Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “I don’t think I know you at all,” West said.

  Before Del could react, shoes scraped on the floor behind them.

  “’Scuse me, boys.” Robert wiggled a finger at the sliding doors to indicate they were in the way. “Got to help unload the plane. The one with all their gear is due in another twenty minutes.”

  Robert slipped out, and on a blast of freezing air, Ethan Ward strode in. Even with his mussed blond hair and designer-stubbled jaw speckled with rain, the man looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of the gossip magazines Del’s female staff at Cosset would pore over during their breaks.

  Prick.

  Del stuck out his hand. “Ethan—welcome to Stewart Island. I’m Del Westlake.”

  Ethan paused to emphasize whose balls wore the kingpin crown, then he squeezed Del’s hand briefly and released.

  “Recognized you from the audition tape.” The wide smile Ethan switched on was hard enough to crush walnuts. “Bloody glad we made it in alive though; the weather’s fucking barmy out there.” His eyes flicked to Del’s right. “And you must be Ryan, Due South’s manager.”

  “I go by West—only my mother calls me Ryan.”

  “Mums are a bit like that, aren’t they?” Ethan offered his hand, and West, being West, took his time about extending his, returning the slight.

  No matter their differences, no matter West said he didn’t know Del anymore, his big brother didn’t hesitate to take his side.

  “Well then, lads.” Ethan turned toward the glass door. “Ah, here’s the rest of the stragglers. I’ll introduce you to my crew once they get in here.” He transferred his walnut-crushing smile to Del and West. “Then we’ll bugger off to the bumhole of the world, eh?”

  Del forced out a chuckle, which to his ears sounded like a cat being throttled, but Ethan bought it and grinned even wider. West dug his hands into his jacket pockets, his elbow accidently on-purpose knocking into Del’s ribs.

  Yeah, thinking the same thing, bro. What an arsehole.

  ***

  After ten minutes in Due South’s kitchen enduring Ethan Ward slathering on the charm, Del’s opinion of the man upgraded from arsehole to douchebag.

  Shaye, who’d greeted Del with a curt nod upon entering the kitchen, looked at Ethan as if he were a rock god. The camera crew had dispersed to the B&Bs they were staying in, and the assistants remained at the airport to oversee the shipping of their precious cameras and shit from the second plane.

  While Ethan examined their kitchen, Del’s gaze fell on the polo neck top under Shaye’s chef’s jacket. She caught him staring and a pretty flush flared on her cheeks.

  That’s right, babe. Under your collar, you’ve got my mark on your pretty skin.

  Her hazel eyes flicked to his and slitted into a warning glare, as if he’d spoken aloud. He wasn’t at all sorry for sucking on her neck, only that he hadn’t the opportunity to mark her in other areas. Other more private areas.

  The back door creaked open, and Bill lumbered inside. His gaze zeroed in on Del.

  “He here yet? Wasn’t he meant to arrive before lunch service?”

  “Mr. Westlake. So nice to meet the man who’s the backbone of this whole establishment.” Ethan stepped out of the pantry, where West had been yapping on about something while Del was distracted by Shaye’s…everything.

  Every single thing about Shaye distracted him.

  Bill huffed his way over to the counter, and Del dragged over a stool.

  “We’re hardly an establishment.” Bill lowered himself onto the stool with a sigh. “Just a humble pub and grub place.”

  Ethan’s hearty laugh reeked of insincerity. “I’ve some ideas on how we can update your menu. Turn this pub and grub place of yours into something the tourists will come to for the food alone.”

  “You don’t say?” One of Bill’s eyebrows quirked up. “Well, the menu could probably use a do over.”

  Del’s eyes popped, and he glanced at Shaye, who stared at him with a who the hell is that man pretending to be your father look. Numerous times, he’d mentioned to Bill that Ethan would want a menu change, only to have Bill react with thunderous sighs and muttered curses.

  “You’ll sort it out with my son,” Bill said. “He’s head chef now.”

  Del’s heart lurched in his chest. The undertone of resignation in his father’s voice…

  “Temporarily,” Ethan said. “I have a feeling he’ll be popular on my show.”

  “I’m not taking over for you permanently, Bill. You’ll be head chef again soon,” Del said.

  Bill shrugged, leaned over, and patted Shaye’s arm. “Del doesn’t want our little pub and grub place, so it’ll be yours and West’s to run when I kick the bucket.”

  Shaye recoiled. “Don’t say that!”

  “I won’t be around forever, girlie. I’m considering a move to Invercargill, so I’ll be closer to the hospital for my damn dialysis appointments.”

  “Dad, no.” West’s face crumpled. “It’d kill you to leave Oban.”

  Del glanced at Shaye, who was busy running her fingers under her wet eyes and sending embarrassed sneak-peeks over at Ethan. Ethan—who appeared to be eating up this mini-drama like a teenage girl bingeing on ice-cream.

  “It’ll kill me to stay,” Bill said gruffly. “I can’t keep making the crossing, and it’s not right me being a burden on Claire—and now young Carly.”

  “You’re not a burden,” West said.

  Del cleared his throat, swallowing past a gullet-full of sharp rocks. “Mom and Carly want to be here.”

  Faded blue eyes clashed with Del’s. “You think I’m gonna ask either of them to help change my incontinence pants if I get to that stage?”

  Bill slipping into self-pity sent the sharp rocks tearing into his guts, and Del only knew of one way to snap him out of it.

  He leaned forward, bracing his palms on the counter, meeting his father’s gaze without blinking. “You can change your own fucking pants for a while yet, old man.”

  Bill’s bushy eyebrows shot up, and Shaye and West choked in a gasp.

  Then Bill smacked a palm on the counter and roared with laughter. “That’s my boy.” He eased up off the stool and stabbed a finger at West. “Get the sour-puss look off your face and go talk to your newest staff member. She’s waiting out front.”

  West straightened. “Who’ve you been hiring?”

  “Carly. She’s gonna help Kip at the bar, so you don’t freakin’ kill yourself trying to do six damn jobs at once.”

  “I can handle it,” West glowered.

  Yep. West looked as if good ol’ Dad had confiscated his favorite toy and given it to someone else.

  “Like Shaye could handle the kitchen alone, eh?” Bill said. “You made me suck it up and let Del take over. Quit ya whining, and accept your sister’s help.”

  West’s eyes popped. “She’s my stepsister, not my sister—and you can’t make her work; she just got here.”

  “This, from the man who made my sister a kitchen-hand the moment she arrived home,” said Shaye.

  West glared at her, and Shaye narrowed her eyes in return.

  “I’m not making her do nothing,” Bill said. “She offered.”

  “Excuse us, Ethan.” West shot a glance over at the man smirking at the end of the counter. “There’s not usually this much screwed-up drama at Due South.”

  Shaye snorted and stalked off to the cold storage room.

  Del resisted the urge to laugh out loud at his brother’s bald-faced lie.

  “No problem, lads.” Ethan Ward grinned his walnut-crushing grin, likely calculating his ratings shooting through the roof filming Del’s fucked-up family. “No problem at all.”

  Chapter 12

  Sick owner, pain-in-the-ass manager, and a head-chef she wanted to bonk senseless—before she chopped him into tiny pieces, baked him in a pie, and fed him to the dogs, that is.

  Damn those Westlake men!

  Shaye adjusted the white sca
rf, craning her neck in the mirror to ensure the chiffon folds covered the faint mark. At least, with her vintage 1960s, floral silk dress, wearing a scarf a la Audrey Hepburn didn’t stand out as an obvious, oh, hai, I’m a big slut with a hickey on my neck.

  Lunch service that day, after their embarrassing first meeting with Ethan Ward earlier, had thankfully gone quickly. Slammed with guests hoping to catch a glimpse of the man himself, she barely had time to moon over her head chef. Yet she’d been unable to stop fixating on every minute, every second of the amazing cabin-fever incident.

  Cabin fever. The heat generated between them could’ve flash-fried an elephant.

  Shaye peeled back her lips and applied one last coat of lipstick—a bright crimson to draw attention away from her neck. She returned the tube to her makeup case. No one would be looking at her, anyway. Piper’s bridal shower, put on by their mum and the church ladies, was all about the bride. Not about Piper’s sister hoping to disguise a hickey on her neck—something she hadn’t had to do in a long, long time. How long had it been since she’d had a mark that made her fizzy and breathless every time she thought about the man who put it there? Ah…never?

  Shaye hurried out of her room, heading down to the kitchen where she’d stashed the three dozen pastel-colored macaroons she’d baked the night before. A quick check at the bottom of the stairs revealed Ford sprawled in his mother’s usual spot behind the reception desk.

  He looked up at the sound of her heels and gave her the raised eyebrow salute then a gratifying double-take. “Hey. You look real nice.”

  From Ford, you look real nice was the verbal equivalent of a dozen roses, chocolates, and a hand-written ballad sung from below a balcony.

  “Just for that, I’ll save you some cake, especially since your mum’s making you work the desk.”

  The grin he offered gave her the warm fuzzies but not a tingle more. So much easier if she could crush on sweet, dependable Ford.

  “That’s why you’re my favorite Harland,” he said.

  “Like your mum hasn’t promised you exactly the same thing. See-ya.”

  She breezed through the swinging doors, her peep-toe, six-inch heels clicking prettily—a much sexier sound than the usual hush of her work clogs. Crossing the kitchen floor, she swept her gaze over the stainless steel surfaces, checking everything had been left ship-shape and ready for dinner service that night.

  Movement in the pantry caught her eye—Del.

  Del jamming the lid back on her plastic container of macaroons.

  Del with his eyes wide and cheeks bulging.

  She stabbed a finger at him. “Thief!”

  He showed her his palms but continued to chew as she stalked into the pantry.

  “I can explain.” The tip of his tongue flicked out and swiped a pale lilac crumb off his upper lip. His eyes gleamed, gaze slipping from her face down her body to the tips of her turquoise-painted toenails. “But let me pick my jaw up off the floor first—you looking fucking amazing.”

  “Uh-huh.” She schooled her features into holding the glare of death, even though her pulse skyrocketed at the heat of his gaze. “I’d made an exact number of macaroons to fit on my mother’s fanciest platter, and now you’ve screwed it up by eating one.”

  “I’ve a confession to make.”

  Del closed the distance and rubbed the ends of her scarf between his fingers, tugging it gently so it pulled against her neck. Reminding her again of what they’d done together. To each other. He bent down, and the scent of him—a hint of shampoo, warm male skin, and a trace of almonds from her stolen macaroons—wrapped around her. His hands closed on her bare upper arms, and his lips brushed her ear.

  “That was my second macaroon.”

  She gasped, more from the sizzle of contact than his admission. “You had two?”

  Her heart pin-balled into her throat, making her voice come out a breathless squeak. As if she cared about the missing baked goods with his teeth closing gently on her lobe.

  “Yeah. After I gave in to the temptation of trying the first one…”

  His magnetic pull drew her hands to his chef’s jacket, where they fisted either side of his hips, anchoring her, since apparently her body had filled with helium bubbles and wanted to float to the ceiling.

  Hot, damp kisses pressed along her jaw. The scrape of his soft bristles conducted a current straight to her happy-place via her nipples, which tightened unbearably against her bra. Her white demi-cup push-up bra that matched her bikini panties—since Slutty Bridesmaid liked being a little daring under her party clothes.

  “I was hooked,” he said. “One taste just wasn’t enough…”

  Shaye swayed into him, a small noise of pleasure vibrating in her throat. Breasts to pecs, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, her nerve endings lit up like fireworks. His arm slid around her waist and held her to him—like she had the strength to pull away. As if.

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “I thought you didn’t like sweet things.”

  The flash of his blue eyes scanning her face sent another bolt of feminine heat flushing through her system, weakening her knees.

  “I lied,” he said.

  “Liar and thief—don’t think I’ve forgotten you’ve still got my panties.”

  And didn’t that weaken her knees even more?

  He smiled his wicked smile, using his dimple to devastating effect. “Just living up to my bad-boy rep.”

  “Oh, you’re bad, all right.”

  His talented mouth claimed her other earlobe, and her breath hissed out sharply.

  Her hands released his jacket and slid over rumpled cotton to grasp his ass, pulling herself tighter against him. His tongue flickered out to trace a hot line along the curve of her ear. God, the man had an amazing—

  “Excuse me?”

  Del reared back, and their heads swiveled in unison to the pantry entrance. Holly leaned in the doorway with a hand on her hip and raised eyebrows.

  Heat whoomphed into Shaye’s cheeks like a gas flame had ignited inside her mouth. “I-was-just-getting-the-macaroons.”

  Holly’s lips peeled into a wide smile. “Oh? Has Del hidden them in the seat of his pants? Sneaky.”

  Shaye’s gaze zipped down to her hands, which, yes, still clasped two firm and delicious male butt checks. Crapola!

  Her fingers sprang open and she scrubbed her palms down the sides of her dress. Del’s soft chuckle ruffled through the loose strands of her hair. He stepped away, arm slipping from around her waist.

  “I ate two of her macaroons,” he said. “Shaye was just exacting a little revenge.”

  Holly’s sharp gaze switched from Shaye’s face to Del’s. “Her revenge was squeezing your bum and letting you put a tongue in her ear? Sounds like cruel and unnecessary punishment.”

  “She’s got a mean streak even bigger than her sister.”

  Del’s voice was warm with laughter, but Shaye concentrated on re-gathering her composure by pretending Slutty Bridesmaid—busted by her best friend—had turned into Virtuous Virgin, a sweet, innocent girl who wouldn’t dream of groping a man in her place of employment.

  Shaye popped the lid that Del hadn’t properly replaced back onto the container. “Since you’re here, you can help me carry the macaroons over to the hall.”

  She held the container out toward Holly, exaggeratedly rolling her eyes to the side with an eye-brow wriggle, cueing her friend to shut the hell up.

  Holly sauntered forward, the skirt of her fuchsia dress, which matched this week’s dye streak in her hair, swirling around her knees.

  “Sure,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost on the way over to the community hall and somehow accidentally end up in Del’s bed.”

  “Holly!” Shaye hissed, shoving the macaroons into her friend’s hands.

  A masculine chuckle from behind contributed to another flare of heat across Shaye’s face.

  The thought of Del’s bed tempted her more than a couple of hours playing Bridal Bingo a
nd oohing over Mr. & Mrs. towel sets. And if she had a choice between Mrs. Taylor’s honeymoon stories and Del Westlake kissing Shaye until she couldn’t remember her own name?

  Total. No. Brainer.

  Shaye grabbed the second container, catching a peripheral glimpse of white chef jacket stretched tight over rounded biceps before she turned away. “We’d better get going before my mother sends out a search party.”

  “Have fun,” Del said.

  “We will.” Shaye hurried after Holly, who’d already crossed to Due South’s back door.

  They stepped outside, and Shaye held up a warning finger at her friend’s I’m gonna burst if I don’t talk expression.

  With her arm looped through Shaye’s, Holly towed her along the path separating Due South and the low building at right angles to it, which housed an extra ten hotel units. They hurried around the corner onto the strip of concrete that served as a sidewalk leading to the community hall.

  “Oh. My. God,” Holly said, elbowing Shaye in the ribs. “You and freakin’ Del Westlake?”

  “Yeah.” Shaye glanced over her shoulder in case any locals were close enough to catch a whiff of gossip. “But Hol, you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, of course not.” Holly’s nose crinkled. “It’s not my job to tell your friends and family the two of you are a couple.”

  Shaye stopped walking so fast her arms gave a half pinwheel. She choked out a strangled laugh. “We’re not a couple. Gawd. Nothing like that.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Seriously. We don’t even like each other. We just can’t seem to stop, you know…”

  Holly slapped an attitude-ridden hand on her hip. “Groping in the workplace?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of a workmates with benefits thing.”

  “So Del doesn’t check any of your anal Shaye’s Perfect Man boxes?”

  “Pffft.” Shaye waved a hand. “Del is light-years behind any of my man requirements—which are sensible, not anal—so I’m surprised you’d even ask. Have you forgotten the list you sneakily read when we were thirteen.”