Her New Boss: A Rouge Erotic Romance

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Michelle M Pillow

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Also Available from Rouge

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Aspiring chef Zoe Matthews has lost her job and all hopes of a satisfying future. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’s just publicly shot down her one and only chance at culinary redemption. Restaurant mogul Jackson Levy is determined to teach the rude city-slicker a lesson in manners. What Zoe thinks will be a head chef position at one of his fancy restaurants turns out to be a job at a small town diner. Can this city girl and a country boy find common ground? Or is this just a Her New Boss?

  About the Author

  Michelle M Pillow is a well-known US author of erotic romance novels, and considered one of the leading lights of the fasting growing genre of female erotica – paranormal romance.

  She is the author of Bit By The Bug, Her New Boss, Degrees of Passion, Fierce Competition and Opposites Attract, also available from Rouge X.

  Also by Michelle M Pillow:

  Bit By The Bug

  Degrees of Passion

  Fierce Competition

  Opposites Attract

  Her New Boss

  Michelle M Pillow

  Chapter One

  Upper West Side, Manhattan, New York City

  ‘YOU ARE AN arrogant, no-talent jerk-off who wouldn’t know the difference between tagliatelline and conchiglioni pastas if they bit you in the ass!’ Zoe Matthews yelled, hands on hips as she glared up at the head chef who happened also to be her boss. Chef Antonio Contiello’s deceitfully charming smile faltered and his dark-green eyes narrowed in warning. She didn’t care if he was angry with her. ‘And by ass I mean that over-bloated thing you call a head!’

  Dark-brown hair would have touched Contiello’s chin, had it not been smoothed back into a short oily ponytail. Unlike the others in their white traditional hats, her boss didn’t wear anything over his head – unless it was for a publicity photo shoot. Zoe often mused that he was so arrogant he probably thought a piece of his hair in someone’s meal would only enhance the flavor.

  Zoe sucked in a deep breath, barely aware of the audience their argument created in the back kitchen of the upscale Italian restaurant, Sedurre. The room gleamed, from the silver countertops to the brand new appliances and the stainless steel pots and pans. They were cluttered together to make the most of the tight space. The metal shone because it had been freshly polished. She’d spent an hour and a half cleaning before starting her prep duties. Janitorial services were not exactly what she’d been hired to do, but ever since the original owner, Mr Gregor, had died of a heart attack, Chef Contiello had become even more of a tyrant – at least towards her.

  Apparently, Widow Gregor had a thing for cute, rumoured-to-be-gay men who got television air time. She let him have complete run of the restaurant, making the entire staff’s lives hell. At least when Mr Gregor was alive, he had been able to keep Chef Contiello’s totalitarian urges reined in. Life inside the kitchen wasn’t like anywhere else in the world. There was a hierarchy, a code, and in this world Chef Contiello ruled supreme. What the chef wanted, he got. Until now. Until Zoe.

  The evening workers were there in full force, preparing for one of their busiest nights. Each of them had matching eight-button conventional chef jackets with stand-up collars and vented cuffs for easy rolling – not that Contiello ever allowed rolled cuffs in his presence. Cooking was dirty work, but you’d never know it by looking at their boss.

  Tonight was special and only one dish would be prepared for the exclusive crowd. The renowned Chef Contiello planned to debut a new culinary masterpiece. Tables had been booked for weeks and the waiting list could fill the restaurant to capacity three times over. Tension ran high behind the scenes, but it wasn’t the extra workload that had caused Zoe to yell.

  ‘Watch your tongue, Matthews,’ Contiello warned, his Italian accent a little too thick, especially for a first-generation American who’d been raised in English boarding schools. His parents had been born in Tuscany.

  ‘I can’t! I’m too busy watching my back, you son of a –’ Zoe couldn’t finish. Contiello slashed his hand up in the air, as if threatening to strike her. The moment was brief before he pointed to the back-alley door.

  ‘Get out of my kitchen, Matthews,’ he yelled. ‘You’re fired! I never want to see you back in here, not even to pick up your last check. Send one of your sisters because if I ever see you in my restaurant again, I will have you arrested.’

  It became hard to breathe. Suddenly, the kitchen stoves seemed to surge with heat, stifling her until she wanted to scream. She fought the urge to claw at her chef jacket. The need to get out of the kitchen, out of the restaurant, Contiello’s presence, the very city, overwhelmed her.

  ‘You’re the one who should be arrested,’ Zoe swore under her breath. Her oldest sister, Megan, was a police detective. Surely Megs could find something to throw this guy into prison over. Or perhaps her photographer sister, Kat, could take some pictures of him with a male lover and ruin his reputation. Contiello might act like the sophisticated lady’s man who flirted with rich old ladies, but everyone on his staff suspected the truth he tried so hard to hide. And the sad fact was that no one cared, no one but perhaps the rich, old sugar-mamas that toted him around like a big, male doll.

  ‘You are just jealous that you will never possess one ounce of the cooking talent I have in my pinkie finger!’ Contiello held up the small digit, pointing toward the ceiling in vindication. ‘It is my pleasure to be rid of you. Gregor should never have promoted you to sous chef. The only reason he gave you the job was because your brother-in-law, Dr Richmond, bribed him with museum function patronage. Now go, you no-talent dishwasher.’

  She wanted to insult him, but nothing would come from her closing throat. As she stepped toward the back door, a violent shiver worked its way along her spine. What had she done? Chef Contiello would never give her a recommendation for a new position. Without his word, no one would hire her.

  Zoe kept her head up, faking a confidence she no longer felt as the last threads of her temper slipped, only to be replaced by fear. Everything she had worked so hard for lay behind her. A low murmur started amongst the staff and a heavy pot clanged, causing her to jolt in surprise. Soon, other sounds of cooking stirred behind her. Life in the Sedurre kitchen was going on without her.

  Turning, she glanced at Contiello who still watched her intently. For the briefest of moments, she thought to beg his forgiveness and try to salvage what career she had left. The head chef gave a smarmy, knowing look. He wanted her to beg him, but he would never forgive. Her chance to be a great chef with her own kitchen someday had never seemed so far away. At the age of 27, her life was over.

  She had two options. Cry and run, or scream and run.

  Ah, what the hell, she thought. Zoe chose neither.

  Arching a brow, she stated so everyone could hear, ‘And your new walnut sauce tastes like boiled sewer rats!’

  Contiello’s expression hardened. Those in the kitchen gasped in shock. Zoe gave him a vindictive look and stormed her way out of the restaurant, slamming the metal door shut behind he
r. Anger kept the ominous, anxiety-causing walkway between buildings from penetrating her senses as she marched along the uneven concrete toward the lamplit street. Pale evening sky darkened the sidewalks with heavy shadows and the cool early-spring air gave a chill she didn’t feel in her frustration.

  Already cars were pulling up along the curb, ushered away just as quickly by red-uniformed valets. Pulling the hat from her head, she found herself walking toward the front of the building, staring into the windows. The long, skinny building could only fit two rows of tables down each wall, leaving a single walkway for the waitresses to go down the middle. Brown vinyl booths were along the sides in the far back, surrounded by more crowded tables. White walls, matching tablecloths and linen napkins gave testament to the minimalist decor. There were a few paintings of Venice and Rome but, aside from the vases of fake flowers, that was it.

  ‘I should have just kept my mouth shut and let him have the damned recipes,’ Zoe whispered to no one in particular. A valet brushed past her. Normally, they didn’t have workers parking cars, but this was a special night after all. If people liked Contiello’s new dish, he’d be offered his own cooking show and endorsements, and with them a lot of fame and money. Every part of her wished she could say he didn’t deserve it but, though an asshole, Contiello was a well-trained, talented chef.

  A slight vibration along her thigh caused Zoe to look away from the window. She reached for her phone and pulled it from her pocket. Flipping it open, she said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, sweetie, I thought I’d get your voice mail,’ Kat said, her voice bright. ‘You have a second to talk?’

  Zoe glanced around. ‘Yeah, I think I have a second or three.’

  Kat couldn’t have called at a better time. Even though it was through a phone line, just hearing one of her sisters’ voices made her feel as if she wasn’t so alone. She sniffed. Though her nose burned with the threat of tears, her watery eyes began to dry. In total there were five sisters – Megan, the oldest at 30, then Kat, Zoe, Sasha, and the baby, Ella. Zoe didn’t get to see Ella as much as she’d like, because the youngest had joined the navy. The other three often came to Sedurre for lunch when Zoe was alone cooking in the kitchen.

  Their parents hadn’t been blessed with sons, so instead they’d pushed for son-in-laws. Megan was married to a forensic photographer. Kat had married an entomologist, Dr Vincent Richmond, who ran his own laboratories in the DJP Department of Entomology at one of the museums on the Upper East Side. He was filthy rich, adorably absent-minded, and lacked the arrogance that ran prevalent in the rest of his family. Kat had just given birth to their daughter, Mariah. The chubby babe had the same fair complexion as all Matthews women and the blonde hair inherited from Zoe’s mother, Beatrice, just like Zoe, Kat, and Ella. Megan and Sasha took after their father’s dark brown.

  ‘I just wanted to wish you luck tonight on the big event. May Chef Tyrant meet with success that takes him far from Sedurre so you can have his kitchen!’ Kat laughed.

  Zoe sighed. ‘You should’ve called ten minutes ago and wished me a quiet tongue. I just yelled at my boss and got fired.’

  ‘What?’ Kat demanded, her tone instantly changing. ‘Where are you? At the restaurant?’

  Zoe started walking down the long street. She hadn’t taken anything to work with her besides twenty dollars in her shoe and her phone. ‘I’m walking home.’

  ‘Are there no taxis?’

  ‘Can’t afford it, especially now,’ Zoe said. ‘But stay on the line and keep me company?’

  ‘Hail a cab and get over here. What’s the point of a rich husband if I can’t at least buy you a ride? Vincent’s still at the lab working, but one call to his mother and I’ll have Chef Tyrant out on his ass by morning. And one call to an old friend who shall remain nameless and that restaurant will be filled with rats and cockroaches.’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’ Zoe gave a small laugh. Even as everything around her crumbled her sister still managed to cheer her. ‘Don’t call Mimi and don’t sabotage the restaurant. Too many people work there. I just want to get out of this uniform and maybe drink up a good portion of your husband’s wine collection.’

  ‘I still have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, the vampire wine Ryan brought me from Transylvania.’ Kat lowered her tone. ‘Hey, Zoe?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re a great cook and you didn’t deserve to be fired. Contiello is an ass.’ Kat sighed. ‘You know that, right?’

  The fact that her sister could support her unwaveringly without knowing what had happened made her feel better. ‘I know, Kat.’

  ‘Great! Now get your butt over here. I’m in the kitchen and I’m trying to turn on the oven. Stupid thing won’t work and I’m not sure where to throw this match.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Zoe waved her arm at a passing taxi. ‘You don’t need the stove to chill wine. Kat, stop, you’ll burn your penthouse down. You don’t use matches in electric ovens.’

  Kat merely laughed. ‘Then you’d better hurry.’

  Two months later

  ‘Two sisters happily settled and all I have is you, Prince Falke.’ Zoe Matthews sighed, staring at the indecently clad man refusing to look at her. Too bad he was made of paper, about five inches tall and didn’t have anything under the waist where the edge of the book cover cut him off. ‘Megan was right. Romance novels rot the brain.’

  Even as she said it, she flipped open to the page marked by her finger and continued to read. She’d just have to avoid telling her police-detective sister about this story, like she did all the others. But, really? What else was she to do? She worked all the time – either at her new part-time job or hunting for a better one. Real-life romance never really fitted into the equation. She was too busy for love and too timid for one-night stands. That left novels.

  Zoe frowned, again lowering the book. Did slinging drinks at the Phoenix Arms count as work? It hardly seemed like a credible job. Bartending gave more the impression of a ‘working your way through college’ kind of a gig. Unfortunately, it was the closest anyone in town would let her get to a kitchen.

  Chef Contiello wouldn’t give her a recommendation for another cooking position and her options had dwindled down to the pathetic. It didn’t matter if she could cook. No one wanted to give her a shot without a culinary degree, loyal cult following or a glowing recommendation from the last employer.

  ‘I can’t believe I called my boss an arrogant, no-talent jerk-off.’ Moaning softly, she leant her head back, hitting it lightly against the worn headboard in repeating thumps.

  In the long hours alone in her bedroom, in an apartment she called home but really had no firm attachment to, Zoe had developed the habit of talking to herself to fill the silence. She had no television, and couldn’t afford cable if she did. Since being fired from Sedurre, her meager savings had depleted to the point that another month’s bills would have been the end of her crappy, so-not-dream apartment. She’d been forced to find work at a small, old brewery in Greenwich Village.

  Since not even her favorite author could take her mind off her troubles, she set the book aside and stared at the sparse bedroom. The furniture, covers, even the sheets, had been with her since high school, taken from her childhood home until she could afford her own adult things. That had been almost ten years ago.

  Zoe traced a worn flower pattern on the sheet. The brewery was only part time. If she didn’t figure out something better soon, she’d be mooching off her sisters and parents. Her neighbor, Cindy, had offered to put in a good word at a cousin’s diner. But bussing tables didn’t sound much better than bartending.

  Sighing, Zoe crawled off the bed. She’d have to get going if she was going to be in work on time for her seven o’clock shift, at the tail end of happy hour. As it was the beginning of the weekend, she’d be there all night. Legally, the bar could only stay open until four in the morning, otherwise the owners would probably keep the party going. With an hour of clean-up, she’d hopefully be back
in bed in time to skip breakfast.

  Slipping the pair of red polka-dotted pyjama shorts from her hips, she walked across the small room barefoot, kicking them off as she moved. Inside the closet, a strange combination of chef uniforms and formal gowns hung on the rod. Zoe kept the gowns because of the occasionally elitist nature of her old job. Whenever there was a fundraiser or cocktail party with some of the more well-known chefs, Zoe needed to look her best while hobnobbing.

  ‘Not that it matters now,’ she mumbled, running her fingers along the crinkled gold sateen skirt of her favourite Vera Wang gown. On impulse, she gently grabbed the hanger and unhooked it from the rod. Turning to the tarnished full-length mirror on the door leading to her bathroom, she held the gown over her white tank top and lacy pink panties. Her blonde hair, cut straight just below her chin, spiked around her face in a messy, unkempt disarray of waves.

  The last time she dressed up, she’d been at a museum fundraiser that Kat and Vincent put together for his entomology department. One of the historians, a stately gentleman with a dry sense of humor, had tried to pick her up with lines from the sixteenth century. Though not exceedingly handsome, he’d been charming and sweet, smelled of cologne and wore a nice black suit. And there had been something about his crooked smile. Zoe had been completely uninterested. All she could think about was how she would have made the shrimp puff hors d’oeuvre differently.

  ‘I should have gone on one date with him. At least he had a job and a car and was sober.’ Zoe turned, hung up the dress and opted for a T-shirt more suited to her new career. Her current dating pool consisted of men who reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Even though cigarettes were banned from the bar itself, the specially ventilated room designated for their use tended to trap more smoke in than it let out. Not that she cared if someone was a smoker. Zoe could care less what someone else did to their lungs. What she didn’t like was the watery eyes and stuffy nose she got when exposed to it for hours a night.