Читать онлайн книгу «Tempting Donovan Ford» автора Jennifer McKenzie

Tempting Donovan Ford
Jennifer McKenzie
There's sizzle in this kitchen! Chef Julia Laurent has poured everything into her late mother's restaurant. When the time is right, she'll buy it herself. Before she can, though, the Ford family swoops in and acquires it out from under her! Suddenly Julia has a new boss–the sexy and intriguing Donovan Ford.Donovan and his family are legends in the restaurant business, so Julia will go along with his plans…for now. The chemistry between them is undeniable, but Julia remains focused on her goal of owning this place. Donovan has the power to help her–Julia simply has to convince him that he wants to.


There’s sizzle in this kitchen!
Chef Julia Laurent has poured everything into her late mother’s restaurant. When the time is right, she’ll buy it herself. Before she can, though, the Ford family swoops in and acquires it out from under her! Suddenly Julia has a new boss—the sexy and intriguing Donovan Ford.
Donovan and his family are legends in the restaurant business, so Julia will go along with his plans…for now. The chemistry between them is undeniable, but Julia remains focused on her goal of owning this place. Donovan has the power to help her—Julia simply has to convince him that he wants to.
To a bright and satisfying future.
Donovan
Julia recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card attached to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, that a bottle of wine, even if it did cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.
Well, that might be so, but she didn’t have to act on it. Couldn’t act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more.
Dear Reader (#u5f269661-a366-5363-86cc-0489a394408c),
As much as I love to cook (and oddly enough, it’s one of my great joys to slave over a hot stove—no, this isn’t sarcasm), I also love eating in restaurants. And I love Paris. And siblings who support and snark in the same breath. So I put them all together in Tempting Donovan Ford and whipped up what I hope is a tasty treat. As an added bonus, no calories will be consumed during the reading of this book. Unless you add chocolate. Because everything is better with chocolate.
If you’re curious about the music I played and the actors I pictured while writing the book, visit my website, jennifermckenzie.com (http://www.jennifermckenzie.com).
Happy reading,
Jennifer McKenzie
Tempting Donovan Ford
Jennifer McKenzie


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JENNIFER McKENZIE lives in Vancouver, Canada, where she enjoys being able to ski and surf in the same day—not that she ever does either of those things. She spends her days writing emails, text messages, newsletters and books. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, eating chocolate, trying to talk herself into working off said chocolate on the treadmill or spending time with her husband.
This is for my aunts who were the first to buy my books, tell me how proud they were and brag about knowing me in grocery stores.
Shelley, Bonnie, Anna, Kathy and Pam. (No, you were not listed in order of importance. Or age.)
Contents
Cover (#u57e4ba49-808f-5dfe-9ba8-ed9a9e65aa0e)
Back Cover Text (#u147be98c-1753-535d-b8fe-bce843d9613b)
Introduction (#ua1128329-e369-5967-9647-5e4d0aae1a9c)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u1db4bfc1-87b1-5784-9c2b-e496f7f78189)
About the Author (#ue5e4e7b3-5d77-503d-be23-d55475a79966)
Dedication (#ue7ef5f2a-4ff7-5605-8493-92aa1787d712)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5f269661-a366-5363-86cc-0489a394408c)
JULIA LAURENT HAD always liked traditions. Turkey at Thanksgiving, cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning, strawberry pie in the summer. Classics. Things that stood the test of time.
She hummed as she stepped out of the cold, midmorning January air and into the back entrance of her restaurant, La Petite Bouchée. Though her name wasn’t on the deed, in every other way the space was hers. As executive chef, she’d lovingly tweaked the menu, hung some of her own personal photos on the walls and trained the staff. She’d spent the past two years building traditions and trust, taking the routines her mother had started in the kitchen and making them better. In time, she was certain her name would be listed on the deed, too.
Assuming she could ever get Jean-Paul, current owner and massive pain in her ass, to agree to terms.
Still, she was satisfied. Jean-Paul had no interest in the restaurant. He’d inherited the Vancouver property six months ago and had been looking to sell it ever since. And she had financial backers and an offer on the table. As soon as they could come to an agreement, La Petite Bouchée would be hers.
Julia unwound her scarf as she passed through the delivery bay and into the long hallway that led to the staff rooms and her office. The kitchen would already be buzzing. Prep chefs would be chopping, dicing and julienning the mise en place for tonight’s service. Stocks and sauces would be simmering on the burners. Veggies tourneed, beans soaking.
And Sasha, her closest friend and sous chef, flying out of the swinging doors toward her. “Julia.”
Julia stopped and stared. Sasha looked harried and not the normal busy-kitchen harried. More like the sky was falling. Or they’d run out of chicken.
“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” There was a spatter of brown sauce on Sasha’s chef coat and a dusting of flour on her cheek.
“My phone?” Julia frowned and pulled the device out of her bag. A black screen looked back at her even when she tapped the power button. Obviously, she’d forgotten to plug it in last night. Again. Which was why people rarely called her on it. Something Sasha well knew. “It’s out of juice. Why?”
“Never mind.” Sasha waved away the concerns of the dead phone. “You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?” Julia felt a trickle of unease run down her spine, but she kept her expression cool. Sasha might be one of the few people she felt close to, but at the restaurant, Julia needed to appear in charge at all times. It was key to the authority structure of the kitchen.
“Jean-Paul sold the restaurant.”
Julia’s stomach dropped. Actually it took a skydive off a skyscraper and splatted on the concrete sidewalk. But she didn’t even flinch. She’d trained in some of the toughest kitchens in Paris. She’d mislabeled food in the walk-in and had her chef throw it all over her and the floor before insisting that she clean the cooler and relabel everything. She’d fired salmon too early and put the entire kitchen in the weeds on a night when they were serving the prime minister and other heads of state. And she’d made it through without losing her job or her cool. She knew how to hide fear. “He sold the restaurant.”
“Yes.” Sasha’s huge green eyes looked worried. “And the new owner is here.” Sasha’s gaze darted back toward the kitchen door. “I tried to call you.”
Julia dropped her phone back into the depths of her bag, where she’d probably forget to charge it again tonight. “I see.”
But she didn’t see. Jean-Paul had sold? And not to her?
“Where is the new owner?” Julia fought back the rise of terror. She had no information, nothing to make an informed decision with.
“I set him up in the dining room. He’s been waiting there about twenty minutes. He’s a Ford.”
Julia knew the name. The restaurant industry was a small one and everyone either knew or knew of each other. The Fords ran a string of well-respected, well-run wine bars that populated Vancouver’s hot spots. She’d been to one last month and been pleased with the friendly service, decent selection of wines and small plates that could be ordered à la carte or in pairs with the wine. But running a bar was nothing like running a restaurant. Nothing at all.
Oh, God. Her restaurant.
La Petite Bouchée had a great location on Granville Island, which was actually a peninsula not an island, located on False Creek across from the downtown core. Once a premier eating spot, over the past couple of decades it had fallen out of favor with local foodies and been replaced by hipper establishments that catered to the city’s adventurous palates. But Julia thought—no, knew—she could turn that around, given the necessary time and money.
The restaurant didn’t need a complete overhaul. It was full of old-world charm and she’d put her food up against anyone else’s. But... A chilly dread crept over her. Was it possible that the Fords had bought the place simply to turn it into another wine bar? Was the owner here now to tell her to pack her things and get out?
Julia swallowed the sick feeling that was trying to rise. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, show weakness. “I’ll go speak with him.”
She used her chef voice, the one that accepted nothing but absolute obedience. The deference of cooks to those above them in the line of command was key. One person who didn’t follow orders could lead to a complete breakdown. An entire table’s meal needing to be remade because someone didn’t fire the steak on time or the veggies weren’t ready. And that didn’t just affect one table—it was a domino effect, rippling through the restaurant as other orders backed up. Julia’s biggest job was ensuring that this happened. Every service. Every night.
But she wished she’d worn something nicer today. Of course, she hadn’t expected to meet a new owner. Up until two minutes ago, she’d thought she would be the next owner of the restaurant. At least her jeans were clean and her sweater was cashmere. Julia didn’t have closets full of clothing, but the pieces she owned were expensive and classic. Something she’d picked up from living in France for six years before returning to Vancouver.
Julia took the time to open her office and remove her scarf and coat, to check her teeth and smooth her hair. Then she steeled her spine and headed out to face whatever might be waiting for her. She had no clue what the Fords intended to do with the restaurant or with her. But if she was going to get fired, she’d do it in style, looking as cool and chic as any Parisienne.
The sounds of the kitchen washed over her as she walked toward the dining room. Noises that normally relaxed her, the clink of spoons and pots, the hiss of sauces reducing on gas burners, the whir of sharp knives hitting cutting boards, served only to highlight that she couldn’t join her staff, at least not yet.
She pushed open the doors that led to the dining room. The space was cool and dim, as though it was sleeping in preparation for service tonight. Julia strode down the middle of the tables, most with the chairs still upended, toward the one in the center. Her eyes locked on the man sitting there.
He glanced up at her and smiled. A nice smile that made her stomach do a slow turn. Of course, that might also be the fear of the unknown. Julia shook off both thoughts. Her apprehension and the man’s attractiveness needed to remain on the back burner until she uncovered exactly why he’d chosen to drop in without notice.
She smiled back, a slightly haughty one learned at the elbow of France’s best, and held out her hand. “Mr. Ford.”
He rose, clasping her hand in his larger one. “Donovan.”
The oldest son. The one who’d been groomed to take over the family business. Julia had heard the stories about all three of the Ford children. The youngest, a daughter who was off in Jamaica or somewhere running a restaurant with her boyfriend; the middle son, Owen, who was a regular in the social pages; and the oldest, Donovan, who, while not exactly like his brother, was no social slouch himself. “Donovan, then.” She inclined her head. “Julia Laurent. Executive chef.”
Might as well put it out there now. If she was about to get canned, she didn’t want to waste the next ten minutes on the niceties. She felt the ball of dread in her stomach grow.
She eyeballed him up and down, taking everything in. His steel-gray wool pants. No doubt made by Armani or some other expensive designer. The immaculate white shirt left open at the collar and leather shoes so shiny that she could see the reflection of her kitchen in the toes. Black, polished, Italian, expensive.
Oh, yes, even if she hadn’t already heard of him, she would have known everything about him from his clothes. Even his hair looked pricey. Dark and styled off his face so she could get the full brunt of his brown eyes.
She realized they were still holding hands though they’d stopped shaking long ago, and carefully disentangled her fingers. Polite and professional was the order of the day. She needed to know what his plans were and how—or if—she fit into them. Until she’d established that, nothing else mattered.
So Julia took a seat, allowing him to assist her into the chair as if he was serving her and waited until he’d sat back down across from her. She noted a briefcase on the floor by his chair and the intense look in his eyes. This was no ordinary, getting-to-know-you meeting. No quick visit to introduce himself and explain that he had no intention of making any big changes.
Then she took a deep breath and said, “So what is it you have in mind for my restaurant?”
* * *
DONOVAN WATCHED THE woman across the table from him. Julia Laurent’s dark hair fell over her shoulders in smooth waves and her eyes had that sleepy look, like a woman who’d just rolled out of bed. And she wanted to know his plans for her restaurant?
As far as he was concerned, she could have it. La Petite Bouchée had been overpriced and, though the location was excellent, it didn’t break even. Which was just one of the reasons he’d argued against the purchase. He thought that was reason enough. But if not? He had another trust fund’s worth of motives to spend the company’s money elsewhere. Top of them being that an investment in a restaurant was the reason he no longer had much of a trust fund to speak of. But despite his clear and concise arguments, his father had made up his mind. He wanted this restaurant and they were buying it. And even a heart attack two months ago hadn’t been enough to change Gus Ford’s decision on the matter.
Donovan exhaled around the twist in his gut that formed whenever he thought of that afternoon. His loud, gregarious father gray-faced and gasping as the paramedics wheeled him from his office into an ambulance and off to the hospital.
They’d been lucky. Gus had survived and according to the doctor would go on to lead a full life with only some changes to his diet and exercise routine. But the difference in lifestyle and the inability to go into the office every day had been hard on him. The entire family had felt Gus needed something, a distraction or a reminder of the way he’d been before the heart attack. Which was why Donovan now sat in the dining room of the Ford Group’s newest acquisition.
He focused on the pretty chef again, his gaze drinking her up. Her clothes were simple but well made and showed off a curvy figure. She watched him with keen eyes that he suspected missed very little and he felt a tingle of interest. “Maybe I should ask you what you have in mind.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this the part where you thank me for my hard work and show me the door?”
He blinked. She thought he was going to fire her? As far as he could tell, Julia Laurent was one of the few good things about the restaurant. And since he still believed he could convince his father that the Fords were wine-bar owners and should be expanding into the gastropub market, not restaurants, he wanted to make as few waves and spend as little money as he could before selling it to the highest bidder. Ensuring that he didn’t have to go hunting for a new chef was a key part of that plan. “No. I have no intention of firing you.”
Julia didn’t smile at his statement, didn’t even blink, just continued to watch him with those sleepy eyes and folded her hands in front of her. “I see.”
Donovan frowned. Shouldn’t she be showing some signs of interest here? He’d just made it explicitly clear that he was keeping her on as executive chef. Something that didn’t always happen when a restaurant changed owners. He pushed the thought aside. “I reviewed your contract with the previous owner.”
Her fingers tightened, the knuckles turning white, but Julia didn’t say anything.
Donovan pulled a new contract out of his leather briefcase. The contract was standard, a customary agreement of employment that all employees of the Ford Group signed, including the executive chef for all of their wine bars. Donovan opened the folder and slid it across the table to her. “I think you’ll see that compensation is fair and on par with other restaurants in the city.”
Julia didn’t even read the large print, let alone the small, before pushing it back at him. “I’m not signing that.”
Donovan felt the growing inklings of irritation. It had cost a small fortune to have their lawyer draw up the contract over the holidays, but that was what happened when your father insisted on buying a property in the second week of January. He studied her, leaving the papers there in the middle of the table. “Are you intending to leave the restaurant?”
A part of him was elated by the idea. If Julia left, it might be the impetus he needed to convince his father that the Ford Group had no place in the restaurant industry. But even as anticipation skirted through him, guilt overtook it.
“Absolutely not.” Julia looked shocked, as though the thought had never crossed her mind. So if she wanted to be here, why wouldn’t she sign the papers? Her old contract had been lousy. Even if his offer had been under market value, it still would have provided more.
Donovan pushed the papers back toward her. “Then I think you should read over our offer. It’s a standard term of employment.”
“I’m not signing.” She leaned back in her chair. “And I’m not a standard anything.” She raised a dark eyebrow at him as though daring him to disagree.
That flicker of attraction returned. He was used to people who agreed with him, who nodded and did as he requested. There was something about her confidence, the innate conviction that she could turn him down cold and be okay, that intrigued him. “Perhaps you want to read the contract before refusing.”
“Perhaps.” But she still didn’t pull the papers toward her or bother to even grace them with a glance. “Are shares included in the terms?”
“No.” Of the many things he’d learned about business, keeping control of the company was the one he considered most necessary. Maybe if he’d been sole proprietor of the last restaurant he’d bought, he’d have been able to save it. Maybe not, but allowing little bits of the business to be sold off here and there, permitting other voices to share the leadership, inevitably led to disaster and eventually dissolution. He’d seen it happen not only to himself, but to thousands of once-strong companies. All fooled into believing that trading a few shares and board votes for money and expansion would be the boost needed to turn a floundering enterprise into a successful one. They were rarely correct.
Julia folded her arms over her chest. “Then I won’t sign.”
Donovan brushed some nonexistent lint from his knee and gathered the cool facade he was known for closely around him. “I don’t think you understand how this business works.”
“Terms are negotiable.”
“Terms are. Ownership and shares are not.”
Julia chewed her lip, the first sign that maybe she wasn’t quite as confident as she appeared. “I’m not working for nothing.”
“I’m not expecting you to work for nothing, but the Ford Group is family-owned and will remain that way.” Feeling that they were back on solid ground, or at least ground he was comfortable on, Donovan slid the papers back toward her. “As I said, the compensation is more than adequate.” He took a pen from his briefcase, a silver Montblanc that his parents had bought him for his graduation from an Ivy League school with a master’s of management in hospitality, and clicked it open. “As you can see here and here.” He pointed with the nib of his pen.
Julia didn’t even bother to read the salary and bonus structure, which he knew were better than fair. “I’m sure your terms are perfectly adequate in your eyes. I’m still not signing. I want shares.”
Donovan clicked the pen closed with a forceful snap of his thumb. Great. Just great. He could already feel a tension headache starting behind his left eye. “Shares are not on the table.”
“Then neither is my signature.”
He pondered that. And her. She stared back, chin lifted, a crackle of heat in her eyes. “And if we can’t agree?” His voice was soft. “Then what?”
“I guess that depends what you offer.” She leaned forward. “What else do you have?”
Donovan knew he needed to keep the upper hand during negotiations. He studied her, looking for a crack. Instead, he found his gaze running over those lush curves again.
He was used to beautiful women and had dated plenty of them. And yet, there was a spark here, a flame that could easily be fanned into fire with the lightest breath. He put the pen down on the table. “Since you’re the one making all the demands, I think you should fire the first salvo. Aside from ownership.”
Julia tapped a finger to her lips, drawing his attention to how soft they looked. Soft and warm, as though they could eat a man up. He dragged his eyes away. He was supposed to be negotiating, not picturing those lips pressed against him.
“Can I be honest?”
He looked back at her. At least she was no longer tapping. “I hope you will.”
“And you won’t fire me?”
“Ms. Laurent, let me assure you that firing you is the last thing I plan for this restaurant.”
She stared at him for another few seconds. Assessing. Donovan could see the moment she decided to trust him, the loosening of her jawline, the relaxing of her shoulders. “It’s Julia.”
Donovan ignored the warm surge of pleasure. It was only her name, not an invitation to her bed.
“I’m going to be completely honest with you. I want to own this restaurant.”
Her candor surprised him, as did the information. “I’ll be honest with you.” He decided to lay it out on the table. Sharing confidences with her should go a long way toward moving forward as a team. “I don’t want to own this restaurant.”
He’d surprised her. Her eyes widened and her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t say anything.
“My father is the one who wanted to purchase it. I hope that I can convince him to sell.” Once they’d brought La Petite Bouchée back up to its former glory and could demand a higher price than they’d paid. Maybe even to her. He tilted his head. “If you want the restaurant, why didn’t you buy it from Jean-Paul?”
A small wrinkling of her nose. “I tried, but we couldn’t come to an agreement.”
Probably because her investors had recognized that the price was too high. A fact that his father had stubbornly ignored no matter how many times Donovan had brought it to his attention. He shoved the disloyal thought aside. His father was a good man, perhaps a little sentimental, but he wasn’t an idiot. And if he believed La Petite Bouchée could be a success, then it was up to Donovan and his sister, Mal, to prove him right.
He nudged the contract back toward her, which earned him a sharp look. “We’re going to have to have some sort of contract.”
“Not this one.”
“Maybe not. You don’t have to sign now. Take it home. Have your lawyer look it over.”
She laughed, a light, bright sound. “You think I have a lawyer?”
He eyed her steadily. “You should. I recommend one to anyone signing a contract.”
She glanced down at the pages, then carefully closed the folder. “Well, you’re either shockingly honest or this is your attempt at reverse psychology.”
He didn’t see the need to argue. He simply wanted to get the job done and was looking for the shortest and easiest path. “I’d like to get this settled as soon as possible.”
“I would, too.” She clutched the folder to her chest.
“A week?”
“A week.” She smiled and Donovan felt something warm bloom in his chest.
No, that was a lie. It was a bullet of heat that shot straight to his groin. And despite his best attempts to shake it loose, including a ten-minute drive back to the office, it remained with him.
Or she did.
Donovan parked on the street in front of the three-level building in the heart of Yaletown, which not only housed the Ford Group’s offices but also their first and most popular bar, Elephants, which served wine from around the world and paired food to suit it. The bar took up the first two floors and even now was filled with people. Primarily office workers who’d popped in for a tasty lunch.
They’d debated opening for lunch since it wasn’t a particularly profitable time, but they’d discovered that customers often came back after work and stayed through the evening. And it looked good to anyone wandering by. Here was a place that was busy and vibrant, a place they should consider patronizing. And often, they did.
Donovan chose the stairs over the elevator to reach the third-floor offices. He greeted Bailey, their young receptionist, briefly as he headed down the hall to his office.
He had the second-largest space on the floor. His father’s currently dark office was larger, but Donovan thought his own was actually nicer. His father had a stunning view of the mountains, but Donovan had that and a peek of the ocean. More important, he could keep an eye on the sidewalk in front of the bar. See who was entering and exiting.
He hung his coat on the rack in the corner of his distinguished office. The space was decorated in high-gloss whites and ivories. Glass-topped desks and Lucite chairs. Everything open and transparent with elegant accents of silver and gold. It was a wealthy look and one that fit the jet-set lifestyle their company tried to sell.
La Petite Bouchée looked like a poor country cousin. But that would be simple to change. He made a note to call his designer this week and start discussing the renovation. Something simple and quick. Donovan saw no reason to dump a whack of money into a project when it wasn’t necessary.
The restaurant needed updating, but there was nothing wrong with the space that some freshening up wouldn’t fix. The room was open, there was a bar that could be easily extended to add visual interest and more seating, and a wall of windows that looked out onto False Creek, the inlet that separated downtown from the rest of the city.
He moved to his heavy glass desk and checked his email. He really did have plenty to keep him busy today and tonight and tomorrow. But his mind kept wandering back to Julia. Her sleepy eyes and slow smile. A man could lose his head to a smile like that.
“How did it go?” Mal, his younger sister—his only sister—stuck her head in, interrupting his thoughts. She was wearing the wireless earpiece that kept her in constant contact with her cell phone and meant she was liable to spin away midsentence to start a new conversation. But right now she simply watched him with knowing brown eyes. “Oh, my God.” She plopped down in one of the low-slung visitor’s chairs, kicking up her needle-thin heels. “Are you smiling? After that fit you threw when Dad insisted on going through with the purchase?”
He brought out his best older-brother I’m-in-charge-here expression. “It wasn’t a fit.” It had been a well-reasoned, logical attempt to change Gus’s mind. Donovan hadn’t even stomped his foot. “We had a discussion.”
“Right.” He never had managed much success in pulling anything over on his younger sister, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “So what happened?”
Donovan shook off thoughts of rosebud lips and sexy curves. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Not what I asked.” Mal raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. I’m here now. I can help.”
“I’m not doing everything myself.” He wasn’t. Hell, he didn’t even have a signed contract. “I’m just letting you know that I have everything under control.” Including his libido. Good thing he was seeing Tatiana tonight. The tall platinum blonde would be the perfect antidote to the discomforting feelings coursing through him.
Mal rolled her eyes in the same way she’d been doing since she was ten. “Whatever, Donovan.”
“I’m not trying to keep you out of the loop.” Or he was learning not to. Over the past couple of years, he’d gotten used to being the only Ford child heavily involved in the family business and the one their father relied on. Owen had never shown any interest beyond doing enough to collect a paycheck and, until their father’s heart attack, Mal had been living in Aruba with her fiancé, Travis, running a beach bistro. But Mal had flown home immediately after getting the call and had stayed, taking on the role of marketing and media-relations director for the company. And there had been plenty of times since then that Donovan had been grateful for her support. Not only was she a whiz at the job, but she was also someone he could count on to make good business decisions. “I’ll ask if I need help.”
“No, you won’t. You always think you need to do everything yourself.” Mal pulled out her smartphone, tapping something on the screen. An email pinged on Donovan’s computer in response. “The projections for Dad’s little restaurant and my media plan when we’re ready to relaunch.”
He and Mal had discussed the plan in depth last night. Her plan was three step. First, the announcement of the sale. Followed by a short article highlighting the new look and extolling the exciting new path La Petite Bouchée was on. Finished with a personalized interview showcasing their chef. Donovan felt another flicker of attraction as Julia’s face flashed through his mind.
“When will we be ready to go?”
Donovan shoved Julia’s dark eyes out of his mind. They wouldn’t be ready to go until they had said chef’s signature on a contract. “I’ll let you know.”
But rather than nodding and accepting his information as gospel, Mal frowned. “No, I’m going to need more than that. Dates, decisions.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “We can’t hold off indefinitely. No one is going to write about the purchase two months after the fact.”
He knew she was right. He also knew that they couldn’t move forward without Julia’s consent. “Then we come up with a new strategy.”
She stared at him with that skewering glare she was so good at. “You thought this was a great plan this morning. What happened?”
“Nothing.” Which was the truth. No signed contract. No verbal one. Just a promise that they’d meet in a week and that sizzle of attraction.
Mal scowled, her earlier good humor disappearing. But she’d been like that lately. Quick to grow irritated over small details. About the same time she’d returned from a visit to Aruba no longer wearing the sapphire ring Travis had given her. “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you to dole out information? When, Donovan? I need to know when to start contacting my people, dropping hints about an exclusive and setting up other events.”
He rubbed his temple. “I know. Let’s discuss later.”
“When?”
He knew Mal wouldn’t leave until she’d pinned him down. It was just one of the many reasons she was so good at her job. He made a decision. “First thing tomorrow morning. You and me.” They could pick some hard dates and make decisions based on the assumption that Julia would have signed the contract by next week. He didn’t want to consider the fact that Julia might turn him down.
“You and me and coffee,” Mal agreed. She tapped on her phone again. “Should we invite Owen?”
“Why?” Donovan loved his brother even though he was regularly annoyed by him, but Owen was not a businessman. “What’s he going to do? Offer to sleep with the reporter?”
Mal smirked, some of her earlier good mood returning. “Oh, I don’t think you should be throwing any stones, brother.”
“Me?” Donovan enjoyed the company of women. A lot. But he was hardly the Romeo his brother was. Donovan doubted Owen had ever gone out with the same woman twice in a row and he regularly juggled multiple lady friends. Donovan was a one-woman-at-a-time guy. It was just that he hadn’t met a woman who made him want to give up all others forever. Nothing wrong with that.
“Yes, you.” Mal shrugged. “Hey, maybe you’d find the reporter so appealing that you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, and the great story with excellent placement on the front page would just be a bonus.”
“You would pimp me out for the family business?”
Mal considered that and then shook her head. “You’re right. It would be wrong of me.”
“Exactly.” Now, if she wanted to pimp him out to convince the new chef to sign...
“I’d pimp out Owen. He’s much prettier.”
Donovan snorted.
CHAPTER TWO (#u5f269661-a366-5363-86cc-0489a394408c)
“I STILL CAN’T believe you refused to sign.” Sasha stared at her with wide green eyes, looking impossibly innocent though Julia knew that to be far from true. Still, Sasha’s innocence or lack thereof wasn’t the point here.
They were holed up in a corner booth at Elephants, a destination Julia hadn’t chosen and wasn’t comfortable with. But when she’d mentioned to Sasha that perhaps they should find another place to have a bite to eat and a drink to unwind, Sasha had overruled her since they were now part of the Ford family group of establishments.
Julia didn’t know about that, but she was keeping an eye out for the family in question. Or for one particular member. “Of course I refused to sign.” It was probably ridiculous to think that Donovan would be down here in the wine bar. He worked in the offices. He didn’t get down and dirty in the trenches. “No doubt it was full of legal ropes that would bind me to a lifetime of servitude.”
The interior of the bar was gorgeous. Not Julia’s style, but stunning. Although the lighting was low, everything sparkled and gleamed, like the inside of a snowflake. A long white glass bar and crystal lights that gave off just enough illumination to see without ruining the cool ambience.
“Exaggerate much? I hardly think he’s trying to trick you into indentured servitude. Although I have to say, if I was going to be tied up, he would definitely make the list.” Sasha tapped a finger against the stem of her wineglass. “And I thought he seemed nice.”
Julia rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the food on the table. It was a little boring but tasty. Not something she’d serve, but then, this wasn’t her restaurant. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Ignoring the fact that she didn’t have a restaurant to call her own. Not really.
“He had a nice body. Or are you going to tell me you didn’t notice that, either?” Sasha wasn’t giving up.
Oh, she’d noticed, and filed it away as a wasted observance. Because the only thing Donovan Ford had that she wanted was La Petite Bouchée.
Julia noted the lascivious glint in Sasha’s eye, obvious even in the dim interior of the wine bar. She didn’t like it. “Not that it matters, but he’s off-limits.” She wasn’t going to get into a session about the rest of Donovan Ford’s obvious attributes. Danger and distraction lay that way. And really, she didn’t care who or what he did in his spare time, so long as her staff weren’t involved.
“Oh, is he?”
Julia ignored the teasing tone and questioning look. “I told him I wanted him to pay me in shares.”
The diversion appeared to work, since Sasha frowned and asked, “For the restaurant?”
“Yes. Like the deal I had with Alain.” The original owner, the one who’d loved the restaurant as much as she did. The deal she’d never bothered to get in writing because she’d trusted Alain. Julia sighed. It was her own fault.
When she’d returned to Vancouver, she’d been thinking only about caring for her ailing mother, not her career. But Suzanne had wanted Julia to take the role of executive chef at La Petite Bouchée, a role Suzanne had held for a decade. Julia had agreed, noting that it was only temporary, just until her mother recovered and could return to the kitchen. Except Suzanne had never recovered, the cancer metastasizing through her body, leaving Julia with no family and a temporary job.
When Alain had offered her the position permanently, she’d agreed. There had been comfort in working at the same place as her mother, working with the staff who had loved Suzanne as much as she had. And she found consolation working in a space imbued with her mother’s presence. Due to the restaurant’s struggling fortunes, Alain had been unable to pay her the salary she knew she deserved, but he’d offered something better. The promise that when he retired the following year, he’d sell her La Petite Bouchée at a discounted price.
Except Alain had passed away before retirement, and when his nephew and sole heir, Jean-Paul, claimed no knowledge of the deal, Julia found herself with no legal recourse. Just a nearly empty bank account. But she could learn from her mistakes. This time, she’d get everything on paper. And notarized. Assuming she could talk Donovan Ford into it.
“And what did he say?”
“He wasn’t amenable to the idea.” Which was putting it mildly. He’d been painfully, stridently clear that he wouldn’t offer shares. On the other hand, he’d admitted he wanted to sell, which provided her with opportunity. If she could find a way to merge the two, they might have a deal.
“And will you sign without them?”
That was the question that had been rolling around in her head since the meeting. Without some sort of ownership promise from the Fords, she was merely an employee and replaceable. After all, there were plenty of fantastic cooks in the city.
The thought of leaving the restaurant made her stomach twist. A strong, visceral gut reaction of no. No way. No how. No dice. La Petite Bouchée was hers. No matter if her name was on the deed or not.
“I don’t know,” she told Sasha, not willing to go into her thoughts until she had some of them sorted out.
Julia had spent too much time thinking about it. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. Not when she chopped vegetables, oversaw the evening service or assisted with cleanup after closing. But she was still no closer to figuring out what she would do if she and Donovan couldn’t come to an agreement.
She did know one thing. “I won’t be undervalued.” Julia didn’t think it was bragging to say that the only reason La Petite Bouchée hadn’t gone completely under when Jean-Paul took over and decided to cut her budget in half was that she’d made it work. Unwilling to see the once-grand restaurant where her mother had been head chef declare bankruptcy, she’d worked around his ridiculous decisions, always with an eye on the final prize of buying it from him.
Of course, that hadn’t gone according to plan.
Julia’s throat tightened. She lifted her wineglass to her lips and then put it down without sipping. Wine wasn’t going to ease the rigidity there. The restaurant, her mother, family had all gotten twisted together and she didn’t know how to separate them. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyelashes.
“Your mom?” Sasha asked, her voice quiet but still audible under the hubbub of other conversations, most patrons half-corked by this time of the night. One of the benefits of being such close friends and spending so much time together meant she didn’t have to explain why she was feeling emotional.
Julia nodded. Her mom had been gone for just over eighteen months, but it still felt so close. There were mornings she woke up and couldn’t believe she was gone. She wondered if that place in her heart would ever be filled or, at least, not feel so big.
She had no other family. An only child of an only child. Her grandparents had died when she was little and she’d never known her father. All her mother would tell her was that he was a Parisian she’d met while apprenticing as a chef in the City of Light. No name, no background, not even a photo, though Julia could surmise he’d been lithe and dark like her. Her mother had been short and round, the years of butter and heavy cream she featured in her dishes showing on her round cheeks and rounder hips. Suzanne had also been much fairer than Julia.
“I miss her.”
“Of course you do.” Sasha hugged her. Julia absorbed her friend’s comfort. The kindness and sympathy offered without judgment or expectation of payment. Sometimes Sasha reminded her of her mom. The welcoming way they invited others into their lives so easily.
When she’d gone to Paris for staging—working in high-end kitchens for a pittance, the real salary being the opportunity to train under a highly respected chef—she’d looked for her father, checking the eyes of every man of the right age to see if they looked like hers.
Her direct appraisal had gotten her hit on a few times, but no closer to finding her father. She’d finally come to accept that she would probably never know. Her mother claimed not to have even told the man she was pregnant. Julia suspected he might have been married. Maybe she had an entire family in France, half brothers and sisters, a stepmother who would make those clucking French noises when she didn’t like something and a father who shared her eyes. But she wasn’t going to find them.
She sighed. Instead, it was just her against the world.
“I want to buy the restaurant.”
She didn’t need to tell Sasha. Her best friend was well aware of her plans.
“I know.” Sasha rocked her for a moment. “But what if you can’t?”
Julia didn’t like thinking about that. Not tonight. Not when she was already physically and emotionally drained from the long day on her feet and the surprise of the sale.
So she didn’t. She shoved it out of her mind and sat up, picking at the food in front of them. She knew that although Sasha was empathetic, she couldn’t really understand.
Their dreams were as different as their upbringings. Sasha had come from a nice suburban childhood with a big backyard and parents who were still married. Julia had grown up in a two-bedroom apartment in the city. A beautiful top-floor apartment, but far from the picket fence Sasha had known. Sasha’s mom thought gravy from a bag was an acceptable choice, while Julia’s mother had made everything from scratch, even bread. And Sasha had zero interest in owning her own place and had once told Julia that she wasn’t sure she wanted to even become an executive chef. The one night a week she ran the kitchen was enough for her.
It was as foreign an idea to Julia as growing up with two parents in the suburbs.
“Can we talk about something else? Who’s your latest boyfriend?” Sasha always had a new beau, claiming that she’d yet to find one who could hold her interest for more than a few weeks. It amused Julia to see the way she cut a swath through them, somehow always managing to have an amicable breakup.
And because she was a good friend, Sasha went along with the subject change, telling a humorous story about a man she’d met last week and how he already wanted to take her away for a tropical vacation.
But Julia couldn’t keep her mind on the story or on anything but the dilemma now facing her. She was going to have to figure something out. Luckily, she had a week and she planned to take every minute of it.
“Uh, Jules?”
“Yes?” Julia blinked, mentally rewinding their conversation to see if there was something she’d missed. Some particularly outrageous comment or a question that she hadn’t responded to, but she didn’t recall anything. Sasha’s eyes seemed to take up half her face. “What is it?”
But Sasha was busy fluffing her hair and pouting her lips.
“Okay, who is it?” Julia asked, smiling as she turned to see what fine specimen of man had caught her friend’s attention. And right there, having just come through the entrance in a tux that he no doubt owned, was Donovan Ford. With a beautiful blonde on his arm.
Julia swiveled back and reminded herself that she didn’t care who was on Donovan’s arm. But she turned her body just enough that she could sneak another peek.
The blonde’s dress flowed around her, rippling like waves, and was a blue so pale that it almost appeared white. There was virtually no color to her. Skin like the glow of the moon, platinum hair of a shade not found in nature and eyes an even paler blue than the dress. She looked like part of the bar’s design. The perfect woman in the perfect room, and her fingers were wrapped around Donovan’s forearm, a clear announcement that he was spoken for.
Julia hoped he got frostbite.
“Damn. There’s someone with him.” Sasha sighed heavily. “Guess that means he’s off-limits.”
“I already told you that.” Julia rarely got involved in the love lives of her staff. As long as they showed up for work on time and didn’t bring their personal issues to the kitchen, they could sleep with whomever they wanted. Even Jean-Paul.
But not Donovan.
“Yes, I remember that.” Sasha raised a strawberry-blond eyebrow in her direction. “Care to explain?”
Julia raised an eyebrow back. “Not really.”
Sasha smiled, a broad, bright smile that had won and then broken the hearts of plenty of men in the city. “Please, please, tell me it’s because you want him for yourself.”
“I don’t want him,” Julia said, but her stomach twisted. She ate another dull bite from her plate and washed it down with a sip of wine.
“Right. You just want his shares.”
“I don’t want his anything. And even if I did...” Her fingers fluttered up to her hair. “Oh, God. Stop talking. He saw us. He’s coming over.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear though she didn’t know why she cared. So what if her hair was a bit messy because she’d only pulled it out of her bun and done a quick finger comb? That was life. Not shellacking her coif into a helmet that could break someone’s nose like the ice queen over there.
At least her clothing was nothing to sniff at. She straightened the hem of her nutty-colored tweed blazer, an investment piece she’d splurged on when she lived in Paris, and reknotted the leopard-print scarf around her neck. Paired with an army-green tee and black skinny pants, she looked chic and casual.
Keeping a spare change of clothes in her office was a necessity of being friends with Sasha. Sasha liked to go out after work and Julia liked to go with her. She loved cooking, but the industry could be hard on a person’s social life. She worked while others were out and having fun. When she was off work, most people were in bed. Now Julia wished she’d begged off after work and gone home to bed, too.
She could feel Donovan’s eyes on her, homed in, noting everything about her. A shiver passed through her. She hid it under a small smile and picked up her wineglass, raising it toward him as if in toast. A statement that she saw and acknowledged him but no further contact was necessary.
He didn’t take the hint.
“Sasha.” Donovan strode up to their table looking very dashing and debonair and just the slightest bit mussed. His bow tie was angled as though he’d stuck his fingers beneath it to loosen the knot and his cuffs weren’t perfectly even. A man who knew who he was and didn’t have to put on a show for the little people.
He bent to kiss Sasha on the cheek, and Julia inhaled his scent. Basil. Fresh and just a little spicy, like the scent of summer. Another shiver rocked through her, rocked harder when he turned toward her.
“Julia.” He bent to kiss her cheek. Cool air radiated off his skin, highlighted the warmth of his lips.
The shiver didn’t come back, but that was because Julia was swamped with a wave of them. She swallowed and tried to act like his kiss, his nearness, didn’t affect her in the least.
“Who’s your date?” Sasha wanted to know.
Julia kicked her. Asking Donovan about his love life was not appropriate. Even if she wanted to know, as well.
Sasha pinched her under the table but didn’t redact her question.
To his credit, Donovan didn’t look flustered or flushed at being interrogated by a pair of women he barely knew. “Tatiana Ivanova.”
Julia eyed the blonde. Her name suited her, cool and exotic and glamorous. Tatiana had stopped at a table of well-dressed people near the middle of the room, clearly friends, judging by the way she helped herself to a sip of wine from one of the goblets.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
This time, Julia didn’t kick Sasha but she did listen keenly for Donovan’s answer. Not that she cared what he said. Girlfriend, fiancée, wife, it didn’t matter to her and didn’t affect her life in any way. And yet, there were her ears, so finely tuned to any nuance that they were practically swiveling.
His eyes strayed to Julia and locked there. “I wouldn’t say that.”
She sipped her wine, feeling his gaze like a touch. It warmed her to the core. She sensed rather than saw Sasha sit back, knew she was going to have to answer a ton of questions later, but suddenly she didn’t care. She met Donovan’s dark gaze. “Oh? Then what would you say?”
Heat flared in his look, reached out to curl around her. Even with the limited lighting, Julia saw his eyes darken, the small curve of his mouth and the opening of his body as he angled himself more fully toward her. Signs of attraction. Her breath caught and held. She forgot Sasha was sitting right there, watching and listening to everything.
Donovan ran a hand through his hair, leaving lines through the dark waves. “She’s an old friend that I should get back to.” But he didn’t turn to look at the woman in question.
“Of course.” Julia tried to swallow the spark of attraction as easily as the wine. It was nothing she would act on anyway. “Enjoy your evening.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her for a few seconds longer and then excused himself with a polite nod.
Julia watched him walk back, the easy way his hand slid around his date’s waist and the familiar look she gave him, leaning back just slightly so their bodies were touching from chest to thigh. A different kind of pulse coursed through her. Hot and envious. Which was ridiculous.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” Sasha asked.
“What what was about?” Julia feigned ignorance, swirling her wine in her glass without sipping.
“About the fact that I’m sitting over here with my eyebrows practically singed off.” Sasha fanned herself.
“You exaggerate.” Julia swirled again, watching the legs of the wine run down the inside of the glass, and willed her eyes to stay there and not where they wanted to go, which was to see what Donovan was doing with his blonde date.
“Really? Then why can’t he stop staring at you?”
“He’s not.” But she looked because she couldn’t help herself. It was instinctual. Anyone would look. And found Donovan’s dark eyes on her. Heat flamed in her cheeks. He shouldn’t be looking at her like that when he had his hand on another woman. Except he didn’t anymore. He’d taken a step away from the lovely Tatiana, his hand resting by his side.
Julia reminded herself that he was her de facto boss. That he’d bought the restaurant out from under her. That she needed to focus on her career if she wanted to reach her goals.
And wondered what that hand would feel like on her waist.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_1f6f1471-1abc-55dd-ab43-94cca2bbd309)
JULIA SLID HER arms into the sleeves of her charcoal suit jacket and eyed herself in her bedroom mirror. It had been a week since Donovan Ford had barged into her restaurant and her life. And although she’d realized almost immediately that her options were limited, she’d felt obligated to take the full seven days just to ensure he knew he wasn’t calling all the shots. He might sign the checks and be the one with his name on the deed, but the kitchen and everyone in it were hers.
She ran a lint brush over her jacket, making sure there were no extraneous pieces of fluff on the dark wool, before fixing the collar of her crisp white dress shirt. Paired with a matching pencil skirt, her mother’s pearls and a pair of simple black heels, she knew she looked stylish and in control. Exactly the look she was going for in her meeting with Donovan Ford about the contract she still hadn’t signed. She grabbed her purse, did one last check in the mirror and headed out the door.
The day was cool, one that brought color to her cheeks and made her glad she kept a pair of leather gloves in the pocket of her winter coat. She slipped them on, covering up her short nails, nicked hands—the badges of honor every chef had—and caught a cab from her downtown West End apartment to Yaletown, where the Ford Group had their administrative offices.
She’d done her research and knew they owned the entire building. She peeked through the windows of Elephants, cheeks flushing as she recalled the flash of jealousy that had accosted her there when she’d seen Donovan walk in with his date. But that was a week ago, and in the interim, Julia had come to realize that she was over it. Over him.
She was surprised to see how full the wine bar was for a Monday at lunchtime. Tables of business professionals with bottles of sparkling water instead of wine. It was as full as La Petite Bouchée had been on Saturday night, a sobering realization, but not one she needed to analyze now.
Julia continued past the wine bar’s entrance to a smaller, less ostentatious door that had the company name written on it in gold font and opened into a tiny entry with an elevator and stairwell.
After a quick debate, she took the stairs. She appreciated the echo of her heels off the concrete walls. Strong, powerful, just as she was. She’d worked with some of the toughest chefs in Europe. A meeting with her new owner wouldn’t rattle her. Even if she did find herself thinking of him at the most inopportune times. Though she blamed much of that on Sasha, who’d somehow gotten the crazy idea that Julia liked Donovan.
Julia shook her head. Of course she didn’t like him. For one thing, he was thwarting her plans to buy the restaurant herself. For another, he wasn’t her type. She liked creative types who worked with their hands and weren’t afraid to get dirty. Plus, she barely knew him.
So no, she didn’t like Donovan so much as she knew they needed to have a good working relationship. Nothing more, nothing less.
She reached the top of the stairwell and rolled her shoulders. Breathed in and out. No reason to linger even if she did have a bit of time before the kitchen expected her. She affected her best moue—the French expression that indicated boredom or a desire to get this over and done with—and opened the stairwell door.
A young woman with the kind of smooth skin that came from good genetics sat behind a long wooden desk that shared the same glossy effect as the bar downstairs. Clearly, this was their brand. All sparkle and flash. Julia swallowed. She hoped there was some substance beneath the sheen.
There was a handsome man leaning up against the desk. Julia recognized him as a Ford immediately. The younger son, Owen. He looked like Donovan, but sweeter or maybe just more relaxed. Whatever he’d been saying to the receptionist made her laugh.
She stopped midgiggle and cleared her throat when she noticed Julia. “Good afternoon.”
“Hello. I’m Julia Laurent.” She glanced at Owen, who appeared to have perked up at the mention of her name. Great. Exactly what had Donovan been telling his family about her? She decided to ignore the question. No need to borrow trouble. Maybe it was nothing, just human interest at putting a face to a name. “I have an appointment with Donovan Ford.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Ms. Laurent. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Ford know you’ve arrived.” She gestured to a long white leather Barcelona couch. It looked custom-made, the tufted seat and back running the length of the entryway.
Julia remained standing while the woman picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. A small ploy to show that she was on the same level as Donovan Ford when he appeared. But she hoped he wouldn’t be too long. Her feet hurt in these shoes. Though she was used to standing all night, she never did so in heels.
Instead, she stripped off her gloves, stuffing them in the pocket of her coat, and then slid out of the heavy wool. The offices weren’t overly warm, but they felt that way after the brisk outdoor air and her brisker climb up the stairs. She folded the coat over her arm, keeping her practiced pout in place.
“The lovely Julia Laurent.” Owen pushed away from the desk and held out a hand. “Owen Ford.”
Julia shook his hand politely, perfunctorily. Was it just coincidence that he was out here prior to her meeting with Donovan? Or had he been planted here? Some sort of gatekeeper to soften her up or throw her off her game? “Hello.”
She searched for something, anything, that might hint why Owen just happened to be in the reception area when she arrived, but the only thing she noticed were the laugh lines that radiated from his eyes. She liked them. They made him look like the kind of person who knew how to have a good time and included everyone around him in the fun. He moved that way, too, a smooth, laid-back roll to his motions that indicated a man who enjoyed living and didn’t always have a set goal.
For just a second, Julia wondered what that was like. How it would feel to simply take life as it came and not worry about the things she couldn’t control. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
She’d done some research on the family over the past few days. Elephants was their first purchase and had been a swanky lounge back in the ’80s. One of those of the time monuments to shoulder pads and three-martini lunches that had become a city staple during that decade. But, unlike La Petite Bouchée, it hadn’t stagnated. Instead, it had been renovated in line with the times, shifting from bright neon to flashy lasers and disco balls to its current clean look. And it had been successful enough to allow the family to buy the building that housed it and expand to three other locations in the city. All shared the same styling and nod to excess.
Owen wasn’t listed on the company website. In fact, the only place Julia had seen his photo was on the city’s social pages. Always with his arm around one beautiful woman or two. Maybe he didn’t have the cutthroat instincts necessary for business.
His smile certainly didn’t indicate a cold, sharklike nature. “The pleasure is all mine.” And somehow, when he said it, the words came off as charming and self-effacing rather than smarmy. All in the delivery, she suspected. He took her hand and bent to buss a kiss along the back. “I love your food.”
Julia decided she liked him. The pout slipped off her face, more easily than it had slipped on, replaced by her real, natural smile. “You’ve been to the restaurant?” She hadn’t planned to talk about food. Today was about numbers and contracts, budgets and projections. The back-end things that needed to be done properly to allow her to focus her attention where it belonged. In the kitchen.
“A few times. The coq au vin blanc is amazing.”
Since the coq au vin blanc happened to be one of Julia’s favorite dishes, she couldn’t knock his taste. She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“And the fact that you’re not making life easy for my brother is just one more reason to like you.”
No, she decided, eyeing Owen Ford. She didn’t like him—she loved him.
Owen’s smile deepened, showing off his dimples. “He’s used to getting his own way. Being the boss. Always has. It’s good that you’re standing up to him.”
Julia opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t standing up to Donovan so much as standing up for herself, but another voice spoke first.
“Owen, what are you doing here?”
Julia turned to see Donovan behind her, arms crossed over his chest. She hadn’t realized quite how broad his shoulders were. Not that she should be noticing now.
Owen’s tone remained easy, a noticeable difference from the tightness that edged Donovan’s. “Just checking in.”
Donovan frowned and looked from his brother to the pretty receptionist and back again. “Well, if you’re all done checking in, perhaps you could do some work.”
Julia felt a twinge of sympathy, but the loaded statement appeared not to bother Owen. “Sure thing, boss. Bailey.” He nodded at the receptionist. “Julia.” He kissed her on the cheek and then exited the offices.
Julia watched him go, wondering what all that was about. She hadn’t been kissed goodbye by someone she’d just met since her time in France, but somehow Owen pulled it off. Maybe because it felt genuine. He was the kind of person who liked people and was comfortable sharing easy affection. She liked it. She liked him.
“Julia.” There was a low growl in Donovan’s voice. She turned and took his outstretched hand, noting that it wasn’t nearly as warm or friendly as his brother’s handshake, and yet unlike Owen’s handshake or kiss, Donovan’s touch sent an arc of attraction through her.
Why? Why, after all these months of being perfectly content to focus on the restaurant and her staff, being satisfied with the occasional night of flirting when out with Sasha, was she suddenly finding her hormones waking up? And why were they waking up for him?
Seriously, she was going to kill Sasha for ever mentioning the attraction and planting that seed in her head. Because, yeah, she totally wouldn’t be attracted to Donovan at all if Sasha hadn’t brought it up.
Julia batted away the thought. Even if she were interested in pursuing the lure of Donovan Ford, now was not the time. She followed him as he led her down the hall, decorated with a few discreet black-and-white photos and a flashy starburst mirror, and into an equally glossy office with a wall of glass overlooking the city street.
“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He turned to look at her and the attraction flared again.
“Water, please.” Something to cool the fire within her. She needed to focus—and not on Donovan Ford.
He nodded and procured a bottle from a small fridge built into the mirrored sideboard along one wall. The glass he handed her was heavy crystal. Julia recognized the style as Baccarat tumblers. No plain or inexpensive glassware for the Fords.
She took a seat in the visitor’s chair across the desk. No cheap imitation leather or rough, scratched wood, either. The seat looked like glass, but despite its cold and unbending appearance, was surprisingly comfortable. She’d bet it cost more than anything in her apartment except her chef knives.
Donovan lowered himself into the chair across from her and put down his tumbler without taking a sip. “I’ve had my lawyer look over your suggested changes.”
Julia had taken his advice and contacted a lawyer to look over the original offer. Actually, he’d been a former boyfriend of Sasha’s who had agreed to do it as a favor. Probably because he hoped Sasha would give him a second chance if he did. He’d been thorough and proactive, determining what it was that Julia wanted and then figuring out how she might get it. He’d had some excellent suggestions, including the addition of a codicil that would provide her rights of first purchase should the Fords decide to put the property on the market.
It wasn’t shares or ownership of any kind, but it was something. And since Donovan had, both in person and again through his own lawyer, made it clear that shares were not on the table, it was the best she was going to get.
Of course, she’d asked for a hefty raise for herself and the staff, too. Judging from what they’d paid for the location, the Fords had money to throw around. She saw no reason why her team shouldn’t share in it.
“You’ll see here—” Donovan used the same silver pen he’d had at the restaurant to point to the term in question “—we’ve dealt with your request regarding ownership.”
Julia scanned the words, parsing the legal jargon to understand the actual meaning. She looked up at him. “Just to be clear here, you’re agreeing that I’ll be given rights of first purchase?”
Everything else was flexible to Julia. Her salary, hours, benefits and other perks were things she could compromise on, but pushing forward for ownership was not.
“Yes. Should we decide to sell the property, you’ll be given the right to meet the asking price first.”
Julia nodded. “And I’ll have six weeks from that time?”
“Four.” He angled the pen toward her, a subtle hint to take hold of the instrument and put her name on the page. “We have to consider that a third party may withdraw their offer if they have to wait too long.”
She accepted the proffered pen. The metal was warm from his hand and smooth to the touch but impersonal. So different from her kitchen knives, which seemed to absorb a piece of her whenever she used them. They were all sharpened a certain way, worn down in a certain spot. It was one reason all serious cooks had their own set, which they were loath to share. Julia didn’t even let other people clean hers.
She pressed the nib of the pen to the page. This was it. She either signed now or forever held her peace. Her lungs felt swollen, as though she’d sucked in a huge breath and forgotten to let it go. Yes, this was it, and in her opinion, there was really only one option.
Julia signed quickly and handed the pen back. Donovan’s fingers brushed against hers, hotter than the metal. Suddenly, that metal didn’t feel quite so impersonal. Her eyes darted up to meet his. He smiled and she felt a flicker of interest rise up, tamped it back down and looked at his hands instead.
Hands were safe. They told a person’s story without words.
Donovan gripped the pen, lightly but firmly. In perfect control. And made a series of long, artful swoops as he added his name to the document. A man who wasn’t afraid to be noticed, a man who wasn’t afraid to demand it as his due. He wouldn’t be the type to hide in the back, away from the lights, wouldn’t be afraid to ask for what he wanted and expect to get it.
She took note of the scar on one knuckle and the thickness of his fingers. Donovan’s hands weren’t sleek and buffed, not polished within an inch of their lives. They didn’t look long and elegant like those of a pianist or a doctor. They were manly hands. Ones that looked as if they’d be just as confident swinging a hammer or using a saw as signing a life-altering contract. And strong. And sexy.
Julia looked away and tried to pretend that wasn’t her stomach doing a long, slow flip-flop and her brain wondering if those hands could hold a woman’s body just as easily.
* * *
SASHA MET HER at the door when she walked into the kitchen, a splotch of sauce on the shoulder of her white chef’s jacket. “So? Everything go okay?”
Julia nodded. Everything except the lingering attraction that had followed her all the way to the restaurant. She’d decided against taking a cab, hoping a walk in the cold afternoon would chase the feeling away, but the chill outside had only highlighted the heat building within her and the certain knowledge of one thing.
She liked his hands.
Julia had always liked hands. Even when she was small, she could remember watching her mother as she stood over the stove, stirring with one hand, dipping a finger into whatever she was making with a practiced swirl. Twisting the top off a piping bag and then squeezing the first drops of frosting into Julia’s waiting mouth, using her thumb to wipe away any that might get on Julia’s face.
Julia had chosen her first boyfriend because of his hands. Chris Wright had been tall and thin with glasses and a quiet way in class. His father owned a successful construction company and Chris spent his summer working for him. His hands were thick and muscled, a working man’s hands. Julia had found them fascinating, and when he’d asked her out she’d agreed.
Hands were a calling card. Chris’s scarred knuckles and rough edges told her he wasn’t afraid of hard work. What they didn’t tell her was that he was also capable of creating the most delicate wooden animals. Woodland creatures he whittled from leftover pieces at the work site.
She’d expected Donovan’s hands to be soft and manicured like those of the other men she’d met who’d been born to families where trust funds were the norm. But she seriously doubted he’d ever seen the inside of a nail salon. She wondered what other secrets he hid.
“It was fine.”
“You were there a long time.” Sasha’s eyes swept over her, halting on her hair, which was still pulled back in an elegant twist.
Julia’s hands rose to touch it. “We negotiated.” Which was one way of putting it. In fact, Donovan had explained the marketing plan that was to be implemented over the next two months and the role she would play in it. While her first instinct was to refuse—to explain that she was a chef, not a celebrity—she’d held her tongue.
The truth was that chefs today were more than creators of food. They were arbiters of style and taste. Name and face recognition were a considerable asset in the industry. As much of a draw as the food and decor. And the Fords wanted to use her.
Better yet, the Fords wanted to tie her to La Petite Bouchée and to tie her so intrinsically that there could be no separation. When she’d asked why, Donovan had explained it was all part of the branding push they needed to do to bring the restaurant out of the shadows. “We need to show everyone that it’s not the same old restaurant. It’s young and fresh and headed by a beautiful chef.” Then she’d had to remind herself not to get all twisted up simply because he’d called her beautiful.
It was probably all part of his ploy to make her agree. It worked.
Julia knew that if the plan succeeded, it would raise the value of the restaurant. The deal she and her investors had put together wouldn’t be enough anymore. But it should also mean that she’d find it easier to get financial backing. Maybe even swing it herself with the bank since she’d be able to prove her own worth.
A wave of pleasure crested through her at the thought. No, she didn’t have shares in her pocket, but she had the promise of a future. Something to work toward. The heady feeling made her smile.
“And?” Sasha asked.
“And we came to a mutually agreeable solution.” One that Julia hoped would see her vision of the restaurant become a reality. She saw no reason it wouldn’t, since Donovan had confirmed that he hoped to sell the restaurant in the near future. But she popped the bubble of excitement that threatened to rise. They still had a long way to go before then. “Is the prep done?” Because no matter what else had happened today, she still had a service to run tonight. With a newly signed contract, it now felt more important than ever that things go well.
“Almost.” Sasha turned back to her station, checking the sauces and stocks simmering on the burners.
Julia didn’t need to look in the pots to know what was there. Variations on the five master sauces that were the basis of French cooking, stocks that would be used in the sauces and reduced to glaze certain dishes.
She inhaled the scent of tarragon and basil, parsley and chervil being chopped as she headed to her office to check on the delivery and change into her chef whites. Tonight would be a good night in the kitchen. No specter hanging over her head, no worry that she was going to be bounced out of the kitchen and restaurant. Nothing but cooking.
“Did you see the delivery in your office?” Sasha called from the kitchen a few minutes later. “I put it on the chair by the door.”
Julia hadn’t noticed anything, but then, she hadn’t looked, either. She’d been thinking and swapping her business suit and heels for her comfy pants, T-shirt, chef jacket and Converse runners. “Anything important?” She received plenty of deliveries during the week. Invoices for food, bills for their linen service, samples from suppliers.
“I don’t know. A bottle of wine with a gold bow around the neck sound important?”
“What?” Julia’s head whipped up to look at Sasha, who was smirking in the doorway.
“I sense you haven’t told me everything about the meeting.” Sasha gestured to the chair with her head. “Well, go look at it and then come back to the kitchen and tell me everything.”
Julia almost didn’t. She didn’t even know whom the bottle was from. But the excitement bubbling inside her did. An instinct confirmed when she pulled the note from the envelope attached by the ribbon.

To a bright and satisfying future.
Donovan

She recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, if a bottle of wine, even one that cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.
Well, that may be so, but she didn’t have to act on it. Couldn’t act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more. Then she went out to tell the staff they were going to have a treat with family meal tonight, the meal she cooked and served before the start of service to make sure everyone was fueled for the long night ahead.
Because what was the point of having such a fantastic bottle of wine if not to share it with the ones you loved?
* * *
DONOVAN LOOKED AROUND La Petite Bouchée with a discerning eye. In the glow of the lights, without the sharp, exposing brightness of the sun, the space looked better. Not good but better.
The walls were plain but clean, as were the tables and chairs. The bar was too small and should extend another couple of feet to make full use of the space. They could easily fit in three or four more stools at a longer bar, which would mean three or four more people eating and drinking and adding to their profits.
The parquet flooring was worn and scuffed, and even if it was salvageable, Donovan had no plans to keep it. It was just a dated look that added nothing to the space. He was bringing in the designer next week to look the place over and discuss some potential changes. Hopefully, it could be done quickly and cheaply.
“Stop working,” Mal said, shooting him a withering stare. “Enjoy your meal and the fine company of your siblings.”
Donovan hadn’t wanted to bring them along when he’d decided to pop in for dinner tonight. Well, not entirely true. He never minded Mal tagging along, not even when he’d been twelve and she an annoying seven-year-old, but he could have done without Owen, who had already hit on both the server and the hostess and was even now eyeing up the bartender.
But he supposed they provided a better cover story than the one he’d come up with on his own. That he just happened to be in the neighborhood when what he really wanted was to see Julia.
He’d debated sending the wine. It was a vintage bottle, one from his private collection. Not the sort of thing he generally sent to staff no matter their level in the company hierarchy. But there was something different about Julia. A fact he’d been forced to acknowledge that night at Elephants when, instead of going home and enjoying an athletic and gratifying bout of sex with Tatiana, he’d sent her off with the clear disclosure that while he’d enjoyed dating her, he didn’t see it going any further and saw no point in continuing.
“I’m not working,” he said and forked up another bite of his meal. He’d selected the steak frites despite Owen’s advice that if he was going to be stubborn and not get the coq au vin blanc, he should choose the boeuf bourguignon. And he was perfectly satisfied with his meal. “I’m just looking around.”
“You’re making mental notes. And, Owen,” Mal said, turning her attention to him, “stop flirting with the staff and pay attention. Maybe if you thought about business once in a while instead of your sex life, you’d be able to convince Donovan to give you that promotion you want.”
Donovan blinked at his brother. “You want a promotion?”
A flash of panic tightened Owen’s face before it smoothed out into his usual laissez-faire expression. “Of course not. I don’t know what Mal’s talking about.”
But Donovan wasn’t sure he believed him. Still, he didn’t chase his brother down. Owen had shown little interest in the business. While Donovan and Mal had worked summers in the office and gone to university to learn skills that would help them one day take over the business, Owen had preferred to spend his time lounging at the beach and had flunked out of university after two semesters.
Even now, while Donovan and Mal held management positions that helped shape the future of the company as a whole, Owen seemed content to manage Elephants. It was a mind-set that Donovan simply couldn’t understand, and he’d long since given up trying.
He understood that Owen might not be interested in the food-and-wine industry. He might not even be interested in business. But Owen didn’t seem to be interested in anything else, either. He flicked from hobby to hobby and woman to woman like a butterfly. Barely settling anywhere long enough to get a feel for the surface, let alone mine the depths. But that wasn’t Donovan’s problem. So long as Owen managed to keep Elephants running, he would leave him be.
They talked about other things. How their father was doing, the local sports teams, a ski vacation Owen was planning on taking next weekend. “And then maybe somewhere tropical.” Owen looked at Mal. “I thought I might go and visit Travis.” Owen and Travis had always gotten along well, far better than Owen and Donovan.
Donovan saw the way his sister seized up at the mention of Travis’s name, though she covered it well, smoothing her napkin and picking up her wineglass without the slightest shake. Yes, there was definitely something going on, but she didn’t seem inclined to talk about it, and Donovan wasn’t about to bring it up here. He changed the subject, noting the release of his sister’s shoulders.
The conversation meandered after that, and Donovan was grateful when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else.
“Yes,” Owen said. “Could you ask the chef to come out? I’d like to give her my compliments personally.”
Donovan felt something strange and sharp bite through him. Owen shouldn’t be asking for Julia, implying that he was the one who knew her. He glared at his brother. Kept glaring when Julia came out, looking warm and sexy, and allowed Owen to kiss her on the cheek and then kissed him in return.
“Julia, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Mallory.” The two women greeted each other with a friendly smile and murmured pleasantries. “And you know Donovan.”
Julia’s gaze barely flicked to him, fluttered over like nothing. It cut. He wasn’t used to being passed over and he decided he didn’t care for it.
“How was your meal?” Julia didn’t even mention the bottle of wine, which surprised him. Unless she hadn’t received it?
No, he knew it had arrived. He’d insisted on a signature upon delivery and recognized Sasha’s name. While Donovan didn’t know her well, he found it highly unlikely that Sasha would have forgotten to give Julia the bottle or kept it for herself, which meant Julia didn’t want to acknowledge it. Or him.
His brother was practically falling all over himself and Julia, praising the excellence of the meal. Mal was a little more circumspect, but she was incredibly complimentary, too. Of course, they hadn’t had their gifts ignored.
“Did you like your gift?” Donovan said when Julia finally looked at him.
She jolted. “Yes, thank you. The staff and I enjoyed it very much.”
She’d shared it with her staff? The thousand-dollar bottle he’d handpicked from his stash to give to her personally had been passed around the kitchen? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Donovan could appreciate the magnanimity of her gesture. What better way to show people how much you appreciated them than by sharing your good fortune, which was exactly what he’d done with her. He’d just hoped she might return the favor by sharing the bottle with him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Julia nodded, a light flush rising on her cheeks. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen.”
“Of course,” Donovan said before Owen could. He watched her walk away, the sway in her step that made him forget all about the skinny blondes of his past. Tatiana who?
“I didn’t know we were sending wine to our staff now.”
“We’re not.” This was a personal gift from him. But he didn’t tell his sister that. And he wasn’t even sure what had brought on the generosity. He needed to concentrate on getting the restaurant up to par so that when he managed to get his father’s agreement to sell, they could list the property immediately. He needed to focus on work. They all did.
Donovan glanced at his brother, who was smiling at the bartender across the room. “Owen.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, but first Julia and then the bartender? Was there anyone safe from Owen’s charms? “Don’t you have to work tonight?”
Owen should be on-site at Elephants, making sure everything was running smoothly, not sitting in a restaurant. He didn’t appear upset by Donovan’s tone. “I’m heading over after dinner. The staff can handle things without me.”
Donovan was sure they could, since the assistant manager at Elephants was incredibly competent. She could probably handle the Apocalypse without batting an eye. Still, that didn’t excuse Owen from his work. If he wanted to get paid, he needed to put in the hours. “You’re expected to be there—”
“I haven’t had a day off in two weeks and I’m working tonight. Okay?” Owen patted his lips and then rose. “If it makes you happy, I’ll go now.”
But Donovan noticed that Owen stopped by the bar, charmed the woman working behind it, and chatted with the hostess on his way out. Donovan wouldn’t have minded any of that. Owen’s people skills were his greatest attribute. But when Donovan saw Julia duck back out of the kitchen and head straight toward his brother, saw them hug and kiss each other once more, his hands fisted.
No. His brother was welcome to spread his charm across the city. He could date a different woman every night. He could bring them into his bar and comp them drinks and food all night. But he could not date Julia. Hell, no. Donovan had just gotten her to sign a contract. He wasn’t about to have Owen risk that for a quickie.
But he kept his aggravation hidden under a polite smile. This was nothing to get into now. Especially since he’d be sure that it wouldn’t amount to anything.
Donovan and Mal chatted about work for a while, and when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else, he ordered dessert and coffee. Just getting the full meal experience provided by the restaurant. And if he got another look at Julia, that would be okay, too.
Mal declined. “I’m exhausted,” she told him. “If I have coffee this late, I’ll be up all night.” She did look tired.
“We can go, then.” He started to lift a hand to call for the check and cancel the dessert.
“No, no.” Mal waved a hand. “You stay.” She stood and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the dessert. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He considered leaving anyway. He didn’t need the dessert, but he really should try to get a handle on the customer service provided by La Petite Bouchée.
Instead of remaining at the table, he caught the server’s attention and said he’d like his coffee and dessert at the bar. The server nodded and walked him over, making certain he had everything he needed before disappearing. Donovan was impressed. Julia had trained her staff well and the food was excellent, which would make his job much easier.
The bar stool he was on was rickety and the cushioning was almost nonexistent, but the bar was clean and the woman behind it was friendly. She answered all of Donovan’s questions knowledgeably, keeping an eye on the other customers and segueing between all of them easily.
While he sipped his coffee, Donovan studied the beer-and-wine list. Satisfactory, but with the number of craft breweries and boutique wineries that permeated the West Coast, Donovan knew it could be better.
The pair of men beside him were waiting for their table and chatting about their day. He eavesdropped, only half listening while he mentally planned the changes. New interior, new seats and bar stools, new menu. Then one of them said something that caught his ear.
“If this place didn’t look so terrible, I would totally consider having our wedding reception here.”
“Excuse me.” He turned on his friendly business smile. He was no Owen when it came to people skills, but he was entirely capable of holding his own. “I’m Donovan Ford. My family just bought this restaurant.” He shook their hands and proceeded to elicit their feelings on the restaurant.
They had a lot to say.
“So why do you come?” he asked after they’d filled him in on their many observances. Apparently, they came often. At least once a week.
“The food,” the dark-haired man said.
“As good as anything we had in Paris last year,” said the blond. “The chef is too good for this place. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The blond smiled. “I didn’t think she’d stay this long.”
“Have you been coming awhile?” Donovan was interested to hear this. Loyal, regular customers were the lifeblood of the industry. If these men were regulars, he wanted to know why.
“Oh, yeah, at least three years. We started coming because we were friends with Alain, the original owner. But when Julia took over cooking from her mom, we started coming for the food.”
“Her mom?” Donovan tapped a finger against the side of his coffee mug. What did her mother have to do with the restaurant?
“Suzanne was the chef here before she got sick. When she couldn’t work any longer, Julia came back to Vancouver to help. I think she only intended to stay until her mom got better...” His voice trailed off.
Donovan studied them, noting the sad tilt to their eyes. “But she didn’t.”
“No.” The brunette shook his head. “She died. We thought Julia might leave then. Go back to Paris.”
Donovan ignored the clamp of his own heart. His father had survived. According to the doctor, as long as he continued to take care of himself, Gus Ford would live a long life. “But she didn’t leave.”
“No, she settled in.” The dark-haired man smiled. “I think it’s sort of a tribute to her mother.”
Donovan could understand the desire. And felt as though maybe he knew Julia a little better than he had before.
He chatted with the men until they finished their drinks and moved to their waiting table. Then he waited for Julia.
* * *
JULIA REMAINED IN the kitchen until the last plate was served and she was sure there were no further orders coming in before she made her way back into the dining room. She knew Donovan was still there. Had been informed by the staff the moment he’d left the table and taken up a stool at the bar instead of leaving.
The room was only a quarter full, which wasn’t terrible considering it had been only half-full this evening to begin with. She saw Donovan across the room, still sitting at the bar. He had a menu in his hand and was frowning. Even with twenty tables and about twenty-five feet between them, she could feel his magnetism. But that magnetism, that draw of attraction, wasn’t why she walked over. She was simply being polite, making nice with the new owner.
Still, when he noticed her, putting down the menu and focusing all his attention on her, Julia felt the pull all the way to her toes.
“Donovan.” She slid onto the stool beside him. “I didn’t expect you’d still be here.” A subtle hint that he shouldn’t be.
He smiled, either ignoring or missing the gentle rebuke. “I thought we could talk.”
“Oh?” The bartender, Stef, arrived to place a glass of water in front of her. Julia stilled the sudden fluttering in her chest with a sip of it and smiled at the woman who was working her way toward a law degree. “Thanks.”
“The menu’s dated,” Donovan said.
Julia stiffened. She knew the menu was dated. It hadn’t changed in thirty years. But her attempts to modernize it had fallen on deaf ears. First with Alain, who hadn’t wanted to change anything, and then with Jean-Paul, who’d refused to spend money.
She reminded herself that she should be grateful Donovan saw the need, too—she wouldn’t have to convince him—but something about his tone put her on the defensive. As if he thought she was the one responsible for it.
“I happen to agree. I hope this means you’re open to changing it.”
He nodded, his eyes already scanning the room. At least the space was decent. It needed a bit of polishing, but nothing major. Julia had convinced Alain to repaint the walls so they were a crisp white, and the photos on the walls were full of charm. A mix of pictures from Alain’s childhood in Bordeaux and some from her mother’s personal collection of travels through France. Besides the one of Julia playing in the fountain, there was also one she’d taken during her first year living in Paris. In her opinion, they created a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. A personalization that let diners know the meal wasn’t just about eating but was an experience.
The floor could use a good sanding and restaining to return it to its former golden glory and the light fixtures should be swapped out for something more current, but other than that, the restaurant looked nice. It was classic, like the food they served.
“And the space needs a major update.”
Apparently, Donovan Ford felt otherwise.
Julia felt the stiffness travel up her spine, across her shoulders and settle in her jaw. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?”
His eyes met hers and held. She felt that spark of attraction again and doused it with a quick toss of common sense, like flour on a grease fire. Always best to tamp those things out before they had a chance to catch.
“I’d say the renovations are a necessity. The seats aren’t comfortable.” He shifted as though to prove his point. “And the decor is at least twenty years out of style.”
Out of style? Well, only if you thought looking like the inside of a snowflake was style.
“It’s old-world,” she countered, recalling the lovely bistros and family-owned restaurants she’d favored during her years in Europe. She didn’t want La Petite Bouchée to be quite as authentically homespun as that—it didn’t suit the food she wanted to serve—but the aesthetic of appearing like something that had lasted hundreds of years and would last hundreds more appealed to her. Classic was what she aspired to. Glossy white bar tops and Lucite seats were tomorrow’s Harvest Gold appliances and velvet wallpaper.
“It’s old-fashioned.” Donovan lifted one dark eyebrow, a quirk Julia always wished she’d been able to master. Mostly because she hated it being directed at her and wished she could do the same in return as a way to negate the skill. “Who is the target market?”
She scowled. “Are we talking about numbers, then?”
“If you want.”
She didn’t want. She’d looked at the numbers often enough to know they weren’t going to support her argument. The fact was La Petite Bouchée was lucky to break even on any given night, but Julia didn’t think that was because of the decor.
“I know it could use some freshening up,” she admitted, “but the decor is part of the charm.” And she wanted him to stop talking about any potential changes. One thing at a time. It was enough that she’d signed the contract today and agreed to the marketing blitz. She didn’t want to hear how he planned to rip the heart and soul out of the place, as well.
“It’s not charming.” Now she did feel insulted. “But it could be. It will be when we’re finished.”
Julia peeked up at him. “I’m not going to let you make this a carbon copy of every other place you own.”
To his credit, Donovan didn’t get his back up or look put out by her comment at all. “You don’t like the wine bars?”
His calm tone helped her find her own cool. “I do like them. For bars. But that’s not what La Petite Bouchée is about. We’re an iconic and classic fine-dining establishment. The decor should reflect that.” And since she was the one who’d hopefully be buying it from him in the future, Julia felt she should have some say in the matter.
Donovan watched her, and Julia felt a warm flush crawl over her skin. “I’ll take that into consideration.” And before she could get her back up about how he should do more than consider her opinion, he said, “The service was good and your food was excellent.”
“Not dated?” She couldn’t help sniping.
He grinned and accepted the verbal tap. “Not dated. But nothing about the decor showcases just how good it is.” Julia opened her mouth to object. Her food was classic. The decor needed to follow suit. But he had more to say. “Which is why it needs updating.”
Julia sipped her water instead of arguing. He was right. She knew that. She just wanted to protect the traditional charm that would make La Petite Bouchée stand out. But she should hear him out before deciding that he was wrong. “Okay. Like what?”
He smiled and it slipped through her like warm chocolate sauce. “That is a question for my designer. Why don’t we table this discussion until she’s had a chance to look the space over and come up with some options.”
Julia frowned. In her experience—okay, from what she saw on TV—designers rarely kept anything the same. They wanted to make a bold statement, something bright and flashy that held no reminders of what the space had looked like before. A designer would eradicate all the good years La Petite Bouchée had experienced. The happy memories that used to fill the space before time and customers began to slip away.
She wanted to bring that back, to revive the space, not revolutionize it. “Part of the restaurant’s heritage is in keeping things the same. If you change it too much, it’ll just be like any other restaurant.” It was a good point and one Julia was prepared to make over and over until he got it. “People will have no reason to come here.”
Donovan glanced around the room, which had emptied out completely while they talked. “Is anyone coming here now?”
She bristled at that. “They come. Just not often enough.”
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_53d14abf-2699-5b5a-bc84-a9fd33d8e52d)
JULIA WOKE UP after only a few hours of sleep, and instead of rolling over and drifting back off, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking. Alone with her thoughts didn’t always feel like a good place to be. Not when her head was filled with worries about the restaurant. Or worse, like this morning, memories of her mother.
Julia had always planned to come back to Vancouver after she got all her European living out of her system, her various training at both Michelin-starred and nonrated establishments. She’d thought she’d have years left to live in the same city as her mother. And instead, she’d received a phone call one hot August afternoon just before her twenty-eighth birthday. Only, instead of hearing her mom’s cheerful voice on their weekly phone call, it had been Alain telling her that she needed to come home because her mother wasn’t well.
It had scared her. Badly. And when she’d gotten hold of her mother—while sitting at the Orly airport in Paris, waiting for her flight to Vancouver to board—she’d heard the truth in her mother’s voice. That she’d been sick for some time. That she hadn’t wanted to tell Julia because she’d believed she was going to get better and hadn’t wanted to worry her. And that the doctor’s prognosis had been dire during her last checkup and he’d recommended that Julia return to Vancouver. Now.
But her sudden return had given Julia something besides the fear that she was about to lose her mother. It gave her the chance to get to know her mother through the eyes of an adult instead of a teenager. The opportunity to share their love of food and each other. Most important, the time to say goodbye.
Which was still hard to accept some days. When the ache in her heart refused to be eased, Julia went to the restaurant. The one place that felt truly instilled with her mother’s essence. Her joy of cooking and spirit of life. And in those moments, she truly saw what La Petite Bouchée had once been and could be again.
So she pulled on her favorite jeans, the comfy ones that had been broken in just right and didn’t require her to wear five-inch heels, a simple silk T-shirt and a cashmere cardigan that she’d gotten 80 percent off years ago and still wore on a regular basis.
Her mom had been the same way with her clothing, choosing quality over quantity. Julia’s closet wasn’t bursting at the seams with the latest styles and trends, and she didn’t have a different outfit for every occasion. What she did have were classic pieces that fit any situation. A little black dress that could be dressed up with sleek heels and pearls for a night of formal dining or paired with colorful flats and a printed scarf for a casual drink on a sunny patio. A beautifully cut blazer that she could wear with a skirt and kitten heels for a business meeting or skinny pants and leopard-print ballet flats for drinks after work.
And it meant that she didn’t need to update her wardrobe every season or even every year. She simply added a few inexpensive accessories to keep her look fresh and in tune with what was in the fashion magazines.
She made coffee, deciding to forgo the stop at one of the many artisan coffeehouses that dotted the Vancouver landscape. She was a woman who needed to save her pennies, not for another pair of shoes, but to purchase her restaurant. Though her pennies weren’t ever going to amount to the asking price, the more she could contribute to the pot, the larger the stake she’d hold.
She also felt it increased her bargaining power. She wasn’t going into meetings with nothing to her plan but her name and a dream. She had her own hard-earned cash to put down, too. It helped not only to prove her own seriousness and determination in taking on the project, but also invited the same from her backers. She exhaled. Of course, that was assuming the Fords put the place back on the market.
But she had no reason to think they wouldn’t. Donovan had seemed serious about wanting to sell and he’d never been afraid to share his true feelings. He certainly hadn’t spared hers when he’d talked about the current decor.
She probably shouldn’t enjoy his company as much as she did. He was a distraction and one she couldn’t afford. But when he wasn’t insulting her restaurant’s looks, he was charming and interesting. He’d traveled a fair bit—not as much as she had, but then, he hadn’t lived overseas for six years, either.
Her heart didn’t feel quite as heavy when she slipped into the back door of the restaurant. She expected to be greeted by cool silence, the kind that floated over her and soothed her irritations. The kind she could bask in for a couple of hours or longer since La Petite Bouchée was closed on Mondays. Instead, she heard voices coming from the dining room.
Someone was here? Her heart thumped once and then calmed. There was no need to worry. Although she hadn’t expected company, the restaurant was a busy place and she wasn’t the only person with keys. Sasha had a set, as did her floor manager, and the Fords would have a set. And whoever was inside certainly wasn’t making any attempt to be quiet. She thought she recognized the low timbre of Donovan’s voice.
Julia pushed open the swinging doors and found Donovan in gorgeous black wool pants, a blue dress shirt and a charcoal sweater, standing with a trio of strangers. The trio were nodding and draping bolts of fabric over everything that stood still. The designers.
She felt a small niggle of apprehension. Donovan hadn’t mentioned anything about the designers coming in this morning. And he’d been here after closing last night. Of course, he didn’t have to tell her everything.
He must have heard the doors because he looked up when she walked into the dining room and smiled. Julia felt a low thrum run through her. “Julia. Come in. Meet the design team.”
The team of three, two men and one woman, all looked the same. Three variations on tall and skinny, with sable hair and blue eyes, clad in black with one single focal point, or as they would probably phrase it, “a pop of color.” One of the men had a striped purple tie, the other wore sapphire-colored cuff links with matching shoes, and the woman, who seemed to be in charge of the trio, had a gorgeous scarf in red, pink and orange, as if the sunset had been swirled onto the fabric before being draped around her neck.
They each greeted Julia politely if a bit indifferently. She wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t like anyone who might have an opinion on their style selections joining them or they were simply going for that mannequin effect. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a hair out of place on any of them. By comparison, she and Donovan both looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed after some hot and sweaty sex.
Julia felt her cheeks heat and pushed the thought away. Donovan and her bed were two things that didn’t mix outside her fantasy life.
“Are we picking colors?” she asked when she reached the group.
“No. We’re merely getting a feel for the space.” The woman started talking while the two men began gathering up the bolts. Her words were full of terms like “flow” and “maximizing table space.” Whether the new bar should be in dove gray or champagne and questions on whether the accents should be silver or gold. It sounded beautiful but cold and a clear imitation of the Fords’ other bars.
Julia listened, gathering information and context. When the designers finished extolling their grandiose plans and gathering their materials, they left. Julia waited until the door clicked shut behind them before she looked at Donovan. “I thought we agreed that I would be a part of the design discussions.”
Donovan pulled out a chair that had been draped with a burnt orange—no, just no—and sat down. Julia sat down, too. “It was unplanned. The designer called this morning with a free block of time, and I took her up on it so we could get things moving.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You said last night that you were looking forward to sleeping in today.” He reached out to touch the back of her hand. “Nothing has been decided yet. It was only an initial meeting to get a scope of time and cost. I didn’t think you needed or wanted to be involved in those aspects.”
“Well, I do.” She wanted to have a say in everything. “The space has to reflect the menu and service. Those are my domains.”
Donovan nodded. “How do you picture the space?”
She looked around, picturing her favorite spaces in her mind and superimposing them on the room around her. “Pretty much the same. Just fresher. Maybe some new chairs and stools for the bar, a softer color on the walls.” The white was a bit bland with no other design to highlight, but it was a lot better than burnt orange. “Some updated light fixtures.” She glanced up at the chandelier, which was the one piece she wouldn’t change. It was huge and gorgeous, all crystal and platinum swoops of sparkle. “Maybe a ceiling medallion to highlight the chandelier.”
“And what about the floors? The bar? The poor use of space?” He squeezed her hand and heat shot through her. “Julia. We have to make changes.” His dark eyes seemed to tilt down at the corners. “We can’t leave it as it is and expect anything else to change.”
“We could. With the marketing campaign, we’ll gain new business.” All they really needed was for people to remember they were there, to walk through the door and taste the food for themselves.
“But they won’t come back.” He let go of her hand and sat back. “They’ll take one look at this place and decide it’s not cool or hip or whatever.”
“This isn’t about being cool or hip or whatever.” La Petite Bouchée was classic and would stand the test of time.
Donovan ran a hand through his hair. “Actually, it is. We need the social scene to give it the stamp of approval. Once we’ve got that—”
“But we’re not a bar,” Julia interrupted. She understood where he was coming from. The part of the industry that relied on the young and pretty to fill their tables and their coffers. But a restaurant was different. And she felt as if everything was changing so fast. As if her life was once again in upheaval. “We need the foodies.”
“Julia, the foodies are the social scene. And right now, you and your food are being wasted.”
She sat up straighter, stinging from the implication that her food, her staff wouldn’t be good enough on their own. “I think my food speaks for itself.”
He reached out and caught her hand when she started to stand. “The decor, the layout, even the menu is working against you right now. I want to bring everything in line to work together.”
His hand was large and strong but held her fingers loosely enough that she could break free if she wanted to. She should want to. His eyes drilled into hers, searching. “Why are you so afraid of change?”
“I’m not afraid.” But her pulse pounded in her ears and made her vision shimmer for a second. “I just don’t think we need to change for the sake of change.”
It felt as if her whole life had been nothing but change for the past two years. A sick mother, taking over the restaurant, dealing with Alain’s death and then the nightmare that had been Jean-Paul’s reign. And now the Fords also wanted to do things their way.
Was it so wrong to want a little stability? A little time-out so she could get her legs under her and figure out what to do next?
She studied his hand as it curled over hers. They looked good together. Strong and supportive. “I just don’t want to see this place turned into a replica of every other restaurant out there. I don’t want us to lose what makes us different, special.”
The parts that reminded Julia of her mother and the traditions she’d built during her ten-year tenure as executive chef in the kitchen.
Suzanne Laurent had been part of the heyday of La Petite Bouchée as a junior kitchen slave, and she’d always believed that with hard work and a concerted effort it could be a top-tier restaurant again. Given a little more time and money, maybe she’d have been able to get it there. Now it was up to Julia.
“And you think that’s what I want?” His voice was low and serious. Sexy.
Julia looked up from their hands. It wasn’t a connection she could pursue anyway. Even if they did look like something sculpted by Michelangelo. She tugged free and put her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what you want, Donovan. You say you want to sell the restaurant and know that I’m an interested buyer. Yet you don’t include me on the decisions that will affect the future of the restaurant. Wouldn’t it make more sense to get my opinion?”
There was a pause, a long, silent pause. She could hear the rumble of voices outside, tourists braving the February weather to visit the popular market next door, and the whoosh of cars and wind. He nodded slowly. “Of course. You’re right.” He stood. “Come and look.”
He led her to another table to a trio of poster-board mock-ups. “These are just some ideas based on my suggestions and work the designer has done for us in the past.” His arm brushed hers as he pointed, and his scent filled her head. That spicy, clean scent that made her think of the windowsill herb garden she’d had in Paris.
Julia prepared herself for shiny white and lots of cold, oversize mirrors. A restaurant version of Elephants. Instead, she saw something more beautiful than she’d imagined.
Louis XVI oval-back chairs in dark wood and a silky ivory moiré. The golden parquet floor replaced with light gray wood. The walls were no longer slabs of plain white decorated only with scattered pictures, but had strips of white wood installed as panels, and the walls themselves were a foggy gray with mirrors and other objets d’art. The bar was longer, stretching to fill up that awkward corner that was too small for a table and too big for a plant.
It looked like her restaurant, only better. So much better.
She inhaled, sucking in wonder, excitement and eau de Donovan. God, he smelled good. She shoved that discomforting realization out of her head. No matter what she might personally think of Donovan Ford, he was off-limits.
How could she grow her own name, increase her cachet in a city full of world-class chefs if she allowed herself to be waylaid by the first amazing-smelling man to cross her path?
Julia concentrated on the mock-ups in front of her, on the impersonal wall displays, and her gaze skittered up to the photos that were hung there now. The walls of La Petite Bouchée were currently covered in personal photographs taken by current and former staff that displayed a French life in stunning black-and-white imagery. They were part of the restaurant’s tradition.
“I want to keep the photos on the walls,” she told Donovan, turning her face from the pictures to look up at him. He leaned over her, one hand planted on the table as he, too, reviewed the papers on the table.
He glanced down, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Why?”
Julia swallowed, told herself she should really break this eye lock or at least shift in her chair so their bodies weren’t so close to touching. “They’re part of the restaurant’s history. Of all the people who worked here.” At his furrowed brow, she explained. “They’re our pictures. Alain’s photos of his childhood home, a picture I took of the Tuileries Garden my first winter in Paris, one that my mom took of me the first time she took me to France, one that Sasha took when she went to the French Alps last year.”
He glanced behind him at the closest wall and the photos displayed there. “I didn’t know.”
“And now you do.”
He straightened up. “Show me.” He started toward the wall she’d been staring at only a minute earlier. “Which ones are yours?”
Julia stood, too, slowly, trying not to drag her feet and wanting to all the same. There was no reason to think this was anything more than polite interest, and it provided her an excellent opportunity to sway him to her side. The photos weren’t just displayed at La Petite Bouchée; they were part of the restaurant. “This one.”
She pointed to the garden photo she’d taken when she’d first moved to Paris. She could still remember the day she’d taken it. A bad day when she’d been feeling lonely and lost, still working hard to be fluent in the language, and had just been thrown out of her first kitchen among extremely loud and spittle-laden cursing.
She knew it was a rite of passage, one that all young chefs experienced in this particular kitchen, but it was still difficult, and she’d promised herself that when she ran her own kitchen, she’d never do the same to anyone else.
“It’s beautiful.” Donovan stepped closer, really looking at the picture then back at her. And even though she hadn’t told him about the day she took it, she felt exposed, as if she’d just bared a piece of herself to him without realizing it. “Where’s the one your mom took? I’d like to see it.”
She felt her heart hiccup. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. She pointed it out anyway. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He was quiet as he studied the picture. “You can see the love.” And Julia felt her heart hiccup again. “The way you’re looking at her. You love her.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jennifer-mckenzie/tempting-donovan-ford/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.