by Lissa- Sugar
But he could have handled the ending a little better. She understood that their two weeks hadn’t been destined to have a happy-ever-after-ending because this was not a movie, but he could have shown some tact. A phone call, even an e-mail…
Really? A phone call? An e-mail? To say what?
Lissa, I wanted to thank you for everything, but I’ve gone back to my real life now and…
And, Lissa thought grimly, the simple truth was that if she ever had the misfortune to see Nick Gentry again, she’d tell him that she’d been right all along. He was a selfish, egotistical jerk, and if he’d ever been foolish enough to think that he’d truly meant anything to her, it was just proof of exactly how much of a jerk he was.
All she had to do now was decide where to place him on the Lissa List. Between Carlos Antonioni and Jack Rutledge? After Rutledge but before Raoul? Or maybe after Raoul. Maybe Gentry belonged in a class all his own.
Or maybe it was her.
She’d let a series of selfish men use her.
“—kind and generous at a time when kindness and generosity were what I needed.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He made her sound like the Red Cross.
“To hell with you, Nicholas Gentry,” Lissa said, and turned the roan toward home.
* * *
They were all waiting for her in the big kitchen at El Sueño, brothers, sisters, sisters-in-law, a brother-in-law and a brother-in-law-to-be, babies, the entire enormous Wilde clan.
They all looked up when she came through the back door. She could see the worry in their faces, worry that changed to artificial expressions meant to assure her that they hadn’t been worried at all.
“Having a family powwow?” she said pleasantly, slipping off her jacket, hanging it on the coatrack beside the door, smiling at babies as she headed for the coffeepot on the stove.
“Just, you know, getting the day started,” Jacob said.
Was he the designated spokesman for the morning? They seemed to choose a different one each day.
Lissa poured herself coffee, added cream, added sugar, stirred, sipped, took her time while working up something she could say that would let them know how much she loved them, how much she appreciated their love for her, but how it was time for everybody’s life to return to normal.
Hell. She decided she’d simply improvise.
“Listen, you guys…” They all looked at her as if they expected a message from an oracle. She cleared her throat. “I have something to tell you.” No one moved. No one breathed. Even the babies were still. “I’m going home.”
That did it. They all spoke at once. Different voices, different words, one message.
She was home!
“No,” she said gently, “I’m not. What I mean is, this place will always be home, of course. But I have a life in L.A. Such as it is, anyway.” She tried a smile; unfortunately, nobody smiled back. “My apartment is there. My things. My contacts. And before you point out that the one thing I don’t have there is a job, well, I’m going to do something about that.”
“Like what?” Caleb said.
There was a note of belligerence in his voice. One wrong word and for all she knew, her crazy, wonderful family was capable of barring the door to stop her from another try at taking on the big, bad world.
“For starters, I’m going to visit the last place I worked. Really worked, I mean. I was executive chef there and—well, the details don’t matter. What does matter is that I let people think I’d messed up and been fired. I didn’t and I hadn’t, and I’m going to sort that out first. Then I’m going to talk with my agent. I might look for a different kind of job. Private cook to some big-shot producer. Or start my own boutique catering service. Boutiquey stuff is big in La La Land.”
She tried another smile and was rewarded with a twitch of the lips from one sister and two brothers.
“I might even decide to pull up stakes and try another city.”
“How about Dallas?” Travis said.
She knew he was dead serious, so she gave a dead-serious answer.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?” Jake said. “It’s a great place—you already know that. And we know lots and lots of people who’d line up around the block to eat at a place Lissa Wilde ran.”
“It’s the Wilde part I’m trying to get away from,” Lissa said, even though she’d never realized it until that instant. “I love our family. I’m proud of our name. But—”
“But she wants to succeed on her own,” Emily said. Everyone looked at her and she blushed.
Her husband, Marco, took her hand and brought it to his lips. “And you did, bellisima,” he said softly.
Jaimie nodded. “Making it as yourself, not as a Wilde, is really, really important.”
Zach, her fiancé, slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“That’s my James,” he murmured, and dropped a kiss on her temple.
Lissa looked at her brothers. Their expressions were impassive. Then, Jake sighed. Travis shrugged his shoulders. Caleb nodded his head.
“Go for it, kid,” he said.
Lissa laughed. She cried, too, but these were good tears.
She went from Wilde to Wilde and hugged them. “I love you all,” she said.
She went upstairs and changed her clothes. She didn’t even bother packing; that would have taken too long. Besides, she had a closet full of clothes back in L.A. The only thing she didn’t have back there was the garish-pink goody called Pleasure Pleaser. It was here, still inside the suitcase she’d brought with her, and it could remain there.
She’d never gotten around to using it.
She hadn’t had to use it, she thought with a little lump in her throat.
And she wouldn’t, not for a while. Just now, she didn’t want to think about sex, not even the do-it-yourself variety.
What mattered was that one of the Wilde jets was waiting.
After that, sink or swim, she was on her own.
* * *
Once in L.A., she didn’t bother going to her apartment.
The old saying was true. The time to strike was while the iron was hot and, dammit, she was hot. She did make one quick stop at a store she’d passed a couple of times on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Then she headed for Raoul’s.
The restaurant was almost empty. She’d figured on that; this was the standard restaurant lull between late lunch and the early dinner hour.
“Hi,” she said to the maître d’, and breezed past him.
“Lissa,” he said, “wait—”
But she had waited too long already.
She moved quickly, through the dining room to the kitchen, past the cooks who looked up from dinner prep and blinked with surprise, through the door that led to the basement, down a short hall and straight to Raoul’s office.
His door opened before she reached it. Evidently, the maître d’ had called to tell him that she was coming.
Raoul’s handsome face was drawn up in a dark scowl.
“I would have thought you would have more sense than to show up here again, Wilde.”
Lissa smiled as she shut the door. “You mean, you thought you’d scared me off.”
“Get out, or I’ll call the police.”
“To do what? Protect you from me? You’re, what, six feet tall? I’m five four on a good day.” She held out her hands. “I’m not even armed, see? No knives. No fish stock.”
Raoul reddened and reached for the house phone.
“John? Come down to my office, please.” He hung up and looked at Lissa. “If you’re going to beg me for a recommendation…”
“A recommendation as what? As the chef who established this restaurant? Designed the kitchen, hired the staff, planned the menu, chose everything from your suppliers to the cutlery to the dishes?”
An unctuous smile curled over his lips. “Prove it,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Or are you going to recommend
me for the blow job I didn’t give you? Dammit, I wish I had a picture of you standing there with your fly open, your pathetic weeny weenie hanging out while you told me to get down on my knees and be quick about it.”
His smile fled.
“You should have dropped to your knees like a stone. Being made executive chef at a restaurant like this was worth whatever price I chose to put on it.”
“Including fellating you.”
“Absolutely including fellating me,” he said coldly. “You owed me, big-time, for giving you a break like this. Now, if you’re done…” Someone knocked at the door. Raoul moved past her and opened it. “John is here to show you out.”
The maître d’, looking uncomfortable, stepped into the office.
“Sorry, Lissa, but we all know how it is, that you buckled on opening night and Raoul had to fire you and—”
Lissa grinned, reached in the breast pocket of her blue silk shirt and detached what, at first look, seemed to be only a button on the shirt pocket. But it wasn’t. It was a camera, cleverly attached to a tiny video recorder inside the pocket.
“Surprise,” she chirped, waggling the recorder at Raoul.
He went white. “You bitch!”
She smiled. Hit a button. A picture appeared on the little screen, accompanied by Raoul’s voice. Lissa let the video run for a few seconds before stopping it. “Here we go,” she said happily.
“You should have dropped to your knees like a stone. Being made executive chef at a restaurant like this was worth whatever price I chose to put on it.”
“Including fellating you.”
“Absolutely including fellating me…”
Click! Lissa stopped the recording. Wonderful! John’s jaw had fallen almost to his knees.
“That recording isn’t worth a damn,” Raoul said. “You can’t use it in a court of law.”
“How about in the court of public opinion?” Lissa said sweetly. She dropped the tiny device into her purse, patted the maître d’ on the arm and strolled through the door, up the stairs, through the kitchen, where she smiled at everyone, and out into the street.
“Oh, man,” she said. “Oh, man,” and she did a little circle dance.
Nobody looked at her.
You could get away with that kind of thing in only two places she could think of. One was here, where bizarre behavior was close to the norm. The other was Manhattan, where people didn’t make eye contact with each other, let alone with the crazies.
On the other hand, talking to yourself and dancing on the street would probably win you some stares in Clarke’s Falls, Montana…
And, damn, what was she doing, thinking about that?
Montana and everything about it was history.
So was Raoul and, by extension, the other men she’d permitted to walk all over her. Was it because she’d never felt as if she’d met her father’s expectations? Was it because being ditched by Tommy Suarez in kindergarten had marked her for life?
Lissa laughed.
It didn’t matter.
What did matter was that falling for good-looking hunks, for actors, was over. Her future stretched ahead, bright and shiny, and someplace out there, her Mr. Nice Guy was waiting.
By tonight, the true story about Raoul and her would be in every kitchen in town.
By morning, she’d have her choice of jobs.
As for Raoul…
That deserved another little circle dance.
His name would only evoke laughter.
* * *
Her apartment was airless after all the time away from it.
She shut the door, turned what seemed like dozens of locks—it was a different world than the one she’d known in Montana, and what did that matter?
She was back where she belonged, and glad of it.
Just as she began opening windows, her cell phone rang. She plucked it from her purse, glanced at the screen and rolled her eyes.
“Jake. I am fine. Really. I am completely—”
“Lissa. He was here.”
“Who was where?”
“Gentry, that SOB.”
“Nick?” Lissa dropped into a chair. “Nick was there? At your ranch?”
“At El Sueño. The no-good bastard.”
“I don’t understand. What was he doing at El Sueño?”
“Jesus H. Christ, Melissa, what do you think? He was looking for you.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs. “Why would he do that?”
“I didn’t ask him. Hell, why would I? All I did was make it clear that he’d better stay away from you.’
Lissa shut her eyes. A shotgun? A rifle? Bare fists?
“Jacob. What did you do?”
“He’s just damn lucky everybody else had already left. If Travis and Caleb and Zach and Marco had still been around—”
The litany of names and the possibilities that went with them made her shudder.
“Jake. Please. What happened?”
“I slugged him, that’s what happened. Does he think we’re fools? ‘Where is Lissa? I have to see her.’” Jake cursed. “As if that crap would impress me.”
“That’s what he said? That he has to see me?”
“He didn’t even fight back. All those tough-guy movie roles and the SOB didn’t even try to defend himself.”
“Oh, Jake,” Lissa whispered. “Did you hurt him?”
“I got in one straight shot to the jaw. I’d have done more, but I’m not into hitting cowards.”
“How did he look?”
“His jaw’s gonna be a glow-in-the-dark gem in a few hours.”
“Aside from that! Was he OK? Was he using a cane? Was he limping?”
“Who gives a damn?”
“I do, you idiot,” she yelled, and she knew, just that quickly, that she wasn’t over loving Nicholas.
The truth was, she never would be.
Jake was cautious with her after that. She could tell that he was trying to figure out what was happening and getting no place, fast.
“Listen,” she finally said, taking pity on him, “remember when you left Addison?”
“I didn’t leave her. Not really. I loved her, but things got in the way.” Silence. “Dammit, Liss, are you saying you—you care for this guy?”
“I’m saying,” Lissa said softly, “that I’m hoping things got in his way because yes, I care for him and I’m willing to hear what he wants to tell me, and if you don’t understand that, ask Adoré to explain it to you.”
“Her name is Addison,” Jake said gruffly.
“Jacob,” Lissa said, “we all know that you call her Adoré because you love her, and we all know, too, that to try and understand love is something that Stephen Hawking and Einstein combined would never be able to do.”
Jake’s sigh traveled through the phone.
“In that case, kid, I wish you good luck.” His voice hardened. “But if this guy hurts you again, he’s toast. Got that?”
“Got it,” Lissa said.
She ended the call smiling, but that didn’t last long because she really had no idea why Nick had finally gone after her and for all she knew, here she was again, setting herself up for a fall.
* * *
She kept busy as afternoon gave way to evening, sweeping and polishing away weeks’ worth of dust, saying “Yuck” as she tossed unidentifiable stuff from the fridge into the trash, and, best of all, taking calls from people in the trade who’d already heard the story of Raoul and her.
Word was spreading even more quickly than she’d anticipated, but it was a juicy tale and juicy tales usually moved like wildfire.
She smiled a couple of hours later when the doorbell rang and a kid delivered a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses from John, the maître d’ at Raoul’s, with a note that said Brava!
The bell rang again and a messenger handed her a box of decadent handmade chocolates and a card that said Welcome Back from a friend who’d been decent enough to let her fill in at his kitchen after the Raou
l fiasco.
A little while after that, a courier delivered a letter informing her that a renowned East Coast restaurant group was going to open a Beverly Hills branch, and that the CEO would be honored if she’d come in to discuss the position of executive chef.
“Honored,” she said, laughing as she read the letter.
Lovely, all of it, but nothing could keep her from thinking about Nick’s visit to El Sueño. What had he wanted? Why hadn’t he simply called? Why did he want to see her? For that matter, how had he learned about El Sueño? She’d told him she was from Texas, that she’d grown up on a ranch, but she couldn’t recall telling him anything else.
Exhaustion caught up to her just after ten-thirty. She showered, put on a pair of comfy if raggedy sweats, realized she’d never had supper and made herself a haute cuisine quickie: peanut butter and honey on whole wheat toast, along with a cup of tea.
Then she settled in to watch the eleven o’clock news.
Exhausted or not, she was too wired to sleep.
If Nick really wanted to find her, where was he? Why hadn’t he shown up here? Why hadn’t he phoned her?
Wait.
Did he have her L.A. address? Did he even have her phone number? She had his because Marcia had given it to her…
No. She was starting the old routine, making excuses for a man rather than face the…
“Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s news.”
A home invasion in Bel Air. A homicide in downtown L.A. An accident on the 110. And coming up next, an exclusive with Nick Gentry.
Lissa sat up straight.
Her heart did that banging-against-her-ribs thing again.
There he was. Gorgeous Nicholas. No clinging vine of a redhead this time. Just him, Nick, no cane, his hands tucked into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket—and a dark smudge, a little bit of a swelling on his jaw.
“…all kinds of rumors, Nick, about you and that ranch you own in Montana. What’s it called? The Double D?”
“The Triple G,” Nick said. “I’ve heard the rumors and I want to set them straight.” His mouth twitched; Lissa recognized that twitch and knew it meant he was trying not to laugh. “No,” he said solemnly, “I’m not turning it into a dude ranch. I’m not selling it to the Japanese. I’m not turning it into an ostrich-breeding farm.” He took a breath and so did Lissa because, foolish as it sounded, he seemed to be staring not only at the camera but straight at her. “The Triple G will continue to be a working ranch, an honest part of an honest tradition, one I hope my dad would be proud of.” He paused. “But there’s going to be a new road that goes through it, to a piece of land that looks out on the mountains, land someone once described as not only beautiful but amazing.”
