic as any Parisienne.
The sounds of the kitchen washed over her as she walked toward the dining room. Noises that normally relaxed her, the clink of spoons and pots, the hiss of sauces reducing on gas burners, the whir of sharp knives hitting cutting boards, served only to highlight that she couldn’t join her staff, at least not yet.
She pushed open the doors that led to the dining room. The space was cool and dim, as though it was sleeping in preparation for service tonight. Julia strode down the middle of the tables, most with the chairs still upended, toward the one in the center. Her eyes locked on the man sitting there.
He glanced up at her and smiled. A nice smile that made her stomach do a slow turn. Of course, that might also be the fear of the unknown. Julia shook off both thoughts. Her apprehension and the man’s attractiveness needed to remain on the back burner until she uncovered exactly why he’d chosen to drop in without notice.
She smiled back, a slightly haughty one learned at the elbow of France’s best, and held out her hand. “Mr. Ford.”
He rose, clasping her hand in his larger one. “Donovan.”
The oldest son. The one who’d been groomed to take over the family business. Julia had heard the stories about all three of the Ford children. The youngest, a daughter who was off in Jamaica or somewhere running a restaurant with her boyfriend; the middle son, Owen, who was a regular in the social pages; and the oldest, Donovan, who, while not exactly like his brother, was no social slouch himself. “Donovan, then.” She inclined her head. “Julia Laurent. Executive chef.”
Might as well put it out there now. If she was about to get canned, she didn’t want to waste the next ten minutes on the niceties. She felt the ball of dread in her stomach grow.
She eyeballed him up and down, taking everything in. His steel-gray wool pants. No doubt made by Armani or some other expensive designer. The immaculate white shirt left open at the collar and leather shoes so shiny that she could see the reflection of her kitchen in the toes. Black, polished, Italian, expensive.