“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, her spine stiffening. She took offense at his condescending tone.
He chuckled. Her stomach felt hollow, seeing him laugh at her aspirations.
She
felt hollow.
“So you’re going to be a chef this week.”
“I’m going to be a chef for the rest of my life.”
He shook his head, his smile fading. “This is the latest item on your crazy to-do stunt list. You’ve already tried race-car driver, sommelier, and photographer.”
“I’ve grown up. I’ve turned my life around. I want my life to have . . .
substance
. I’m trying to create a career for myself.”
“Why does an heiress need a career?” he asked. He had a decadently sexy voice. Rumor had it that women were regularly seduced by it alone, forget the rest of the package. Not that anyone would ever forget the smallest detail of Lucien. Elise knew she never had. She watched him as he moved behind the bar.
“Why does an heir?” she countered. “You’ve always worked, first at your father’s hotels and then in your own hotels and restaurants. You of all people shouldn’t be questioning me.”
He glanced up, all traces of amusement gone. Her lungs couldn’t expand as he held her stare. Pain welled up in her—shame about her past wild behavior and cynical attitude toward life, lancing fear that her plans for a future were hollow, that she truly didn’t have what it took to be a functional adult who could give and take and make the world a bit of a better place. She hadn’t possessed any role models for such a thing. She was afraid that greatly diminished her chances of success.
It was Lucien’s stare that made her feel her shortcomings so completely. He saw a lot with those X-ray eyes. He always had.
He’d immediately seen her foolishness when they’d first met at his parents’ estate in Nice. Elise had been a headstrong, wild thing, desperate for her preoccupied parents’ attention, for the staff’s, other houseguests’ . . .
anyone’s
. Lucien had been a coolly elusive twenty-one to her fourteen years that summer. From the beginning, he’d seen her ragged neediness, although she hadn’t realized it at the time. He’d befriended her, much to her delight. She’d been like a pitiful, neglected puppy, in awe of every scrap of attention he threw her way. It had been the best summer of her youth, those golden months on the shore of the Mediterranean.
Of her life.
She hadn’t realized until years later that their fathers had implored Lucien to take her under his wing. More than likely he’d been paid well for spending time with her, riding, swimming, and boating during that unforgettable summer. The knowledge shamed and infuriated her to this day.
“You must realize this is an unexpected—not to mention ridiculous—situation, Elise,” he said, his tone softer than it’d been before. She tensed when she suspected it was from pity. “You can’t work at Fusion.”
“I told you. I have a contract.”
“You have a contract with Mario, not with Fusion or me. I understand that master chefs take on stages. I allow them to arrange that on their own, respecting a talent I don’t possess. You aren’t one of Fusion’s paid employees, however, and as you just witnessed,” he said, wiping off the snifter he’d just washed, “Mario no longer works here.”
She stood there, panic gripping her, her thoughts coming a mile a minute. Had she failed so quickly in her plans? Were they so brittle? Was she? Would she be forced to return to the sterile emptiness of her existence in Paris, once again the vanquished fool?
No. It would
not
happen.
“Why did you change your name?” The random question just popped out of her throat she was so frantic.
For a moment, he didn’t speak, just finished wiping off the snifter and hanging it with the other glassware, leaving her with her thoughts. Taking his time, he strolled around the bar. He approached her and stood close. Closer than she’d expected. The spice scent of his cologne filtered into her nose.
“I’d actually already changed my name during our last meeting in Paris. Apparently, you’d been partying too much. You likely are a bit cloudy about a
few
things that occurred that night.”
She stilled, suddenly growing wary. Something about his reference to their encounter at Renygat and the subtle suggestion that she might be
mistaken
in her memories of it triggered a warning signal in her brain.
She’d left her companions and sought out a private meeting with Lucien that Saturday night two years ago, nervous, but eager to reconnect with her childhood infatuation now that she was a woman. True, she’d known he was in Paris for a while, but her parents’ pushy desires about Lucien had made her standoffish about approaching him. She’d been embarrassed, lest he think she was just enacting her parents’ wishes like some kind of robot socialite, bent on marriage to one of the most eligible males in the country.
She’d tapped lightly on the only door in the hallway, taking a moment to realize when she got no response that the door only led to a shorter hallway—an entryway of sorts. It led to the true door to Lucien’s office. The outer door had been shut, but as she went through it, she’d seen that the inner one was cracked open an inch. Standing in the entryway, she’d accidentally overheard that puzzling conversation between Lucien and a German-accented stranger.
“I’ll need top-notch insider information on Noble—his background, his family, his financials.”
“That won’t be easy. Ian Noble is known for being a control freak about security.”
“That’s why I hired you,”
Lucien had replied, sounding preoccupied.
“You’re supposed to be the best.”
There had been a grunt of acknowledgment followed by a pause.
“What’s that expression on your face?”
the German man had asked, sounding vaguely amused.
“You’re not feeling guilty, are you? About what you plan to do with Noble?”
“Subterfuge isn’t pretty, no matter how you dress it up. Sins of the father haunting me, I suppose,”
Lucien had said in a subdued, sardonic voice.
“We carry those ghosts with us, no matter what.”
The man had given a harsh laugh.
“Forget all that, and focus on your prize. Trust me. What you’re planning with Noble doesn’t compare to the crimes committed by your father.”
“I’m not cloudy about that night, Lucien. I remember it all,” Elise said, hesitant to bring up the volatile topic in this delicate situation. His expression remained impassive, but something flashed in his eyes. She swallowed through a tight throat. “I don’t recall you saying anything about changing your name, though.”
“I think you know why I changed my name and left France.” His quiet voice rolled over her like a sensual wave.
“You shouldn’t let your father’s crimes taint you. You’re your own man,” she whispered, referring to the fact that his adoptive father, Adrien Sauvage—wealthy industrialist, hotel chain owner, and head of a media empire—had been sent to prison two and a half years ago for corporate espionage. She knew Lucien had been questioned by the police about the possibility of him colluding with his father in the stealing of high-level corporate secrets. Elise had never believed he was guilty for a second. She had firsthand experience of Lucien’s quiet, restrained disdain when it came to Adrien Sauvage. In the end, Lucien had never been charged with anything, but it seemed the taint still clung.
“I don’t let his crimes affect me. I’m very aware that I’m not him.”
His voice had gone quiet and husky as his gaze ran over her face. She stilled, the back of her neck prickled in anticipation. He reached up and touched her hair. She shivered at the sensation of his fingers sliding over it and gently tucking a lock behind her ear. Her entire body quickened, tingling with excitement. It felt strange, being so acutely aware of a man. She hadn’t let herself get close to many men romantically—let alone a man as attractive as Lucien—since she’d thrown herself into her cooking career and begun to support herself. She hadn’t
ever
let men get too close to her, truth be told. She’d had a major crush on Lucien as a girl, of course, even though he hadn’t known she’d existed in a romantic sense. But this was different. She was a grown woman now, one who was much clearer on what she wanted out of life.
“I would have thought I wouldn’t like your hair short,” he murmured distractedly, his warm breath striking her temple. “But it suits you perfectly. Elegant sass.”
“Lucien—,” she began breathlessly when she saw the heat in his eyes as he caressed her again. He interrupted her by stepping back.
“I’ll help you to arrange moving back to your parents’ home in Paris, if you like. Are you set for money? Do you need any?”
“No. I’m perfectly fine,” she muttered, jarred by his abrupt change of topic and the absence of his touch.
“You can’t stay in Chicago,” he said so resolutely that she blinked in surprise.
“Who are you to say I can’t live here? Did you buy the city or something?” she fired, forcing herself to ignore the flicker of delicious sensation between her thighs, a direct effect of his touch . . . his nearness. Her anxiety mounted at his droll, unmoved expression. “You need a chef! Let me fill in for you at least until you find someone else.”
“No. That’s out of the question. I’m sorry.”
Anger rose in her, stiffening her spine and making her stand tall. How could he sound so resolute? Was she that disgusting to him? “I won’t have you ruin everything I’ve planned,” she declared.
“I won’t have you doing the same to me.”
“What?” she asked, set off balance by his rapid-fire response. “How could
I
possibly ruin anything for you?”
He leaned against the bar, displaying lean, honed muscles to optimal effect. “That night at Renygat? In my office?” he prompted significantly.
She flushed with heat. After they were alone, she’d confronted him about what she’d overheard. He’d been furious about her eavesdropping, and their angry exchange had turned heated. The tension had segued to the sexual variety. She’d broken his rigid restraint that night . . . momentarily. He’d kissed her angrily and completely, fully acknowledging the fact that the girl he’d known was now a full-blooded woman. She knew she’d pushed him too hard with her flirtatious taunts. She just hadn’t realized how fearsome Lucien could be when his control broke. . . .
How thrilling.
She noticed Lucien’s narrowed gaze on her.
“Of course I remember,” she said. She suddenly found it difficult to meet his stare. “I don’t see how that relates to me ruining anything for you.”
“I have enough distractions in my life at the moment. I don’t need you adding to the mix.” Her heartbeat escalated. Was he suggesting he was attracted to her? Or was he referring to that overheard conversation she could make no sense of whatsoever? Elise couldn’t decide if she should be flattered or offended by his declaration.
“I’m not going to distract you. I came to Chicago for one reason and one reason alone—to get the training I need to be an excellent chef. I’m very good at what I do.”
“I have no doubt of it. But you’re forgetting one thing—there’s no longer a chef here to train you,
ma fifille
.”
“I don’t care. I’ll find another chef in this city. I came to this place to start a new life, a fresh start, and I won’t let anyone—not even you, Lucien—set me off track. And I’m not a little girl,” she added fiercely, referring to the French endearment he’d given her as a child.
His nostrils flared slightly as he shoved himself off the bar with a graceful, sinuous movement. Her heart started to throb in her ears as he reached for the silk wrap she’d draped over a stool earlier. He was going to send her away.
Again.
She remained frozen in place when he held up the garment, a challenge in his gray eyes.
“You are a child. A beautiful, stubborn one, but a child nonetheless,” he said. “It’s time for you to go, Elise.”
Fury ripped through her like lightening. “You bastard,” she hissed. She grabbed the wrap out of his hands. “I should have known you’d never help me. You’re as selfish and narcissistic as your father . . . as
any
of our darling, beloved parents.”
He caught her arm in an iron grip as she stormed past him toward the doors. “I’m not like my father,” he grated out. Elise balked at the evidence of his sudden, potent anger, but she rallied. She jerked at her arm, but her reaction was just for show. Lucien’s restraint triggered a completely different response than Mario’s had.
“Let go of me,” she said shakily, not sounding convinced it was what she wanted, even to her own ears.
“You should be glad I do let go and worry about the day I don’t.”
Her chin went up, pride and anger and hurt battling for room in her consciousness. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He pulled on her, drawing her closer, so that her body brushed against his hard length and the fullness behind his fly. He scorched her with that almost otherworldly stare. She waited on a sharp ledge of anticipation, her breath burning in her lungs, when he lowered his head until their mouths were just inches apart.
“You’ve always tested me. You’ll always be that girl I remember, foolishly poking at a sleeping snake. You’d better get out of here. You’ve been begging without words to be disciplined since you were a girl, and you have no idea how much I’d love to give you what you so richly deserve . . . what you
need
.”
He noticed her wide-eyed, shocked expression and smiled grimly. “Not so sure of yourself now, are you?” he asked, his voice a low, purring threat. “What do you say? Do you want to stay with me and get what you need,
ma chère
?”
Something in his low, rough voice made her flesh prickle with excitement and adrenaline to run in her blood, but mostly she was confused. Hating to show vulnerability in front of a man like Lucien, she fell back on the brittle armor of pride.
“I said to let go of me,” she repeated.
When he released his grip, she staggered several steps in her heels, not because he’d pushed her, by any means—he’d actually been quite gentle—but because her mind was reeling. Something had happened to her at Lucien’s touch. His words. It was like a sealed door inside her had been thrown wide open, and what she saw in the depths of her being had excited and bewildered her in equal measures.