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.
Jul
ia 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.”
More Than Neighbors Page 27
