by BETH KERY
Lucien approached the door and leaned his head into the crack.
“Why do you play games with me?” he heard a man ask.
“Who says I’m playing games?”
Lucien’s escalated heartbeat seemed to hesitate for a moment at the woman’s voice. Strange. She was from the country of his birth. The female’s tone was teasing and light, her French accent laced with a British tinge. Perhaps he recognized it because it was very similar to his own.
“You are taunting me,” the man said roughly. “You have been all night. Not just me. There wasn’t a man in that restaurant tonight who wasn’t bewitched by you.”
“I’m actually being very cautious,” the woman said lightly. “We are going to work together, after all.”
“I want more than just to work with you. I want to help you. I want you in my house . . . my bed.”
Lucien went from high alert to irritated in a second flat when he recognized the man speaking. He hadn’t interrupted a burglary on his premises.
He’d walked in on a seduction.
Disgusted, he pushed open the door and strode into the dimly lit, luxurious restaurant. The couple stood next to the shining mahogany bar facing one another, their hands curled around brandy snifters. As he approached, the woman backed away slightly from the hovering man. Distantly, he registered that she wore a midnight blue evening gown that clung to full, firm breasts and taut curves. The dress plunged in the back, revealing a profile glimpse of white, flawless skin that shone luminous in the soft lighting. The vision of Mario Vincente’s hand splayed across that expanse of bare skin inexplicably ratcheted up Lucien’s irritation to anger. The extremely talented chef Lucien had hired from a top-rated restaurant in Las Vegas was a bit of a diva. Mario didn’t notice Lucien until he was just a feet away. When he did, his brown eyes went wide.
“Lucien!” The crystal, brandy-filled glass sagged in Mario’s hand. Lucien’s gaze flicked rapidly to the singular bottle sitting on the counter—Cognac Dudognon Héritage, an item from the private stock in his office. Lucien tossed the polo mallet he’d been carrying on the mahogany bar, the sound of it ringing in the air like a remonstrance.
“I hadn’t realized I’d provided you with Fusion’s security code. Or permission to access my office and private bar. Explain yourself, Mario,” Lucien said, his tone crisp, but neutral now that he understood the nature of the intrusion on his property. True, he was irritated at Mario’s infraction, and he would make sure his employee knew it. He just hadn’t yet decided if he’d terminate the idiot. He’d never had a fond spot for Mario, but chefs as talented as him were hard to come by, after all.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Mario said, fumbling.
Lucien noticed the woman’s bare, lithesome arm dip, the liquor in her glass sloshing into the curved bowl. For the first time, he gave the other occupant of the room a cursory glance. He did a doubletake.
“Merde,” he uttered before he grabbed the glass out of the woman’s hand.
“Lucien.”
“What are you doing here, Elise?”
Surely he was seeing things—a face from his past . . . a beautiful face he’d most definitely rather not appear at this juncture of his life. What the hell was Elise Martin doing in his restaurant in Chicago, thousands of miles from their country of origin, leagues from the gilded cage of their common past?
“I might ask the same of you,” Elise replied rapidly, dark blue eyes flashing. Understanding made her features flatten. “Lucien . . . you’re Lucien Lenault. You own this place?”
Lucien ignored her question, addressing Mario. “What do you think you’re doing, serving her liquor?”
“What? You two know one another?” Mario asked, clearly so stunned he was stuck on that earlier part of the conversation.
Lucien threw Elise a repressive glance. Her lush lips snapped closed, and she gave him a defiant glare. She’d caught his warning for silence in regard to their association, all right, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Knowing Elise, she hadn’t decided yet whether she’d keep quiet or not. She was most likely waiting to see what she could do with the unexpected bit of information that had landed in her lap. A flicker of anxiety went through him. He had to get her out of Fusion at all costs . . . out of his life here in Chicago. Elise Martin was like a jagged piece of glass on the beach. She’d cause havoc anywhere she set an elegant, perfectly pedicured toe. She’d compromise the foothold he’d gained by buying a restaurant within Noble Enterprises.
She’d ruin everything he’d already accomplished on his mission in regard to billionaire entrepreneur Ian Noble.
She’d ruin him. Period.
“I . . . I’m sorry. Surely one glass wouldn’t hurt,” Mario was sputtering. Lucien dragged his gaze off Elise’s compelling face. “I know it’s your personal stock, but . . .”
“You’re fired,” Lucien interrupted succinctly.
Mario blinked. Lucien started to walk away.
“Lucien, you can’t do that!”
He whipped around at the sound of Elise’s voice. For a second he just stared at her.
Elise Martin in Chicago. Jesus. Just what he needed.
“How long has it been?” he asked her, his quiet question for her, and her alone.
Her gaze dropped to the brandy snifter he held in his hand. A shadow of guilt darkened her luminous features. She knew he was referring to the liquor. She knew that their families were close enough for him to have heard that news that she’d gone into alcohol and drug rehab two years ago.
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
“No? Well you were about to drink my personal stash and you’re illegally on my private property, so I say it is my business. How long has it been since you’ve been drinking again? Or did it ever really stop?”
Her elegant neck convulsed at his whip-like question. She’d cut her long, glorious mane of blonde hair since he’d last seen her two years ago. She wore it short, the gleaming waves combed behind her ears. He’d have thought the sheering of those curls and tresses might have symbolized the taming of Elise’s infamous wild spirit, but he’d have thought wrong. Elise’s rebellion came from her eyes.
“I told you it’s none of your business. And you can’t fire Mario, just because you don’t like me.”
“I can do whatever I please. This is my place.” He saw the familiar defiant expression tighten her features, the same one she’d worn as a fourteen-year-old girl when he’d told her that a stallion in his father’s stables was too strong and dangerous for her to control.
“But—”
“There’s no but about it,” Lucien said, forcing his tone into its usual calm cadence and volume. He would not let the presence of Elise set him off balance. She had a habit of doing just that—of whipping the usually staid upper crust of European society into a scandalized whirlwind with her outrageous stunts . . . of sending a man spinning with her unparalleled beauty and the temptation of taming her. He remembered all too well their last meeting three years ago at Renygat, his Parisian restaurant. He recalled Elise looking up at him as she unfastened his pants, her fingertips brushing against a cock that teamed with hot, raw lust, her lips red and puffy from his earlier angry possession of her mouth, her eyes shining like fire-infused sapphires, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, addictive and sweet—yes, even with the flavor of too much premium scotch blending with it.
You want to forget your past, Lucien? I’m going to make you feel so good, you’re going to forget your name. You know, the name I mean? Your father’s?
His body tightened at the memory. It had cost him to send Elise away that night, but he’d done it. The memory of what had occurred after she’d stormed out of his office pained him to this day . . . infuriated him in fact.
Elise had a long history of emotional manipulation. She knew precisely how to slip the most
formidable foe in her hip pocket and make him beg like a hungry dog. Lucien had far too much at stake to allow a gorgeous, rich bad girl to sidetrack him.
Even if that gorgeous, rich bad girl was Elise Martin.
“I want both of you to get out of here. You’re lucky I don’t call the police,” Lucien stated, starting to turn again. He paused when he noticed Mario move jerkily toward him from the corner of his eye. Apparently, the chef had regained some of his typical hauteur in the intervening seconds.
“Don’t be a fool. You have to open Fusion tomorrow. You need me. What will you do for a chef?”
“I’ll manage. I’ve been in this business long enough to know how to deal with stealing employees.”
“Are you calling me a thief? An employee?” Clearly, Mario couldn’t decide which label was more insulting: criminal or paid worker. His color faded beneath his olive-toned skin.
Lucien paused, gauging, taking in the glassiness of Mario’s eyes. Apparently, Mario had imbibed his fair share before he’d brought Elise here to ply her with Lucien’s brandy. Did he plan to make love to her on the leather couch in his private office, as well? The thought sent his anger to a low boil. He supposed Mario might be attractive enough to some women, but he was in his forties, and far too old to be seducing Elise. No matter that Elise had probably taken four times as many lovers as him, Mario was still a rutting cradle robber, as far as Lucien was concerned.
“I hadn’t yet called you a thief, but that’s precisely what you are. Among other things.”
“You can’t fire him!” Elise blurted out. Lucien glanced sideways at her, startled by the panic in her voice, but unwilling to look away from Mario when the other man’s hands were fisted into balls.
“Stay out of this. It’s none of your business,” Lucien muttered, setting the glass on the bar.
“It is my business. If you fire Mario, what am I supposed to do?” Elise exclaimed.
“What are you talking about?” Lucien bit out, but Mario wasn’t interested in their tense, private exchange.
“You’ve always been a smug French bastard, thinking you could lord it over me,” Mario bellowed. He grabbed Elise’s upper arm roughly. “Well you can’t fire me because I quit! Come, Elise. Let’s get out of this devil’s hole.”
Elise kept her feet planted and jerked when Mario yanked on her. “Nobody tells me what to do,” she exclaimed. Lucien clamped his fist around the other man’s forearm and squeezed. Tight. Mario yelped in pain.
“Let go of her,” Lucien warned. He saw the flash of aggression in Mario’s expression and resisted rolling his eyes in exasperation. He really wasn’t up for this tonight. “Are you sure you want to start something?” he asked mildly. “Do you think it’s wise?”
“Don’t Mario,” Elise warned.
For a brief second, Mario hesitated, but then the alcohol he’d consumed must have roared in his veins, giving him courage. He released Elise and lunged, fist cocked. Lucien blocked Mario’s punch and sunk his fist beneath his ribs.
One, two, done. Almost too easy, Lucien thought grimly as air whooshed out of Mario’s lungs followed by a guttural groan of pain.
Lucien shot a ‘this is all your fault’ glare at Elise and then put his hands on the shoulders of the now hunched over Mario. He grabbed his jacket off the bar stool and urged the gasping, moaning man toward the front door of the restaurant with a hold on his shirt collar.
When he returned a few minutes later alone, Elise still stood next to the bar, her chin up, her carriage held every bit as proud and erect as her aristocratic ancestors, her gaze on him wary. He walked toward her, unsure if he wanted to shove her into the back of a cab like he just had Mario, shake her for her foolishness, or turn her over his knee and punish her ass for the infraction of peering into his private world.
Beth Kery loves romance, and the more emotionally laden and sexy the romance, the better. She holds a doctorate degree in the behavioral sciences and enjoys using her knowledge of human nature to add depth and intensity to her stories. She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling novelist of over thirty novels.