Sexy Scoundrel
A Cocky Hero Club Novel
Raisa Greywood
Copyright © 2020 by Raisa Greywood and Cocky Hero Club, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Amy Briggs
Photo Credit: Golden Czermak
Formatted by: Raisa Greywood
Sexy Scoundrel is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Cocky Bastard. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About Raisa Greywood
Also by Raisa Greywood
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward, along with the entire Cocky Hero Club for giving me the opportunity to dive into this fascinating and sexy world of theirs. I’d also like to give a shout-out to Pixy the goat for providing the inspiration behind one of my favorite characters in this story.
As always, I want to thank my family. The Spawn is my biggest cheerleader and my undying gratitude goes out to Engineer Hubby, Mr. Greywood, for his love, encouragement, and support. Without him, I don’t think I’d be writing at all. Love you to the moon and back, baby.
Chapter One
Carlina
Biting my lip, I tightened my grip on the pastry bag filled with bittersweet ganache and piped a heart on the top of a chocolate cupcake. My friend Aubrey called them orgasm by chocolate, but I wasn’t about to tell anyone that.
“Mark’s going to pop a blood vessel if he sees you making those,” Ted, one of the sous chefs, warned, his brown eyes flashing worry at me. Older, with the gnarled, scarred hands of a career chef, Ted had been a cook in the Navy once upon a time and still wore his dark hair in a neat crew cut.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me,” I muttered. “We’ve already had six cheese platters sent back. Nobody wants them and we don’t have anything else. I have no idea why he decided a prix fixe menu was a good idea.”
The head chef, who also happened to be my ex-boyfriend, Mark, had declared the diners could eat the leftover cheese platters from the night before, calling it a fusion edge or some such bullshit. As the pastry chef for La Panache, it was my job to ensure our guests finished their meal with something nicer than salty cheese and fruit a day or five past its serve-by date. It probably wasn’t unsafe to eat, but it was definitely unappetizing.
Ted shrugged and turned back to chopping parsley. “He’s trying to get rid of all that fish he bought from the wholesaler before we have to throw it out.”
I grunted in acknowledgement and decorated a second cake before plating them. After adding few swirls of raspberry syrup and a dot of crème fraiche, I handed them to the server.
Ten minutes later, orders started pouring in and I was too busy piping ganache to notice the quiet chill that descended on the kitchen.
“Would someone care to tell me why my customers are eating chocolate after a hundred dollar a plate fish course?”
I stiffened at the sound of Mark’s voice, but kept decorating cupcakes. “We had too many complaints about the cheese trays. I made these instead.”
“Ah, Carlina, my little problem child, did you have my permission to change my menu?” Mark asked, his blond hair slicked back from his chiseled face. He was the quintessential surfer boy, muscular and sun-kissed. Unfortunately, he had the personality of an overbred Chihuahua.
“No, but you always tell us to keep the customers happy. These cupcakes are keeping them happy.”
He moved too close, his warm breath on the back of my neck making my hair stand on end. We’d been lovers once upon a time, starting in culinary school. Mark wasn’t much of a cook, and borrowed more than a few of my recipes. I hadn’t minded back then because it meant we could graduate together. It wasn’t any trouble to create two recipes for each exam and he was competent enough to follow directions for practicums. We’d started La Panache with my recipes and a fat inheritance from his uncle.
I thought it was going to be happily ever after, but Mark was just as careless with my heart as he was with a salt shaker and dumped me for an underwear model.
Unfortunately, we had a contract with three years out of the original five remaining. I couldn’t afford to buy it out, so I was stuck with him unless we both agreed to terminate it. He knew it, and took every opportunity to bully me.
I’d been so excited about going into business with Mark, I hadn’t even read it. Instead of receiving a percentage of the profits, I got a flat wage of about thirty percent less than industry standard. Thankfully, there was no mention of me giving him any new recipes in that damned piece of paper I’d signed—a fact that was explained to me by Aubrey Bateman, lawyer extraordinaire, and my best friend.
When I refused to give him more, Mark made it his life’s mission to make me miserable. I wasn’t even mad about the recipes. I mean, yeah, it hurt, but the great thing about working with food is that there’s always another dish. With enough imagination and a decent education in food science, a good chef can turn the humblest of ingredients into haute cuisine without trying too hard.
“Adults don’t eat cupcakes. You get them out of plastic bags from industrial bakeries. How dare you serve them here and ruin the ambiance of my creation?”
I rolled my eyes and handed the tray of cupcakes to a server. “Francis, you don’t have ambiance. You have a dozen tired recipes you use over and over and a shitload of overpriced pears that are going bad. If you didn’t have a stick up your ass, you’d have realized pear tartlets with candied ginger might have gone over a little better than salty cheese and mushy fruit.”
I loved calling him Francis. It was his last name, but also the name of the villain from Deadpool. We saw the film when it came out and he’d been pissy about it ever since. It really was a shame he was so easy on the eyes and had the body of a god. No man who looked that fine should be such an asshole.
“You ought to remember that recipe,” I added, leaning against the saucier’s workstation. “It was my semester final in our second year and is on the menu here.”
I crossed my arms, knowing the reminder would drive Mark nuts. He always hated when I mentioned the recipes I created. Usually it made him stomp off to his of
fice in a full-blown snit.
But not this time.
A gleam of porcelain flashed, spinning toward me. I dropped to my knees as my coworkers cried out in horror. A plate shattered against the wood, barely missing my face and raining broken shards of china over my head.
“Did you seriously just throw a plate at me? For fuck’s sake! Are you five?” I yelled, getting to my feet. When I took a step toward him, he grabbed a fish knife.
“I forgot how good you look on your knees.” Mark smirked at me as he fingered the thin blade. “You’re fired.”
I tossed my hat and apron at his feet, letting shards of broken china fall to the floor. I was too thankful to mention that he couldn’t legally fire me. It was close enough. “It’s about damned time. Had I known cupcakes would make you let me out of our contract, I’d have baked them ages ago.”
Turning my back on him, I walked out, even though the space between my shoulder blades itched. I wouldn’t put it past him to stab me in the back. He’d done it before, but not quite as literally.
He chased me into the break room, unwilling to let anyone have the last word, as usual. “And don’t think I won’t blackball you, Carlina Pérez,” he shouted. “You also owe me for the time left on the contract.”
“You’re going to try blackballing me for making something your customers actually wanted to eat? Let me know how that works out for you.” I grabbed my purse and jacket from my locker, wondering if he’d left that fish knife behind. When I turned to face him, his hands were thankfully empty. “You purposely served rotten fruit and questionable fish, then threw a plate at me and dissolved our contract in front of half a dozen witnesses who all hate you. I don’t owe you shit.”
Carrying grudges was a waste of time, but I made an exception for Mark. There was one thing he’d forgotten in his attempt to be a dick. The walls of the break room were barely more than cardboard and adjoined the restaurant. I walked out, going straight through the dining room.
Every eye in the place was on me. I smiled brightly and said, “Sorry about that, folks. I’m sure the fish was fine, but y’all might not want to get too far away from a bathroom for the next few days.”
I left La Panache for the last time, a smile on my face even though I had no idea how I was going to pay my bills. The restaurant industry was tight and one bad word about a chef could destroy a career. Mark was vindictive enough to do it too. Maybe it was time to get out of the business. I’d always harbored dreams of starting a catering service. Just me, quality ingredients, and personal relationships with my clients. I unlocked my truck and got in, sighing in resignation.
Dreams required money I didn’t have. More than anything, I needed a new kitchen that was up to code for commercial cooking. I had a contractor friend estimate it once and the price he’d quoted about gave me a heart attack.
Urban sprawl from Dutch Village was killing me. McMansions had sprung up like toadstools all over Diamond Valley Lake, increasing property values to the point where my taxes were sucking the life from me. I could barely go a week without at least a dozen calls from greedy developers foaming at the mouth at the thought of my hundred-acre parcel complete with pond and woods.
I’d even gotten several calls from Acardi Development with a staggering offer to buy the place to turn it into a resort. That might have been better than subdividing it into postage stamp sized housing lots, but I wasn’t interested. The property had been in my family for generations and I wasn’t about to be the one who let it go. But if I didn’t find a job quickly, I might be forced to.
Still, Giorgio Acardi, the owner, was good for a few minutes of entertainment in the checkout line of the supermarket. He was photographed doing something silly with a different woman almost weekly.
I turned up the radio and got on I-79 headed toward Diamond Valley Lake. The commute winding through the San Bernardino foothills was one thing I wouldn’t miss.
Giorgio
I scowled down at the remains of my meal and pushed it aside. Even before the cute brunette in chef’s whites had questioned the freshness, I’d wondered if I was eating tuna from a can. It had been plated well and the sauce was a divine creation of Meyer lemon, dill, and cream, but nothing hid the lackluster taste and texture of poor-quality fish.
The pastry chef was adorable though. She had a little smudge of chocolate on her cheek that matched the color of her eyes and tawny golden skin with a thick braid hanging almost to her waist. Although she looked familiar, I couldn’t place where I’d seen her.
My date for the evening, Sara Miller, was a lovely bit of arm candy. Tall and blonde with a gym body and enough money for an expansive designer wardrobe, she was perfectly groomed and beautiful.
It was a shame. Along with being a gifted investment broker, Sara was brilliant, witty, and the perfect date for a business function. I thought there might be a decent conversationalist under her brittle façade, but every time our conversation started getting interesting, she’d change the subject. I wanted to talk about something besides work and our next sexual interlude, but Sara wasn’t having it, even after over a month of dating me.
Besides, Antonio didn’t like her. Of course, my brother never liked my dates, even the few who had taken the time to talk to him. Sara had tried, which garnered her my respect.
Wrinkling her nose, she pushed her plate away. “We should leave. It probably isn’t a good idea to finish this.”
“All right.” I lifted my hand, summoning a worried server whose name tag read Lisa. “Check, please.”
“Of course, sir,” she murmured, handing over a slip of paper from her pocket. “I’ll take it when you’re ready, but please accept my apologies for your meal.”
I nodded and handed her my black Amex. “I might not be willing to recommend the food, but the service has been exemplary.”
Giving me a relieved smile, Lisa said, “Thank you sir, I’ll be right back.”
As I waited for Lisa to return, the head chef tried to take a beautifully plated chocolate cake away from an elderly woman, a smarmy grin on his face as he explained that it wasn’t on the menu. She growled, a low, throaty sound that surprised me, and wrapped her arm around the plate. When the chef tried to take it again, she grabbed her cane and whacked his knee, making me bark out a laugh.
Lisa returned a few minutes later with the receipt and a Styrofoam box. “I packed up two of Carlina’s cupcakes for you before the head chef throws them out,” she whispered. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Setting the box on the table, I resisted the urge to find out what made such a staid elderly lady turn violent and focused on getting my bill paid so I could take Sara home.
As we left, I detoured, catching Lisa’s attention. Leaning close, I whispered, “There’s enough in your tip to cover the shortfall for the other servers.”
I hurried out before she could say anything. I’d waited tables a time or two and knew what it was like. Judging by some of the expressions I saw, the servers were going to take the brunt of the abuse for the meal. Lisa had been engaging and friendly and didn’t deserve to get shorted because of a bad chef.
“Do you have plans for later?” I asked Sara while we waited for my car to be brought around.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” she murmured. “Big day tomorrow.”
Clyde Dennison, who had driven for me for years, held the door for Sara and gave me a familiar look of placid disinterest. “Miss Miller’s apartment?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Very well, sir.”
I settled into the back seat next to her, then leaned over to nibble at the shell of her ear. “I bet we can think of something fun to do with that cake.”
Although she didn’t move away, her shoulders stiffened. “I’m afraid not. I have an early meeting in the morning, so I’m going to get a good night’s sleep.” Winking at me, she added, “And maybe a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Sorry about that. If I’d realized the food was so ba
d, we’d have gone elsewhere.”
“I was the one who suggested it,” she countered. “It’ll be my fault if we both end up with food poisoning.”
“How about tomorrow?” I asked, nipping a little harder. Sara wasn’t into bondage games, but she enjoyed things beyond vanilla sex. Nibbling the sweet spot under her ear usually made her melt.
Truly, she’d be perfect if I could get her to open up to me. I liked spending time with her, despite her reticence.
“I have other plans.” She scooted away from me and stared out the window.
Resisting the urge to ask her if there was a night she didn’t have plans, I let her go, knowing she’d be ghosting me at the earliest opportunity. I tried not to feel insulted, but I wondered what made her change her mind.
When we reached her apartment building, Sara climbed out of the limo without waiting for Clyde. Instead of shutting the door, she leaned forward, exposing her lovely cleavage.
“Thanks for dinner,” she murmured. “I’ll call you sometime.”
The door closed with a soft click and she walked away, leaving me shaking my head. I wasn’t sure what to do. If it was me doing the breaking up, I’d have my secretary send her a parting gift. I wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for her dumping me.
“Home, Mr. Acardi?”
“Yes, please.” The car pulled away from the curb and I laid my head back against the seat, still wondering why Sara had decided to break off our relationship. It was hard not to take it personally, but there were plenty of other women out there. The next would come along soon enough.
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