by Jill Shalvis
Jacob moved through the cafeteria toward the locker room. There he received a few whistles and catcalls, and when he got close to his locker, he saw why.
A pair of black satin panties hung off the lock.
“Another thong.” Jon, one of the doormen, stood at the locker next to Jacob’s, changing for his shift. He was young, in his early twenties, and staring at the panties as if they were a choice cut New York steak. “It must be two times a week you get them,” he said, bemused. “All I ever get is dumped.”
Jacob gingerly removed the thong and tossed it to him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Seriously, Chef, I want to know.” Jon looked down at the satin in his hands. “What’s your trick? I mean you get phone numbers, presents…give up the secret, man.”
Jacob opened his locker and said nothing. There was nothing to say. After all, he didn’t purposely do anything to gain women’s attention—it just happened. A lot. He’d enjoyed it far more when he’d been young and stupid, when he’d happily worked his way through the line of women that had come his way.
He still enjoyed a woman’s touch, her scent, her body, her everything, but lately, something had changed. He didn’t seem to have quite the same patience for the game.
Was he getting old at thirty-four? Scary thought.
“I mean, I’ve done everything right,” Jon said. “I call a woman when I say I’m going to. I listen to her ramble on and on and on. I take her dancing. I sweet-talk her.”
Jacob grabbed his gear, shut his locker and then looked at Jon. “I’m going to sound like a first-class ass here, but the truth is…no. Never mind.”
“Tell me. Whatever it is, I can do it.”
“Okay, but listen. I should add a disclaimer here. I really don’t recommend—”
“Dude. Just tell me.”
“You’re trying too hard.”
The kid stared at Jacob. “Huh?”
“I know.” Jacob lifted his hands. “It doesn’t make any sense, but women seem to go for the guy who steps all over them, a guy who doesn’t call, doesn’t listen—”
“That’s your secret?” Jon asked in disbelief. “Treat them like shit?”
Jacob shrugged. “I didn’t say I condone it. I’m just giving you my observation.”
“Wow.” The young doorman stared down at the panties in his hands. “Wow.”
Jacob patted his shoulder and took the stairs back to the main level, entering the leaded glass doors of Amuse Bouche from the lobby.
Fresh flowers had been put out, as they were every day, making the place look warm and welcoming, and casually elegant. Unlike anywhere else, he never tired of being here, of the familiar black tables and funky black chairs bathed in the soft pink light, the gorgeous art deco paintings on the walls.
Inside his kitchen, he did as he always did—took a moment to survey his domain, the best money could buy in both design and appliances. No complaints here, either. The place had been cleaned during the wee hours of the night, to a spotless, disinfected, lemony-smelling shine that he never failed to marvel at. He could probably serve his food right here on this floor. Hell, he could probably serve out of their trash bin and still pass code, the place was so immaculate.
He marveled at that, too. There had been years when he would have happily eaten off this floor, or gone through the trash for scraps to fill his aching belly. Long, lean times, his growing-up years.
And now here he was, sous-chef of all things, reporting only to the executive chef who showed up on-site maybe once a week, leaving Jacob to handle the day-to-day operation of the place.
A slow, satisfied smile crossed his face. Not bad for a street urchin who’d grown up wild and feral, who’d wandered his way across the South in his youth, living hand to mouth, lucky to have a shirt on his back half the time. God, he’d been such a little shit, a real know-it-all. The one time that social services had managed to get hold of him, their diagnosis had been attachment disorder, which had cracked him up. Attachment disorder, bullshit. He could have attached. He’d just chosen not to.
Still did.
In any case, it was true that Amuse Bouche was everything he once would have scoffed at: posh and sophisticated, valuing quality over quantity. Odd then how very happy he was here, when his surroundings were far more elegant than he could ever be.
Ah, well. There it was. And eventually, he knew, the wanderlust would take over, as it always did, and he’d shrug and move on, never looking back.
But for now, things were pretty damn fine. He had all this incredible space, with the best equipment available, and the freshest ingredients money could buy. In a couple of hours’ time the dining area would be filled with people wanting to taste his food. His.
Yeah, not too shabby, for a hard-ass punk kid from Podunk.
He moved toward the three industrial-grade refrigerators, thinking there were two things worth doing well in life. Both required passion, concentration and skill, and both gave him great pleasure: cooking and seducing a woman. Combining ingredients to create a masterpiece had always been a great source of entertainment. In the same way that the weather changed, without rhythm or plan, he liked to adjust his menu.
Women were no different. Same as a good recipe, they were meant to be played with, thoroughly explored, and devoured, but would undoubtedly spoil if kept too long.
So he never kept anything too long.
It simply wasn’t in his nature. It was why he held the sous-chef position instead of executive chef, which he could have had if he wanted.
He didn’t want.
He liked keeping his options open, liked keeping one foot out the door, liked knowing he could pack up and go at a moment’s notice.
Hell, he didn’t even have to pack if he wanted, he had nothing that couldn’t be replaced in another town, another restaurant.
But for now, for right this very minute, Hush was a good place to be. A very good place. He smiled as he remembered the episode in the elevator, with his pretty stranger and her mind-blowing kiss.
“What are you grinning about?” This came from Pru as she entered into the kitchen behind him. She was Amuse Bouche’s sommelier. The wine expert position fit his friend to a tee, given that she was a complete snob and had been since her first day here, even though, like Jacob, she’d arrived in New York with only the clothes on her back.
But she was extremely sharp-witted, and never failed to amuse him. They’d bonded immediately, of course, recognizing kindred spirits. The two pretenders, they called themselves.
Oddly enough, they hadn’t slept together.
A first for Jacob, being friends with a woman, not lovers. But though Pru, with her curvy, lush body, creamy porcelain skin and startlingly blue eyes, was exactly his type on paper, in reality she batted for another team entirely.
An all-girl team.
After the initial disappointment, Jacob hadn’t cared. He liked her, and that in itself was enough of a novelty that he put up with her less attractive traits—such as the one that made her get some sick enjoyment out of constantly trying to set him up with “the one.”
The one. Why did there have to be just one?
“Do I need a reason to be grinning?” he asked.
“Yeah, when you’re smirking like that.” Pru studied him thoughtfully, her dark brown hair carefully contained in some complicated braid. “You’re thinking about sex.”
He laughed. Caught. “Why do you always assume that?”
“Because guys think about sex 24/7. You’re probably thinking about that poor woman you accosted in the elevator.”
“I didn’t accost her.” Nope, after a brief startled moment on her part, she’d kissed him back. Quite eagerly.
“Who was she?”
A stranger, one who happened to be at the right place at the right time. A stranger by whom, for those sixty or so seconds, he’d been transfixed. As for who she was, he had no idea. He could have found out, of course, but it had been just a kiss.
; Just a helluva kiss.
“My date.”
Pru set down her Prada briefcase, overflowing with wine catalogs and food magazines, and put her hands on her hips. “You don’t really expect me to believe she was your date.”
“Why not?”
“Because she looked too sweet to have slept with you.”
She had looked sweet in that long, flowery dress that had hugged her curves in a way that had made his mouth water. Sweet and yet hot. Extremely hot. “I don’t sleep with all my first dates.”
Pru laughed. “Yes, you do.”
“I didn’t sleep with you.”
“In your dreams you did,” she said smugly.
Okay, she had him there, and he had to laugh. “I’m not that big of a slut.”
“Honey, if the shoe fits…” She pulled a California winery brochure from her bag, tapping the label with a perfectly manicured finger. “We want their stuff.”
He glanced at the cover, which showed wine country in all its fall glory. “What makes it different?”
“You’ll have to taste it. It’s out of this world. I want to make an order. All right with you?”
“You know I trust you.”
“Uh-huh,” she said dryly. “Which is why you date only the women I tell you to.”
“Correction. I trust your judgment in wines.”
“I have great taste in women.” Pru waggled her brow. “I’m going to find you the right one yet, you’ll see.”
“We’ve been over this, Pru.”
“I know, I know. The thought of just one woman makes you shudder, yadda, yadda. That’s only because you don’t know, Jacob. You don’t understand how great it can be.”
The kitchen doors slammed open and another woman entered. Tall, willowy, olive-skinned and gorgeous, Caya was part of the waitstaff, and Pru’s platonic roommate. If Pru was the sedate and elegant lady, Caya was the happy-go-lucky party girl. The perfect odd couple.
Caya divided a glance between the two of them. “Having a fiesta without me?”
“Just reminding Chef of all his faults,” Pru told her.
“Hey, now.” Caya slid her arms around Jacob, setting her head on his shoulder. “Silly Pru. Our Chef has no faults.”
Jacob laughed. “That’s right, I don’t. And don’t either of you forget it.”
“We were talking about the elevator scene,” Pru told Caya. “The woman.”
“No, you were talking about it.” Jacob opened the meat refrigerator and pulled out a container of fresh mussels.
“So.” Caya leaned back against the counter and watched him. “You going to tell us?”
“Sure.” Jacob dumped the mussels into a huge pot and carried it to the sink. “I’m creating an island blue mussel with sweet potato chowder.” He began to fill the pot with water. “I’ve had a lot of requests—”
“Not that, you very annoying man.” Pru moved close. “Although an excellent choice,” she murmured, peering into the pot. “You should serve a light to medium-bodied off-dry wine with that, you know. Maybe even a lightly sweet white, like a Chenin Blanc or Vouvray—”
“Oh, my God, Pru,” Caya said with a laugh. “Stop being the workaholic for a minute. Let’s stick to the subject, okay? The cutie in the elevator?”
“Forget it. He can’t tell you anything because he was just kissing some stranger again.”
Jacob rolled his eyes.
“By the way, I met this woman in the spa today,” Pru said to him. “I was getting a Swedish massage—which by the way, was heaven. Anyway, she’d be perfect for you.”
Jacob lifted up the heavy pot of mussels. “You know, I see your lips moving, but all I hear is blah blah blah blah blah.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so.”
“Jacob—”
“Hey, how about this? When you’re not single, we’ll talk.” He carried the pot to the huge stovetop. “Meanwhile, go find ‘the one.’”
He saw Pru’s quick longing glance at Caya—Caya?—but before he could assimilate it, the door opened and Jacob’s two assistants entered.
Timothy and Daniel had been picked by him personally, and after going through at least ten previous assistants, each worthless, he had high hopes for these two. They were clueless, of course, and both far too young, but he’d been young and stupid once, too, and since they had a genuine love of cooking and were eager to learn, he’d given them a shot.
Timothy leaned over Jacob’s shoulder, looked into the pot and let out a slow smile. “Island blue mussels. Sweet.”
“It will be,” Jacob promised. “Get out the whole dried bay laurel leaf and the coriander. Oh, and the fennel seed. Start grinding.” To Daniel he said, “Get what we need for the soup. You know the ingredients?”
Daniel looked excited and terrified at the same time. “Yes.”
“Then go. Oh, and stir frequently.” He leaned in. “That means often, whether your girlfriend calls you every three minutes or not.”
Daniel blushed at the reminder of last week, when he’d inadvertently burned the bottom of the pot and ruined an entire batch. “I won’t screw it up this time.”
“See that you don’t.”
“I was thinking,” Caya piped up to Jacob. “We should all go out tonight.”
By “all,” Caya could mean anyone and everyone. While Pru batted for that all-girl’s team, Caya had never limited her options by choosing a side.
“I’ll bring that woman from the spa for Jacob,” Pru said.
“Don’t bother, I’m busy tonight,” Jacob told her, and before they could object, he put an arm around each of them, steering them toward the door.
Laughing, Pru dug in her heels. “You are not busy.”
“I am extremely busy.”
“Fine. I can easily party without you guys,” Caya said breezily.
At the flash of disappointment on Pru’s face, Jacob sighed. Ah, hell. The Ice Queen had a thing for the carefree, spirited Caya, who went through sexual partners like water. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but Pru was the monogamous sort, always in it for the long haul. She’d been dreaming of her own special “the one” since he’d known her.
And now she was bound for Hurt City. “Maybe we could go out,” Pru said to Caya. “You know, just the two of us.”
Caya stared at her, then laughed. “Right. The sommelier go out with the lowly waitress. That’s sweet, Pru, but you don’t have to do that.” Leaning in, she kissed each of them on the cheek. “See ya later, guys.”
With that, she took her most excellent behind out of the kitchen.
Pru watched her leave the kitchen and Jacob shook his head. “Pru, what the hell is this?”
Pru swiped all expression from her face. “What?”
“You were looking at her.”
“So? I was looking at you, too.”
“Yes, but not like you wanted to lap me up with a spoon.”
Pru reached for her briefcase and, taking a page from his own book, said nothing.
Jacob shook his head. “You should just come right out and tell her.”
“Tell her what? There’s nothing to tell.”
Her face was pure stubbornness, and after a second, Jacob lifted his hands. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Pru left, too, shutting the door just a little too hard behind her.
Jacob shrugged it off and strode back toward his waiting ingredients with the same anticipation he would have had striding toward a woman in his bed.
3
EM, ERIC AND LIZA looked up as Amuse Bouche’s maître d’ came toward them. “We can seat you now,” she said with an easy smile.
Amuse Bouche turned out to be casually elegant and extremely eye pleasing, with slender black urns holding arrangements of a variety of flowers that matched the art deco vibe of the rest of the hotel. The tables were well spaced and gorgeously done, each with its own discreet partition, so that while voices and laughter were audible, there was an illusion of intimacy for each
party.
Em could use some privacy to obsess over what she thought of as the E.I.—elevator incident. Not going to happen with Eric and Liza just behind her, side by side and yet ignoring each other—well, if ignoring meant staring and pretending not to be.
Granted, Liza looked amazing in a tiny scrap of a red cocktail dress, which probably accounted for the glazed look on Eric’s face. He didn’t look too shabby in his finery, either, turning the head of more than one woman.
“Here you go,” the maître d’ said and gestured to their table. “Tonight you’ll be experiencing Chef Jacob Hill’s renowned cuisine creations. Enjoy.”
“I’m starving,” Liza said and lifted her menu, which she used as a shield so she could covertly stare at Eric with the unguarded longing she sometimes got in her eyes.
Eric got the same look while pretending to watch the crowd, though really checking out the long length of Liza’s bare, smooth legs.
It drove Em crazy—how could they not see they belonged together? Everyone knew it.
Everyone but them.
Em didn’t look at her menu yet. She was still trying to find her own balance, and while she did, she looked around, too. Each place inside Hush had turned out to be more exciting and different than the last, full of a spirited energy and yet somehow also a Zen-like peace.
Not much of a hotel person herself, this one had won her over. Her room was large by Manhattan standards. Beach inspired, it was done in creamy blues and greens and earth tones, with a mural of the sun rising over the Atlantic on one wall, and a mounted waterfall on the other, giving off the soothing sounds of water running over rocks. Her California king bed had lush, thick bedding she couldn’t have afforded at home, and her bathroom came with a huge sunken hot tub she could happily drown in, with scented candles lining the edges. The towels were Egyptian cotton, and on the counters had been lotions, bath oils, scrubs—a virtual day spa.
There had been more, as well: the TV channels that were exclusive to the hotel and showed an array of erotica, the beautifully illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra and a selection of self-heating lubricating oils in the bedside table. But the coup de grâce…in the tall closet outside the bathroom hung a long, intricately braided leather whip. She’d fingered the thing in amused shock, had even tapped it against her palm.
