Or I’m being an idiot.
A dog rushes out before the car and my arm darts out before her as I hit the brakes. We skid on the pavement and the dog scrambles off, unhurt as I regain control of the car. With a glance, I see she’s staring down at my arm and I move it away, internally cursing the automatic instinct to keep her safe.
But moments later, she’s singing with the next song and I hope the whole thing is forgotten.
Until we pull up to the wrought iron gates. She goes quiet, her face staring at the gates as my security guy at the front spies me and pushes the button to admit the car. I stop at his little booth and he seems shocked as he sees the girl at my side.
“How are you, Rick?” I ask and he dips his head without speaking. I roll the window up and drive the tree lined road that leads up to the house I’d had built for myself. It’s an old nineteenth century Italian style mansion that’s old world outside and inside, but is totally modernized.
It reminds me of home.
She says nothing as I pull up and park in the garage. We get out and walk up to the front door. It opens for me and I nod at Annie.
“Good day, sir,” she says softly, lowering her heavily lined features toward the floor in a show of respect while opening the door wide.
“I’ve brought company,” I say and her old eyes sparkle as they meet mine. For the first time, I realize the girl isn’t beside me. She’s still on the steps, her eyes tracing over the face of the mansion.
“Miss?” I say and she doesn’t seem to hear me. So I walk down the steps and she finally seems to see me.
“Were you talking to me?” she asks, sounding breathless. Her big blue eyes meet mine and I’m stunned by how… endless they seem. Like I could look forever and never see everything she’s holding back.
“Yes,” I say with a gruff tone. She’s quick to fall in step beside me as I walk up the front walkway into the house. Annie watches us, that smile still on her face.
“I’ll take my leave,” Annie says and I feel the new girl glaring bitterly at me.
But instead of facing her, I walk toward the kitchen.
Chapter 3
Cindy
He walks so stiffly. His shoulders are wide, terrifying, and he’s much more… intense than I expected. And tan. And those dark eyes; I swear he can see right through me.
As if he hears my thoughts, he spins to face me. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Cindy,” I say as I look around the kitchen he’d led me to with my mouth wide open. I can’t even hate him more for having servants.
A man in a chef’s jacket walks out into view and I see a smile cross his face. “Mr. Rossi!” The chef says and I realize I can’t hate him as he glances at me with a smile and a polite, “Miss.” He seems way too nice. Still, some part of me twists with jealousy. My dad would be great in a place like this.
I glance at Rossi, surprised he’s ignoring the person talking to him. “Don’t be rude,” I say before realizing who I’m talking to.
And judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up, he’s as surprised as I am.
But the chef bursts out in loud laughter and I shift uncomfortably, my cheeks blazing red hot. Rossi turns to face the chef who’s quick to tell him in a loud voice that he’s in trouble.
Rossi doesn’t seem amused. “Get home to the lady, Ben,” He growls at the man who nods and says a loud thanks in that signature voice. Ben is quick to leave and only when he’s gone does Rossi turn to me.
“I assume you know who I am,” he says, his voice suddenly chilly.
I nod as he walks into the kitchen and stands before a stainless steel, restaurant grade bit of equipment of some kind. Of course I know who he is. Why would I walk out in front of him to talk if I didn’t know him?
The thick scent of coffee fills the air and I walk up to sit at the bar that runs nearly the whole length of the front of the room. The whole place is light and white with the glint of stainless steel. Windows let in the brilliance of the snow and the brightening of the skies as everything goes a vibrant sunset orange.
“Are you hungry?” he asks and my stomach rumbles an answer for me. Without another word, he opens the oven and pulls forth an incredible meal with the awaiting potholders. My mouth fills and I swallow, thinking that whatever he made has got to be the most amazing thing I’ve never had.
He places the hot dish on the stovetop and pulls a couple plates from a nook I didn’t even know was a cabinet. The whole overhead storage area looks like a segmented, coldly artistic stretch of stainless steel that stands about ten inches from the wall. But he opens a segment of it like magic and pulls two simple, square white plates out and places them on the counter.
I watch him as he uses what seems like surgeon precision to place food on each plate. To the point where he carefully wipes up a smudge on one of the plates with a clean hand towel. He then brings them over and places one before me and one on the other side of the bar before he leaves once a gain and produces two cups much the way he did the plates.
I watch the grace and comfort of how he moves in the kitchen. He’s got a heavy grace, not like a dancer, no, more like a boxer. Heavy on his feet, yet quick and agile. He’s moves like someone more at home in the kitchen than anywhere else.
It’s interesting to watch.
When he turns, I quickly look down at the plate he’d put before me. There are little potatoes; red, purple, white, it’s beautiful with the little carrots, celery and what looks like onion as well as a few other things I can’t quite place. Beside the veggies is some kind of meat that is falling apart before my eyes. Something that reminds me of roast, but unlike any cut of meat I’ve ever gotten to enjoy. And to the side, a delicate fruit that looks like half a pear filled with some kind of cream and topped with a sweet jam of sorts. It’s beautiful and smells amazing.
Glancing up at Rossi again, I see he’s placing a steaming cup of coffee before me and one before himself. Alongside the coffee is a beautifully wrapped set of utensils. I feel bad, almost, unwrapping the napkin to get at the silverware as he takes his.
Following his motions, I run what I’m going to say through my mind really quick. I want it all ready to go when we finally decide to speak.
As if reading my mind, he says, “First we eat, then we talk business.” There’s a gruff edge to his tone and I nod, wondering if he’s always been this short. Then again, maybe he’s just judging me like I have been judging him this whole time.
We begin to eat and I feel like melting into my plate. The food is simply amazing, bursting with flavors that range from savory to spicy before coming back to this savory sensation that’s exactly what my stomach has been craving for… well… forever.
I’ve never eaten like this.
Struggling to keep my manners, I eat as slowly as I can manage. I’m sure to him I look like a damned monster, but it’s a compliment, really, to this amazing food. I glance up at him, my heart pounding with humiliation.
He meets my gaze, totally steadfast as he takes a drink of his coffee.
That’s right, there’s coffee!
I pick mine up, forcing my hands to be calm and slow. Taking a drink of it, I close my eyes and groan a sound of pure pleasure. It’s perfect. Creamy and slightly sweet, nutty and rich.
“This is so good,” I say, opening my eyes to look at him again.
He gives me a tight smile as he places his cup back on the glossy countertop. Everything is just so pretty and clean I feel out of place. My countertops at home look dingy no matter how hard or much I scrub. They’re not really dirty; just old and worn out with a perpetual dirty look.
I rub the last bite of potato on my plate in the juices of the meat and pop it in my mouth with a shiver of pleasure. Every bit of me is sad it’s gone. I could eat that until I popped. The pear is next. I cut a delicate sliver of it and the cream slowly melts into the space like melted ice cream. Taking a bite, I savor the delicately sweet flavors with the slightly tart bite of the sauce on top.
It’s fucking brilliant; not too sweet, not too tart.
I dig in and it’s gone all too soon. When the last bit of cream is gone, I dab the corners of my lips with my napkin, aware again that I must seem like a beast slobbering before Rossi.
Cringing, I meet his gaze. There’s something hard behind his dark eyes and I feel my back snap straight.
You know what? Fuck him. He’s got money, but he’s not better than I am.
Chapter 4
Gavin
She’s fucking beautiful. And glaring at me like I’m the devil in disguise. Everything about her is a beautiful contradiction and I’m fascinated by her.
“So what brings you to me?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.
She seems startled by my words and I see her eyes drop to my lips. Her mouth opens a little; her lips part just so like she’s waiting for a kiss. And damn it all to hell, I want to kiss her.
What the fresh fuck is wrong with me?
“You fired my dad,” she says, the words an accusation that blindsides me.
“Who’s your dad?” I ask, not wanting to call her out. I already feel like I should tread lightly with her. She doesn’t pull her punches when she’s talking to me like everyone else does; I learned that when she told me to stop being rude to my chef. No one else would have dared tell me to stop being rude.
She’s interesting.
And perhaps unstable.
Though I’m pretty sure now that she’s not a crack head. She’s missing some tells. She’s not twitchy or nervous, doesn’t seem paranoid or crazy. Well, not crack head crazy, at least. Some kind of crazy, maybe.
She seems shocked, as if my words have left her off balance. “Carl Handberg,” she says finally and I recall the name. I’d met him once. He was a nice guy. Polite, but not a kiss ass. The kind of man I like having around to keep me honest and my head a normal size. He’d been let go? Her eyes are wide and begging me to listen to her as she talks.
“He’s not a criminal. We need his job.” Her voice sounds like her lungs are being squeezed in a vice until the air is forced out in an agonized whine. “Why would he risk everything for a one time pay out of a couple hundred bucks?” she asks and it’s a good question. It doesn’t make sense. And looking at her, I can imagine that they need the pay.
Her thin sweater needs an upgrade. Even her dark leggings are thin and worn and showcase her curved, slim legs. And her shoes are a second away from falling to pieces. I’m sure they’re holding together with prayers and spit.
Her bubblegum tongue darts out to trace her petal pink lips and I follow the motion, startled by the heat that flares up in me. Damn. I fucking want to know how she tastes. I want to kiss her. I have a feeling though, that she wouldn’t be okay with that.
Glancing up into her pretty blue eyes, I see a heat there that mirrors my own and it takes everything I have to hold back.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say and her eyes light up.
“That’s what I was saying!” She says, her whole face shining with excitement. “He wouldn’t do that. He’s not a damned thief. He works hard, he’s been doing his best to work his way up into the kitchen, and he loves that job.”
She’s practically vibrating in her seat.
I hold a hand up, realizing that she’s getting too carried away. “There’s nothing I can do,” I say and her face falls. What was excitement and joy is now flat anger.
“Nothing you can do or nothing you will do?” she asks, her anger evident in her harsh tone. She brings both palms down on the counter and looks away from me, clearly trying to control her flaring temper. And I’m further interested by her. She’s got a hot temper, clearly, and feels very strongly about this.
I want to sigh, but that would be entirely too revealing. “The lawyers would have decided things. My hands are tied.” It’s not totally a lie, but not entirely the truth, either. And I sense she knows it.
“Well, that’s too bad,” she says in a falsely bright tone that puts me on edge. “I guess I’ll have to speak a language you understand better, then.” She looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup, her pretty blue eyes stealing my attention as she takes a nonchalant sip of coffee.
“I’m listening,” I say, knowing I’m really not going to like what she says next.
But she doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze falls to her cup and she places it on the counter and holds her fingers around the rim of it while tilting it at an angle and circling it. The motion is mesmerizing and she studies it a moment before only her eyes move, focusing back on me again.
“I’m going to have to go to the news,” she says thoughtfully, her lips pursing a little as she thinks. “Father down on his luck framed and wrongfully terminated. That’ll wrench Christmas hearts.” She gasps, glancing at me with wide eyes. “Oh, my, they’ll call you the Grinch who stole the Handberg Christmas.”
I feel my stomach sinking even as I feel a flash of respect for this girl. She doesn’t give up. She’s not just walking out with hunched shoulders. She’s fucking fighting me every step of the way. No one’s ever done that shit before. It’s infuriating, but also kind of nice.
I say nothing and she continues.
“What about the Better Business Bureau?” She asks, her tone slightly mocking. “A report about a billionaire using a lowly dishwasher as a scapegoat for fraud and terminating him?” She shakes her head. “That might sting a little, huh?”
Still, I say nothing. Feeling numb, I pick up my coffee and take a sip.
She continues as if still thinking of ways to fuck over my life. “And Yelp; I’ll sick ‘em on you. Bad review after bad review. And people will pick up my story. Now is the time of year people get really bent out of shape about injustices to the lower class from stuffed suits like you.”
A cold little smile struggles to pull the corners of her lips, but I sense she’s getting no pleasure from threatening me. She feels backed into a corner and has no other ideas of how to push me into helping her. It’s not like my reputation is one of being an understanding man. No one would ever call me kind or good hearted.
Sure, she might feel backed into a corner, but she’s doing the same shit to me. It’s hard to feel bad for her. Still, I get it. She’s trying to bring all of this to my level. Trying to make me understand how she feels with threats that seem on the same scale to her. And she’s pretty fucking close. Her threats are sound.
So why am I more amused than pissed? I should be furious with her for threatening me. I should be warning her that I don’t put up with this kind of bullshit. I don’t negotiate with terrorists, domestic or otherwise.
I’m known as a cold son of a bitch and with good reason.
Chapter 5
Cindy
He’s not going to fucking fix this. What an asshole.
As silence follows my words and stretches into oblivion, I finish my coffee.
He seems to be deep in thought and he’s focused on my face like I hold answers to questions he didn’t know he had. Everything about him is electric. I’m furious, he feels like he’s about to breathe fire and I want to blow off some damn steam. Maybe I’ll walk the fuck home.
That’ll help me burn off some of this damn tension eating away at the lining of my guts.
“I’ll look into it.”
My head snaps up and I stare at him, noticing how he looks as angry as I feel. I guess the bully isn’t used to being bullied. Well, I don’t feel bad for him. He should have led with a promise to look into it.
His jaw works and I know he’s clenching his teeth in anger. But the way his lips move drags my attention and holds me captive. What would it feel like to kiss him? I must be going crazy, wanting him to kiss me like this. He’s the absolute worst wrong person for me to have any kind of feelings like this toward!
But he’s looking at me like he’s having all the same thoughts.
And none of the same hesitations.
Suddenly his lips are on mine and he’s demanding, seek
ing, searching. His tongue presses to the seal of my lips and I want to melt into a puddle at his feet. I let him past my barriers, feeling like an idiot as I do so and his tongue dances with mine in a vicious, hungry manner that makes my heart pound overtime in my chest.
There’s a growl deep in the back of his throat that leaves my body humming to life. Then, he pulls back and I watch him in shock as he rounds the counter with a hungry look on his face. He pulls me back into the kiss, his hands on my hips as I kiss him back. I’m yanked to my feet and our bodies press together like we were made to fit like this.
My pulse is pounding in my ears and there’s something whispering in my head that I need to stop, that this is stupid, that he’s not someone I should fool around with in any way; especially like this.
His hands are on me and he grabs my ass. Like I weigh nothing, he lifts me and I listen to the instinct that tells me to wrap my legs round his hips and my arms around his wide shoulders. His lips stay on mine and I’m kissing him back, desperate for more as his hands cup my ass possessively.
I’m vaguely aware we’re moving as he breaks the kiss to bite my lips. The sensation drives me crazy and I paw at his shirt like I can peel it from his frame. I want to feel skin on skin, want to feel his body pressed to mine without cloth barriers.
He slams a door behind us and I feel like I’m falling as I land on my back in bed with his weight pressing down on top of me.
“Shirt off,” I order and he lifts up to rip it up over his head before coming back to kiss my throat and the hollow at the base of my neck.
“Your turn,” he growls and pulls my sweater up and my shirt with it. He doesn’t need my help to free me of it; with one hand under my back he lifts me and pulls the offending clothing free of my body before kissing my lips again. He tastes like sin and excitement. An explosive combo that I just can’t get enough of.
No Reservations Page 2
