by Teri Wilson
The chauffeur answered on the first ring. “Mr. Wilde, how can I help you?”
Ryan didn’t often take advantage of the more luxurious perks that came with being chief financial officer of the Bennington, but having a driver on standby was nice at a time like this. He glanced up and down the picturesque street. The sun was just coming up, bathing the neighborhood brownstones in soft winter hues of violet and blue. The snowy sidewalks were empty, save for an older man opening up the newsstand on the corner. “Are you free to come pick me up in the Village?”
He was, of course. Who needed a limo this time of day?
Ryan gave the driver his location, then pocketed his phone again. He rubbed his hands together. His breath was a visible puff of vapor in the crisp air. What the hell had he done with his coat?
He lifted his gaze to the row of windows on the third floor, trying to guess which one was Eve’s. He wished he’d left his Burberry trench up there so he’d have a legitimate excuse to see her again, but he hadn’t. He’d left it on the back of a chair at the wine bar the night before—forgotten, completely—right around the time he’d spotted Eve across the room, brandishing a butcher knife.
It had been one of the most bizarre things he’d ever seen. She’d grabbed a bottle of champagne and before he’d been able to process what he was seeing, she severed the neck of the bottle with the knife. Sliced it clean off, just below the cork. It made a loud popping sound, and she’d stood there with a quiet smile on her face while bubbles spilled down her arm. The group of people at her table cheered. All men, he’d noticed.
She wasn’t on a date, though, from what he could tell. The table was piled with note cards, as if they were some kind of study group.
Note cards. In the middle of a wine bar on Friday night.
“That was quite the party trick,” Ryan had said after he’d abandoned his coat, his drink and the trio of business associates he’d been meeting with.
He’d had to talk to her. Had to.
For the better part of a week, he’d been avoiding every marriage-minded single woman in Manhattan. But the knife-wielding goddess had gotten under his skin instantly. He wasn’t even sure why.
Yes, she was pretty. More than pretty, actually. Beautiful, with full red lips and long, spun-gold hair—the kind of hair that made him hard just thinking about what it would feel like sliding through his fingers.
But it had been more than her looks that had him spellbound from all the way across the crowded room. He’d felt an inexplicable pull deep in his chest when he looked at her. And as he came closer, there’d been something else. She’d had secrets in her eyes.
“It’s not a party trick,” she’d said, looking him up and down. A scarlet flush made its way up her porcelain face. “It’s called sabering.”
She’d gone on to explain that French cavalry officers had used their swords in a similar manner to open champagne during the Napoleonic Wars. Which didn’t explain in the slightest why she was doing it in a wine bar on the Upper West Side, but Ryan hadn’t cared.
It had fascinated him. She’d fascinated him...
Fascinated him enough that he very purposefully neglected to mention his last name.
A car rounded the corner. Ryan turned in the direction of the sound of tires crunching on packed snow, but it wasn’t the Bennington limo. Where was the damned thing? He was freezing.
He bowed his head against the wind and walked toward the newsstand, hoping the old man could sell him some coffee.
He felt bad about the name thing, even now. Even after she’d shown him the door within minutes of waking up in her bed. It wasn’t as if he’d lied to her. He’d just left off his surname.
Call me Ryan.
Thinking about that made him wince. It made him sound like a player, when in actuality, he was anything but.
That was the big irony of his current situation. Practically overnight, and through no fault of his own, he’d developed a reputation. A reputation that had no basis in reality.
It had been a relief when he realized Eve had no idea who he was.
Eve, with her butcher knife and lovely head full of history.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The man behind the newsstand looked up. “Yeah?”
“Have you got any coffee back there?”
The man nodded. “Sure do. Extra hot.”
“Perfect.” Ryan opened his wallet and removed a few bills. As he handed the old man the money, his gaze snagged on a magazine.
Gotham. But the title didn’t matter. It was the image on the magazine’s cover that gave him pause.
A man’s face.
His face.
If Evangeline Holly hadn’t known who he was last night, she would now.
Chapter Two
Six weeks later
Ryan was late.
In the three years since he’d been named CFO of the Bennington, he’d been the first member of the executive staff to arrive for work every morning. He was notorious for it.
Sometimes the chief executive officer purposely tried to get there first, just to get under Ryan’s skin. But Ryan had a sixth sense when it came to predicting moves like that, probably because Zander Wilde wasn’t just the CEO. He was also Ryan’s cousin. The two men had known each other a lifetime. Ryan knew Zander like a brother.
Consequently, he wasn’t the least bit shocked to find Zander waiting for him when he strode into his office five minutes later than his usual arrival time. Annoyed, yes. Shocked, not so much.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Zander was reclining in Ryan’s chair with his feet resting on the smooth mahogany surface of his desk, ankles crossed. He folded the newspaper in his hands and shot Ryan a triumphant grin. “Looks like I got here first.”
Ryan set his briefcase down and lowered himself into one of his office guest chairs. “Pleased with yourself?”
Zander’s smile widened. “I am, actually.”
“Enjoy your victory.” Ryan lifted a brow. “Especially since it was three years in the making.”
Zander shrugged. “I’ll take it. A win is a win.”
“If you say so, but would it kill you to get your feet off my desk?” He glared at his cousin’s wing tips.
Zander rolled his eyes before planting his feet on the floor and sitting up straight. “I need to talk to you about something. But first, what’s wrong? You’re not dying or terminally ill, are you? You’re never late.”
“It’s 7:35 a.m.,” Ryan said flatly.
Zander’s only response was a blank stare.
“I’m not dying. I was just...” He cleared his throat. “Delayed.”
“Delayed?” Zander smirked. “I get it now. This is a bachelor-specific problem.”
He cast a pointed glance at the framed magazine cover hanging above the desk. Gotham Names Ryan Wilde New York’s Hottest Bachelor of the Year, the headline screamed.
Six weeks had passed since Ryan had learned about his “coronation,” as Zander liked to put it. His feelings about the matter had remained unchanged since that snowy morning at the newsstand in the West Village. Namely, he loathed it.
He especially loathed seeing the magazine cover on the wall of his office every day, but it was preferable to having it on display in the Bennington lobby, where Zander had originally hung it. Ryan suspected it had been a joke and his cousin had never intended to leave it there, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The terms of their compromise dictated that the framed piece made its home on the wall above Ryan’s desk.
Oh joy.
“Let me guess.” Zander narrowed his gaze. “You were out late last night fighting women off with a stick.”
Hardly.
Ryan hadn’t indulged in female company for weeks. Six weeks, in fact. Although his recent abstinence wasn’t altogether related
to the Gotham feature article.
He couldn’t seem to get Evangeline Holly out of his head. A couple of times, he’d even gone so far as to visit her building in the Village. He’d lingered on the front steps for a few minutes, thinking about their night together.
It had been good.
Better than good.
It had been spectacular, damn it. The best sex of his life, which was reason enough to let it go and move on. That kind of magic only came along once. Any attempt to recreate it would have been in vain.
Maybe not, though. Maybe the night hadn’t been magical at all. Maybe she’d been the magic.
He’d considered this both times he’d nearly knocked on her door. Then he’d remembered how eager she’d been to get rid of him on the morning after, and he’d come to his senses. The woman had refused to give him her phone number. That seemed like a pretty solid indication that she would’ve been less than thrilled to find him knocking on her door.
“I watched the Rangers game and then went to bed,” he said. Then for added emphasis, “Alone.”
“So what gives? Why are you late?” Zander frowned. “Wait. Don’t tell me the groupies are back.”
Ryan wanted to correct him. The groupies weren’t technically back, because they’d never gone away. They’d been hanging around the Bennington for nearly two months—since the day the New York Times had decided to throw a wrench in his otherwise peaceful life.
He should have seen it coming. The Bennington had been the subject of a wildly popular series of columns in the Times’ Weddings page. A reporter for the Vows column had speculated that the hotel was cursed after several weddings in the Bennington ballroom had ended like a scene from Runaway Bride.
But that was ancient history.
Should have been, anyway. Ryan had negotiated a cease-fire with the reporter. In exchange for exclusive coverage of Zander’s recent nuptials, the reporter declared the curse over and done with. But Ryan hadn’t anticipated that the last line of her column would imply he was on the lookout for a bride himself.
It had been brief—just a single sentence. But that handful of words had been enough. Women had been throwing themselves at him in a steady stream—morning, noon and night. His photo on the cover of Gotham had only made things worse.
Ryan sighed. “There are half a dozen of them waiting for me in the lobby. I had to go around the block and come in through the service entrance in the back.”
“You had to?” Zander let out a snort. “Here’s an idea. Call me crazy, but why don’t you go to the lobby right now, talk to the lovely ladies and ask one of them out on a date?”
He couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not.”
Those women knew nothing about him, other than the fact that he was single. And rich. It didn’t take a genius to know why they wanted to marry him, a total stranger.
No, thank you. He’d nearly been married once already, and once was enough. Never again.
Zander rolled his eyes. “You realize almost every man in New York would trade places with you in a heartbeat right now, don’t you?”
“Is that so?” Ryan crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m a happily married newlywed.”
Precisely.
Ryan was thrilled for Zander. He really was. But that didn’t mean he was going to pick a woman at random from the marriage-minded crowd in the lobby. This wasn’t an episode of The Bachelor. This was his life.
“Good for you. I prefer my dalliances more temporary. Short-term and strings-free. Can we talk about something else now?” Anything else. “You said you needed to speak to me. I trust it’s about something other than my personal life.”
“It is.” Zander picked up his discarded newspaper, spread it open and slid it across the desk toward Ryan. “Have you seen this?”
He glanced down. The New York Times. Not his favorite media outlet of late, for obvious reasons.
At least it wasn’t open to the Weddings page.
“The food section?” Surely he hadn’t merited a mention in one of the cuisine columns. “No, I haven’t.”
“The restaurant column contains an interesting tidbit. Right here.” Zander indicated a paragraph halfway down the page.
Ryan scanned it.
Carlo Bocci was spotted checking into the Plaza last night, fueling rumors that he’s in town for his annual month-long restaurant tour on behalf of the Michelin Guide. This time last year, Mr. Bocci visited a total of thirty-five New York eateries, ultimately bestowing the coveted Michelin star on fewer than ten. Only one of those restaurants, The White Swan, was awarded three Michelin stars, the highest possible ranking. The White Swan was recently named America’s finest restaurant by Food & Wine magazine.
He looked up. “Let me guess. We’re upset that he’s staying at the Plaza instead of the Bennington.”
“No. It doesn’t matter where he stays. What matters is...”
Ryan finished for him. “The Michelin stars.”
“Precisely.” Zander’s mouth hitched into a half grin. “Do you have any idea what a three-star Michelin ranking for Bennington 8 would mean?”
Bennington 8, the hotel’s premiere fine dining restaurant, was located in the rooftop atrium. With its sweeping views of Manhattan, it already performed remarkably well as far as bookings went. But three Michelin stars would keep their reservations calendar full six months out.
It would mean money.
A lot of money.
An obscene amount of money.
The Bennington could use that kind of income since the runaway bride curse had put a serious dent in their cash flow. They were bouncing back, but not fast enough.
Ryan frowned and smoothed down his tie. “Three stars? Do you really think that’s doable?”
They didn’t even know if Bennington 8 was on Carlo Bocci’s review list. The list was secret. Ryan suspected he booked his reservations under an assumed name and showed up when least expected, as most restaurant reviewers did.
Zander shook his head. “No, not the way we stand at the moment. Which is why you and I will be in interviews all afternoon today and tomorrow. As long as it takes.”
“You want to hire a new chef? I’m not sure that’s a wise idea.” The chef they had was one of the best in the city. They’d never get anyone else of his caliber on such short notice, much less someone better.
“Agreed. Patrick is as good as we’re going to get. As far as food is concerned, we’re golden. But that’s only half the battle, isn’t it?”
Ryan glanced back down at the newspaper and his gaze zeroed in on three italicized words—Food & Wine magazine.
“Wine,” Ryan said, nodding slowly. “You want to hire a sommelier.”
“A wine director—someone with impeccable credentials. Without a good somm, we haven’t got a chance. Have we got room in the budget to hire someone?”
“I’ll make room.” He’d be staring at spreadsheets all day, trying to make it work. But that was fine. Numbers were Ryan’s specialty. There were no gray areas with numerical figures, only black and white.
Just the way Ryan liked it.
Zander stood, folded the copy of the Times and tucked it under his arm. “Great. I’ve already put out some feelers. I’ll start lining up interviews. Clear your calendar.”
“Done.” Ryan rounded the desk and reclaimed his seat.
Zander lingered in the doorway. “Let’s hope we find someone immediately. This could be tough, but surely there’s an out-of-work somm somewhere in the city who’s also charismatic enough to impress Bocci.”
Ryan’s thoughts flitted back to six weeks ago. To a little wine bar in the Village. To Evangeline Holly, her butcher knife and the way her lips had tasted of warm grapes, fresh from the vine.
He pushed the memory away.
Zander
was asking the impossible, but Ryan was grateful for the challenge. He needed to get his focus back. He needed to forget about the numerous women who wanted to marry him. He especially needed to forget about the one who didn’t.
He shot Zander a look of grim determination. “If the right person is out there, trust me, we’ll find ’em.”
* * *
Evangeline was getting desperate.
If she was being honest with herself—truly, brutally honest—she’d passed the point of desperation a few days ago.
Six weeks was a long time to go without a paycheck, especially when she was already contributing more than she could afford to her grandfather’s care.
Maybe she’d been impulsive.
So she and Jeremy had broken up. So he’d been sleeping with his sous chef. Did that really mean Evangeline couldn’t stay on at the restaurant?
Of course that’s what it means. Are you insane? Don’t even think about crawling back.
She lifted her chin and marched through the revolving doors of the Bennington Hotel.
She had to get this job. If she didn’t, crawling back to Jeremy was exactly what she’d be forced to do by day’s end.
“Can I help you?” The woman behind the reception desk gazed impassively at her.
“Yes, I’m here for an interview. I have an appointment at four o’clock.” Evangeline forced a smile and tightened her grip on her Everlane tote bag—a leftover luxury from her previous life.
It was startling how much things could change in a month and a half. She’d thought she’d had everything figured out. She’d been happy.
At least she’d thought she had been happy. Now she wasn’t so sure.
You were happy. You were perfectly content with Jeremy. Stop thinking about that night.
She swallowed. The one-night stand was still messing with her head, six weeks after the fact. Which was all the proof she needed that one-night stands were not her thing. Lesson learned.
In the days since she’d woken up to the sight of those unfamiliar cuff links on her bedside table and the outrageously handsome man in her bed, she’d questioned nearly everything about her past relationship and life in general.