Her New Boss: A Rouge Erotic Romance

by Michelle M. Pillow

  ‘Byron?’ Zoe arched a brow. ‘Don’t you mean Shakespeare?’

  ‘Zoe, baby, I’ve learnt never to contradict a woman you’re trying to get into the sack. It hurts the odds.’

  Zoe gave a small laugh, before drawling sarcastically, ‘You truly are a poetic soul.’

  He wiggled his eyebrows, picked up a tray full of beers and disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Guys like you, Pete, are the reason I don’t date,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Obviously hearing her, Sasha laughed. ‘Zoe, you don’t date because you don’t take chances. I say you give Mr Fine over there a shot and don’t give him one of those snobby looks you get around cute guys. What is the worst that could happen? You get a little action? Maybe have a little fun? A free meal at the very least?’

  Zoe glanced down the bar to where the handsome stranger still sat. His eyes were on her and he smiled. Could she take a chance like him? She thought about apologizing, of seeing where things led, of a one-night stand. The thoughts only made her tense. She quickly diverted her attention, ignoring whatever attraction tried to form inside her. ‘You go for it. I’m not interested. By the sound of his fake accent, he’s an actor. You wouldn’t believe how many men come in here with fake accents trying to pick up women. I hate people who aren’t real.’

  ‘How’s it not real? They’re just doing a job,’ Kat pointed out. ‘Besides, actors can be fun.’

  ‘Ah, forget it.’ Zoe swiped her hands through the air. ‘Let’s talk about something besides men.’

  Jackson Levy tapped his foot in time with the music. ‘Take It Easy’ by the Eagles played. The song was much better than some of the other music that had been blaring over the bar. Back home in South Carolina, in the small town where his family still lived, they played nothing but country music and a few rock classics. This song reminded him of home and how terribly he missed it.

  As a young boy, he could dream of nothing more than getting out. It was a generic dream, a dream had by all young boys who grew up in small towns. Places like New York seemed so exotic. But what reality made clear, and dreams never touched upon, was how rude and busy everyone was in big cities. Everything was impersonal, everything had a time and a schedule. That’s why he hated coming here, hated coming to all big cities. But with work he had little choice. When it came to his job, whatever he did, he succeeded. Too bad his love life wasn’t so golden.

  Jackson glanced down the bar to where the bartender spoke with a couple of women. When he had first walked in and seen her brief smile, he had hoped that maybe she would be different from the others he’d met each time he came to New York. Her wide, dark-blue eyes captivated him. Straight blonde hair framed her face, the bangs long but tapered. Normally, he liked a woman with flowing long hair, but the cut suited her slender face and small, energetic frame.

  His initial hopes for a pleasant conversation were crushed when she merely stared at him, like he was another drone in her long line of customers. Well, his momma hadn’t raised a quitter. Maybe he needed to try a different approach. Wasn’t his family always on him to try harder in the female department?

  With that in mind, he hurried and finished his beer. The deep ale had an orange and ginger aftertaste he didn’t care for. Where he came from beer tasted like beer. It was just one more thing separating this world from his. After a dinner meeting filled with scotch and sodas, he felt himself entering a pleasant alcohol haze – not so much to impair judgment but enough to loosen his tongue so he could make small talk with a pretty woman.

  Jackson lifted his empty bottle as soon as the male bartender disappeared into the crowd. For all the people in the place, the woman didn’t look too busy. It took her a moment to see him. She said something to her friends, causing them to laugh before she walked toward him.

  ‘Another of the same?’ Even before he answered, she started reaching for the bottle.

  ‘No, actually, I didn’t like this one.’ He gave her a small smile, one he hoped appeared charming. For some reason, he really wanted this woman to notice him. It was more than the stirring of carnal interest between his legs, but a desire to connect, to know who she was.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Jackson suppressed the urge to frown at himself. He wanted to get to know a bartender? What he should be concentrating on was getting her into the sack. He needed release, wanted to find it buried inside her.

  ‘How about something that actually tastes like a beer?’ His smile widened.

  ‘How about you actually order and stop wasting my time? I’m not a mind reader.’ She arched a brow impatiently. She reached behind the bar to grab a menu then slid it in front of him.

  ‘Important conversation to go back to?’ He told himself to keep the Southern charm in his voice. Slowly, he glanced toward her friends. ‘Or are you like all Northerners? In too big of a hurry?’

  ‘Wow,’ the woman drawled wryly. ‘Listen, confederate, the war is over. Y’all lost.’ The last was said mimicking his accent, and not in a flattering way.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ Jackson gave her another small smile. ‘Just trying to make conversation.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m lacking in conversation? I’ve got two sisters right over there.’ She glanced down the bar. ‘And do I look like I’m searching for a good time tonight?’

  ‘Sisters? So you’re a …?’ He glanced at the pretty women at the end of the bar.

  ‘Uh, my sisters – my mother gave birth to all of us.’ The small crease between her furrowed brows deepened.

  ‘Oh.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I thought you were saying you were …’

  ‘Into ladies?’ The brow arched. ‘Not that it matters, but no.’

  Fucking smooth, Jackson. The sarcastic thought filtered through his mind. If it were physically possible, he’d beat the crap out of himself right now for being such an idiot. Nice and subtle, moron. Why not just pass her a note? Will you go out with me? Yes. No. Maybe?

  ‘I apologize if it was rude of me,’ Jackson said. ‘You must have a boyfriend.’

  What else could all this hostility be? It wasn’t like he had tried to paw her or drag her onto his lap.

  ‘No, I just don’t like being hit on by drunks.’

  ‘I’m not drunk. Not on this fruit water you served me.’ Jackson let loose an aggravated sigh. A beautiful woman such as her, working in a bar, should expect men to come on to her.

  ‘Listen, pal, how about you leave acting school back at whatever second-rate studio you’ve crawled here from?’ She placed her hands on the bar, leaning forward. The movement accentuated her rounded breasts beneath her T-shirt. He found himself glancing down, even as he told himself not to look.

  ‘Do you …?’ Jackson forced his eyes away, glancing around the bar. ‘Do you have me confused with someone else?’

  ‘Your crowd is usually here on Tuesdays. Last week you were pirates and some oily-faced jerk-off called me his matey. The week before I was a serving wench. Before that a ho talk’n back to her pimp daddy. Before that Mrs Claus, my lady, doll, dame, lassie, bella, Goody Prudence-something-or-other and apparently now it’s to be ma’am.’ She took a deep, annoyed breath. ‘I appreciate that your teacher makes you go out into the “real world” and practice your five-dollar acting skills with promises of Broadway. But I’m not the girl to run your accent by. I’m tired. All I ever wanted to do is be a chef but instead I have a crappy job slinging beer and the last thing I want is to deal with some guy coming on to me.’

  So much for charm.

  What did he want with some hard-nosed city woman anyway? He could easily pick up a woman for the night, if that’s what he wanted. If he wanted one guaranteed, all he’d have to do was call a number he had for a discreet escort service. With a few words he could pick a sure thing from a catalogue for the evening and have his every sexual desire met without questions. However, he didn’t like hookers, didn’t like the seedy feeling of paying someone to be with him. He wanted a woman to be
with him because they wanted to be there, not because he could pay well for the service.

  ‘Wheat beer, dark is fine, no fruit flavours, can you do that?’ Jackson just wanted to get his late meeting over with and go back to his hotel to sleep.

  ‘Coming right up,’ she said, turning around to grab a chilled glass mug. Pulling the tap lever, she filled it before sliding the beer in front of him. ‘That’ll be –’

  ‘Run a tab.’ Jackson lifted his credit card between his middle and forefinger. He noticed that he had automatically lessened his accent and it annoyed him greatly.

  She snatched the card, turned and slid it next to the cash register, quickly scribbling a note on a pad next to it. A shout from a group of young men drew her attention down to the other side of the bar. Jackson watched her, strangely drawn to take in each and every movement. She focused on her task, slipping a paring knife from behind the bar to cut a lime. He watched how she handled the blade, barely looking down as if she’d cut such things a billion times before. After shoving the lime slices into the tops of beer bottles, she slid the bottles over and picked up a new piece of fruit. Walking back to her friends, she slowly cut the peel from the lime, spiralling horizontally around the entire thing so it came off in one continuous piece. Then, dropping the fruit, she formed a rose out of the peel and stuck two toothpicks in the base before placing it on the napkin. The woman had said she wanted to be a chef in her little tirade, but seeing her make a rose peel hardly gave credit to her talent.

  Jackson turned his attention briefly to the door before again looking at his beer. Behind him, someone bumped into his back, giggling softly. He ignored them. The barely rock stylings of some underage girl blared over him, adding to his bad mood. He knew what he was doing here. He’d heard of the bar, wanted to see it someday just to say he’d been there, and when Chef Contiello had mentioned meeting up for drinks he hadn’t thought twice about saying yes. It had been his hope that loud music and alcohol would drown out the insufferable man’s yapping. Jackson knew he didn’t have to like a chef to hire him and the client wanted someone semi-famous – not so big as to be un-gettable, but poised for greatness so that whatever restaurant possessed him would benefit.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Contiello?’ Jackson swore under his breath, glancing at his watch. The man was beyond late. Even after having his efforts shot down, the semi-erection between his thighs remained to remind him how long he’d been without sex. The last time had been a waitress in Paris nearly four months earlier. He again looked at the bartender, his gaze roaming the back of her ass. ‘Fuck.’ Swallowing deep, he chugged half the mug.

  ‘What were you and brown-eyes over there talking about?’ Sasha asked when Zoe again came over. ‘Seemed like quite a conversation.’

  ‘You can’t see that his eyes are brown from over here,’ Zoe said, pointedly refusing to look.

  ‘She wandered by when you were busy with the frat pack.’ Kat laughed.

  ‘He smells nice.’ Sasha giggled. ‘Why don’t you go ask him to see his, ah, “cologne bottle”?’

  ‘I hardly think he’ll want to show me anything after the way I just shot him down.’ Zoe glanced up and down the bar, making sure no one wanted a drink. More to herself, she said, ‘I should send Pete out to work the floor more often. He’s worth about five waitresses.’

  ‘Forget Pete, what did you say to brown-eyes?’ Kat asked.

  ‘I took my frustrations out on him,’ Zoe admitted. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m just sick of this place and that damn fake accent of his made me crazy, probably because it was a little too sexy and that just annoyed me more.’ Groaning softly, she lowered her head. ‘I’m such a bitch. I need to get out of this place.’

  ‘I agree. Quit.’ Kat rustled her hair. ‘And I’ll hire you to be my personal chef. In fact, I’ll get Vincent’s parents to buy you your own restaurant.’

  ‘I don’t want charity,’ Zoe said, grabbing a nearby empty bottle and tossing it toward a trashcan.

  ‘Since when is helping out a sister charity?’ Kat demanded.

  ‘Kat, you’d be indebted to his parents forever after a favor like that and I would be stuck cooking for their cocktail parties until the end of time.’ Zoe pushed away from the bar and grabbed the little lime-peel rose with the napkin it sat on and wadded it into a ball. ‘I got to get back to work.’

  ‘I see you started without me, friend! I’m not too late, eh?’

  Jackson glanced up from his row of empty beer bottles to see Chef Contiello. The man smiled, his eyes glassy as if he were already drunk. Jackson found no fault in that; he was well on his way to the exact same condition. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Contiello laughed, his thick Italian accent slightly slurred. ‘But that is OK for me, because I am the talent and you need me to say yes to this project.’

  ‘Let me buy you a drink.’ Jackson lifted his arm. The chef was right. He did need him to say yes. It would make his life a helluva lot easier.

  ‘What do you think of this bartender?’ Contiello motioned toward the woman who’d shot him down earlier.

  ‘A real piece of work,’ Jackson drawled.

  ‘You know, she used to work for me and now look at her. She tried to steal my recipes and this is what she’s become. That is the kind of power I have, but you know this, don’t you?’

  Jackson frowned. He knew no such thing, but had a feeling people in Chef Contiello’s life had been telling him exactly what he wanted to hear for a long time now. The man truly believed the celebrity hype surrounding him.

  ‘My usual!’ Contiello yelled.

  The bartender stiffened and turned at the sound. She stood so long, staring at Contiello, that Jackson wasn’t sure she’d come to take the order. Slowly she stepped forward. ‘Sorry, we’re fresh out of goat piss.’

  Contiello gave a wry laugh. ‘Zoe, why so bitter? Don’t you like mopping vomit for a living?’

  ‘Better than working for vomit,’ she answered, her tone sickeningly sweet.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Contiello slugged Jackson on the arm a little too hard.

  Zoe’s eyes turned to him. Her gaze hardened. ‘You’re with him?’

  ‘Zoe, you didn’t introduce yourself to Mr Levy?’ Contiello laughed. ‘Oh, I forgot, you aren’t important enough to know who he is.’

  Jackson didn’t care for Contiello’s tone, but he didn’t take his eyes off Zoe. The changes on her beautiful face were slow and unmistakable. First, the hardness turned to surprise, then disbelief as she slowly glanced from Contiello to Jackson. She shook her head, mumbling, ‘No, you’re joking. It can’t be Jackson Levy because he …’ She reached behind her back, fumbling for the credit card she’d placed by the cash register to run his tab. Knocking several papers onto the floor, she finally grabbed it and held it up in a narrow stream of light from a neon sign. ‘You’re Jackson Levy.’ Her eyes round, she looked back at him. ‘You’re –’

  ‘Jackson Levy,’ Jackson finished for her. ‘The confederate who doesn’t know the war is over.’

  Her face paled. ‘Mr Le – sir, I’m sorry about that. I had no idea who you were.’ She quickly turned and grabbed a ticket from the bar. Without even looking at it to make sure it was his, she tore it up. Zoe put his credit card down on the bar. ‘Your drinks are on me. There is no excuse –’

  ‘For grovelling,’ Contiello put forth, laughing noisily. ‘Zoe, have some pride. First you beg me for a job and now this?’

  Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say more, and Jackson almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Until he remembered how she’d treated him and how her tone only changed when she discovered who he was. He might not be a movie star, but in culinary circles people knew who he was. If Zoe had worked for Contiello, she’d been in those circles.

  The bartender nodded once, not deigning to answer the boisterous chef, and turned without saying another word. She grabbed a beer from the cooler and slid it in front of Contiello before turning to walk
away.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Contiello slapped him on the arm again. ‘Come on, let’s go get a seat and hear your proposal.’

  ‘Jackson Levy,’ Zoe whispered, coming to her sisters. ‘That cowboy is Jackson Levy and he’s really a cowboy.’

  ‘Are you getting this?’ Kat laughed, taking a drink. She swayed slightly on her seat, more than a little tipsy.

  ‘Something about cowboy levies?’ Sasha answered.

  ‘They tax cowboys?’ Kat giggled.

  ‘That man I yelled at. That’s Jackson Levy. Kat, do you remember that magazine article I showed you a year ago about the mysterious restaurateur? You know the one, everything he touched turned to crème brûlée? That’s him! He’s the guy investors pay thousands of dollars to so he can design them restaurants and every one of them is in the black within a year. He picks the location, the theme, the staff, the cooks, the …’

  ‘Whoa, take a deep breath.’ Kat reached across the bar. ‘You look like you’re about to pass out.’

  ‘He could get me a job,’ Zoe said, feeling the first real ray of hope since she’d gotten fired. ‘If he backed me, it wouldn’t matter what rumours Contiello spread because that man –’ she paused, waving her hand toward the end of the bar where Jackson had been sitting ‘– is a restaurant genius. And I was such a bitch to him.’

  ‘You didn’t know,’ Kat said.

  ‘You’ve done it now,’ Sasha teased.

  ‘Sash, now’s not the time to rub it in,’ Kat scolded, giving their sister a disapproving look. Turning her attention once more to Zoe, she continued, ‘Apologize to him and if he seems reasonable, explain what happened between you and Contiello.’

  ‘What did happen between you and Contiello?’ Sasha interrupted.

  ‘He wanted her recipes.’ Kat continued to stare at Zoe. ‘And she didn’t want to give them to him to use. He tried to say they were his anyway since she worked in his kitchen when she invented them.’

  ‘Pfft!’ Sasha snorted. ‘She’d been inventing those long before his kitchen.’