by Sey, Susan
“Where I’m from, we call that family.” He lifted a shoulder. “We’re a package deal, and anybody who does business with me gets that eventually. All you have to decide is if you’re willing to work with those terms.”
Bel frowned at him but he just returned her gaze with equanimity, utterly unperturbed by her displeasure. She bit back a sigh. She’d never walked away from a career challenge in her life, and she wouldn’t now. Particularly not with everything she’d spent the last ten years earning hanging in the balance. But that didn’t mean she had to be happy with the fact that Fate had just put a big chunk of her future into the hands of a man who felt that keeping his brothers in beer and women was more important than honoring his signature on a couple dozen multi-million dollar contracts.
“I’m willing,” she finally said. “But understand this: I don’t work for them. And I don’t work for you either. You and I? We’re in this together. I’ll deal with Kate, you deal with your brothers and if we catch every lucky break in the universe we might just come out of this okay.”
He nodded. “Deal,” he said and held out a hand.
She eyed his hand and renewed her grip on the countertop behind her. “On one condition,” she said. “From now on, you’ll be keeping your hands to yourself.”
He smiled at her, and it sent an electric shock across her skin. “I will?”
“It’s best if we keep things professional, James.”
His smile widened. “Sure it is.”
“And speaking of professional,” she said with a small twinge of evil pleasure, “I assume you and your brothers own clothes that fall somewhere between track suits and tuxedos on the fashion continuum?”
“Sure.” His smile went suspicious. “Why?”
Evil pleasure grew from a twinge into a full-on glow. “From now on, we dress for Sunday dinner.”
“Aw.” He hung his head. “That’s just mean.”
“Much as I’d have enjoyed inflicting it on you, it wasn’t my idea.”
“No?”
“Nope. Kate’s joining us for dinner tomorrow night along with our favorite agent. They’ll be delivering our first challenge on your path to rehabilitation.”
“There’s a challenge beyond dressing for dinner?”
Bel laughed then realized he was serious.
“How cruel are these people?” he said.
She shook her head. “You have no idea.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Civilization,” Kate began, with a steely-eyed look that reminded James uncomfortably of his mother, “depends on our ability to quell our baser instincts in order to build something that benefits the group.”
James nodded sagely and helped himself to a second piece of Bel’s peach cobbler. Because, good lord, the girl could cook. Throw a scoop of vanilla ice cream on there—the good stuff, too, because Bel apparently (thank God) didn’t believe in fake sugar, fake fat, fake anything—and you had yourself a big ol’ bowl of heaven.
Not, he’d decided, that heaven was ever very far away when Bel was in the kitchen. He tucked into the cobbler with a happy sigh and lovely memories of the pot roast and the world’s fluffiest mashed potatoes that had preceded it.
Kate nudged aside her full glass of wine and sharpened the point on that stare of hers. “It depends, James, upon being stronger than your appetites.”
“Yes, ma’am.” How had Kate Davis ever convinced America that she was the Martha Stewart of the South? Because if domestic bliss even existed, surely it was contained in the bowl James held in his hand. And Kate was sucking the pleasure right out of it.
“Taking control,” she intoned severely, “of your inner glutton.”
James shoved another spoonful of peachy goodness into his mouth and chewed defiantly. “Are you making a point, Ms. Davis?” he asked when he’d swallowed. And that was proof right there that he wasn’t entirely devoid of manners, wasn’t it?
“I am.” Kate gave him a serene smile. “Thank you for putting down your spoon long enough to notice.”
Across the table, Drew coughed a laugh into his hand. James gave him a narrow glance but his eyes were all innocence as he lifted his coffee cup. His itty-bitty coffee cup with the useless handle that all the men, James noticed, had finally settled on pinching rather than attempting to jam their fingers through.
Drew appeared perfectly at ease drinking from a teeny little breakable, however. Just as he seemed perfectly comfortable in his slacks-and-sweater ensemble, complete with tie. Beside him, Will looked essentially the same. Both their ties looked suspiciously well-knotted to James.
He glanced at Bel, who was seated on his right but she was too busy sweeping crumbs from the tablecloth into a pile between their plates to notice.
He set down his spoon and wiped his lips with his napkin. A cloth napkin with razor sharp creases because, good heavens, Bel really would iron anything, wouldn’t she? He turned his attention back to the woman at the head of James’ own dining room table.
“You were saying, Ms. Davis?” he asked. “Regarding civilization?”
“Yes,” Kate said, her smooth face a sharp contrast to the unholy anticipation he saw in her bark-brown eyes. “Civilization. I believe it depends on an ability to master one’s own needs, and thus allowing one to give precedence to the needs of others.”
“I see.” James glanced sadly at the melting mess in his bowl. This could take a while. “And this pertains to me how?”
Drew set his coffee aside and leaned in, chin on fist. James frowned at him. Drew shifted to gaze at Kate like she was the second freaking coming. Bel didn’t look up from her crumbs. Will upended a bottle of wine into his glass. In desperation, James finally looked to his agent, Bob, who sat at the foot of the table.
Bob only nodded toward Kate. “Pay attention, son,” he said. “You’re in deep, ah—” He broke off, groping for a word that wouldn’t offend the civilization police opposite him. “—trouble with your sponsors, and Kate here is the only ticket out I could buy you. If I were you, I’d listen up.”
James sighed and turned back to the woman on his left. She gave him a smile that had James’ back teeth clamping together. “You’ve completely lost control, dear,” she said.
“I have?”
“Yes. You’ve become a slave to your appetites.”
A dull burn crept up James’ throat and headed for his cheeks. “Well, hell. I haven’t gained that much weight.”
“It’s not just food, dear,” Kate said with serene aplomb. “It’s everything.”
A twinge of recognition ricocheted around in James’ chest but he covered it carefully with skepticism. “Everything? Now that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
“All your appetites.” Kate lifted a hand and ticked them off on long, elegant fingers. “Food, alcohol, entertainment, sex.”
James shot a look at Will. “Am I contractually obligated to discuss my sex life with Kate Every Day?”
Will looked at Bob, who merely lifted one shoulder as if to say wasn’t my idea. Will looked back at James. “Yep.”
James turned back to Kate with a sigh.
“Fame and money have given you the means to live like some sort of demi-god,” Kate told him. She fluttered that regal hand at his brothers across the table. “Complete with minions.”
“Minions?” Drew sat back, offended.
“Minions.” Will lifted his glass to James then slugged back a hefty swallow of wine.
“Indeed,” Kate said. “People who do your bidding, tell you yes whenever you want to hear it, abuse those who don’t agree with you, and generally facilitate this idea you’ve gotten stuck in your head that you deserve everything you have and should therefore use it to gratify your every whim and desire.”
“Well, ouch,” James said. In general, he didn’t care for the idea that money was power. To him, money was just fun. He and his brothers had been poor their entire lives. Because of that, the sort of money being thrown at James now was...well, ridic
ulous. They all knew it, too. So why not be a little ridiculous with it every now and then? The universe was a quirky place. It would only be a matter of time before that money got snatched up and tossed some other lucky bastard’s way, right? So no point in setting up foundations and trust funds and investment properties and the like. No point in getting used to it. The ride would be over soon enough.
But he wasn’t going to tell that to this woman.
Which was a good thing, because he had no idea how to squeeze in a word when Kate Davis got rolling. And she was rolling.
“It’s my professional opinion, Mr. Blake, that you’ve become over-used to being admired. You need to reconnect with the concept of service.”
“Service?” James frowned at her, then at Bel who studiously failed to meet his eyes.
“Yes. And to that end, I’ve decided to structure your rehabilitation—and Bel’s—in the following manner. You’re serving out the final four weeks of a six week suspension, yes? A suspension you earned by punching a colleague?”
The way she said it, with that supercilious tilt to one blonde brow, had temper snapping up into James’ chest. So he pushed back from the table, stretched his long legs out in front of him and gave her a lazy grin. “Why, yes, ma’am. I laid him out right handy. I didn’t know you followed soccer.”
“Four weeks,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “in which to rediscover the pleasure of an altruistic act.”
James pretended to frown. “Altru what now?”
“Altruistic,” Kate said. “It means selfless.”
“Right.” He nodded, as if this were new and fascinating information. “Go on. Please.”
“Each week for the next four weeks,” she said, “I’ll assign you a task which will require you to not only acknowledge the self-indulgent paradigm under which you’ve been operating these past several years but overcome it.”
“You want I should develop a knack for that altruism thingy, then.” James paused, shot her an earnest look. “I said that right? Altruism?” Kate nodded tightly. James grinned. “Awesome. I love new vocab.”
“Belinda will be your guide, your mentor and your task master,” Kate said, her lips curved in a tense smile that said she didn’t know whether James was an idiot or making fun of her. The anger snapping in James’ gut eased back a little. “She will be judged on her ability to shepherd you through the transition from your...” She paused delicately. “...current condition to that of a mature, well-adjusted member of society.”
How had Bel put it? Going from guy to man? Same idea, James understood, but somehow he’d liked it better when Bel said it. Or maybe he just liked her mouth. He glanced to his right, saw her grinding those damn crumbs into a powder on the tablecloth, that pretty mouth pinched and set.
“Right.” James hooked an elbow over the back of his chair and said, “Well? What’s the challenge this week?” He grinned at Bel. “I’m yours, darlin’. Mold me.”
Bel finally looked up and he blinked at the instant of raw, hunted panic in her eyes before she smoothed it all over and lifted her face to Kate’s. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” she said.
Kate curved her lips—James couldn’t rightly call it a smile, not something this cold—and tucked a wing of ash-blonde hair behind one ear.
“We’ll start with the gluttony.”
“Gluttony?” He blinked.
“Gluttony.” She gave him that not-smile again. “You were born with a freakish talent, Mr. Blake. A surfeit of speed, strength and coordination. It’s allowed you to abuse your body and still perform at a level sufficient to compete as an elite athlete. But barely.”
James stifled the urge to sit up, stung. Abuse his body? He slouched deeper into his chair and rocked his feet side to side like a metronome set on lazy. “I’m not sure a couple extra cheeseburgers counts as actual abuse.”
“Nourishing your body properly requires good food, and the preparation of good food is time-consuming and effortful. Becoming reacquainted with the level of time and effort good food requires will, I feel, recalibrate these rogue appetites of yours.”
James squinted at her, sorting through the surfeit of words to find the meaning. “You want me to learn to cook?” he asked.
“Not just cook, but cook well.” She smiled. “And feed others.”
“Feed others?” James echoed, suspicion creeping into his voice.
She ignored him and turned to Bel. “I’ve booked the two of you to cater an event for twenty-five people next Saturday afternoon. An engagement party—tea, heavy hors d’oeuvres and cake. James will be your sous-chef for the week prior, then you’ll instruct him in the finer points of serving.”
“Serving?” James again sorted through the words and dug out the meaning. He turned incredulous eyes on Bel. “She wants me to wait tables? At a high frickin’ tea?”
“Yes,” Bel said, her face pale and composed while her eyes continued to burn. “Is that a problem?”
James glanced around his dining room table. He saw Bob, tough and square and unflinching, at the foot of the table. His face said you fucked it up, you fix it. No help there. Drew and Will sat opposite him, wearing matching smirks. Then there was Kate Davis, presiding at the head of the table, her hands folded neatly, her eyes saying try me, buddy. I’d welcome the opportunity to kick your ass.
James sighed. “No.” He mentally resigned himself to an afternoon of having his fanny pinched by a couple dozen face-lifted socialites. “No problems here.”
One week later, James stood in the shower and tried not to gag as the smell of parmesan cheese and meatballs oozed out of his pores. Between that and the clothes he’d shucked off and heaped in the corner, his bathroom smelled like an Italian deli. A really high-end deli, though. Full of culinary delights he’d have scarfed down by the fistful not so long ago. Then he’d spent the past week up to his elbows in a bowl of raw meat.
James would toss his cookies if forced to look one more meatball in the eye but happily, he wasn’t required to eat the damn things. Only serve them.
He scrubbed his chapped fingers through his hair and winced at the sting of soap seeping through his many Band Aids. He no longer felt compelled to guffaw at Bel’s ten-inch Wusthof, either. Damn thing was sharp.
On the bright side, he thought as he swiped a towel over his body, he might actually be down a few pounds. The last thing James wanted after the week Bel had put him through was food. He fell into bed every night, hitting the pillow with an actual poof of flour. He stayed awake just long enough to thank God for allowing him to retain all his fingers (or most of each of them) before falling into a tortured sleep during which his subconscious continued to fry, sauté and julienne until dawn.
The only upside he could envision to today’s ordeal in which he’d serve the fruits of his labor to a couple dozen giggly women was that it marked the end of Bel’s mission to turn him into some kind of Cordon Bleu graduate.
He tugged on a server’s uniform—something like a tuxedo, only waterproof—and jogged down the stairs, eager to get this thing finished. Bel met him in the foyer, her hair smoothed into a pretty braided knot that made her look like a dancer, a white chef’s jacket buttoned starched and stiff over her chest.
She plopped her fists on her hips and jerked her chin in a turn-around gesture. James rolled his eyes but complied, revolving slowly. “So?” he asked. “Do I pass?”
“We’ll see,” she said with a dark edge that had James sighing.
“Oh come on,” he said. “My meatballs are kick ass and those little bitty egg rolls?”
“The popiah?”
“Yeah, those. Those are awesome. They’re going to make the ladies squeal and clap like little girls. And then your cake is going to finish them off. Knockout punch. One, two.”
Bel’s lips twitched, but she shook her head. “I have total confidence in the food,” she said. “Even your meatballs.”
“I should hope so,” James said. “I’m wearing permanent
grease gloves because of those damn things.”
“Poor baby.”
“Hey, am I complaining? My cuticles have never looked better.”
“I’m sure.”
She grinned at him, dimples digging deep into those soft cheeks. James grinned back, a little dazzled. He stood there for a few more moments, basking in the rare radiance of her amusement, in the glow of having earned a genuine smile. Then she hiked up her sleeve and looked at her watch.
“Okay, enough stalling. We still have to get to the hall, assemble the cake and prep the rest of the wait staff. Are you ready?”
“Almost.” James turned toward the stairs and shouted, “Guys! Let’s go!”
“Guys?” Bel blinked as Drew and Will appeared at the top of the stairs in matching black serving uniforms. “Your brothers are coming?”
James threw her a look over his shoulder. “Of course. All for one, one for all, right? Kinda like the three musketeers. Only I guess there were four of them, weren’t there? Including D’Artangne?” He grinned at her. “We’ll include you, then. You want to be Athos, Porthos or Aramis?”
Bel shook her head slowly as Drew and Will landed at the bottom of the stairs wearing identical expressions of pained sacrifice. “You sure you want to do this?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” James said and when Will and Drew failed to object, Bel released an insultingly deep sigh.
“All right then,” she said, clearly skeptical. “Your call. Let’s do this thing.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Waiting tables turned out to be a novel experience for James. He’d been a lot of things in his life—rich, poor, despised, adored—but he’d never been invisible. It was strangely unsettling.
“Excuse me,” the groom-to-be said, all but recoiling from the plate James had set before him on the stainless steel kitchen counter. “Are those meatballs?”
James hadn’t been to a lot of weddings in his life either but based on the five minutes he’d spent with the groom so far, Wynton Quist struck him as a real piece of work. Tall and blond with a face that landed somewhere south of Brad Pitt but north of Ken Doll, good ol’ Wyn did not look inclined to approve the menu.