Steamy and laden with temptation, the air was at least ten degrees warmer. Like a kid timing her entry into a turning jump rope, I watched for a moment then eased into the dance of waiters, prep cooks, and chefs. His back to me, Jean-Charles didn’t notice as I stepped in behind him. His soft brown hair, which he wore a trifle too long, curled from under his toque and feathered over his collar. My hand on his shoulder, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tiny square of exposed skin under his right ear. He tasted like hamburgers, go figure.
Jean-Charles didn’t turn. Instead, he reached up, took my hand in his, held it to his lips, then murmured, “Ah, Lucky, my love. My day is now complete.”
His touch jump-started my pulse, which now raced to a staccato beat. “And I thought I was so sneaky. How’d you know?”
“Your Chanel No. 5. And you are the only woman in my life who has that subtle, special je ne sais quoi.”
I wanted to ask him if I was the only woman in his life, but he would have found the question odd. As a Frenchman, he failed to understand the peculiar insecurities of American females—our preoccupation with the future to the detriment of the now. Besides, I still wasn’t a 100 percent sure whether I wanted to be the only woman in his life—that would come with expectations. The kind of expectations I sucked at.
He let go of my hand as he continued working the grill. How he kept all the orders straight, cooked all of them to the temperature requested, and melted my heart, I hadn’t a clue.
Rinaldo, the only other human on the planet Jean-Charles would trust at the grill unsupervised, stepped in to flank his boss on the side opposite me. A large man with a round face, sparkling dark eyes, and an easy smile, he gave me a wink as he said, “Boss, why don’t you take a break?”
With a nod, Jean-Charles handed him a spatula and began rattling off the details of the orders he was working on. Of course, all of it was displayed on a computer screen embedded in the backsplash.
“No worries. I got it, boss.” Rinaldo eased into position, effectively moving my Frenchman out, and the dance continued with nary a step lost.
“Come.” Jean-Charles placed a hand in the small of my back and guided me toward the door to the restaurant. “I have a wonderful Viognier on ice. Crisp and refreshing, it is from the Willamette Valley. You will tell me what you think, yes? But, you will like it.”
Once he had me installed at the bar, Jean-Charles moved behind the counter. Tall and trim, with robin’s-egg blue eyes, and high cheekbones bracketing a square jaw that lent an air of ruggedness to his face, Jean-Charles was not what he seemed. A pompous prima donna in public, he played the roll of the chef from Central Casting ready for his eponymous show on the Food Network. But, when the klieg light of public performance dimmed, the camera eye of public opinion blinked out, he let a few of us see behind the façade, to the private man underneath. A kind, driven man who loved his son, he would forever carry the scars of losing his wife to a dissected artery shredded during childbirth.
A sum total of our previous experiences, we all had our baggage, I guess. And life is simply the process of repacking, then unpacking, and repacking again until our baggage could fit easily into the overhead. Jean-Charles seemed to have folded everything neatly into a small carry-on. Time would tell. And, of course, I needed time to discard a particularly hurtful bit of excess baggage—a crooner who preferred the adulation of strangers to the love of a good woman. Yeah, right now my baggage would need a stateroom of its own.
Not a great time to start a new relationship. I knew that, but… throwing caution to the wind is another one of my best things. Foolhardy, my mother used to say, but she was just being nice. Stupid beyond belief would be more accurate, if you ask me. But, thankfully, nobody ever did. They just picked me up, brushed me off, and sent me into the fray one more time. Perhaps just once I’d get it right. Of course, once was all it took.
With the slight frown of concentration, Jean-Charles reached for a glass, setting it in front of me. Next he pulled a bottle out of the ice bucket, wiped it down, then, with practiced ease, popped the cork. His fingers cradled the bottle, his thumb stuck in the indentation in the bottom. With appropriate reverence, as if making an offering to the gods, he poured me a healthy dose of amber liquid. His eyes held mine for a moment—the warmth there took my breath. “You will like this.”
I swirled the wine, then took a sip. Crisp, fruity, but with a body that would complement even a heavy meal. “A nice addition.”
He nodded then poured himself a glass. As he lifted it to his lips, his eyes met mine over the rim. “Your day, it is nice, yes?”
My day? Reality crashed over me in a towering wave of emotion, fatigue and ravenous hunger.
Clearly I hadn’t hidden my feelings as Jean-Charles’s face clouded with concern. “You will tell me.”
“First, I really need food.”
“Your wish…” With a flourish and an exaggerated dip from the waist, he disappeared toward the kitchen.
Past caring, I drained my glass and poured another as I contemplated my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Curiously my exterior remained unruffled—a perfect contrast to the tumult inside. My nerves were as raw as the meat Jean-Charles threw on the grill. Like a beast tearing his way out, hunger gnawed inside my stomach. A wary, weary look folded the skin around my eyes. Still, with my hair in place, makeup subtly applied, laugh lines ready to bend for a smile, I bore an uncanny resemblance to me—even though I didn’t feel like me at all.
I nursed the second glass of wine as I worked to quiet my thoughts, smooth my ragged nerves. The events of last night and today had left me punchy. I felt disconnected—strangely removed as if I was merely a spectator and not a participant. Disassociation, the ultimate survival skill. My motto: If you can’t figure it out, pretend it doesn’t exist and maybe it will go away. Never happened that way before, but, as Mona warned, there was always a first time. Someday I’d probably lose my tether to reality and sanity would slip away like a balloon drifting toward Heaven.
In the mirror, I watched Jean-Charles weave his way from the kitchen back to me. Balanced on his open palm, he held aloft a platter piled with sliders making me salivate—of course Jean-Charles alone was enough to do that. Several patrons called to him, and he stopped momentarily at each table. With an easy manner and quick smile, he greeted everyone, making new fans and, hopefully, repeat customers. He loved to remind me that, even though he sold a product, his was a service business. I wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, but it was hard to argue with success—and with a string of exclusive eateries in all the major cities of the western world, he was certainly that.
Stepping behind me, he paused to nibble my ear, then slid the platter in front of me and stepped around the bar to replenish my glass. If he noticed I’d refilled it once in his absence, he was kind enough to keep his observation to himself. “Your day. It was bad, oui?”
“Can grown-ups run away from home?”
Concern darkened his eyes from their normal lighter blue, to a deeper, more sensuous shade. “You are joking, yes?”
I shrugged but didn’t answer. He would be appalled at how alluring I found the idea of packing the credit cards and heading for a part of the world that hadn’t heard of 4G or wi-fi. Summoning courage and resolve that I didn’t know I had, I gave him a lopsided smile and reached for a slider oozing cheddar and sautéed onions—manna from Heaven and food for the soul.
“My day? Perhaps a bit worse than usual, but nothing life-threatening.” At least not to me…yet, but I didn’t say that part. Chicken that I am, I decided not to mention that I was on the trail of a Jimmy Choo–wielding madman.
“Hmmm, you don’t want to tell me?” With a critical eye, my chef perused the offerings on the platter, finally settling on what looked to be a tiny turkey burger. He popped the whole thing in his mouth, chewed for a moment, then washed it down with a slug of wine—American expediency apparently could override a lifetime of European refinement. How many times had I heard him tel
l me Americans eat, but the French dine?
Before I said anything, he held up his hand and gave me a warm look. “Burgers are to be eaten. If we are to dine, it will be on something more refined. With enough time to savor…everything.”
Was the guy reading my mind? I paled at the possibility. Or was I simply as transparent as usual? Either way, it wasn’t good.
My breath caught and I swallowed hard, shutting my mind to all the possibilities the word savor conjured. “I’m good with that.” I reached for another slider—tenderloin, onions, cheese, and French-made thousand-island dressing—the real thing. “Let’s talk about the kitchen facilities you will need for the Last Chef Standing.” Vegas, amazingly enough, was actually a foodie paradise. Not only did we boast locations of most, if not all, of the major restaurants in the world, we also had ongoing competitions featuring the city’s best chefs, culminating in Vegas Uncork’d. A huge blowout to raise not only awareness of the city’s fine food offerings, but also raise money for various local charities. Hugely popular, each event was a coveted showcase.
“You wish to talk about this now?” Jean-Charles looked dubious.
“My day couldn’t get any worse.” I held up my hand as he started to argue. “I know, there’s a time and a place. But, I assure you I can be reasonable despite having an…interesting…day. And this is clearly bothering you so I’d like to address it.”
Jean-Charles seemed to weigh that for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible shrug and dove in. “My kitchen at Cielo…it is in pieces. It must be completed in a week, ten days, but no more. Then I will have what I need.”
Of course he asked the impossible. I decided not to get into the nuances of code inspections and green tags—he wouldn’t understand. “Two problems.” I held up my hand as he started to argue. “Hear me out, please. I know we plan to open Cielo in phases with your restaurant part of the first phase. But, the demolition on the rooms has just begun and opening the first phase is well, at least two months away—if the gods smile on us.” I took another sip of wine as I watched Jean-Charles’s face turn an interesting shade of pink. No wasn’t a word he was used to hearing.
“I must have my kitchen. The other chefs, Boulud, Ducasse, Keller, Mina, they all have their kitchens and their staffs. I will be made the fool.”
“If you do not wish to be made a fool, then don’t allow it.” Brandy announced as she eased onto a stool next to me. Under the full force of our scowls, she withered a bit. “At least that’s what my grandmother used to say, if it’s helpful.”
“Not in the least,” I brushed her off after I made sure she in fact had Cole Weston in tow. He straddled the stool next to my young assistant who needed to stay out of conversations she wasn’t invited into.
Jean-Charles lowered his voice. “You promised.”
“I promised the kitchen would be ready to go when we open phase one—even that will probably take a special dispensation by the Pope, presidential fiat, and an act of Congress.” Pausing, I took a deep breath. His worry was easy to read…and easy to understand. His reputation was really all he had. Of course, our reputations were all any of us had, but right now his livelihood rested on his. I put a hand on his arm and softened my look and my tone into hopefully one of understanding rather than confrontation. “I understand. Let me work something out, but it’s the county that’s keeping us out of the building, not me. Governments are all alike and they all work at a glacial pace.”
“Money, it often can move mountains.” He gave a Gallic shrug, which, incomprehensibly, I found charming.
“Perhaps in Provence. However, in the States we pretend bribery is a bad thing, which requires a more circumspect approach. I said I’ll do my best—I have nothing more to offer.”
Perhaps realizing there was nothing else to say or do but to trust me, Jean-Charles nodded…once. But he didn’t look too pleased.
Just another happy victim.
“Okay,” I said as I turned my attention to Brandy and her charge. “Please tell Mr. Weston that I saw him showing a particular interest in the poker game the dead woman was playing last night. I want to know why.”
Younger than I remembered ever being, Brandy was tall and lithe with a stripper’s body and the look of innocence in her big, brown eyes—a contrast men found irresistible. A black belt in some mystical form of deadly martial art took care of the unwanted attention. Today she wore a prim and proper business suit of steel gray with subtle turquoise pin stripes—vintage Versace. Her ubiquitous pair of smoky Loubous on her feet, a single diamond at her neck and matching ones on each earlobe, she looked every inch the up-and-coming hotel exec she was. Loose and free, her shiny brown hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her face, open and disarming, held not a trace of the passage of time.
Could today be any more depressing?
Brandy turned to Cole who was eyeing a platter of hamburgers a waiter carried by. She put a hand on his arm to get his attention. While she signed my request, I turned to Jean-Charles.
Before I spoke, he held up a hand. “A platter of hamburgers for your friends. I will prepare them myself, if you will excuse me.” He gave a stiff little bow and a rueful half grin dialed back from its previous warmth. I watched him work his way through the tables, his practiced façade of charm falling into place, and wondered how to have a relationship with a man who bristled at the first barrier in his path.
Brandy and Cole were deep into a silent conversation, so I sipped my wine and pouted. Just being able to express a simple, albeit juvenile, emotion was so much better than my normal routine of bottling them inside. My job required eating too much crow as it was. I’d be damned if I’d conduct my personal life the same way.
Brandy snapped her fingers in front of my eyes. “Do you want it word for word, or will a summary do?”
“A summary.”
“Well,” Brandy settled herself on the stool, “Cole plays a lot of Internet poker.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Isn’t that irrelevant?”
Oh, she was turning into me, just as Miss P feared. “I seem to have a particular gift of bringing out the pissy in everyone I talk to today.” Reaching across the bar, I grabbed the bottle of wine and freshened my glass. “Now, continue, but without the attitude.”
Clearly immune, Brandy gave me a look that said, “Whatever,” then continued. “For a long time now, he’s been playing on Aces Over Eights.”
“The site Kevin Slurry’s recently sold.”
She nodded. “Right. And Cole noticed some anomalies.”
“What kind?”
“Someone was cheating.”
“How the heck do you cheat in an online game?” The criminal mind always eluded me. If the bad guys spent as much time trying to fix the world as they did thinking up ways to defeat it, we’d all live above the poverty line and be settling Mars.
“Cole figured that Kevin Slurry must’ve kept a backdoor when he sold the site.”
“Backdoor?”
“An opening into the software algorithm. With that he could see other players’ cards, he could monitor and track betting, the source of the funds, how winnings were distributed.”
“He had access to all the information in the whole site?” Wow, talk about a cheater’s paradise.
Brandy nodded.
“Cole can prove this?”
Brandy turned, her fingers racing through words, then his doing the same in reply. She turned back to me. “He has all the data, but it would take the police to legally access the Web site records to see if he is correct.”
“The police.” There was something there, a connection. What was it? I took another sip of wine while I tried to let my mind free wheel. The tickle of an idea started to form. “Ask Cole if he knew Sylvie Dane personally.”
He read my lips and nodded, then Brandy translated as he signed his story. “He knew her through poker, and he knew she had some background in law enforcement.”
“Wait.” I threw up a
hand stopping her. “Law enforcement? Which side of the fence?”
Cole rolled his eyes and signed rapidly—I’d forgotten he could read lips.
Brandy translated. “He’s not sure, Sylvie wouldn’t say.”
“I bet.”
“Anyway,” Brandy continued, “after watching her for a while and satisfying himself she wasn’t in bed with Kevin Slurry…”
Brandy paused, her eyes grew a trifle wider as she watched Cole’s fingers fly.
“What?” I asked.
The girl ducked her head shyly, her face pinkening. “Nothing. That part was personal.”
“What’s personal?” Detective Romeo asked a bit roughly as he pushed through the gathering crowd. Stopping behind Brandy, he put a hand possessively on her shoulder. If he felt half as bad as he looked, I could understand his mood. His clothes were rumpled probably beyond repair, an old coffee stain trickled like a dried tear down the front of his shirt, and remnants of a meal dotted his tie. The kid had gone seriously downhill in the last twenty-four hours. If he’d been home, he hadn’t bothered to change clothes. Fine stubble dotted his cheeks, which were hollower than I remembered. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth, tension pulling his lips into a thin line. His hair had been hastily combed into place—even his cowlick had succumbed somewhat, bending weakly. His voice hard, his expression less than pleased, he hooked a thumb at Cole but focused his attention on Brandy. “Is this guy hitting on you?”
Cole smiled as if he thought the whole thing a wonderful joke.
Brandy gave Romeo a quick kiss. “Forget about it. He was just playing. Besides, it’s not like he’s the only guy who’s going to hit on me today.”
Oops.
Romeo turned his glare on me. “You allow your staff to be bait for every…”
“Enough.” I could be stern when I wanted. “You know better than that.”
Clearly miffed, Romeo struggled with his emotions. “Sorry. I don’t want her left alone with this guy—or anybody else, for that matter.”
“Sit, Romeo,” I patted the stool next to mine. “Trust is the foundation for a good relationship, remember that. Besides, you’re going to be interested in Mr. Weston’s story.”
Lucky Bastard Page 14