Love California Box Set: Books 1-3 (Love California Series Collection)

by Jan Moran

  “I don’t need either one from you.” Verena turned to walk away, but Derrick caught her hand.

  “Your business is going to need help,” he said, sincerity oozing from him. “Think of your employees.”

  Verena met his gaze, steeling herself against him. Derrick had one thing going for him; he was convincing. He sold business owners—and women—on their need for him. Once a person stepped into Derrick’s arena, he was like a lion sizing up his prey. He’d pace his steps, making them feel like they were special, or painting a picture of a future so compelling that those under his spell willingly went to slaughter. When she’d first met him, he’d suddenly been everywhere she went, and he told her their destiny was fated. We’re meant for each other, Verena.

  “No.” She snatched her hand from his grip. She had already made a mistake by getting personally involved with him. Fighting her grief, she blinked away tears and left him with Greta.

  As she made her way back to her friends, a tall woman in a sleek ebony dress stepped beside her.

  “Congratulations, Verena.” She was the new buyer for one of their largest accounts.

  “Thank you,” Verena said. “I’m glad you could come tonight.”

  “We’ve been reviewing our budget for the coming year. Call me so we can discuss.”

  “I’ll be happy to.” Although Verena despaired for Marvin and his family, she was also aware of her duty tonight. The woman turned back to her companion and Verena glanced around, noticing the cosmetics merchant buyers in attendance from Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus, and other stores.

  As Mia would have wanted, Verena circulated through the room, doing her duty and speaking to the people she needed to acknowledge.

  “Congratulations, Verena. A well-deserved honor.” A stylish woman with short black hair and burgundy highlights paused to speak to her.

  “Thank you,” Verena said. Wilhelmina Jones was a beauty industry veteran who’d built an impressive infomercial company specializing in the distribution of fine beauty, health, and fitness products.

  “Do give my best to your grandmother,” Wilhelmina said. “I’ve always admired what your family has done in skincare.”

  She moved on, and Verena did the same. When Verena finally managed to disentangle herself from business, she returned to her friends.

  Dahlia frowned at her. “Are you okay? You look awfully pale, Verena.”

  “I need some fresh air.” Feeling faint, she started for the door. She had barely touched her dinner, and she ached for Marvin and his family.

  “We’ll go with you,” Scarlett said, motioning to Dahlia and Fianna.

  Outside the ballroom, Verena started up a circular staircase. The four friends hurried through the lobby to the rear of the hotel overlooking the pool, turning heads in their wake.

  Perching on lounge chairs grouped under tall palm trees, they chatted a few minutes, discussing how they could help Marvin’s family.

  Verena breathed in the mild evening air, feeling thankful for her friends, who shared their thoughtful ideas and formed a plan. “I’m glad you all came tonight.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it,” Dahlia said. Her shiny dark hair and mint green evening gown shimmered in the wavering glow from the pool’s soft lights.

  “You’re all dressed up and you look gorgeous,” Verena said. “Why don’t you go inside and have something in the Polo Lounge? I’ll join you in a few minutes. I just need to clear my mind.” Derrick’s words echoed in her mind. He was right. Without the financial support of her bank, she would need help.

  “Good idea.” Fianna pushed her tall, lean frame from the chaise lounge. “Join us whenever you want.”

  After her friends had gone, Verena strolled through the deserted pool area, inhaling the sweet scent of jasmine on the summer breeze to calm her nerves. Besides being saddened by Marvin’s death, she was also worried over what Greta had said about the bank failure. Marvin had been the banker for her company ever since she had taken the reigns of the company after her parents’ deaths a decade ago. Over the years, he had become a trusted mentor and a good friend. She still couldn’t believe he would have committed suicide. This act seemed so counter to the strong sense of responsibility she knew he had.

  Despair encroached on her thoughts as National Western and the Asian expansion rushed through her mind. Her company’s debut in China was mere weeks away. Suppliers and promotional vendors would need to be paid. She’d planned to rely on working capital until sales ramped up, just as many companies did.

  Marvin had made the loan commitment a year ago, but now she’d have to look for another bank to make a loan. Could she act fast enough to gain the financing she needed?

  She paused, staring at the moon as it crested the Spanish-tiled hotel rooftop. A question nagged at her.

  When she had broken up with Derrick a few months ago, he’d told her he wanted to remain friends. He still kept in touch, calling her with the latest news that might affect her business and offering her advice. Derrick had a brilliant financial mind; she had to give him that. She drew her brows together in thought.

  Derrick also knew that she banked with National Western. So why hadn’t he mentioned his concern over the bank’s imminent demise? If he’d warned the other companies in Herringbone’s portfolio, as Greta had asserted, why hadn’t he told her, too?

  After all, he liked nothing more than to boast about his superior knowledge and foresight, and then be proven right after the fact.

  Watching the moonlight wavering over the faint ripples on the pool’s surface, Verena walked and thought of her grandmother and her parents, and how hard they’d worked to build up the business. Brick by brick, her father had often said. Joseph and Angelica Valent were well loved by family and friends. She’d ached for them every day of her life since—

  A tall man in a white shirt stepped in front of her. “Excuse me, do you have a light?”

  Startled, Verena jerked her head up. “No,” she snapped. “And you shouldn’t jump out in front of people like that.”

  “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” Surprise registered in his voice. His voice was a deep, warm baritone, and he sounded genuinely apologetic. The pool lights behind him illuminated his broad-shouldered physique.

  She couldn’t make out his face, but she could see a cigarette dangling from his silhouetted fingers. “Besides, you shouldn’t smoke.” She heard him sigh.

  “I know. I quit, but I really need a cigarette right now. It’s been one of those weeks.”

  “Tell me about it,” she muttered. He made no reply but remained rooted to the ground before her, blocking her way. She put up her hand to shield her eyes from the light. “I can’t see you, and you’re in my way.”

  He stepped aside, angling his face. “Is that better?”

  A shaft of light shone on his face. Verena caught her breath. Behind his engaging smile, his white teeth sparkled. His eyes crinkled in a nice way, drawing her in. He looked around her age, maybe a couple of years older—about thirty, she guessed. With sun-streaked, chestnut brown hair, it was obvious he enjoyed the California sunshine. He also had a distinct, inviting aroma about him. She sniffed. Garlic and rosemary. He wore a white jacket with a thermometer in a slender pouch sewn onto the sleeve and casual cotton pants. “Oh, you’re a chef.”

  He laughed and bowed. “At your service.”

  “You smell wonderful.” Verena grew warm. With her fair skin, she blushed easily, and she was glad it was dark outside.

  “Hungry?”

  “I had dinner, sort of, but I didn’t really eat it. Actually, I’m starving.”

  He raised his eyebrows in alarm. “What was wrong with your food?”

  With a start, Verena realized the meal must have come from his kitchen. “Nothing, it was delicious, but I can’t eat much before I give a presentation. Audiences make me nervous.”

  Nodding he said, “Lots of actors have stage fright, too.”

  Feeling oddly comfortable wit
h this stranger, Verena went on. “I’m always starving by the time an event like this is over. Everyone else has eaten well, and then I have to find a late night diner. Or room service.”

  “You’ll have none of that tonight. Come with me.” He took her hand and smiled at her again when she hesitated. “What’s the matter?” He glanced down at her barren left hand. “Boyfriend waiting for you?”

  There it was again, that warm feeling that grew along her neck. “No, but my friends are waiting for me in the Polo Lounge.”

  “They’ll be fine, but you should eat something.” He frowned with concern. “Look, you’re so weak you’re shaking. I’ll call the maître’d at the Polo Lounge for you. What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Ah, my manners. Forgive me, too much time in the kitchen. My name is Lance, Lance Martel.”

  “Verena Valent.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” A smile curved on his full lips. “You’re going to eat well tonight, Verena. Come with me.” Still holding her hand, he let his fingers glide to her fingertips in a casual, friendly grasp.

  His fingers felt magnetic. She was starving, and he seemed innocuous enough, though he was disarmingly attractive. Not in the powerful, intense way Derrick was, but in a charming, friendly way. She hesitated for a moment and then thought, why not?

  2

  LANCE LED VERENA into the back of the kitchen where the staff was finishing clean-up for the night. “We have a limited menu at night for room service,” he said. “Most of the kitchen is clean and we have a skeleton staff at night.”

  He walked ahead of her, nodding to a few employees that Verena guessed were sous chefs, line cooks, and servers. Drawing up a wooden stool to a stainless steel counter, he waved his hand. “Mademoiselle, your throne.”

  Before she sat down, Verena ran her finger across one of several large, gleaming knives on the table. “These are amazing.”

  “And razor sharp. Be careful, we have a lot of dangerous tools in here. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” He pointed to an array of thin scars on his hands.

  She tried not to stare. He was missing half of the third finger of his right hand. “That must have hurt.”

  He grinned at her and flicked up his finger. “Just kidding,” he said, chuckling. “Old chef’s joke. But you could perform surgery with these knives.”

  Verena smiled at his silly comment. He clearly liked to entertain people. Lifting her silvery skirt, she slid onto the stool and watched him gather the professional tools of his trade.

  He brandished a copper skillet. “Anything you won’t eat?”

  “Hmm, maybe a Big Mac.”

  “I don’t blame you.” He looked up at her and paused, fixing his golden amber eyes on her. “Can I get creative?”

  “Sure.”

  Lance placed the copper sauté pan on a cooktop, poured in a small measure of olive oil, and adjusted the gas flame. He reached for a bunch of fresh green herbs—oregano and basil, she noted—and selected an impressive knife. Wielding it with expert ease, he began to chop with speed and precision. The blade tapped in staccato rhythm against the cutting board. As he chopped, the fragrant leaves spilled forth their aroma. Verena breathed in, savoring the culinary magic.

  While she was impressed with his confidence in the kitchen, she was mesmerized by his fluid movements. The kitchen was his domain, just as the skincare salon was hers.

  He whipped out a copper saucepan and turned on another flame. Next came whipping cream and sprinkles from stainless steel bins—shallots and garlic—followed by cracked peppercorn. Then, several taps and shakes from a collection of stainless canisters were delivered in rapid, measured paces. Tap, tap-tap, tap. The tendons in his muscular forearms rippled as he worked.

  Verena had never seen a professional chef at work, and she was captivated by his natural body rhythm and skill.

  He glanced up at her. “You’ll eat fowl, won’t you?”

  Jolted from her thoughtful gaze, she said, “Sorry?”

  “Fowl, as in birds. I’ll bet you like squab.”

  A smile danced on her lips. “Of course, I’m game.”

  “Usually I’m the one cracking the jokes.” Grinning at her, he tossed more fresh herbs and ingredients into the mixture. He crossed the kitchen and opened a stainless steel refrigerator door. A moment later, he had his prized squab and set to work trimming and dressing the dish.

  “Hey boss,” one of the workers called out as he gathered soiled towels. “Need a hand?”

  “No, I’ll take care of this special order,” Lance said with a wink.

  Verena cupped her chin and leaned on her elbow, watching with rapt attention. “You really enjoy your work, don’t you?”

  “What’s not to love about it? Feeding people great food makes them happy. And everyone has to eat.”

  He lifted a corner of his mouth in what Verena was quickly recognizing as a nearly ever-present grin. Many of the men she met were intent on being smooth and sophisticated, or forever youthful in a way that could only work in Los Angeles—and especially in Hollywood. Lots of men in L.A. seemed to be on the verge of an important, too-good-to-be-true deal, or professed to know someone who knew someone who could make their dreams come to fruition.

  She’d heard it all at her salon—every story one could imagine. The incessant chatter was enough to make her head hurt at times.

  And then there was Derrick—and his senior partner, billionaire Thomas Roper—who exuded the kind of power only derived from marshalling great sums of money. They were the dealmakers. Everyone with a dream of overnight riches seemed to pursue them. However, that wasn’t why she’d dated Derrick.

  In the beginning of their relationship, he’d been so attentive and focused on her. He told her she was the only one who had ever truly touched him. She also admired his business acumen—he’d had far more experience that she had in structuring business deals and raising money. His thoughtfulness toward her younger sisters had made an impression. With Mia’s tenuous health, Verena’s younger twin sisters were her responsibility and prime concerns for her.

  Yet this man before her, who clearly derived such pleasure from preparing a meal for a woman he’d just met, seemed much more genuine, authentic, and relaxed in his skin. She was intrigued.

  “How did you learn to cook like this?” she asked, trailing her fingers along the counter’s cool stainless steel surface.

  “I’ve always loved cooking,” he said as he arranged ingredients. “While other kids watched cartoons or played video games, I watched cooking shows on television. After my mom went to bed, I’d sneak into the kitchen. Later, I went to culinary school in San Francisco. Even worked in Europe for a while.” He paused and gazed straight into her eyes. “Someday I’d like to have my own restaurants and food lines. I have a plan, and I’m saving for it.”

  “Saving? Or just trying to find investors?” She realized she sounded jaded.

  “Saving,” he replied firmly. “I make my own way.”

  Verena felt her cheeks flush. Lance was sharing his most precious goals, she realized, and it touched her. She liked listening to him. His voice was as rich and smooth as the cream he poured into the saucepan.

  “Do you pick up hungry women by the pool like this every night?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. It was none of her business. What difference did it make to her?

  But he didn’t take exception to her remark, or if he did, he didn’t show it. He shrugged. “Usually I clean up and leave, but it’s been a busy week. We’re short-handed, and I’ve had to do more cooking than usual.”

  When she looked quizzical, he added, “I’m the executive chef, which means I have general management duties.”

  Verena nodded knowingly. “That explains the smoking.”

  “Yeah, I’m not proud of it,” he said. “Picked up the habit a couple years ago in Europe. Last year I quit for the first few months, and then wham, something set me off again.
But I promised myself that this year would be different. I can’t afford to kill my taste buds.”

  She liked what she was hearing. The sauce in the skillet sizzled and popped. “Hmm, smells good.”

  Lowering the flame, he asked, “Are you staying at the hotel or here for an event?”

  “I’m a local,” Verena said. “I was at the Women in Pink event.”

  “That’s a great organization. And a beautiful dress,” he added. “Which looks quite amazing on you, by the way.”

  Verena shivered with pleasure. She’d wondered if the silver silk dress that Fianna had designed just for her was too much, but its slim simplicity seemed the perfect backdrop for the iridescent South Pacific pearls that had belonged to her mother.

  “I’d seen you near the pool,” he said. “You seemed deep in thought.”

  “I was.” Thinking of Marvin and her looming troubles, Verena shook her head.

  Lance adjusted the simmering flame. “We have a few minutes until the liquid is reduced.” He leaned forward to tuck a wayward wisp of wavy blond hair behind her ear. “Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.”

  The compassion in his eyes drew her in. “I run a skincare salon,” she began. “It was my parents’ business, and my grandparents before them. I’ve opened a chain of salons, and I’m in the middle of an aggressive international expansion plan for our product line.”

  He studied her as he listened. “You’re having difficulties?”

  “If you own a business, it’s always something. Products, employees, financing, government regulations.”

  “So true. Well, I’m impressed. How long have you been running this business?”

  “For the last decade, straight out of high school. My grandparents started it in the late 1940s. I love hearing my grandmother talk about the old days.”

  Lance started to ask a question, but another young man came around the corner. “Excuse me, boss, but I’m ready to leave.” He shifted from one foot to another.

  “Glad you reminded me. I’ll get your check, John.” To Verena he said, “Excuse me for a moment, but hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” His face lit with an easy smile.