There was a handsome man leaning up against the desk. Julia recognized him as a Ford immediately. The younger son, Owen. He looked like Donovan, but sweeter or maybe just more relaxed. Whatever he’d been saying to the receptionist made her laugh.
She stopped midgiggle and cleared her throat when she noticed Julia. “Good afternoon.”
“Hello. I’m Julia Laurent.” She glanced at Owen, who appeared to have perked up at the mention of her name. Great. Exactly what had Donovan been telling his family about her? She decided to ignore the question. No need to borrow trouble. Maybe it was nothing, just human interest at putting a face to a name. “I have an appointment with Donovan Ford.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, Ms. Laurent. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Ford know you’ve arrived.” She gestured to a long white leather Barcelona couch. It looked custom-made, the tufted seat and back running the length of the entryway.
Julia remained standing while the woman picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. A small ploy to show that she was on the same level as Donovan Ford when he appeared. But she hoped he wouldn’t be too long. Her feet hurt in these shoes. Though she was used to standing all night, she never did so in heels.
Instead, she stripped off her gloves, stuffing them in the pocket of her coat, and then slid out of the heavy wool. The offices weren’t overly warm, but they felt that way after the brisk outdoor air and her brisker climb up the stairs. She folded the coat over her arm, keeping her practiced pout in place.
“The lovely Julia Laurent.” Owen pushed away from the desk and held out a hand. “Owen Ford.”
Julia shook his hand politely, perfunctorily. Was it just coincidence that he was out here prior to her meeting with Donovan? Or had he been planted here? Some sort of gatekeeper to soften her up or throw her off her game? “Hello.”
She searched for something, anything, that might hint why Owen just happened to be in the reception area when she arrived, but the only thing she noticed were the laugh lines that radiated from his eyes. She liked them. They made him look like the kind of person who knew how to have a good time and included everyone around him in the fun. He moved that way, too, a smooth, laid-back roll to his motions that indicated a man who enjoyed living and didn’t always have a set goal.
For just a second, Julia wondered what that was like. How it would feel to simply take life as it came and not worry about the things she couldn’t control. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
She’d done some research on the family over the past few days. Elephants was their first purchase and had been a swanky lounge back in the ’80s. One of those of the time monuments to shoulder pads and three-martini lunches that had become a city staple during that decade. But, unlike La Petite Bouchée, it hadn’t stagnated. Instead, it had been renovated in line with the times, shifting from bright neon to flashy lasers and disco balls to its current clean look. And it had been successful enough to allow the family to buy the building that housed it and expand to three other locations in the city. All shared the same styling and nod to excess.
Owen wasn’t listed on the company website. In fact, the only place Julia had seen his photo was on the city’s social pages. Always with his arm around one beautiful woman or two. Maybe he didn’t have the cutthroat instincts necessary for business.
His smile certainly didn’t indicate a cold, sharklike nature. “The pleasure is all mine.” And somehow, when he said it, the words came off as charming and self-effacing rather than smarmy. All in the delivery, she suspected. He took her hand and bent to buss a kiss along the back. “I love your food.”
Julia decided she liked him. The pout slipped off her face, more easily than it had slipped on, replaced by her real, natural smile. “You’ve been to the restaurant?” She hadn’t planned to talk about food. Today was about numbers and contracts, budgets and projections. The back-end things that needed to be done properly to allow her to focus her attention where it belonged. In the kitchen.
“A few times. The coq au vin blanc is amazing.”
Since the coq au vin blanc happened to be one of Julia’s favorite dishes, she couldn’t knock his taste. She inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“And the fact that you’re not making life easy for my brother is just one more reason to like you.”
No, she decided, eyeing Owen Ford. She didn’t like him—she loved him.
Owen’s smile deepened, showing off his dimples. “He’s used to getting his own way. Being the boss. Always has. It’s good that you’re standing up to him.”
Julia opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t standing up to Donovan so much as standing up for herself, but another voice spoke first.
“Owen, what are you doing here?”
Julia turned to see Donovan behind her, arms crossed over his chest. She hadn’t realized quite how broad his shoulders were. Not that she should be noticing now.
Owen’s tone remained easy, a noticeable difference from the tightness that edged Donovan’s. “Just checking in.”
Donovan frowned and looked from his brother to the pretty receptionist and back again. “Well, if you’re all done checking in, perhaps you could do some work.”
Julia felt a twinge of sympathy, but the loaded statement appeared not to bother Owen. “Sure thing, boss. Bailey.” He nodded at the receptionist. “Julia.” He kissed her on the cheek and then exited the offices.
Julia watched him go, wondering what all that was about. She hadn’t been kissed goodbye by someone she’d just met since her time in France, but somehow Owen pulled it off. Maybe because it felt genuine. He was the kind of person who liked people and was comfortable sharing easy affection. She liked it. She liked him.
“Julia.” There was a low growl in Donovan’s voice. She turned and took his outstretched hand, noting that it wasn’t nearly as warm or friendly as his brother’s handshake, and yet unlike Owen’s handshake or kiss, Donovan’s touch sent an arc of attraction through her.
Why? Why, after all these months of being perfectly content to focus on the restaurant and her staff, being satisfied with the occasional night of flirting when out with Sasha, was she suddenly finding her hormones waking up? And why were they waking up for him?
Seriously, she was going to kill Sasha for ever mentioning the attraction and planting that seed in her head. Because, yeah, she totally wouldn’t be attracted to Donovan at all if Sasha hadn’t brought it up.
Julia batted away the thought. Even if she were interested in pursuing the lure of Donovan Ford, now was not the time. She followed him as he led her down the hall, decorated with a few discreet black-and-white photos and a flashy starburst mirror, and into an equally glossy office with a wall of glass overlooking the city street.
“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He turned to look at her and the attraction flared again.
“Water, please.” Something to cool the fire within her. She needed to focus—and not on Donovan Ford.
He nodded and procured a bottle from a small fridge built into the mirrored sideboard along one wall. The glass he handed her was heavy crystal. Julia recognized the style as Baccarat tumblers. No plain or inexpensive glassware for the Fords.
She took a seat in the visitor’s chair across the desk. No cheap imitation leather or rough, scratched wood, either. The seat looked like glass, but despite its cold and unbending appearance, was surprisingly comfortable. She’d bet it cost more than anything in her apartment except her chef knives.
Donovan lowered himself into the chair across from her and put down his tumbler without taking a sip. “I’ve had my lawyer look over your suggested changes.”
Julia had taken his advice and contacted a lawyer to look over the original offer. Actually, he’d been a former boyfriend of Sasha’s who had agreed to do it as a favor. Probably because he hoped Sasha would give him a second chance if he did. He’d been thorough and proactive, determining what it was that Julia wanted and then figuring out how she might get
it. He’d had some excellent suggestions, including the addition of a codicil that would provide her rights of first purchase should the Fords decide to put the property on the market.
It wasn’t shares or ownership of any kind, but it was something. And since Donovan had, both in person and again through his own lawyer, made it clear that shares were not on the table, it was the best she was going to get.
Of course, she’d asked for a hefty raise for herself and the staff, too. Judging from what they’d paid for the location, the Fords had money to throw around. She saw no reason why her team shouldn’t share in it.
“You’ll see here—” Donovan used the same silver pen he’d had at the restaurant to point to the term in question “—we’ve dealt with your request regarding ownership.”
Julia scanned the words, parsing the legal jargon to understand the actual meaning. She looked up at him. “Just to be clear here, you’re agreeing that I’ll be given rights of first purchase?”
Everything else was flexible to Julia. Her salary, hours, benefits and other perks were things she could compromise on, but pushing forward for ownership was not.
“Yes. Should we decide to sell the property, you’ll be given the right to meet the asking price first.”
Julia nodded. “And I’ll have six weeks from that time?”
“Four.” He angled the pen toward her, a subtle hint to take hold of the instrument and put her name on the page. “We have to consider that a third party may withdraw their offer if they have to wait too long.”
She accepted the proffered pen. The metal was warm from his hand and smooth to the touch but impersonal. So different from her kitchen knives, which seemed to absorb a piece of her whenever she used them. They were all sharpened a certain way, worn down in a certain spot. It was one reason all serious cooks had their own set, which they were loath to share. Julia didn’t even let other people clean hers.
She pressed the nib of the pen to the page. This was it. She either signed now or forever held her peace. Her lungs felt swollen, as though she’d sucked in a huge breath and forgotten to let it go. Yes, this was it, and in her opinion, there was really only one option.
Julia signed quickly and handed the pen back. Donovan’s fingers brushed against hers, hotter than the metal. Suddenly, that metal didn’t feel quite so impersonal. Her eyes darted up to meet his. He smiled and she felt a flicker of interest rise up, tamped it back down and looked at his hands instead.
Hands were safe. They told a person’s story without words.
Donovan gripped the pen, lightly but firmly. In perfect control. And made a series of long, artful swoops as he added his name to the document. A man who wasn’t afraid to be noticed, a man who wasn’t afraid to demand it as his due. He wouldn’t be the type to hide in the back, away from the lights, wouldn’t be afraid to ask for what he wanted and expect to get it.
She took note of the scar on one knuckle and the thickness of his fingers. Donovan’s hands weren’t sleek and buffed, not polished within an inch of their lives. They didn’t look long and elegant like those of a pianist or a doctor. They were manly hands. Ones that looked as if they’d be just as confident swinging a hammer or using a saw as signing a life-altering contract. And strong. And sexy.
Julia looked away and tried to pretend that wasn’t her stomach doing a long, slow flip-flop and her brain wondering if those hands could hold a woman’s body just as easily.
* * *
SASHA MET HER at the door when she walked into the kitchen, a splotch of sauce on the shoulder of her white chef’s jacket. “So? Everything go okay?”
Julia nodded. Everything except the lingering attraction that had followed her all the way to the restaurant. She’d decided against taking a cab, hoping a walk in the cold afternoon would chase the feeling away, but the chill outside had only highlighted the heat building within her and the certain knowledge of one thing.
She liked his hands.
Julia had always liked hands. Even when she was small, she could remember watching her mother as she stood over the stove, stirring with one hand, dipping a finger into whatever she was making with a practiced swirl. Twisting the top off a piping bag and then squeezing the first drops of frosting into Julia’s waiting mouth, using her thumb to wipe away any that might get on Julia’s face.
Julia had chosen her first boyfriend because of his hands. Chris Wright had been tall and thin with glasses and a quiet way in class. His father owned a successful construction company and Chris spent his summer working for him. His hands were thick and muscled, a working man’s hands. Julia had found them fascinating, and when he’d asked her out she’d agreed.
Hands were a calling card. Chris’s scarred knuckles and rough edges told her he wasn’t afraid of hard work. What they didn’t tell her was that he was also capable of creating the most delicate wooden animals. Woodland creatures he whittled from leftover pieces at the work site.
She’d expected Donovan’s hands to be soft and manicured like those of the other men she’d met who’d been born to families where trust funds were the norm. But she seriously doubted he’d ever seen the inside of a nail salon. She wondered what other secrets he hid.
“It was fine.”
“You were there a long time.” Sasha’s eyes swept over her, halting on her hair, which was still pulled back in an elegant twist.
Julia’s hands rose to touch it. “We negotiated.” Which was one way of putting it. In fact, Donovan had explained the marketing plan that was to be implemented over the next two months and the role she would play in it. While her first instinct was to refuse—to explain that she was a chef, not a celebrity—she’d held her tongue.
The truth was that chefs today were more than creators of food. They were arbiters of style and taste. Name and face recognition were a considerable asset in the industry. As much of a draw as the food and decor. And the Fords wanted to use her.
Better yet, the Fords wanted to tie her to La Petite Bouchée and to tie her so intrinsically that there could be no separation. When she’d asked why, Donovan had explained it was all part of the branding push they needed to do to bring the restaurant out of the shadows. “We need to show everyone that it’s not the same old restaurant. It’s young and fresh and headed by a beautiful chef.” Then she’d had to remind herself not to get all twisted up simply because he’d called her beautiful.
It was probably all part of his ploy to make her agree. It worked.
Julia knew that if the plan succeeded, it would raise the value of the restaurant. The deal she and her investors had put together wouldn’t be enough anymore. But it should also mean that she’d find it easier to get financial backing. Maybe even swing it herself with the bank since she’d be able to prove her own worth.
A wave of pleasure crested through her at the thought. No, she didn’t have shares in her pocket, but she had the promise of a future. Something to work toward. The heady feeling made her smile.
“And?” Sasha asked.
“And we came to a mutually agreeable solution.” One that Julia hoped would see her vision of the restaurant become a reality. She saw no reason it wouldn’t, since Donovan had confirmed that he hoped to sell the restaurant in the near future. But she popped the bubble of excitement that threatened to rise. They still had a long way to go before then. “Is the prep done?” Because no matter what else had happened today, she still had a service to run tonight. With a newly signed contract, it now felt more important than ever that things go well.
“Almost.” Sasha turned back to her station, checking the sauces and stocks simmering on the burners.
Julia didn’t need to look in the pots to know what was there. Variations on the five master sauces that were the basis of French cooking, stocks that would be used in the sauces and reduced to glaze certain dishes.
She inhaled the scent of tarragon and basil, parsley and chervil being chopped as she headed to her office to check on the delivery and change into her chef whites. Tonight
would be a good night in the kitchen. No specter hanging over her head, no worry that she was going to be bounced out of the kitchen and restaurant. Nothing but cooking.
“Did you see the delivery in your office?” Sasha called from the kitchen a few minutes later. “I put it on the chair by the door.”
Julia hadn’t noticed anything, but then, she hadn’t looked, either. She’d been thinking and swapping her business suit and heels for her comfy pants, T-shirt, chef jacket and Converse runners. “Anything important?” She received plenty of deliveries during the week. Invoices for food, bills for their linen service, samples from suppliers.
“I don’t know. A bottle of wine with a gold bow around the neck sound important?”
“What?” Julia’s head whipped up to look at Sasha, who was smirking in the doorway.
“I sense you haven’t told me everything about the meeting.” Sasha gestured to the chair with her head. “Well, go look at it and then come back to the kitchen and tell me everything.”
Julia almost didn’t. She didn’t even know whom the bottle was from. But the excitement bubbling inside her did. An instinct confirmed when she pulled the note from the envelope attached by the ribbon.
To a bright and satisfying future.
Donovan
She recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, if a bottle of wine, even one that cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.
Well, that may be so, but she didn’t have to act on it. Couldn’t act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more. Then she went out to tell the staff they were going to have a treat with family meal tonight, the meal she cooked and served before the start of service to make sure everyone was fueled for the long night ahead.
Tempting Donovan Ford Page 4
