TWO
~ Parker ~
I notice her the instant she walks in my front door.
So does my cock: it practically sits up and begs.
“Oh, no,” says my number two, Bailey, following my gaze. “Not yet, Parker. We’ve got a million things to get done tonight before you go trolling for your next conquest. We’re almost out of caviar and salmon, the burners on the second stove aren’t working, and Kai is having a meltdown about the quality of the truffles. He says he didn’t study at Le Cordon Bleu so he could come work for you and cook with shitty truffles. He’s threatening to walk out. Which would be a major disaster, considering Darcy LaFontaine is supposed to show up any minute—”
Gasping, Bailey grabs me. “Oh, God, that’s her!”
I would growl at Bailey to stop digging her acrylic talons into my arm, but I can’t take my eyes off the woman who just walked into my restaurant.
She’s an absolute stunner.
“The gorgeous brunette in white is Darcy LaFontaine? Hmm. Not what I pictured.”
“Gorgeous?” With a sniff, Bailey releases me. “I wouldn’t call her gorgeous.”
I chuckle. “That’s because you don’t have a dick.”
Bailey turns and glares at me. As it’s one of her favorite things to do, I ignore it. She’s been trying to get me to sleep with her for years, but she’s too good an employee for me to take the bait. I don’t shit where I eat, so to speak.
Also, she’s clingy. I’ve seen how she is with some of her boyfriends, and I’d chew my arm off before I’d volunteer for that. No matter how pretty they are—and Bailey is very pretty, in a willowy, Gwyneth Paltrow kind of way—needy women have always turned my stomach.
The brunette in white doesn’t look needy. Though elegantly dressed, she somehow looks tough. Sharp, smart, and I’ll-cut-you tough. In fact, the look she’s just sent me seems to indicate she’d like to rip out my throat.
Interesting.
“Seriously, Parker, what’s so gorgeous about that girl?” insists Bailey, clearly disgruntled. “Aside from that killer Armani sheath she’s wearing—OK, those Louboutins are pretty awesome, too—she’s just not that pretty.”
Translation: I’m jealous of her in every way. I want to wear her skin.
Instead of calling Bailey on that, I say, “She looks like she loves to fuck.”
Bailey’s mouth drops open. Her head swivels around and she stares at me. “What?”
I’m still staring at the brunette. So is nearly every other male around her. Dressed in crisp, pristine white in a sea of dark suits and cocktail dresses, she stands out like a star. I know women, and I know that choice of dress is deliberate; she likes to draw the eye. Everything about her says Look at me.
And goddamn, I just can’t stop.
“The way she stands, moves, holds herself. Her energy. I can tell; she loves men, and she loves to fuck.”
Executing a swift, one-hundred-eighty-degree turn in attitude, Bailey sticks up for the mystery woman. She snaps, “I don’t think she looks slutty at all, Parker. She looks…” She searches for the word for a moment, and then pronounces, “Classy.”
“I never said she didn’t. Now get your ass in gear and tell Kai if he walks out on me I’ll break his kneecaps. Then call Le Cirque and ask Giovanni to send over some truffles and caviar; he owes me a favor. As for the salmon, get the word out to the wait staff that we’re out. Suggest the monkfish. And suggest we’re almost out of that, too.”
Bailey frowns. “But we have plenty of monkfish.”
“Yes, but if diners think we’re almost out, they’ll start ordering it.”
People love first dibs on the last of anything.
“Fine. And by the way, the woman in white isn’t Darcy LaFontaine. The woman who’s hugging the woman in white is Darcy LaFontaine.”
I raise my brows. Across the restaurant, the woman hugging the woman in white is, for want of a better word, large. So are her hair, her jewelry, her handbag and the abstract red flowers splashed all over her dress. The dress, in fact, is the only thing about her that isn’t big; low-cut and tight as a sausage casing, it might have fit her perfectly thirty pounds ago.
I don’t envy the seams. Even from where I’m standing, I can see how hard they’re working to keep it all together.
Suddenly she throws back her head and laughs at something the woman in white has just said to her. It’s a belly laugh, loud and unselfconscious. Startled by the volume, several people waiting for a table turn and stare. Darcy ignores them and keeps right on laughing, even when two razor-thin blondes nearby snicker and lean their heads together to whisper to one another.
Instantly, I like this larger-than-life Darcy LaFontaine. It’s patently obvious she doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. I admire a woman who isn’t afraid to be herself.
Bailey turns to me with a catty smile. “Does she look like she loves to fuck?”
The cattiness irritates me. There are few things less attractive than a woman who’s a turncoat to her own gender. I snap, “I don’t know, but she definitely looks like she loves to eat, which in my book is just as good.”
Bailey, who thinks eating is a necessary evil and would rather get her daily energy needs met by consuming the souls of men, glares at me again. When she opens her mouth to speak, I cut her off abruptly. “Ass in gear,” I say quietly, holding her gaze. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Her face reddens, but she doesn’t argue. She knows me well enough to know that when I get quiet, it’s best to clear out. Without another word, she turns and flounces off toward the kitchen. Heads turn in her wake.
Careful what you wish for, boys, I think, noting all the admiring eyes trained on her trim behind. Even the shiniest apple can be worm-eaten inside.
A lesson I’ve learned the hard way, one too many times.
I slowly make my way toward the hostess stand at the front of the restaurant, nodding at people I know, shaking a few hands, schmoozing the crowd but never losing sight of the intriguing woman in white. She and Ms. LaFontaine are being led to an oval banquette against the far wall. It’s the best table in the house, which makes me hot under the collar. I specifically told the hostess earlier tonight to place the LaFontaine party at table five near the front, a good table but not the best. I refuse to be one of those restaurant owners who fawn all over food critics.
No matter how much I’m inclined to like her, if she doesn’t give us a good review unless we massage her ego, she can go fuck herself. And the high horse she rode in on.
I reach the hostess stand just as Jenny, the hostess, returns.
“Mr. Maxwell!” Behind her glasses, her eyes are huge and blinking, like a baby bird’s. “How are you, sir?”
I get the sense she’d like to curtsy. I don’t enjoy terrifying the staff, but I admit it comes in handy sometimes. My commands are rarely questioned. Which makes this situation even more odd.
“I was doing well, Jenny, right up until I saw you lead Ms. LaFontaine to table thirty.”
I stare at the hostess. She gulps.
“Oh…I…uh, yes, Mr. Maxwell.” She starts blinking again, and then speaks in a rush. “I know you said to put Ms. LaFontaine at table five, but Victoria Price asked if that was the best table, and I said it was a pretty good table, and then Ms. Price said she insisted on the best table or she’d tell Gloria Tartenberger there was a cockroach in her salad, and then we’d get shut down, and then you’d really be mad—”
“Stop.”
Jenny’s mouth snaps shut.
“Who is Victoria Price?”
Jenny swallows. “The lady with Darcy LaFontaine.”
My gaze flashes to the banquette at back of the restaurant. There sits the woman in white, gazing steadily back at me, cool as ice. She turns her head and motions for the waiter, but not before I see her lips lift in a slight, derisive smile, there and quickly gone.
“You’re telling me that woman threatened to call the head of the health d
epartment if you didn’t give her the best table in the house?”
Glancing around, Jenny leans closer to me and whispers, “She said Gloria Tartenberger was a client of hers, Mr. Maxwell. That they were good friends.”
My jaw flexes as my teeth grind together. “And you believed her?”
For a moment, Jenny looks confused. “Well…yes. I mean, she’s Victoria Price.”
She says the name as if it’s self-explanatory, but I have no idea what she’s talking about, or who that woman is. What I do know is that no one throws their weight around in my place, with my staff, without blowback.
No matter how gorgeous and alluring that no one might be.
“I realize this is a new position for you, Jenny, but in the future, my instructions are to be followed to the letter, or you will be out of a job. Am I understood?”
Paling, Jenny nods. I leave her without another word and make my way back toward the kitchen, moving quickly now, cursing myself for putting someone so nice in the hostess position. It’s becoming obvious that Jenny doesn’t have the necessary level of ruthlessness it requires. If all it takes is a few words from some demanding socialite to throw her off plan—
I stop mid-stride as I see my chef, Kai, a man known to hate the human race as if every single one of us has personally offended him, bring a plate of amuse-bouches to Darcy LaFontaine’s table, set it on the linen cloth in front of her, and then bow.
He bows. When he straightens, he’s smiling like a clown.
What the hell is going on?
I catch the eye of the woman in white, Victoria Price, and the look she gives me pulls me up short.
Jesus. I never knew ice could burn with such heat.
“Sooo,” drawls a voice in my ear. It’s Bailey, materialized out of thin air like Dracula. She peers over my shoulder at the bizarre scene at table thirty. “It looks like you were wrong about your mystery woman.”
I don’t bother answering. She’s obviously bursting to tell me, so I just keep my mouth shut and wait for it.
“Apparently she doesn’t like to fuck, after all.” She jerks her chin. “Your friend over there with the food critic is the biggest man-hater in the country. Maybe even the world.” She grins. Her blue eyes twinkle. “Good luck with that, boss!”
She spins on her heel and is gone. When I look again at table thirty, Kai is bent over Darcy LaFontaine’s outstretched, bejeweled hand, kissing it.
And Victoria Price is murdering me with her eyes.
Who the hell are these women?
THREE
~ Victoria ~
The slender, tattooed chef with the wild thatch of blond hair who’s bending over Darcy’s hand is charming in an awkward, self-conscious sort of way, and is obviously going gaga over her, but I’m too busy chugging my martini and wrestling my personal demons to care.
I should leave. I should throw a drink in that bastard’s face. I should call Gloria Tartenberger right this instant and tell her that there are not only cockroaches in the salad in this place but also a highly suspicious chemical odor in the air. A dangerous gas leak, perhaps? She’d be here with a shutdown order in five minutes flat. After I coached her through her last divorce, she swore she’d throw herself in front of a train for me.
But I don’t leave, or throw a drink, or make any calls. I sit beside my friend and listen to the chef prattle on about how honored he is and how wonderful it is to have Darcy dine with him and how he can’t wait for her to try the hinoki-scented cod and the coconut-curried mussels, while I pretend to be something other than the pack of rabid wolves and chainsaw-wielding serial killers I suddenly am inside.
One look at the man who shattered my soul fifteen years ago and it all comes back with vivid, sickening clarity: the months of black depression, the feelings of utter worthlessness, the crying jags that wrung me dry and left my mother beside herself in a panic about what to do with her nearly comatose teenage daughter.
Parker Maxwell was my life. My first—and last—love. And he dumped me in the most cowardly way: with a letter.
That he mailed.
Two days later I found out I was pregnant. I never saw him again.
Until this moment, that is. Standing at the far side of a noisy, bustling room, just as tall and strong as he ever was. Just as glamorous-rich-kid-quarterback-daydream as he ever was.
I’d like to gouge out his eyeballs with my soup spoon and set him on fire. Instead, I smile serenely at no one in particular and toss back the dregs of my martini.
“Well, aren’t you sweet.” Darcy coyly bats her eyes at the chef, who has introduced himself as Kai. She retrieves her hand from his grip and gives him a serious once-over. “You started your career at Pó with Batali, if I’m not mistaken?”
Kai nods vigorously and beams. “That’s right. You know your chefs!”
He has a distinct German accent. One of his front teeth is slightly askew. Beneath his white chef’s coat, he’s wearing an alarming pair of purple leopard-skin pants and orange Crocs. He’s not one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen, but he’s adorable in his own manic pixie boy way. I can tell Darcy thinks so, too.
“I do know my chefs,” purrs Darcy. She leans over her crossed arms, making her cleavage burst into an incredible 3-D experience from the neckline of her dress, lowers her voice, and pins the chef in her seductive, long-lashed gaze. “And to be perfectly honest, Mr. Fürst, I’ve been really looking forward to having you feed me.”
Poor Kai nearly swoons.
Here’s the other thing I (insert L-word here) about Darcy LaFontaine: she’s comfortable in her own skin. In spite of being a woman of considerable size, she carries herself as if she’s Marilyn Monroe, Halle Berry, and Penelope Cruz rolled into one. An unabashed bombshell, she’s not afraid to be sexy, or to flirt, or to enjoy food, no matter that we live in a society that demands women starve ourselves down to an acceptable BMI or we’re not worthy of love, much less male attention.
She has enormous appetites, for life and food and men, and her acceptance of who she is inspires me. Every time I’m around her I feel like the best version of myself.
Present moment excluded.
Darcy and Kai exchange pleasantries for a few more moments, and then he struts off, grinning from ear to ear.
Watching him go, Darcy makes an mmm-mmm noise and licks her lips, as if she’s wishing it were he on the menu, and not the hinoki-scented cod.
“I take it we like the chef?”
She picks up her glass of viognier and swirls it around, sniffing the bouquet. “Girl, I would break that schnitzel in half, but he sure is cute. Did you see those dimples?” She makes the yummy noise again. “He’s lucky I swore off chefs or I guarantee I’d be making his skinny ass sing tonight!”
A disturbing visual of his singing ass pops into my head, momentarily silencing the wolves and leaving the serial killers looking confused. I quickly change the subject.
“So what do we know about this place? Aside from it being the hot new scene, that is.”
Now that we’re talking food, Darcy goes straight into business mode. “Opened three weeks ago to rave reviews. I’m highly suspicious of the necessity of yet another Japanese-whatever fusion restaurant, but the chef has an amazing pedigree, and the owner has been involved in the openings of some of my favorite places over the last ten years. Charleen at the James Beard Foundation was quoted as saying the truffle-dusted wagyu was perfection, so…”
With her fork, Darcy delicately spears one of the wafer-thin slices of Japanese imported beef topped with shaved truffles that Kai has left us as his first offering, pops it into her mouth, and closes her eyes. She’s silent for several moments. I don’t interrupt her; I’ve seen this ritual before. It will be repeated with each new morsel she eats for the entirety of the meal. We could be here for hours.
From the corner of my eye, I see Parker weaving through tables. He appears to be staring right at me.
Oh shit, is he headed this way?
; Darcy’s brows knit. She purses her lips. As with Miranda Priestly, Meryl Streep’s character In The Devil Wears Prada, lip pursing is an unequivocal sign of disaster.
And yes—Parker is headed directly toward our table.
And yes—he is staring right at me.
The wolves snap and snarl. The chainsaws rev.
With a grimace, Darcy pronounces, “Funky truffles!” and spits out the masticated piece of beef onto the plate in front of her. It lands with a distinctly unappetizing plop.
Parker stops beside our table. Looking amused as he eyes the piece of chewed meat on Darcy’s plate, he says, “I see my chef was right; the truffles are shitty.”
A punch in my gut, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. That voice. That voice I haven’t heard for eons, deep and rich, calm and commanding, the voice that promised me a thousand whispered times, Bel, my sweet Isabel, I’ll love you until I die.
A wave of nausea hits me when I realize he said “my chef.” Which means he’s either the manager of this restaurant, or the owner.
Which means he probably lives in the city. My city. And has for…how long? My God, how many months, possibly years have I lived near him? Breathing the same air he breathes, walking the same streets he walks, going about my life in blissful, pathetic ignorance?
Trying not to hyperventilate, I remain perfectly still, an icy smile plastered on my face, measuring each inhaled and exhaled breath as if it were my last.
One small mercy: he doesn’t seem to recognize me. He’s stealing glances at me, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. I thank the gods of time, money, and plastic surgery for helping me morph from an ugly duckling into an anonymous swan, because if he said my real name aloud at this moment there would be a violent incident involving my knife and his crotch.
Parker extends a hand to Darcy. It’s tanned and elegant, like the rest of him.
“Parker Maxwell. It’s a pleasure.”
Darcy shakes his hand. “I would say the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Maxwell, but judging by that abortion of an amuse-bouche I was just served, I’m afraid I’ll be spending the rest of the night in search of a nearby vomitorium.”
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