by BETH KERY
Contents
Also by Beth Kery
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Special Excerpt from Because You Are Mine
About the Author
When I’m With You
PART I: WHEN WE TOUCH
Because You Are Mine
PART I: BECAUSE YOU TEMPT ME
PART II: BECAUSE I COULD NOT RESIST
PART III: BECAUSE YOU HAUNT ME
PART IV: BECAUSE YOU MUST LEARN
PART V: BECAUSE I SAID SO
PART VI: BECAUSE YOU TORMENT ME
PART VII: BECAUSE I NEED TO
PART VIII: BECAUSE I AM YOURS
Berkley Sensation titles by Beth Kery
WICKED BURN
DARING TIME
Berkley Heat titles by Beth Kery
SWEET RESTRAINT
PARADISE RULES
RELEASE
EXPLOSIVE
One Night of Passion series
ADDICTED TO YOU (WRITING AS BETHANY KANE)
EXPOSED TO YOU
One Night of Passion Specials
BOUND TO YOU
CAPTURED BY YOU
When I’m With You
Part I
When We Touch
Beth Kery
INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK
INTERMIX BOOKS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
WHEN WE TOUCH
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / March 2013
When I’m With You copyright © 2013 by Beth Kery.
Excerpt from Because You Are Mine copyright © 2012 by Beth Kery.
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.
Photo: String of pearls wrapped around a fork © John Manno/GettyImages.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61503-4
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Chapter One
It was past midnight when Lucien opened the rear entrance to his restaurant and immediately went on high alert, hushing his movements. In the distance he heard the sound of a low male voice. An intruder had breached his restaurant’s security. Although Fusion was frequently bustling with the chic late-night dinner and nightclub crowd, it was closed on Sunday and Monday. There definitely shouldn’t be anyone inside. Quietly, he closed the rear door, his fist tightening around the polo mallet he carried. He’d been planning on replacing this cracked one with an intact one from his storage closet at Fusion. He had different plans for it now.
For the most part, Lucien maintained the vaguely amused, cynical stance of an experienced, world-weary libertine, a man who claimed no family, no country, no creed, and few of the worldly possessions to which he was entitled by law, which were many. But what he did claim, he fought for. Always. He just hadn’t realized that the restaurant he’d recently bought had gotten so deeply into his bones until this very moment, when he was ready to do battle for it.
He eased down the dim hallway, following the glow of a light shining around a partially closed door that led to the large bar area of the restaurant. He turned his head, his hearing pitched to pick up the slightest sound. A tingle went down his spine at the sound of female laughter. A man’s low chuckle twined with it—rough and intimate. He heard the unmistakable sound of glassware clinking, as if in a toast.
Lucien approached the door and leaned his head into the crack.
“Why do you play games with me?” he heard a man ask.
“Play 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 amused, melodious and light, her French accent laced with a British tinge. Perhaps he recognized the accent 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. We are going to work together, after all,” the woman replied, her tone suddenly brisker, cooler. Lucien got the impression she was sending up red flags.
“I want more than just to work with you. I want to help you. I want you in my house . . . my bed,” the man said, ignoring the female’s warning. 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, sleek restaurant. The couple stood next to the shining mahogany bar facing each other, their hands curled around crystal brandy snifters. He noticed the woman backing away slightly from the man, as if repelled by his hovering. Distantly, he registered that she wore a blue and silver evening gown that clung to full, firm breasts and taut curves. The dress plunged in the back, revealing a 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 feet away. When he did, his brown eyes went wide.
“Lucien!” The 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 soft spot for Mario, but chefs as talented as him were hard to come by, after all.
“I . . . I didn’t expect to see you,” Mario fumbled.
“Clearly.”
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's face a cursory glance. He did a double take.
“Merde.”
“Lucien.”
“What are you doing here, Elise?”
Surely he was seeing things—a face from his past . . . a beautiful face but one 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? Was this some sort of cosmic joke?
“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?”
“What? You two know one another?” Mario asked.
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 regarding their association all right, but that didn’t guarantee anything. Knowing Elise, she hadn’t decided yet whether she’d keep quiet or not. 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 would cause havoc anywhere she set a perfectly pedicured, elegant toe. More specifically, she could ruin everything he’d gained on his mission with regard to billionaire entrepreneur Ian Noble.
“I . . . I’m sorry. Surely one glass wouldn’t hurt,” Mario was sputtering. Lucien dragged his gaze off Elise’s 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!” Elise exclaimed.
He whipped around at the sound of her voice. For a second he just stared at her.
“How long has it been?” he asked her, his quiet question for her, and her alone. He saw a strange mixture of emotions cross her beautiful face—discomfort, confusion . . . anger.
“It’s been close to two years since that night at Renygat,” she said, referring to his successful nightclub and restaurant in Paris. He had to hand it to her. Despite the riot of emotion that’d flickered across her face, she was all cool aristocrat by the time she spoke. Damn her. Any man who tried to decode the enigma of Elise was doomed to a lifetime obsession. Who was she? Uncontrollable bad-girl heiress or luminous, golden, elusive ray of sunshine that beckoned and taunted?
“Lucien, don’t be so hasty,” Elise said softly, a witch’s smile shaping lips that could probably tempt a man to do murder. “It would be silly to fire Mario because of how you feel about me.”
“I’m not firing him because of how I feel about you,” he said levelly. The vision of Mario’s hand on her white skin flashed into his mind’s eye. Liar. He willfully ignored the taunting voice in his head. “I’m firing him because he underhandedly procured the restaurant’s security code, broke into my private property, and stole from my personal stash.”
She’d cut her long, glorious mane of blond hair since he’d last seen her two years ago. She wore it short now, the gleaming waves combed behind her ears. He’d have thought the shearing 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. Anger stiffened her features. She must have forgotten that her typical charms didn’t work on Lucien.
“You can’t fire Mario,” she stated, all traces of seductive allurement replaced by annoyed stubbornness. Lucien had to force himself not to smile at the abrupt alteration.
“I can do whatever I please. This is my place.”
He saw a familiar defiant expression tighten her features, the same one she’d worn when she was fourteen and he’d told her that a stallion in his father’s stables was too strong and dangerous for her to control—an expression he was very fond of, despite it all.
“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 how he’d nearly succumbed to her siren song during their last meeting at Renygat. He recalled Elise looking up at him as she unfastened his pants, her fingertips brushing against a cock that teemed 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.
“You want to forget your past, Lucien? I’m going to make you feel so good, you’re going to forget everything that happened with your father. That’s a promise.”
His body tightened at the memory. He’d believed her. If anyone could make him forget for one glorious, nirvanic moment, it was Elise. It had cost him to send her away that night, but he’d done it. She manipulated as easily as she breathed. She knew precisely how to slip the most formidable foe in her hip pocket and make him beg like a hungry dog.
And to add to that risk, Elise knew too much, after that night at Renygat.
She still did, damn it.
There’s only one way he would ever invite Elise into his life, and she would never agree to play by those rules. Not Elise Martin.
Would she? a small voice in his head taunted.
“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 cannot 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 balled into fists. Why was she so desperate over Mario? He’d definitely gotten the impression she was cool about the chef’s seduction.
“Stay out of this. It’s none of your business,” Lucien muttered.
“It is my business. If you fire Mario, what am I supposed to do?” Elise exclaimed, setting her snifter on the bar.
“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 lair.”
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—not to mention an Elise-inspired testosterone surge—mounting his blustering vanity. 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.
* * *
“What did you do with him?” she asked shakily when Lucien stalked toward her, his fierce, gray-eyed gaze causing her to quail inwardly, even though she didn’t show it. She understood what a potential threat Lucien Sauvage was. He could handle a drunk like Mario in his sleep. Elise knew of his athleticism, not to mention his years of experience in maintaining peace and the law in his popular, luxurious restaurants and hotels across the world. Many times organized-crime elements had tried to get a foothold in his establishments and failed, thanks to a combination of Lucien’s acute intelligence and raw power.