by Marina Adair
“Oh, because it’s eleven fifteen and you’re dressed for the gym. BoVine has a strict dress policy,” Natasha said, then turned to Lexi. “By the way, I forgot to tell you the other day how sorry I was to hear about you and Jeffery.”
“Thanks, but I’m doing well,” Lexi lied. Natasha was only sorry that she hadn’t yet had the chance to rub it in, and by the sparkle in her eye she was getting ready to do exactly that. Especially since Lexi had witnessed yet another rebuff from the great playboy himself.
“I mean, divorced and thirty. Sounds rough. They write articles about people like you.”
“Twenty-nine. Remember I was a year behind you. And Jeffery and I parted amicably. Actually, we’re still close,” Lexi shot back. “Oh, and I love those pants. Are they cream? No, too yellow. What color are they? It’s hard to tell with the sun in my eyes.”
“These, well, they are more of a custardy color—”
Wingman’s ears perked up, his tail started beating the concrete, and he let go a single bark.
Natasha took a step back, obviously startled.
“Lexi,” Marc warned.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. What color did you say it was?”
Eyes firmly on the dog, Natasha took another step back and said, “Custard—”
The words had barely left her lips and Wingman was up. He charged Natasha, his tail flicking mud in every direction as his big dirty paws landed right in the center of Natasha’s ice-blue heart.
“Oh. My. God,” she shrieked as she backed into the gas pump. “Get him off!”
“Down, Wingman,” Marc said, but Lexi noticed that he took his time getting to the dog to haul him off a very angry Natasha. “Down.”
By the time Marc got Wingman settled, Natasha was sporting two enormous doggie prints on her silk and two pissed-off slits for eyes. And they were zeroed in on Lexi. “You did that on purpose!”
“I guess you’d better go get cleaned up. I hear that BoVine is uptight about who they let in.”
“Lexi? That is you!” Chad said from behind them, sidling up to the group and giving her a big hug, his hands sliding a little far south for Lexi’s liking. “It’s so great to see you. I was waiting for you to come out of the station, and I had almost given up.” He looked at his watch. “I have to be in court in an hour. I’m just so glad that I finally ran into you.”
He hugged her again, his hands slipping—again.
A low, threatening growl sounded, and Chad slowly backed away.
“Good boy,” Marc whispered and gave Wingman a ruffle behind the ears.
“It’s good to see you too, Chad,” Lexi said, patting her thighs in a silent call for Wingman, who dutifully walked over to sit on her feet and lean into her legs. Chad would have to get past her keeper if he wanted to cop a feel.
“At first I thought you were avoiding me, running out of the supermarket, not returning my calls, but then I told myself that you were probably busy getting settled. How is the bistro coming along?”
“You know about the bistro?” Not that she had kept it a secret, but she hadn’t advertised it either. She had finalized the blueprints and design with her designer last week, perfected her summer menu, and met with the contractor—twice. Until they broke ground on the remodel, and she knew what her grand-opening date would be, she was keeping a low profile.
“Well, yeah.” He reached inside his jacket and fished around in the pocket. He pulled an envelope out, shoved it in her face, and smiled. “For you.”
Wingman barked in warning, but Lexi took the offered envelope. It was official looking, with the Stevens, Stevens, and Stevens corporate seal on the upper left corner. And it was heavy—way too heavy to be an invitation to the yearly office party. “What is this?”
“Alexis Moreau,” Chad began, “I hate to be the one to inform you, especially since I am planning on picking you up a week from Saturday for a picnic and maybe a little dip in the lake, but you’ve been served.”
After Lexi swallowed back the bile that rose at the image of the kind of dip he had in mind, she asked, “Served? I don’t understand.” Her divorce was final. The assets divided. What the hell was going on?
“Jeffery has gained a court-ordered cease and desist that prohibits any use of recipes served in his restaurant Pairing.”
“Those recipes are mine.” They were all hers. And they were all that she had. “I created them.” She had breathed life into them, and they into her.
Experimenting in the kitchen had been the only time she felt truly happy in New York. She couldn’t keep her husband satisfied, couldn’t be a mother, couldn’t recognize who looked back at her in the mirror most days. But she could cook.
“Actually, the recipes are assets of the corporation that now owns the restaurant.”
“What corporation? Pairing is a family-run business.”
Ignoring her last comment, Chad looked at his watch, stepped forward as though to kiss her good-bye, and wisely settled on an awkward shoulder pat when Wingman bared his teeth. “Gotta run, Lexi. Pick you up at nine.” And he was gone.
Natasha straightened her top and smiled. “I better get going since lunch is in a few minutes. Great to see you, Lexi. And I am so happy to hear what an amicable divorce you and Jeffery had. It warms my heart. Really.”
CHAPTER 5
It was official. Marc was a stalker.
It had started out innocently enough, a quick glance out his office window at the precise moment that a light flickered on across the alley. He’d never noticed before that his office window, situated on the northwest corner of the hotel, afforded him a perfect view of Pricilla’s apartment, and if he angled his chair just so, he could see directly into her kitchen. If he stood he was able to steal peeks through the breakfast nook area and get a great view of Pricilla’s dining table. And if he stood up and pressed his face to the window, he could see all the way through to the family room and partway down the hall toward the bedroom, which was currently housing a tight little ass that he had the pleasure of watching swish its way around the house.
That night, he should have packed up his things and gone upstairs to his suite. Instead he’d watched her move through the kitchen, her bare feet and legs dancing around the room to Louis Prima as she took out nearly every pan and utensil in the house and spent hours cooking enough food for a large dinner party, only to take a single bite, dump it in the trash can out back, and start over.
That had been six days ago, after she’d been served, after she’d posted a note on her door canceling their dinner, and after she’d refused to return his calls.
That look on her face when she’d been handed those papers still got to Marc. She’d been shocked, then confused, then hurt, which made Marc equal parts confused and pissed—at himself for not making sure Jeff had handled his shit. Marc assumed that Jeff had made it clear to all involved that after the divorce the menu would remain an asset of Pairing. He’d also assumed that when he finally saw Lexi again, the sexual pull between them would be gone.
He’d been wrong on all accounts.
Marc paused for a moment, just watching her. Elbows-deep in a saucepan, she whisked for a good three minutes, her forehead scrunching when she took a little taste with a spoon. Quickly she opened the cabinet to her left, reaching up on her tippy toes and tugging this morning’s ensemble of choice, a dark-blue tank top and striped cotton boxers, high enough up her body to expose a tiny strip of torso and a whole lot of leg.
Nope. The pull was still there, and he was still watching.
Marc swore and angled his chair so that he would be forced to stare at his computer, as though she wasn’t right behind the window, whisking her flambé or whatever, with her breasts gently swaying because she’d decided to roll out of bed this morning and forgo a bra—again.
The movement startled Wingman, who was sleeping under Marc’s desk and awoke with a grunt. He grunted again before rolling over to offer up his belly for a rub.
Marc gave it a val
iant effort, staring at an e-mail from Natasha outlining exactly why she would be a brilliant pick to cater the Summer Wine Showdown. He’d put off his reply, hoping to find a solution that didn’t involve a clingy woman—a clingy woman he’d slept with.
He’d called every chef he knew and a few dozen he didn’t. Either they were booked or too damn expensive. His own chef, who was pissed that Marc still hadn’t hired him a sous chef, refused to do the event, claiming it wasn’t in his contract.
The easy solution would be to call Jeff, ask him to recommend someone local. More than a thousand spectators, members of the media, and celebrities were due to start arriving in just under a month, but no food had been ordered, and he didn’t have enough staff to handle the event—and he still hadn’t been able to call.
At first he told himself that it was because he didn’t want to interrupt Jeff’s honeymoon; his friend deserved a little alone time with his new bride after a hellish year. Then Marc watched, day after day, as Lexi struggled to find peace in the one place she used to thrive, and his reason for not calling was out of sheer preservation—of his and Jeff’s friendship.
Every time she stood and stared blankly at her ingredients, every time she sat at the table alone, only to leave her meal untouched and turn in early because he could tell she didn’t know what else to do, he formed another question for Jeff. Questions that, Marc knew, had answers he’d hate.
His only option was to hire Natasha. The more he thought about it, the more logical it seemed. She was talented in the kitchen, and although a little experimental for his taste—culinarily speaking—she was a simple solution to his professional problem.
Marc had wasted the past week staring out the window, accomplishing jack shit, and he knew that the town council and his brothers were going to be all over him if he didn’t nail down the food. And soon. All he needed was for Gabe to find out he’d turned down a reputable caterer because he hadn’t been able to keep his dick in his pants.
With a heavy sigh, Marc made his decision. Natasha wasn’t the perfect fit, but she was the best option he had. He’d opened her most recent e-mail and had read through most of it when a door slammed closed and echoed through the alley.
Wingman buried his snout under his front paws and whined.
“I know, buddy,” Marc said, ruffling him behind the ears and going to the window.
He and Wingman both watched as Lexi slowly made her way down the alley, feet bare, garbage bag in hand, and shoulders slumped in defeat. She opened the lid to the trash can and ceremoniously dumped the bag, most likely containing the entirety of what she’d been cooking up for the past two hours, inside. She was about to replace the lid when her back went rigid. She stopped, slowly turned her head, and—looked right at him.
“Shit.”
Marc jerked to his right, plastering his back against the wall. The sudden movement and elevated energy sent Wingman into a barking fit.
“Shh,” he hissed, sounding panicked, and not wanting to draw any more attention to his window. “Sit.”
Wingman obeyed and sat at his feet, waiting, with big doggie eyes, for his reward. Marc reached in his pocket, and Wingman inhaled the bribe without even chewing.
She’d seen him. He’d been spying on her like some kind of pervy teen, and she’d caught him. This was worse than the summer when he was supposed to build Mr. Weinstein a new shed and instead had spent most of his time watching his new trophy wife do her morning laps—naked. He’d been fifteen. Mrs. Weinstein had known he was there. And it had been thrilling.
This felt like an invasion of privacy, though. Which was why, instead of pretending it was a coincidence and waving like a normal neighbor would do, he slunk into the shadows. Now, on top of everything else, he was going to have to come up with an excuse, one that wouldn’t get him arrested, to explain away his behavior.
“Last boy I caught doing that found himself one peanut short,” Grandma said. Not his grandma, but Lexi’s.
Marc thunked his head against the wall because Pricilla wasn’t smiling and she wasn’t alone. No, all three grannies stood inside his office door, each silver coif shaking while they tutted simultaneously, their expressions ranging from amusement to threatening eternal damnation. But all of them seemed to imply the same thing: Marco DeLuca had been caught checking out the neighbor’s wears, and he was in trouble.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Marc said, casually walking around his desk to hug ChiChi and company, but going the long way so he didn’t have to pass in front of the window.
“Of course not, dear,” ChiChi said, giving him a peck on the cheek and taking her seat. “You were too busy peeping on the new neighbor.”
“I was not peep—” was all he got out before Pricilla pulled a piece of fudge out of that crocheted bag of hers and shoved it into Marc’s mouth.
“I don’t take well to lying either,” Pricilla said, penciled eyebrows arched so high they all but disappeared into her hairline.
Marc couldn’t respond. One, he didn’t want to lie, and two, the fudge was incredible. He wondered if this was one of Pricilla’s originals or if it was a Lexi creation. A smoky hint of bacon teased his tongue while a bite of cayenne warmed the back of his throat. Marc smiled—savory. Definitely Lexi’s, then.
“What can I do for you ladies?” Marc mumbled around the melting chocolate even though he knew he’d regret the question.
These grannies were professional busybodies with only two things on their corporate agenda: their grandkids’ business and the business of getting some great-grandbabies. Most of the time one goal overlapped the next, and when that happened everyone in town was bound to suffer. So if they were here before the lunching hour, something was up. And it wouldn’t bode well for Marc and his siblings.
“We hear you’ve gotten yourself into a fix,” Lucinda Baudouin said, taking a seat and opening her enormous bag. She pulled out a fluffy white cat wearing a sailor suit, complete with hat, neckerchief, and irritated growl, and set him in her lap.
Wingman jumped to attention, his ear going up and his eyes going wide. He lowered his body to the floor with his tail standing straight up, and then he went completely still.
Mr. Puffins’s tail, on the other hand, puffed out like a porcupine’s, ready for battle. Wingman barked once. The cat’s eyes narrowed on a low growl. Wingman ran behind Marc’s desk and hid.
“Harrumph,” Lucinda tutted, handing Marc a printed-out copy of an e-mail.
He took one look at the e-mail and almost asked Wingman to move over. The e-mail was one that he’d drafted and sent to the dean of the Napa Valley Culinary Academy, asking for a temporary chef for the Showdown. An e-mail that was supposed to remain confidential.
“How did you get this?”
All three women straightened with pride, but it was Lucinda who spoke. “Broke into Janice’s work computer. Regan helped us.” Two more things that Gabe never needed to hear about.
“What were you thinking, sending this,” ChiChi chided, grabbing the e-mail and waving it in his face, her head shaking in disappointment, “to that woman? You want the whole town knowing that you don’t have a chef for the Showdown?”
“I sent it to the dean. How was I supposed to know a Baudouin would get her hands on it?”
“Janice has been working there for over twenty years,” Lucinda said, as though Marc should be up on every damn Baudouin in the valley.
Marc ran his fingers through his hair. He should be. Just like he should have known this would happen.
Although Lucinda was a Baudouin and ChiChi had married a DeLuca, neither was willing to throw away a lifelong friendship over a silly feud. That didn’t mean Lucinda was above using her family ties to the academy’s associate dean to gain information, especially if ChiChi asked.
“Does anyone else know?” Please say no. The last thing he needed was Gabe up in his business, going all big brother for the next few weeks. Or worse, old man Charles finding out and, like ChiChi said, somehow using
it against Marc with the town council.
“Not even Janice,” Lucinda clarified, straightening Mr. Puffins’s neckerchief with a tug.
Marc raised an unconvinced brow.
All three ladies exchanged panicked looks. Pricilla pulled out a truffle and handed it to ChiChi, who took a nervous nibble before giving a defeated nod.
Lucinda patted ChiChi’s knee, much the same way as she did her cat, and said, “Janice has been having online relations with a man.”
“A man who had, up until last month, been having relations with me,” ChiChi snapped, lips pursed into a tight line.
“Sweet Jesus,” Marc murmured, wanting to cover his ears. He looked at his sweet nonna with her white hair, designer churchwear, and little round reading glasses hanging from a diamond-encrusted chain and grimaced. Then he turned to the window, judged its size, height, and drop to the ground, and quickly determined that a broken leg would be far less painful than finishing this conversation.
“Marco DeLuca,” ChiChi scolded, making the sign of the cross. “I raised you on a vineyard, not a farm.”
“Sorry, Nonna. I just…Can we not—”
Pricilla pulled out another square of fudge, eyes narrowed in warning.
“Put it away, Pricilla. We didn’t come here to talk about whoopee. We came here because we have a proposition,” ChiChi said with an innocent smile that had Marc looking at the window all over again. The only thing stopping him was the thought that Lexi might still be in the alley.
The last time ChiChi and her friends had a proposal that involved his hotel, it had ended with a drunken bachelorette party, a small bedroom fire, and a confused group of firemen who’d come for a convention on fire safety and left with wadded-up bills in their jeans.
“The Daughters of the Prohibition is about to be hijacked,” ChiChi said. “Isabel Stark and that woman you’ve been keeping company with have been asked to head up the junior league. They think that just because Natasha’s good at lighting your fire that you’ll hire her to heat up your kitchen too.”