As he kissed, she turned her head to the side, seeing the wide windows facing the street. It was late, and Mimosa Key had long ago folded up, but she didn’t want an audience for this.
“Come,” she whispered, walking him back to the hallway between the dining room and kitchen.
He understood, kissing her as they backed away, but then he stopped. “Don’t forget the cash.” He snagged the bag from the top of the jukebox, barely letting her go.
Inside the hall, he stopped to kiss again and reach around to work on the tie of her apron. She felt it loosen and fall forward, and he followed, dipping his mouth right into the deep V plunge of the dress she’d worn to torture him.
Who was being tortured now?
Pleasure licked through her veins as she felt herself melt into his arms, a hot, sweet, achy need that pulled and twisted and made her let out a soft moan of surrender.
After a moment, he stepped back, his gaze hot and unwavering.
“I need both hands for this,” he said, holding up the cash pouch. “Let’s put this in the safe. In the closet?”
She nodded and let him step her to the door, where he opened it and glanced around before tossing the pouch on the empty table.
“Perfect,” he said, pulling her into the tiny area. “We can pick up where we left off the last time we played Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
Stepping inside, she knew the space well enough to know there was no place in here for a desperate couple to make out. One wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves, completely empty but for the cash safe she kept there. A table was pushed up against another wall, and the third wall was…
Behind her back as he eased her up against it, pinned her in, and intensified his kisses.
He didn’t close the door, so the light from the hall spilled in enough that she could see him. She threaded her fingers into his hair, holding his head to keep his mouth where she wanted it—on hers.
Her pulse thrummed as she finally let go so she could splay her hands over his chest, coasting over every dip and cut, moaning in appreciation.
He did the same, starting at her shoulders and working down to the rise of her chest very slowly, as if he wanted to prolong the pleasure of getting to that destination. He gave her a sexy half smile, and his hands cupped her breasts, and his thumbs grazed her already budded nipples.
“Your prize,” she whispered.
“You’re the prize, Libby, not these.” He gave a light squeeze. “This is all a prize.” His hands continued down, over her waist and hips, over her backside. He moved incredibly slowly, as if he didn’t want to miss one sensation of his first time touching her.
He reached the hem of her dress and started lifting it up her thighs so he could touch skin. His hands were everywhere at once, but everything was so slow, she was nearly breathless.
As if he read her mind, his hand moved higher on her thigh, brushing the damp silk of her panties, making her eyes go wide as she gasped with delight.
“Let’s get number one out of the way,” he whispered, a tease in his voice and fire in his touch.
She kept her head back against the wall, biting her lip as he stroked over her panties with his thumb.
She moaned, helpless to do anything but let him work his magic. His mouth on hers, his body hard, his thumb relentless when he knew he found her sweet spot.
“There we go,” he coaxed her. “Give in to it, sweetheart. Give in.”
She closed her eyes and surrendered to a quick, sweet, intense orgasm that left her shaking, holding on to his shoulders, lost for a moment. She almost swayed right to the side, but he had her.
“How did you do that?”
He laughed softly and lowered his face to kiss her neck some more. “We’re just getting started, Lib. You want two and three right now, or should we go upstairs to bed?”
She couldn’t answer because there wasn’t enough blood in her head to think straight. Instead, she dropped her head back and blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Looking up to the ceiling, she just let the sensations roll through her, not thinking about anything except how damn good that felt. Nothing else mattered. Not that they were in a kitchen closet, not that they were headed up to a mattress on the floor. She couldn’t even think about…the brown leather bag on the top shelf of—
“What is that?”
He drew back and followed her gaze. “What is…what? I don’t see anything.”
She tried to clear her head as she pointed, leaning farther back to see the edge of a leather bag that had been well hidden on the top shelf. “That, up there.”
“Who cares?” He went right back to kissing her throat and sliding his hand up her dress, but she pushed him back.
“I do. Isn’t that a men’s toiletry kit?”
His expression darkened. “It may be, but—”
“Is it yours?”
“No, it’s not mine.” He pressed against her. “But maybe it has a condom in it we could put to really good use.”
Her eyes flashed. “It’s Jake’s!”
He didn’t move or speak, his brain most likely as short-circuited as hers.
“Didn’t you say he used this as an office?” She gave him a nudge. “Go see what it is, Law.”
“All right, I will.” He closed his hands around her shoulders and pulled her into him. “When we’re done here.”
She gave him a nudge. “If that’s his shaving kit, it would have DNA in it.”
“DNA?” He choked the word.
“You know, the thing I’ve been trying to find but we haven’t even talked about for days?”
He just stared at her, the look of a man trying very hard to muster a care, but failing.
“Or maybe it’s something else,” she said.
He blinked, suddenly lucid. “Okay, okay.” He flipped the wall switch, flooding the little area with white light and making Libby squint against the brightness.
“How the hell did I miss that?” He yanked the table a few feet closer and, in one easy move, climbed up and stood on the tabletop, reaching for the brown leather pouch-like bag.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I’m not going to fall.”
“I mean be careful with that bag. It could contain incredibly important bits of DNA.”
He handled the bag with care, sliding it out slowly and gingerly handing it to her. “Here you go.”
She took it with two hands and set it upright on the table, staring at it while Law got down.
It was a dark brown leather Dopp kit with three initials engraved on the side.
JDP
“Jacob David Peterson,” Law said, his gaze on the same letters.
“It’s his,” she said softly, reaching to the zipper.
“It most certainly is,” he confirmed. “He kept it in here because sometimes he slept here and used the bathroom in the back of the kitchen. You want to open it, or do you want me to?”
“I will.” She pulled the zipper slowly, widening the mouth of the bag and peering in to see a toothbrush, razor, shaving cream, dental floss, a few Band-Aids, and a hairbrush with at least a hundred gray hairs clinging to the fibers.
“Congratulations, Lib. You found the DNA mother lode.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Do you think I need an attorney with me?” It was a rhetorical question, and Law knew it when he asked Ken. He had no intention of getting a lawyer, but he did respect Ken’s opinion, and he’d spent the better part of their drive from Fort Myers to the Ritz in Naples to get Law’s bike filling his friend in on the latest in the Jake situation.
Which was simple: they’d found the proof that Libby wanted, and that brought everything to a halt. At least everything they were about to do last night.
She’d left, taken her treasure trove of Jake’s personal items, and then texted him to schedule an “official” meeting with her brother. She hadn’t been cold or distant, just changed.
It was as if Jake himself had stepped
in and stopped where they were going.
“Did you tell her you’d have a lawyer present?” Ken asked.
“No, but if what’s in that Dopp kit matches her DNA, I might as well just walk away now. I don’t have a will, Ken.”
“And you are one hundred percent positive he left one?”
Law had replayed what he remembered of the hospital conversation a thousand times in his head. He’d been emotional at the time, caught up in the possibility of losing Jake, and sure as hell hadn’t been taking notes.
“Did he look me in the eye that night and say, ‘I wrote a will and left you the Toasted Pelican’? Maybe not in so many words. But that was the gist of it.”
Ken pulled into the Ritz parking lot, driving through to where Law had last left his bike.
“There’s Bonnie,” Law said, pointing to the motorcycle he’d missed the past few days.
“Do you have a lawyer who’ll come on short notice?”
“I have a guy I talked to after I got locked out of the restaurant, but…” He puffed out a breath. “I don’t want to take a lawyer and make it all legal and official.”
“You’re trying to claim ownership of a property and business, Law,” Ken said. “It has to be legal and official.”
“I know, but I can’t win. If that DNA matches and they have the original birth certificates, a judge is going to give it to them if I can’t produce a will.” He felt the burning urge to quit, and it sickened him.
“And are you sure you looked everywhere?” Ken asked. “I mean, you totally missed the shaving bag.”
“Everywhere. I went through all his belongings.”
“And you never saw that picture she found in ten minutes.” Ken threw the truck into park and gave Law a hard look. “Listen, man, not only are you personally invested, but when you looked, you were grieving the loss of your friend and not thinking straight. Go back through the storage stuff again. You want help?”
“I did. There’s nothing.” He shook his head, thinking it all through for the hundredth time. “You know, having those two days in the Pelican, I got a taste, man. I loved it. That’s what I want, and I know it’s what Jake wanted. But I can’t take what’s not mine.”
Ken looked hard at him. “You want my advice?”
“I don’t know, do I? You’re probably going to suggest I marry her and get the Pelican the old-fashioned way—as her dowry.”
Ken rolled his eyes. “You won’t like my suggestion any better, I suspect.”
Law shrugged. “Hey, I’ll try anything.”
“How about the truth?” Ken asked. “Why don’t you tell her you don’t have the will?”
“Because she’ll have yoga mats rolled up in my pantry faster than you can say namaste.”
“They’re going to make you show a will soon. Today, I’d imagine. You need to come clean with the fact that you have a verbal promise and nothing on paper.”
Law just stared at his friend, a black pit growing in his stomach. “All right, thanks, Ken.” He put a hand on Ken’s shoulder. “Thanks for the truck. It was a lifesaver.”
Ken just smiled. “You’ll do the right thing.”
“I’ll do…something.”
After Ken took off, Law walked into the office to get his last check and finalize any details for the efficiency he’d been renting, but after a quick chat with the woman at the desk, he ended up sitting for ten minutes, growing impatient and late for his appointment with Libby.
“Excuse me, Mr. Monroe?” A woman he’d never seen before came out of the back offices and smiled at him. “We’ve been trying to reach you for several days.”
“Well, now you have me.”
“Could we see you back here a moment?”
He stood, giving her a dubious look. “Trouble with my check or the apartment?”
“Not at all,” she said as she gestured for him to follow her to the plush back offices. “But your timing is perfect. Mr. Phillips is here today.”
Mr. Phillips? He gave his head a shake. “Don’t know who that is or why I want to talk to him. I quit on Saturday.”
She flashed him a smile. “It’s all anyone has talked about around here.”
“Really.” Oh man. Was some Ritz blowhard going to rip him a new one for quitting during a rush?
When they turned the corner to mahogany row, he huffed a disgusted breath. Would he be forced to come face-to-face with that dickhead Chef Del?
Because he might try to care less, but it wasn’t really possible. What could they do to him now? What did it matter?
“Look, I’m really late for—”
“Chef Lawson Monroe.” A tall, older gentleman in a ridiculously expensive suit walked out of an office and extended his hand. “Clive Phillips, Vice President of Restaurant Management.”
For the entire Ritz-Carlton chain?
“We’ve been attempting to call you, but here you are,” Phillips said, shaking Law’s hand. “You came right to us.”
“I’m here for my paycheck. My last paycheck.”
The man indicated that Law should go into the office, where Susan Roderick, the hotel GM, sat on the sofa, beaming at him.
“Ms. Roderick,” Law said, certain he was unable to hide his confusion at this turn of events.
“Chef Law,” she replied, getting up to shake his hand. “Your timing is impeccable, as always.”
“Except I have no idea what I’m timing.”
The other man closed the door and offered Law a seat, then took one of his own on the plush sofa next to the GM.
“First of all, we are sorry about what happened in the kitchen on Saturday night.”
They were sorry? “Look, I lost it and I apologize. If there were problems after I left, then—”
“There were problems before you left,” Susan said, folding her hands on her lap and looking directly at Law. “Chef Del had…issues. He’s gone now.”
Holy shit. “He got canned because of that?” Law hated the guy, no doubt about it, but he didn’t wish him unemployed.
“Not because of that,” Susan said. “He was already on probation, but after doing some interviews with the staff, we let him go, and Clive flew out from headquarters last night to address the situation.”
Next to her, Clive looked just as serious, with eyes the color of fresh sage under a shock of white hair. “We’re doing some companywide restructuring, Chef Lawson, and you’ve walked right into the middle of our decision-making process.”
Law blinked at him. “Not sure I follow how I’d fit.”
“You’d fit nicely, as the chef de cuisine, and I’m here to offer you that job.”
“To replace Chef Del?” His voice rose in surprise. He could do it, of course, but it was a stunning promotion.
“Oh, no,” Clive said. “We immediately pulled from the Amelia Island property to put Chef Aiden McCall in that slot.”
“Of course.” Law had worked with Aiden when he was a sous chef in Naples. “He’s terrific. Creative and fair. And I’d work for him in a minute.” If he lost the Pelican. Which was a distinct possibility, so he sat a little straighter and suddenly realized that what they thought did matter.
“We have a better idea,” Clive said, shooting a look at Susan, who hadn’t stopped smiling since Law had walked into the room. She’d always liked him, always stopped to chat with him when she was in the kitchen, and if she were a little more his type and less his boss’s boss, he might have done a better job of flirting with her.
“How would you like to be chef de cuisine at our Dove Mountain location in Arizona?” Clive asked, his brows raised in expectation.
Chef de cuisine? Arizona? Law had no idea how to respond. It might be the last place on earth he wanted to live, but to run a Ritz kitchen? Yes, it would mean reporting to a long and sometimes unforgiving hierarchy, but it was some measure of autonomy. Except…Arizona. Damn, that was far away and not anything like home.
“Take some time,” Clive said after a moment. “It’s
a huge decision, and I’m sure you have…someone to discuss this with. A significant other or family.”
None of the above, he thought with an unexpected thud. Without Jake—without the promise of the Toasted Pelican—Law was free to be.
Except, this part of Florida was home. Mimosa Key was home. And Libby was…about to win the “battle of the wills.”
“I’m single,” he said. “And autonomous.”
“I know,” Susan piped in. “That’s why moving you fast would be so easy. And they will have a place on property for you to live,” she added. “I know how important that perk was to you.”
“Still…it’s sudden and unexpected.” And not completely welcome, he realized. Arizona held zero appeal. Even working at the Ritz.
No, that had to hold some professional appeal. It was a career coup. Jake would have burst with pride.
Except…that’s not what Jake had wanted.
“Take some time and let us put together an offer,” Clive said. “I promise it will include some terrific benefits, including a signing bonus if you agree to stay two years.”
Two years in Arizona? A freaking prison sentence.
When he didn’t answer, Clive leaned forward. “Law, you’re one of the best in our organization. It’s a shame you spent the last six months under the wrong chef, but we’ve had our eye on you for a long time. Your time has come, and I hope you realize that.”
“When do you need a decision?” he asked.
“We should have something in writing for you later today, so within a day or two?”
No, he couldn’t. He needed two weeks, at least. Until that next court date.
“Do you have another job already?” Susan asked, then looked at Clive. “I told you he’s an amazing chef.”
Clive nodded. “You did, and so did many of your colleagues, Chef Lawson. You are quite respected in the kitchen, and I’ve actually heard about you from outside of the Naples property. I’m sure your talent was a thorn in Chef Del’s side.”
“Thanks,” he said, leaning back. “But I’m not sure I can make a decision that quickly.”
“We need to fill the slot fast,” Clive said. “We have the chef in place until the end of the month, but I would want you to spend time with him so there’s a smooth transition.”
Barefoot at Midnight (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 3) Page 14