Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection

by Tara Crescent

  Until I took over at the start of the year, Josef was the head chef at Aladdin’s Lamp. Maybe this is the challenge he needs to take an interest in cooking again.

  A voice at the back of my head warns me I’m making a mistake. Sebastian Ardalan didn’t want to hire Josef, it says to me. He wanted to hire you.

  It’s been a long, hard struggle, and that voice isn’t as confident as it once was. It’s been smothered into silence by crushing bills, ground down by an unending stream of obstacles. It’s been stifled by the cool contempt I saw in in Wyatt Lawless’ eyes on Saturday, by the open disgust I heard in Owen Lamb’s voice. “That sounds good,” I hear myself say. “What can I do to help?”

  I walk out to the restaurant floor to greet them when they arrive. It’s eight on a Tuesday evening. The restaurant is almost empty — only one other table is occupied, by a young couple holding hands and sighing in pleasure over my macaroni and cheese. Seeing them, my heart fills with emotion. This is the reason I became a chef, for the simple joy of watching someone enjoy my food.

  I’m still smiling when I spot Lamb and Lawless, though my smile dims as I approach them. When I see their faces, all my ire from Saturday night comes back. Well-behaved Southern women don’t show emotion, I remind myself. “Thank you for coming,” I say politely. My mother will be proud of my even tone. Years of etiquette lessons are finally paying off.

  Wyatt looks up, his expression troubled. “Hello Piper.”

  “Mr. Lawless,” I nod tightly. I don’t care what’s bothering him. He’s just here to eat a meal. Today, Owen Lamb, who is the expert at kitchen operations, is the person I need to impress, and he’s probably smirking like a fool, the way he usually does.

  He isn’t. He doesn’t meet my gaze. A cold fear trickles through me. They can’t be pulling out of the contract, can they? We haven’t signed anything yet. All I have is a verbal agreement. In the state of New York, a verbal agreement is binding, but I know that won’t make any difference. If they walk away, I don’t have money to sue them.

  Don’t be silly, Piper. That’s the worst case scenario. That’s not going to happen.

  “You wanted to taste three signature dishes today,” I blurt out, a distinct tremble in my voice. “Right?”

  Wyatt’s troubled look intensifies. “Yes please.”

  Please, I beg. Please let the salmon dish be okay. I’m about to excuse myself to check on Josef’s fish before it leaves the kitchen, when Kimmie flounces out carrying two plates. “Vine-wrapped grilled salmon, served with a basmati pilau,” she says, her lips bared into a smile.

  I only swear when I’m really, really angry. The instant I spot Kimmie with the plates, I reach that point. What the fuck is Josef thinking, sending the dishes out without my approval? I’m the head chef. Nothing leaves the kitchen without my say-so.

  “You’re not joining us, Piper?” Owen asks politely, failing to notice that my blood is boiling with rage.

  My fingers clench into fists. I don’t care that well-behaved Southern women don’t punch people. Right now, I want to kick, scream, and lash out at everyone. At Owen and Wyatt for bailing on a deal. At Josef for exploiting a moment’s weakness, and at Kimmie, for that smug smirk on her face, and for the rhythmic movement of her jaw as she chews her ever-present gum.

  All I can do is wait silently for them to taste the dish.

  Owen Lamb gives the grape-leaf wrapper a dubious look. “In the Middle East,” he mutters, poking at the covering with his fork, “these are typically fresh.”

  In the Middle East, perhaps. At Aladdin’s Lamp, they come out of a jar.

  He doesn’t say anything else; he doesn’t need to. He peels the grape leaf back, and cuts a small piece off the edge. When he tastes it, he pauses. For a moment, there’s complete silence in the air, then he shakes his head. “Food,” he says quietly, “shouldn’t taste of preservatives.”

  A fist wraps around my heart, squeezing it tight. Wyatt spears a piece of salmon on his fork, and lifts it to his mouth. He chews experimentally, then his eyebrows rise. “You made this dish, Piper?”

  I should throw Josef under the bus. He sent out the salmon without waiting for me. He knew I’d want to taste everything first, and he sent out the food anyway.

  You okayed his dish, my conscience reminds me. This is your restaurant. No excuses. No whining. “I’m the head chef,” I answer quietly.

  “That wasn’t what Wyatt asked,” Owen says mildly. He pushes his plate away and delivers his verdict. “Too heavy on the pomegranate molasses, drowning out the delicate taste of the fish. The pilaf on the other hand, is distinctly under seasoned.” He lifts his head up and surveys me with his clear blue gaze. “What’s next?”

  More pomegranate molasses, unfortunately. “Grilled chicken,” I tell them. “I need to head to the kitchen to see to it.”

  Wyatt nods. “Come back out when you’re done. We’d like to talk to you.”

  They’re going to back out of this deal. I can sense the words hanging in the air, unsaid for the moment, and my heart aches with grief. My options have narrowed to nothing. Thanks to Wendy’s help, I’ll make rent this month, but what about next month and the month after? By the fall, I’ll be back in New Orleans, and everything I’ve struggled for in the last five years would have been for nothing. “Sure,” I reply tonelessly. “I’ll do that.”

  “What did they think of the salmon?” Josef’s eager voice assaults me as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

  I have no energy left to soften the blow. “The sauce for the salmon had too much pomegranate molasses. The pilaf was under seasoned.”

  I swipe my finger through the pan where the sauce was made, and sure enough, Owen Lamb is right. Used sparingly the molasses adds depth and richness. In the sauce Josef made, it is cloyingly sweet. It would have drowned the taste of the fish.

  His face flushes. “It did not,” he snaps. “What do they know about food anyway?”

  “Everything.” That’s the reason it hurts so much; that’s the reason Sebastian Ardalan’s prediction that Aladdin’s Lamp would close in six months cut to the bone. Lawless and Lamb are the best at what they do. Their approval matters to me.

  “Is the chicken ready?” I taste the sauce and poke at the meat, and I can hear their voices in my head already. “Passable,” Wyatt Lawless would pronounce. “Generic,” Owen Lamb would say. They’d both be right, but it’s too late to do anything about it.

  Sure enough, in about five minutes, Kimmie returns to the kitchen, the barely touched plates in her hands. “What did they say?” I ask, dreading the answer.

  Kimmie looks a little dazed. “Mr. Lamb said that it was unworthy of you,” she says, “And Mr. Lawless told you to fight.” Her message delivered, she goes back to chewing gum. “They’re strange.”

  That was unworthy of me.

  Fight.

  I contemplate their words, despair threatening to press in from all sides, then suddenly, a light shines on the truth.

  I’m a fool. I’m a stupid, blind fool. I’ve been too busy moaning and moping about money and my parents and all the things I lack, and I’ve failed to realize what I do have.

  I have friends who believe in me.

  I have talent. Sebastian Ardalan, a two-Michelin star chef ate at my restaurant, and he liked my food. The couple at the table earlier had practically licked their plates clean.

  Le Bernardin offered me a job when I graduated. Sebastian Ardalan would have offered me a job. I’ve let the steady dripping corrosiveness of my parents’ words eat away at me. I let Josef suggest the signature dishes? Shame on me. I’m the head chef. Until the doors close, this is my restaurant. And I’m going to make Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless a dish that represents my cooking.

  “We’re not serving the lamb,” I tell Josef. “Get me two skillets. I’m going to serve Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless my macaroni and cheese.”

  If they’re going to back away from the deal, they’re not going to do it after tasting a dish Josef
made. They’re going to do it after tasting one of mine.

  12

  Wyatt

  Three things cannot long stay hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.

  Buddha

  The macaroni and cheese is a revelation.

  Creamy and cheesy, with a tang from jalapenos, black olives and tomatoes that Piper’s added to her sauce. The top of it is crusted with a mixture of panko and parmesan, seasoned with salt, pepper and herbs. It is absolutely fantastic.

  I’ve had forgettable meals at Aladdin’s Lamp, but this isn’t one of them. This is… transcendent.

  And yes, I’m using the word transcendent to describe macaroni and cheese.

  “So we’ve learned once more,” Owen says at my side, “that the Middle Eastern food here is forgettable, and everything else is amazing. Why do we keep ordering Middle Eastern food?”

  “Because I like Middle Eastern food, and because the place is called Aladdin’s Lamp?” I reply through a mouthful of food. My mother would frown at me if she could see me. For all her faults, and there were no shortage of them, she taught me good table manners and always made sure my clothes were cleanly laundered.

  If you were in rags, somebody might have come to check on you, and she couldn’t have that.

  That thought from my past is sour, and the food is good, and I would rather focus on the food.

  It isn’t just my past that I want to forget today. It’s also Carl’s words. From the moment he told us about Piper’s circumstances, I’ve found it difficult to breathe. I’ve always thought of myself as tough, but fair. I’ve never been an asshole.

  Yet we’ve both been dicks to her.

  I can’t blame Owen. The work he’s doing for Mendez blinds him, it always has. His father, mother, and baby sister were murdered by the mob. After that, he’s entitled to a blind spot the size of the state of Texas, if that’s what he wants.

  But me? I should have done a background check on her last week. Distracted by my father’s sudden reappearance, I didn’t.

  That’s not a reason, Wyatt. That’s an excuse.

  She comes out of the kitchen, her head held high, her eyes fixed on us. Earlier this evening, she’d seemed diffident, tentative. Now, she looks the way she did the first time we met her, when she told us she didn’t want our pity. She blazes. She is steel and determination; she is fire that will either warm me or burn me.

  I don’t care which, really.

  “Gentlemen,” she comes up to us. “I hope the last dish was…” She hesitates, then finds the perfect word. “Worthy.”

  But the blood that had pounded through my veins when I saw her approach freezes to ice as soon as she opens her mouth. Because though her words are defiant, the accent is still pretty, still Southern.

  We have secrets, Owen and I. Dark secrets, kinky secrets. Secrets we’ve never apologized for, secrets we’ve barely bothered to hide.

  But secrets can be chasms.

  My world is filled with chasms. Between me and my mother is a gulf that has widened with each passing year. Between my father and I lies an insurmountable rift. Owen and I will never see eye to eye on Mendez’s schemes.

  All of those divides narrow compared to this one. She’s a debutante from the South. Her parents expected her to find a husband in college and marry on graduation.

  And Owen and I share women, and we like it that way.

  Maisie and I broke up because of my sexual preferences, and I’ve learned an important lesson from it. No matter how my cock might stir at the sound of Piper’s voice, this is not a chasm that can ever be crossed.

  13

  Piper

  Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much.

  Helen Keller

  I sit down at their table. For a few minutes, there’s silence and neither of them will look at me. My fear solidifies in my throat. They're going to bail.

  Then Owen looks up. “You realize we’re going to rename the restaurant, right?”

  My heart starts beating again. He said we. “You aren’t backing out?” I exhale in a long shuddering breath, trying my hardest to hold it together and not break down in sheer relief. “I thought you were going to pull out of the deal and walk away.”

  “No.” Wyatt’s voice is curt. There’s a peculiar sort of clenched anger on his face. He’s acting like I’ve accused him of torturing puppies. “I don’t walk away.”

  Owen shakes his head at me in warning. Leave this be. “Before we talk about the menu,” he says quietly, “both Wyatt and I owe you an apology.” He looks down at the yellowed tablecloth. “We’ve made a lot of snap judgments about you.”

  Wyatt looks up and meets my gaze squarely. “And we were wrong about almost everything.”

  “What?” My voice comes out as a surprised squeak.

  Wyatt’s expression is genuinely contrite. “I misjudged you,” he says openly. “You were late to our meeting, and you showed up with a three-thousand dollar purse when your restaurant is in trouble. I put two and two together, and reached eight.”

  “I talked to Carl Marcotti today,” he continues. “He cleared up a lot of my misconceptions. You worked your way through school, didn’t you? Your family didn’t help.”

  “No, they didn’t help.” My voice is a whisper of sound in the quiet room, the normal noise of the city seemingly muted in this moment.

  “Instead,” Owen says gruffly, “they saddled you with a rundown restaurant, overpaid employees, and a set of conditions that almost guaranteed you would fail.”

  “I thought I was doing something wrong.” I’m close to tears.

  Wyatt shakes his head. “You’re being hard on yourself, Piper. You were thrown into an impossible position. Given the circumstances, you’ve done a great job to keep the place going.”

  I swallow. This is the first time someone in the restaurant business has ever told me I’m doing a good job. For the first time in five months, I don’t feel alone.

  Wyatt places his hand over mine, and awareness jolts through me at his touch. My senses instantly go on high alert. “I was wrong to judge,” he mutters, his voice gentle. “But I promise to make it up to you. We’re here now. We’re your partners, and we’re going to make things easier.”

  So many images dance through my head. A restaurant crowded with guests. The constant worry about money lifted from me. Being able to tug free of the invisible strings that tie me to my parents. Images of Wyatt pulling me close to him as Owen watches...

  Whoa. What was that? Focus on the restaurant, Piper.

  “Thank you.” I’m still in shock. “What do you mean, you’re going to rename the place?”

  Owen’s lips twitch. “Piper,” he says, his eyes dancing with amusement, “the place is called Aladdin’s Lamp, and there’s macaroni and cheese on your menu. That’s demented.”

  I give him a withering glare, but it rolls off his back. He’s laughing at me again, but strangely, it doesn’t bother me as much as it did a few days ago. Maybe it’s because for the first time in our brief partnership, they’re actually on my side. “I don’t know if I can rename it,” I confess. “The trustees have set up some very strict rules about what I can and can’t do.”

  “At every turn,” Wyatt remarks with a frown, “the terms of your aunt’s will keep coming up.” He gives Owen an annoyed look. “I hate how unprepared I am. Piper, do you have a copy of the terms and conditions?”

  I nod ruefully. “I do.”

  “Good. Let's see what we're facing.”

  14

  Owen

  When Carl told us about Piper’s struggles, I wasn’t sure what to think.

  There’s a part of me that desperately wants to believe Piper’s involved in something nefarious, so I can act. My burning desire to avenge the death of my family hasn’t gone away in seventeen years.

  But the more rational voice in my head points out that she’s probably innocent. Restaurants mixed up with the mob lose money year after year, but somehow manage to stay i
n business. Piper’s situation is very different. I can smell her desperation. Without help, she’s not going to survive the rest of the year.

  Mendez called me this morning. “Well?” he’d barked into the phone. “I haven’t heard from you, Lamb.”

  “We just met last week,” I’d pointed out. “I can’t drop everything and do your bidding.”

  He’d huffed in displeasure and hung up.

  Now, as I watch Wyatt flip through the terms and conditions, I wonder why I’m dragging my heels on investigating the restaurants Mendez asked me to. My mother’s face swims in front of me. I remember my sister’s toothy grin and my father’s hearty laugh.

  They’re dead. I’m alive. I should have been with them when the gunman came. I might have been able to do something.

  Or I might have shared their fate.

  I make up my mind. Tomorrow morning, I’ll give Max Emerson a call and propose a meeting. Maybe I’ll tell him I’m reconsidering my decision to pass on his restaurant. Whatever it takes to get access to his books.

  And Piper? I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about Piper Jackson.

  “This is insane.” Wyatt says flatly.

  We’ve just spent the last two hours going through all one hundred and thirty one pages of the terms and conditions, and it’s left me with fresh respect for Piper. Despite a thousand restrictions and constraints, despite a set of trustees who scrutinize every move she makes, she’s kept this place running for five months.

  “Why did you take this on?” I ask her, leaning back in my chair. “Carl said you had an offer at Le Bernardin.”

  “Hubris.” Her tone is wry. “I went home for Aunt Vera’s funeral. I didn’t think I was going to inherit anything; I didn’t even know Aunt Vera owned a restaurant in New York. Then the executor of the will told me I needed to make a decision right away.” She looks sad. “Running my own restaurant has been my dream my whole life, and it was being offered to me. I accepted without finding out what I was getting into, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”