Tempting Donovan Ford

by Jennifer Mckenzie

  Mal wasn’t happy. That much was evident. But exactly how unhappy Donovan couldn’t be sure. She showed up to work, was polite to the staff and was always well-groomed. But he was pretty sure her social life was on a ventilator. And whatever had happened with Travis was the cause.

  He exhaled. He wasn’t trying to be a dick, even if Mal might not see it that way. “It might help to talk.”

  “I know.” Her voice snapped through the air. “But forgive me if I don’t feel like talking about my sex life to my brother.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” Donovan held up his hands to ward off any future sexually related information. “I just want to know that you’re okay. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a virgin.”

  She sent him a withering look, but there was a hint of a smile behind it. Donovan knew that look. “Remember Max Thibodeau?”

  “No, I do not.” He did. The son of one of their father’s friends. Spoiled and a little wild. Last Donovan had heard, Max had two baby mamas and was living in Australia.

  “Well, the summer I was sixteen—”

  “You win.” Donovan knew when to concede. Mal was more stubborn than he was, and if he didn’t want to be scarred for life, he needed to stop this tale of...well, tail immediately. “No more discussing our personal lives.”

  “Good.” She nodded as if she’d just won. Which she had. “So back to Owen and how you’re going to ask him to manage La Petite Bouchée as well as Elephants.”

  “Seriously. Like a dog with a bone.”

  “Did you just call me a dog?” Mal narrowed her eyes. “Don’t forget, I know where your skeletons are buried. And I have friends in the media. Who would only be too happy to run a story on you with family photos.”

  “Would you really do that to your favorite brother?”

  “Of course not. Besides, Owen hasn’t done anything to piss me off in a while.” She flashed him a cheeky grin. And even though it was putting him in his place, Donovan was glad to see it. Glad to see any flash of the Mal he knew.

  “All right. I’ll consider the suggestion. Now, get out of here. And stop talking about your sex life.”

  “I will.” She pushed herself out of the chair and moved toward the door. “But only because I don’t have one to speak of.”

  “Still talking.” Donovan closed his eyes, as if that might also close his ears to anything else she had to say, and didn’t open them until he heard her laugh trailing down the hall, back to her own office.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. Seriously, he was a saint. A bloody saint. Well, except for the fact that he still had to tell Julia that her dream of owning La Petite Bouchée had taken a serious hit. His stomach muscles cramped. But at least he was working on a plan.

  Still, even with the plan, guilt suffused his body. He should never have let it go on this long. He was taking her as his date to his parents’ party. He wanted to introduce her as his girlfriend. He wanted to be the only man in her life. And, oh, by the way, he wanted her to be just fine with the fact that he was stripping away her chance at owning the restaurant she thought of as hers.

  He forced himself to relax. It would still be practically hers. None of them had any intention of limiting her role or lessening her leadership. The restaurant would still look the way she wanted. Would still serve the food she wanted. Would still have her name on the window by the front door. She just wouldn’t have to deal with all the headaches that came with being an actual owner. So maybe this was a good thing.

  And with the right ambience, the right mood, the right wine, maybe everything would work out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THIS WAS SO not how today was supposed to go.

  Julia ran around the kitchen at La Petite Bouchée wondering just where and when things had gone wrong. Really, it was a comedy of errors here today. She’d been in early to do prep for the evening service since she was going to be at the Fords’ party instead of the restaurant. But her chopping had come to a halt around noon when one of her suppliers had called to tell her that they weren’t able to fill her weekly delivery tomorrow but would try to swing by on Thursday instead. Which, yeah, not so much. She needed that product to feed her customers on Tuesday and Wednesday.

  After phoning around, calling in favors and threatening to change suppliers entirely, Julia had gotten him to agree to provide an extremely thinned-down order. Which was better than nothing. So along with prep, she’d needed to come up with an appealing nightly special that would convince diners to order it instead of off the menu. Then two of her sous chefs had called in sick. Though she suspected it was less 24-hour bug and more “out too late last night and don’t feel like getting out of bed,” which was tantamount to quitting in the restaurant industry. She’d already made some calls and had Sasha do the same to try to fill the positions as quickly as possible with employees who could be counted on. And if that weren’t enough, her acting floor manager had quit, stating that the job was more stressful than he wanted and he’d decided to go find himself in a Buddhist monastery. Which was good for him, but did he have to wait until they were two hours from opening to tell her?

  She’d almost called Donovan then, explained the situation and why she couldn’t go to the party, but Sasha refused to hear of it. “Hells, no. You’re finally getting a little something-something. I’m not about to let you blow that.”

  “He’ll understand.” Julia chopped more quickly and checked the burner under her saucepan.

  “I won’t. It’s almost like you think I can’t handle it. I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly capable of holding down the kitchen. In fact, I do it every night you’re off.” Sasha poured some wine into a different pan, which sizzled and spat.

  Julia knew that was true. But she hadn’t taken a night off since La Petite Bouchée’s reopening and she didn’t feel right leaving Sasha in the weeds. No, this couldn’t even be classified as the weeds. It was more like a jungle that required a machete to get out of. Or a really excellent chef knife. “I know you can handle it. But this isn’t a normal night. You need all hands on deck.”

  “No. I need you to get out of here, go home, get into a sexy dress and have a good night. You deserve it.”

  “Sash...”

  “Don’t make me threaten to tell the staff that the reason you’re so calm even while things are crazy in here is because you’re finally getting properly rogered.”

  “Rogered?” Julia looked up from her sauce.

  “Shagged, smushed, played hide the salami.”

  “Please stop.”

  “I will.” Sasha winked. “When you leave.”

  But Julia had stayed another two hours, until service actually began, before letting Sasha shoo her out the door. She’d called Donovan to let him know that she’d be late and she’d find her own way to his parents’ house.

  After a shower that might have set land speed records and putting on her five-minute face, which she’d learned in Paris from a gorgeous model, she climbed into a cab and gave the driver the Fords’ address.

  The good thing about being so busy was that she hadn’t had time to think about the party. But by the time her cab pulled up in front of Gus and Evelyn’s house, her stomach was in full roil mode. Maybe because it was more of a mansion than a house.

  Julia swallowed the nerves that rose up the back of her throat. There was no reason to feel anxious, no need to feel scattered. If the kitchen hadn’t undone her, a simple house party should be nothing. And yet, her legs felt wobbly as she got out of the cab and stared up at the house.

  A young man in a red blazer stepped forward to shut the cab’s door and point her up the steps to the front door. She blinked at him. A valet? They actually had valets tonight? Another man in the same red blazer walked up the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. Yep, most definitely valets. She’d never been to a private home that had valets before. But then, she generally didn’t attend parties that took place in mansions.

  She tried to shove the nerves aside. Th
e Fords weren’t the old-money, snobby, nose-and-pinkie-in-the-air types she’d run into in Europe. They weren’t the trashy nouveau types, either, always bragging about brand-name this and designer-label that, who liked to think they ran Vancouver’s social scene. They were a loving and hardworking family who’d simply used good business sense and made smart decisions to turn their effort into a lot of money.

  Yes, the Fords were wealthy. But she already knew that, had known before she’d even met them. They were also perfectly lovely and down-to-earth. And if they had valets, Julia knew it was to make the lives of their guests easier, not to brag or show off.

  The house was gorgeous, all stone and glass, a slightly less glossy version of the decor in all their wine bars. It suited the landscape, the warm and welcoming glow of interior lights shining through the windows. It made her feel a little less uncomfortable. And she knew she looked the part, though her shoes pinched her feet.

  Julia was used to the discomfort that came from standing for hours at a time. She just didn’t usually do it wearing a cocktail dress and three-inch heels. But jeans and flats weren’t appropriate for this party, and despite the fact that this wasn’t her normal attire, she felt good in it. She’d splurged on the classic dress when she’d lived in Paris. It had eaten up half her food budget for the month, but she’d been unable to return it to the rack after seeing it on her body. And nothing had changed since that first time she’d tried it on.

  She took a breath as she walked up the short flight of stone steps that led to the front door. Everything would be fine. Donovan would be happy to see her and there would be plenty of other nonmansion owners in attendance. Donovan had told her the party was for all their friends, the majority of whom were in the restaurant business, and their staff.

  Still, she wished tonight hadn’t gone so off the rails and that she’d been able to arrive with Donovan as planned. But some of her anxiety eased when Evelyn opened the front doors herself.

  “Julia.” Her hug was warm, as it always was. “I’m so glad you made it.” Evelyn showed Julia around the house already filled with laughing people, most with wineglasses in one hand and appetizer plates in the other. And beyond the glossy heels and expensive jewelry, Julia saw the touches that made the large house a home.

  The throw pillows in bright colors, the family photos taken at the beach with wind whipping through their hair and everyone moving instead of sitting in a stilted formal pose. The furniture, while tasteful and clearly of good quality, also looked sturdy, as if it could hold up to a spill or people putting their feet on it. Much like a good restaurant or bar, the space had been designed to move people easily through the space and would be quick to clean up with a mop and some elbow grease.

  She accepted a glass of wine but passed on the food, claiming that she’d eaten at the restaurant. The truth was, she still felt a little too keyed up to eat. She sipped the wine, taking everything in. The beautiful room, the more beautiful food and the incredibly beautiful people.

  It was crowded, making it difficult to find anyone, but she recognized some faces. Chefs who’d been featured in international foodie magazines and on TV. A few local actors who seemed to turn up in every other movie as Businesswoman #2 or Architect #3. People who’d been at her event in Whistler and La Petite Bouchée. They greeted her with smiles and polite how-are-yous, and the jagged edge of her nerves began to wear off. She was building a reputation. In fact, maybe she’d already built one. Exactly how long did it take for a reputation to take hold, anyway?

  She was almost starting to feel at home, comfortable and okay that aside from Evelyn she hadn’t seen any of the other Fords. She took a sip of wine. Maybe she’d try one of the delectable-looking canapés. The shrimp on toast smelled divine. She caught a whiff of the tarragon as it passed. Or a scallop wrapped in bacon because everything was better with bacon.

  But she didn’t get the chance. Or she did. She just didn’t think she’d be able to stomach it.

  Because standing across the room, looking hot as hell and twice as sexy, was Donovan. With the blonde woman he’d been squiring around in January practically inserting herself into his front pocket.

  What. The. Hell.

  Julia felt the hot burn of anger flare. She wasn’t upset that he was standing with the other woman. It was a party—people mingled and she certainly didn’t expect him to cause a scene and storm away. But then again, she didn’t expect him to smile at the woman while she pressed her skinny body against his. Julia’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

  “You could always go slap some sense into him.” Owen’s voice startled her and she whirled around to find him at her elbow. “I, for one, would pay to see that.”

  Julia forced a casual shrug and turned away. She didn’t need to watch that. To view her humiliation in living color. “I’m fine.”

  “That death grip you have on your glass would say otherwise.”

  She glanced down to find her fingers still wrapped tightly around the stem of the glass. She loosened her grip. “I’m fine.”

  And maybe if she kept repeating it like some sort of mantra, it might become true. It was better than thinking about tossing the contents of her glass in his face. Besides, he was only standing with the woman.

  “Right.” Owen’s tone told her she wasn’t fooling him. “So then it wouldn’t bother you to know that the woman he’s talking to, the one who can’t keep her hands off him, is an ex?”

  “Not at all.” But she felt the unforgiving nature of the glass as her fingers curled around it again.

  Owen patted her on the shoulder. “He doesn’t want her.”

  “I know.” Julia did know. Donovan was the one who’d insisted she come to the party as his date. He’d even offered to pick her up when she’d called to let him know she was going to be late. And yet—she darted a glance over her shoulder to see that the blonde had now placed a second hand on Donovan’s arm—he didn’t have to look as if he was enjoying himself quite so much.

  “You sure you don’t want to slap him? It would do something to liven up this party.”

  “I’m sure.” She looked away from Donovan, thinking maybe if she didn’t watch, it wouldn’t bother her. “And there’s nothing wrong with this party.”

  “Nothing a little slap wouldn’t solve.”

  “Then you slap him.”

  “I would.” Owen grinned at her. “But my mother would kill me.”

  “And she wouldn’t kill me?” Evelyn wasn’t tall, but height didn’t equal power.

  “Consider it taking one for the team.”

  Julia laughed and some of her aggravation floated away. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Pass on what?” Mal joined them, looking tall and sleek. But Julia thought Mal’s dress hung a shade too loosely, as if it had been purchased about fifteen pounds ago.

  “Your brother is causing trouble.”

  Mal smiled. “What else is new?”

  “Excuse me.” Owen pasted on a hurt expression. “Shouldn’t you be asking which brother instead of assuming it’s me?”

  “Fine.” Mal made a show of turning to Julia and widening her eyes as she placed a hand on Owen’s arm. “You couldn’t possibly be referring to this bastion of appropriate and polite behavior, could you?”

  “I can be appropriate,” Owen defended himself.

  “When?”

  “When I feel like it.”

  “Which is...”

  “Never.” The corners of his eyes crinkled.

  Julia laughed and her eyes caught Donovan’s across the room. Her heart thumped, and for a moment, it was only them. Then she saw that the blonde’s hand was still on his arm and her other hand had snaked its way onto his shoulder.

  She raised an eyebrow at him, and then slowly and without any attempt at subtlety, she turned away.

  * * *

  DONOVAN FELT HIS pleasure at seeing Julia turn to confusion. What was that about? And as he watched, she turned back, but she didn�
�t return his smile. Instead, she tossed her hair and showed him her back. Oh, hell. Had she heard about their plans for La Petite Bouchée? Did she know they weren’t going to sell? Damn it. He had an appointment with the lawyer tomorrow to discuss her new contract, but nothing had been finalized.

  “Donovan?” He glanced at Tatiana, a furrow on her usually smooth brow. “Is everything okay?”

  He noticed that she now had both hands on him. One on his arm and the other dangerously close to his front pants pocket. Awkward. “Will you excuse me, Tatiana?”

  Her fingers curled around his arm when he moved to leave. “Only if you promise to come back.”

  “Of course.” He had no intention of doing so, but he said it with a smile so she might not realize that. His mother hadn’t raised a fool.

  He’d underestimated Tatiana’s understanding, though. She held her grip. “I’m not letting you slip away this easily. I’d really like to talk.”

  “Maybe later.” Donovan could see Julia had glanced back, was eyeing him again with her lips pressed into a tight seam.

  “Donovan?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off Julia. Tatiana was a stunning woman. Smart, charming, gorgeous. But all he cared about was that she wasn’t Julia. “If you’ll excuse me,” he repeated, already shifting away, moving toward Julia, who slipped between his siblings and disappeared into the crowd.

  But he didn’t find her when he arrived at Owen’s side. No, the only thing he found there was Owen’s annoying know-it-all smirk. Donovan swallowed his aggravation. He and Owen had been getting along better these past couple of weeks. They still weren’t best friends, but they were coming to find a mutual acceptance. “Where’s Julia?”

  But he needn’t have bothered asking. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes found Julia exiting the main room. He didn’t say anything else to his brother, simply headed off in pursuit. If she’d heard about the restaurant, he needed to explain.

  By the time he maneuvered through the crowd, he wasn’t sure where she’d gone. She wasn’t in any of the downstairs rooms, including the washrooms, which he knew because he waited until the occupants came out to make sure. Which meant she could only have gone upstairs. Unless she’d left. But Donovan didn’t want to consider that yet.