by BETH KERY
“I’m adopted, too,” Elise had told him. She’d thought it a thousand times before. It must be true. How else to explain how she felt as if she were interacting with a different species when she related to her parents? Lucien’s smile had struck her as a little sad.
“You are the spitting image of your mama.”
“I am?”
“Yes, but you will surpass even her beauty one day,” he’d said as he rebaited her line. He’d glanced aside and noticed her expression. “You look like her. What is on the inside is whatever you make of it.”
She’d stared at the sunlight dancing in the azure Mediterranean Sea, not wanting him to know how much his words meant to her. “Don’t you ever wonder about your true mother, though? Don’t you ever miss her?”
She recalled how he hadn’t answered immediately.
“I wonder about her once in a while,” he’d said, handing back her pole. “But it’s hard to miss what you’ve never had.”
What you’ve never had. Neither Lucien nor she had known much about what it meant to have a nurturing, available mother.
Lucien waved her into his office, snapping her back to the present. “Come in. Elise, I’d like you to meet Denise Riordan, Fusion’s new chef.”
Elise’s startled gaze flew to the other occupant of the room. A tall, auburn-haired woman with a stern expression that was softened by kind brown eyes stood to greet her.
“I hadn’t realized Lucien had gotten so far along in the hiring process. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Riordan,” Elise managed, despite her surprise.
“I understand from Lucien that you’re a talented chef. I would be glad to take you on as my stage, if my qualifications are suited to your school . . . and to you, of course,” she said.
“I’m sure that anyone Lucien would hire has the best qualifications,” she said, glancing sideways at the distraction of Lucien’s tall form when he approached.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of sending off Ms. Riordan’s applicant information along with an explanation of the alteration in plans to your school in Paris. We should be hearing back quickly,” Lucien said.
“Thank you,” Elise replied, dumbfounded by the fact that he’d taken pains to smooth the path with her school.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to speak with Sharon. I’ll just leave you two to get better acquainted,” he said politely.
Denise Riordan and she sat in the chairs before Lucien’s desk and got to know each other. By the time Lucien returned twenty minutes later, she felt certain she could work well with the older, knowledgeable woman. Two chefs in a kitchen was never an easy scenario, but Elise was eager to learn, and she had no problem with taking on the subservient role. It’d been what she’d expected when she came to Chicago, and she was convinced Denise Riordan had significant things to teach her.
“Please stay for a moment. I need a word,” Lucien said to Elise after he’d returned and Ms. Riordan was saying good-bye.
Neither of them spoke for a moment after the new chef closed the door behind her. A prickly, electrical atmosphere descended.
“I received the medical exam results you left me,” he said. “Did you receive mine?”
“Yes,” she replied airily, as if she discussed such things all the time despite the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks.
“Do you like her? Denise?” Lucien asked quietly from where he stood near the door.
“Very much. I don’t suppose there’s a reason you chose a female chef, is there?”
“I chose the best qualified candidate.”
She gave him a dry glance. “I wasn’t going to fall into bed with any male chef that you hired.”
He gave a small grin. She stilled at the appearance of the twin dimples, the flash of white teeth. “What about Mario?”
“What about him?” Elise asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.
“Wasn’t that where things were headed on that night I caught you two here?”
“No. I had no intention of sleeping with Mario.”
“What, precisely, were you doing here with him then?”
“He was going to supervise my training. When he asked me to dinner, I didn’t really feel I had the option of saying no. I didn’t know he was planning on trying to get me into bed.”
He gave her a weary glance and walked toward his desk. “Right. That dress you were wearing screamed a practical day at the office. I hired the best candidate for the job, but I’m not at all unhappy that she’s a female, the truth be told. I know the effect you have on men. They lose about forty points off their IQ in your vicinity. No need to light the fuse if it can be avoided.”
“I resent your constant allegations that I’m promiscuous.”
“That’s funny,” he said, unconcerned by her offended act. He lowered to the chair behind his desk. “Because I resented learning about your constant displays of promiscuity. I even witnessed them a time or two.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly, not sure she actually wanted an answer.
“Half of Europe saw that photo of you dancing nude on top of a cocktail table at the engagement party for the son of the archduke of Luxembourg,” he said dryly.
“I was wearing a thong,” she defended, chin up. Lucien’s sharp, annoyed glance made her wilt on the inside, however.
“And how about the night I came upon you in a secluded alcove at the Opéra de Paris? You were busy demonstrating what was apparently your enthusiastic, deep affection for a married, middle-aged politician. I believe you were nineteen at the time. Do you recall?”
“I . . . you . . . wait.” Her heart squeezed tight and seemed to stop in her chest. “Was that you who interrupted when I was with Hugh Langier?”
His sarcastic expression was her answer.
Enthusiastic, deep affection.
Oh no. She shut her eyes, but Lucien’s stare continued to score her. She hadn’t seen who had walked in on her tryst with Langier; she only knew someone had. Knowing that someone was Lucien made her feel light-headed with shame. How could she have been so impulsive—so stupid—at times?
No. She wouldn’t think of it. She wasn’t that person anymore.
“I doubt you’d like what I did to your paramour when he came into Renygat two nights later,” Lucien muttered. “Slimy sod.”
“He wasn’t my paramour,” she bit out, but then she fully absorbed what he’d said. “Did you hit him or something?” Lucien gave her a bland glance. “You got in a fight with a senator?”
Over me?
He didn’t comment further, but she saw the way his nostrils flared, a sure sign he was subduing his anger. What he’d referred to had occurred during the height of her careless self-indulgence. There’d been a time when she found life meaningless, when everything had been a joke. Her only concern was to have as much fun as she could, and damn the consequences. Acquaintances in Paris—not to mention her parents—had looked the other way during her wildest, most desperate, period.
Wasn’t it better that Lucien was angry versus uncaring?
“I know you believe in me, Lucien. Even if only a little bit. I know you’re not so callous as you behave. I wish you’d quit putting on the act,” she said, plucking up her façade of confidence.
“What do you mean?”
“Ms. Riordan told me that you specified that her job was provisional upon her taking me on as a stage.”
A silence stretched between them. She’d been stunned and pleased when Ms. Riordan had revealed that morsel of information during their discussion.
“And I told you, if you are to live in this city, I’d just as soon have you nearby where I can monitor you. Speaking of which,” he said, talking over the disgusted sound she made. She knew very well he’d just sidestepped her revelation that he’d done something kind for her. “I’d like to escort you tomorrow evening to Ian and Francesca’s party.”
Her heart leapt. Denise Riordan had been hired. Francesca was no longer
his employee. Lucien would feel freer now to act on his proposed relationship. A thought struck her, deflating her ballooning excitement like a dead-on torpedo.
“You want to supervise me, don’t you? I told you I wasn’t going to tell anyone that I know you from before. Don’t you trust me?”
“Let’s just say that I’d rather be in close watching distance so that I know where I stand.”
“You don’t, in other words.”
“Trust is something that has to be earned, Elise,” he said quietly. “And don’t play the martyr. I know that you don’t trust me completely, either. Not yet, you don’t.”
His intensity took her by surprise. She absorbed what he’d said, feeling unsteady.
“Where shall I pick you up?” he asked after a moment, his quick topic change only increasing her sense of being off balance. “At the address you put down on your application?”
“No.”
She realized how abrupt she’d sounded. The last thing she wanted was for Lucien to see the rundown extended-stay hotel where she was living. It would only affirm his belief that she was scatter-brained and impulsive. She did some quick thinking when she noticed his narrowed gaze on her. “Can we meet here? In front of the Noble Tower building?”
His handsome face settled into an unreadable mask. “Of course, if you prefer it. Seven thirty?”
“That will be fine,” she said, starting to back out of the office. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Elise?” he asked sharply when her hand was on the door.
“Yes?”
“Your employment with me has ended now that I’ve hired Denise.”
She held her breath.
“Just remember. My rules,” he reminded significantly. “Denise being here means your salary will stop as well. You do have adequate funds to live here in the city, correct?”
“Of course. Didn’t you tell me that Papa would never see me starve?”
He raised his eyebrows slowly. Not liking the suspicious expression settling on his features, she hurried out the door.
Chapter Four
Lucien remained seated and unmoving once the door closed behind Elise. He thought of how pale she’d gone when he’d mentioned catching her in flagrante delicto with Hugh Langier, illustrious member of the French senate and renowned womanizer. He regretted embarrassing her, but the memory was still volatile to him; it still made something hot and unbearable swell in his gut, not to mention what it did to his cock.
He’d been looking for her that night five years ago, having noticed her luminous face from a distance during the opera. It had been a year since his father had first mentioned the possibility of him marrying Elise. He’d flat-out refused to even discuss the idea, of course. No one was going to choose his future wife but himself. But the idea had lingered in his consciousness: not heavily, but lightly, like a radiant, teasing smile, the prospect of a stolen summer day or a sip of the perfect champagne—light-filled and effervescent . . .
. . . like Elise herself.
He couldn’t help but be curious about what sort of a woman that smart, funny, sad girl had become.
Still, his curiosity hadn’t been so great that he’d sought her out when he’d moved permanently to Paris to open his first hotel and restaurant. It’d been completely by accident that he’d glimpsed her at the opera. Their boxes were almost directly across from each other. The curtain was about to go up when he noticed several faces in the audience flicker to the left of the stage. He’d followed their gazes idly, wondering what was causing the stir. His body sprung into instant alertness.
She’d stood and was making her way to the back of the box. The gown she wore was jaw-dropping. No, not the dress itself, but Elise in it. It was made of a pale ivory metallic material that clung to her ripe, svelte curves, the material giving off a pearl-like sheen that nowhere near rivaled the luminosity of her pale skin. She was completely covered, but the clinging fabric and its similarity to her coloring gave the impression of nudity. Her hair had been long back then. Lucien recalled that during that summer five years before, she’d forever worn her hair in a thick ponytail, tendrils increasingly escaping the band as the day wore on until by nightfall, her delicate face was surrounded by a riot of golden waves and curls. That night, she wore it up, but the casual twist gave a man the impression he could have the glory of it spilling down her shoulders and into his greedy hands with just a gentle tug.
He’d jerked up out of his chair, making a quick excuse to his companion.
Five minutes of searching later, he’d finally found the sweet, gawky girl he recalled, but that girl was no more.
She’d been on her knees in a velvet-draped alcove before an ecstatic-looking Hugh Langier.
The image haunted him to this day . . . killed him a little . . . aroused him a lot. When he’d whipped back the heavy drapery, Elise’s lips had been clamped tightly around the base of Langier’s cock. She’d slid her mouth back, revealing inches of slick, thick penis—not to mention the full extent of her talent for fellatio.
No wonder the senator had looked so ecstatic.
It had infuriated him that Langier had taken advantage of a young girl like that while his wife sat out in his choice box watching Tosca, unaware of her husband’s lechery. The entire experience had infuriated him, period, when it should have been an eye-opening moment that he later considered with amusement.
Lucien shut his eyes, trying to vanquish the memory even though he knew by now it was an utter impossibility.
Take control of Elise Martin? Gain her trust? It was a challenge most men would fail. It was a dare the dominant in him could no longer resist, a trial he was anticipating unlike any other before in his life.
He’d have to willingly walk into the flames in order to control the fire.
She spotted him immediately from a block away, leaning against a limestone abutment of the super-sleek, modern-gothic Noble Tower. Her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t been familiar with the sensation for most of her life, but had experienced it far too much recently. She’d assumed since running into Lucien again that the uncomfortable feeling was anxiety due to his intimidating presence. No other man affected her like Lucien did. Maybe it was because of that idyllic summer he’d given her as a child. It might have been because of the way he kissed. Or perhaps it was simply because she knew he had no reason to manipulate her for her fortune.
Or maybe it was that he was the most powerful, sexiest man she’d ever met. By far.
Tonight, she had a sneaking suspicion the fluttery feeling was akin to that of a first date with a very attractive man.
Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. Hadn’t he said he just wanted to be with her because he didn’t trust her? She frowned, even though her gaze traveled over him covetously. Still . . . he’d said he was attracted to her, that he planned to have sex with her. They’d both dressed up and they were meeting at an assigned spot. The similarities to a date were not insignificant. Now that an official chef had been hired, how would he go about advancing this unorthodox relationship he’d proposed?
He drew glances from nearly every passerby, man or woman, even though he seemed completely unaware. His arms were crossed loosely beneath his chest. His looks were such a striking, unique combination of effortless elegance and raw male sexuality. He wore black pants that fit his long legs to eye-catching perfection, a starkly white shirt open at the collar and a handsome tan and black herringbone blazer. He stared fixedly in the direction of the Chicago River. She admired his ability to stay so completely still, and yet remain so calm. Rarely had she observed such complete focus in a man. She recalled he used to quietly chastise her when they fished and she would fidget and sigh.
“You will scare the fish away.”
“But it’s so boring,” she’d complained.
“If you can learn to handle your boredom, you will have truly mastered yourself.”
“What’s that mean?” she’d queried, puzzled but curious.
; He hadn’t answered her at the time, but she’d studied his calm, patient attitude while fishing or soothing an anxious horse or handling his drama-queen mother, and strived to follow his example. She’d failed for the most part, but she’d learned to respect that calm, steely strength in him.
“I hope I’m not too late,” she said breathlessly when she approached him. “The bus broke down on the inner drive and I had to walk the rest of the way.”
He straightened from his leaning position, his light eyes moving over her deliberately and making her skin prickle in awareness. “In those shoes?” he asked, the hint of a smile on his well-shaped lips.
She glanced down at the strappy high-heel sandals she wore along with a sack dress she’d belted at her hips. “This is nothing,” she said as he took her hand and began to walk. “You wouldn’t believe the miles I walked in heels while I was waitressing.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Waitressing?”
She grinned, happy to have surprised him. “At La Roue, in Paris.”
He hailed a cab.
“We can walk,” she said. “I understand from Francesca the penthouse is very close, isn’t that right?”
A cab snapped to a halt in front of the curb. He opened the door for her.
“You’re getting a blister on your right ankle,” he said deadpan when she gave him a questioning look. She glanced down. He was right. The skin around her ankle strap was abraded and red. When had he noticed? She sighed in relief a moment later when she settled in the air-conditioned cab and did a double take when she noticed his small smile as he studied her.
“What?”
“Tender feet,” he said. She blinked at the unexpectedly seductive sound of his deep, resonant voice. “You were always getting blisters as a girl.”
“My mother forgot to get me new shoes for the summer. I was growing like a weed that year.”
Annoyance crossed his bold features. “All that money, all those resources, and yet she neglected you,” he said. He noticed her blank expression. He shook his head slightly, banishing a bitterness that confused her.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said impulsively, hopeful at the sound of his disdain toward her mother.