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Room Service
Jill Shalvis
Note to Maintenance: Check the air vents and temp regulator on elevator 2A. Guest seen coming off it looking dazed and flushed. Note to Housekeeping: Refill the sensual massaging oils in the Haiku suite. Farm-girl-turned-TV-producer Em Harris is in way over her head. Trying to bag chef Jacob Hill for her new culinary show is one thing. Staying at the sex-themed hotel Hush, where his restaurant is located, is quite another. Her goal there is to convince Jacob, known for looking and cooking like a dream, to sign a contract.But after a few days of being enveloped in Hush's sensual atmosphere, the only thing on Em's mind is discovering if Jacob tastes as delicious as he appears….
Welcome to the Hush Hotel!
Check out the couple in room 1212…
“You know what toys the suites are equipped with?” Jacob’s voice left no doubt as to what category of “toys” he was referring to.
Em took a big gulp. “I think so.”
He stared at her, the kind of deep, dark, edgy look that might have sent her running if it hadn’t been him. But she knew him now, and his bark was far worse than his bite.
At least, she hoped so.
“There are toys for every kind of sex adventure the hotel guests could want.”
She took another gulp. “I know. I want…I want to see.”
He muttered something to himself that sounded like “Don’t do it, Hill,” rubbing the day-old growth on his jaw in agitation.
She wanted to feel the roughness of it against her skin. “Show me,” she whispered.
“I must be insane. Insane.” He walked away a few feet, then stalked back, taking her hand. “Come on, then.”
She wanted to tell him not to worry, it would be okay. But of course it wouldn’t. Nothing would ever be okay again.
Dear Reader,
It’s been a while since I wrote a book for Harlequin Blaze. Too long. In fact, I’d wondered if I would remember how…. But happily it was like getting on a bike. Fun, exhilarating and always exciting.
This story is part of the DO NOT DISTURB series, which takes place in the plush, exotic hotel Hush in New York City. The setting itself was a character, as the hotel caters to the…um, let’s call it the sensually adventurous. I singed my fingertips writing a couple of the scenes…. I wonder if you’ll be able to tell which ones.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading DO NOT DISTURB. And don’t forget to check out eHarlequin.com for related online stories.
In the meantime, check in to Hush…and enjoy the fun.
Jill Shalvis
Room Service
Jill Shalvis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Prologue
Los Angeles
EMMA HARRIS WAS PART Hollywood business shark, part Ohio farm girl, and though that might seem like an odd combination, it had always worked for her.
Until now.
Now she was a twenty-seven-year-old TV producer facing her last chance in this business. If she blew it, then goodbye job, goodbye career, goodbye to it all because she’d be washed up. Done, finished, finito, before she’d even hit the big three-oh.
But she was too determined, too stubborn, to allow that to happen. Of course, it didn’t help that everyone at the production company she worked for thought her luck had run out, including her own assistant, who’d quit last week to go to work as a grip at an NBC sitcom. But Em would never give up.
Nope, she was made of sterner stuff than that. She’d grown up in Ohio, on a thriving family farm, which she’d left to go to college and then produce television shows. Her parents were still horrified, certain that a girl like her, with strong morals and ethics, couldn’t possibly make a go of it in Hollywood, but she was dead set on proving them wrong.
She loved this job. She simply wouldn’t believe she couldn’t make it work, her way.
But she’d been summoned by the boss…reminding her that determination was not enough, not in Hollywood. Drawing a deep breath, she made the long walk from her office to his. Outside his closed door, she smoothed her skirt, decided there was no hope for her hair so she didn’t even try and, after pasting a smile over her worried frown, knocked with every ounce of confidence and authority she had.
“Come in!”
Em opened the door. From the big leather chair behind his big, fancy network desk, Nathan Bennett scowled.
Em locked her smile in place. “You wanted to see me?”
“Emmaline Harris. Sit.”
Great, her full name. Never a good sign. She entered and sat where he indicated—a smaller, far less comfortable-looking chair, which was there, she knew, to make people feel inferior.
She wouldn’t let it work. After all, she’d been raised with her mother’s words ringing in her ears. “Em,” she’d say, hands on her hips, her jeans dirty from hard work. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
A quote from Eleanor Roosevelt, of course, and Em had always believed it. She was tough enough for this town!
Nathan looked at her for a long moment, as if measuring his words carefully. “Do you know why you’re here today?”
To be fired. Unless she could fast-talk her way back. Which she could do, she told herself. She could fast-talk with the best of them. It was lying and manipulation she had trouble with. “I’m pretty certain.”
Nathan nodded, looking stern and unhappy, and Em felt as if she was sitting in front of the principal, only this was worse, far worse, because being ousted here meant so much more than a few days suspension without homework. It meant bye-bye paycheck.
But she would not be saying bye-bye to her self-respect. Nope, if she was going down, then she’d go down with pride intact.
Nathan steepled his fingers. “We hired you, Emmaline, in spite of your utter lack of experience in this business, because we thought you were a bright star on the horizon, just waiting to make her mark.”
“Sir—”
“We thought you’d do great things for our production company.”
“And I hope I’m just getting started.” She tried the smile again.
It still wasn’t returned.
Instead, Nathan rearranged his already perfectly arranged pencil and pen set to the right of his spotless blotter. “Emmaline, can you explain the last three shows you produced here?”
“Well, I—”
“And why each failed?”
Her smile faltered. Yes, she could. But she wouldn’t. Because that would mean hurting others. When she’d first come to town, she hadn’t understood the rules—or, rather, that there were no rules. She got it now, the challenge being to make that work to her benefit without compromising herself. “I’m sure everyone here has had some trouble at one time or another,” she said. “Three failures in the whole, big scheme of things—”
“These were your only shows, Em. You’re batting zero here.”
They both knew she was a hard worker, that wasn’t the problem. In fact, she’d been throwing herself headlong into every project from her first set of LEGO at age three, and had been told time and time again by her family and teachers that she was made of pure tenacity and grit.
Unfortunately she had a soft heart to go with that drive, which often threw a wrench into being the best of the best. Because she wouldn’t lie, nor would she hurt anyone or anything on her way to the top. She couldn’t live with herself if she did.
Which was why she couldn’t explain to Nathan about the failures of her three shows. “I know my record looks bad, but I can do this, Nathan. Please, just give me another shot. If I could just have the reins of a show from the very beginning—”
Already shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair. His hair was black, devoid of any gray, and with a similar comb-over style to Donald Trump’s. His face was tanned from his last vacation in the Bahamas with the third wife, and he wore diamond studs in his ears that could pay Em’s salary for at least five years. He’d probably never been fired in his life. “You’ve had your shot,” he said firmly. “Three of them.”
Sure. First up had been the exciting reality show involving two brothers, both sweet and adorable inventors, with IQs off the map. Em had thought Ty and Todd so wonderful, and because they’d been struggling to make ends meet, too, she’d made it her personal mission to get the word out on them. Only as it turned out, Ty and Todd had failed to mention the word had been out once before, and that they were in court for patent infringements. By the time the first episode aired, both the network and Nathan had been sued.
With failure ringing in her ears, Em’s second attempt had been her chance to prove the previous disaster had been an unlucky break. But right from the beginning, the crew on the safari-adventure-themed reality show had fought viciously amongst themselves, backstabbing and sabotaging at will. Because Em hadn’t been allowed to hire them in the first place, she’d been left in the position of being unable to control them. That, coupled with the fact that not one of them could read a map, and it had been a “lost” cause before they’d even begun.
Em’s third and last effort had been a talk show where, not-so-coincidentally, the host had been Nathan’s niece by marriage. A lovely, funny, sharp woman making her way up the ranks in the comic circuit, a woman who’d had an incredibly unlucky streak in life culminating in a horrific car accident the year before and was now, secretly and unfortunately, addicted to her prescription meds. A secret, of course, that could ruin her. When Em had discovered it, the woman had begged and cried and pleaded for Em not to tell.
Of course Em didn’t tell, it wasn’t in her genetic makeup to do such a thing, but when the comic had self-destructed—on live TV—the decision had cost Em the show, garnering her the knowledge that she didn’t want to work with relatives of her boss ever again.
Now she had three failures like balls on a chain around her neck. Each had occurred, Em was certain, not because she was a bad producer, but because she’d been handed the cast and crew instead of picking them herself.
The stakes had never been higher, she knew this. But she also knew anything was possible, including making it in this business. Her way. “I can do this, Nathan,” she said again. “I know I can. You just have to give me a real chance to do so.”
“Emmaline—”
“A real chance.” She stood, putting her hands on his desk, leaning in, desperate to make him see how badly she wanted this. “If I could pick the crew and the host this time—”
“You don’t have any experience in that area.”
True enough. Until college, she’d driven a tractor, she’d run a hay barn and she’d managed the books for the dairy division of her family’s farm.
Having graduated from college with a business degree in TV development, she knew it was time to hold down a job in her field, not a hay field. And she wanted it to be this job. “You saw something in me, you just said it. Please, let me try again, just one more time.”
Nathan twirled a mechanical pencil in his fingers and did that long silent pause that always made Em want to squirm. Finally he let out a long sigh. “I know I’m going to be sorry, but…yeah.”
“Yeah?” In shock, she laughed. “Really?”
Looking unhappy about it, he nodded.
“Oh, my God, thank you thank you thank you,” she cried, running around his desk to throw her arms around him.
Awkwardly, he patted her on the back. “Okay now.”
“I’m sorry.” She dropped her arms and stepped back, but she still couldn’t swipe the wide grin off her face. “You won’t regret this, not for a minute.”
“Just promise me you’re really going to make this work,” he said solemnly to her face-splitting smile, though if she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes did actually twinkle. “Because, trust me, Em, if you screw this up, you’re done in this business for good.”
“Oh, I’m going to make this work.” She inhaled deeply to keep from hugging him again. “So tell me…what kind of show is it going to be?”
She envisioned another talk show, or maybe a well-written, sharp, witty sitcom. Yeah, that would be so perfect, something that would make people laugh—
“We want a cooking thing.”
Em stared at him, some of her elation fading. “A cooking thing.”
“With a dynamic chef who can really entertain. You know, juggle knives, toss the ingredients around. Like those chefs at the Japanese restaurants, only without the ethnicity. You’ll cook everything across the board on this show, from burgers to beef tartare.”
Tartare? She didn’t even know what that was. “A cooking show,” she repeated, thoughts racing. Unfortunately, she didn’t know the inner workings of a kitchen any more than she understood the aerodynamics of a plane.
“Cooking shows are hot right now,” Nathan said.
A cooking show, when Em could burn water without trying.
“You should start with the chef. He’ll be the key to your success. I actually have one in mind—”
“But you just said I could hire—”
“The staff to support the show.”
She fixed her smile back in place, adding an easy nod that she hoped covered up the panic hurtling through her veins instead of blood. Cooking show…“I was hoping you’d trust me to hire everyone for the show.”
“I do. Just go check out the chef I have in mind. He has charisma in spades. He’d draw the audience right in. Women think he’s sexy as hell, too.”
“Who is he?”
“Chef Jacob Hill, currently running Amuse Bouche, the world-class restaurant inside Hush, an equally world-class hotel in New York.”
“You mean that new hotel that’s themed for…”
“Sex? Yep, that’s the one. You can leave ASAP.” Nathan stopped and looked at her. “Oh, one more thing.”
She was still reeling from the fact that she wasn’t fired, that she was doing a cooking show and that she was headed to a hotel that specialized in sexual exploration and adventure.
“I know your potential, Em. It’s why I’m doing this. But listen to me. You’re going to have to…”
“What?”
He sighed. “Harden that ridiculously soft heart of yours. Toughen up.”
“I’m plenty tough.”
“Not in the way I’m talking. It’d help if you learned to conform to the way we do things around here.”
“You mean like lie and cheat?”
He offered her a smile, his first. “Exactly. If that chef won’t come willingly? Hire someone to find a hair on their plate at Amuse Bouche. In a place like that, he’d be ruined instantly. He’ll be begging to do the show.”
She stared at him. “That’s despicable.”
He shrugged. “That’s life.”
“I would never do something like that.”
“Yeah.” His smile faded and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Here comes number four.”
“I am not failing a fourth time.”
He didn’t look convinced, but to his credit, he didn’t say so. “You’ve got yourself one month to get this show off the ground. Go break a leg.”
She moved to the door when he opened it for her, feeling a little stunned, a little overwhelmed, a little excited and a lot sick.
“Good luck,” Nathan said wryly.
No doubt, she was going to need it.
1
New York
THREE DAYS LATER EM stood in the gorgeous lobby of Hotel Hush, looking around in marvel. The carpet beneath her feet was a pattern of blacks, greens, grays and pinks, and felt so thick it was like walking on air. The grand furniture and artwork on the vast walls brought to mind the great old salons of the roaring twenties.
She knew from Hush’s Web site that the place catered to the young, wealthy and daring. It was eighty guest rooms of fun, flirty sophistication and excitement, with additional offerings such as designer penthouse suites complete with personal butlers, an “it” bar named Erotique that attracted the glitterati of New York, a luxurious spa, a rooftop swimming pool…
And every available amenity was geared toward Hush’s hook: erotic fun. Guests could use their room’s private video camera complete with blank tapes, or any of the “toys” in each armoire. And downstairs in the basement was a discreet entertainment parlor where couples could engage in semiprivate exhibition fantasies, and more.
“More” being sensual pleasures that only those with an extremely open, worldly point of view would dare experience. According to the info Em had gotten online, anything could be obtained here, tried here, seen here. Anything at all.
Em couldn’t even imagine the half of it. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here for the pleasures. She was here to see Amuse Bouche, and its chef. Nathan had chosen well. It was rumored that Chef Jacob Hill was unparalleled in the kitchen, any kitchen, and that he was a virtual modern-day god.
And wildly, fabulously sexy to boot.
People said that his food was out of this world, that once you ate something he cooked, you fell for him hook, line and sinker. They said that his waitstaff had to guard the doors to the kitchen, beating women off with a stick every night.
She hoped that translated to great TV.
She’d tried to learn more about him, but interestingly enough there wasn’t much to learn. She’d found several lists of impressive credentials, but with an odd omission—anything prior to five years ago was a complete blank.
Which meant either Chef Jacob Hill was relatively new to his field, or he had a past he didn’t care to advertise.
An enigma.
And the last piece to the puzzle of Em’s success.
Hopefully he had one element common with the rest of the human race, that he could be coaxed, by either the promise of money or fame, all the way across the country to L.A.
“Look at this place,” Liza said in awe. Liza was Em’s oldest friend and newest assistant. That she looked like Barbara Eden circa I Dream of Jeannie had turned out to be invaluable in the industry as far as getting things done her way. Which was good, as Liza, never a warm, fuzzy sort, never one to back off from a good fight, liked to get her way. This made her an extremely efficient assistant, if a rather fierce one.
“They sure take the art deco theme seriously, don’t they?” She looked all around them. “This stuff is all museum quality.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why the male guests come here.” This from Eric, Em’s second-closest friend, and new location director. He was looking at a bold, bright painting of a very beautiful and very nude woman stretched out on a luxurious daybed for all to see—and he was enjoying the view greatly, if the smile on his face was anything to judge by. “The quality.”
Liza rolled her eyes. “We’re here for the restaurant.”
“Yeah, and trust me, as a chef, good restaurants hold a special place in my heart, but we’re really here to save Em’s ass—Oomph.” Rubbing the ribs Liza had just elbowed, he glared at her. “What? It’s true.”
Liza shook her head in disgust. “It’s not true, and you’re not a chef.”
“Am so.”
“Are not.”
Em sighed. The two of them possessed a unique talent for getting a reaction out of each other, be it annoyance—or sexual tension.
Eric went back to ogling the nudes.
“You’re a dog,” Liza said to him. “Men are dogs.”
“Woof, woof,” Eric said.
If Eric was a dog, he was a good-looking one—tall and very Californian in his casual chinos, untucked polo shirt, tennis shoes and sunglasses shoved to the top of his blond mop. He had eyes the color of an azure sky, and could stop traffic with a single smile.
Also handy when it came to getting his way.
Em couldn’t do this without either of them.
“I’m going to check in,” Liza said. “I’m getting a room as far from yours—” she pointed at Eric “—as possible.”
“Works for me.” Eric gave a careless shrug. “Last chance, Em. Save yourself all the trouble and use me as your chef. You know I’m good.”
He was good, but not formally trained, and such a goofball that no one ever took him seriously. She was afraid that would be apparent on the TV screen. “Eric—” Emma said.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to the bar.”
“Works for me,” Liza snapped, and with a mutual growl, both of them were gone, leaving Em standing in the lobby alone. “Well,” she said to herself. “This is going to be fun.”
The three of them together had always been fun before. They’d made their way through college, existing on fun.
That is, until last year. That had been when Eric had been stupid enough to tell Liza he loved her, then given her a diamond ring and married her.
The marriage—based on fun and lust—had lasted for two wild, sexually charged months before they’d had an explosive fight. And because neither of them had ever had a real relationship, neither of them had known what to do with real love. Now, with all that emotion still pent up inside them, with no way to deal with it, they snarled and growled and bickered.
Em loved both of them, but if they didn’t realize that they just needed to trust themselves—and get back in the sack—then she was going to lock them together in the same room until they figured it out for themselves.
Another time, though. Because right now, Eric was right. She had to save herself. To that end, she walked toward check-in. The front desk had the same sexy sophistication as the rest of the lobby, with its chest-high black marble counters. The wall behind matched, broken only by the neon-pink HUSH blazing in the center.
The check-in process was handled by a pretty woman wearing a black tux with a pink tie and a friendly smile. “Twelfth floor, same as your friends. Room 1212 for you. It’s got a great view of the city and should have everything you need. Feel free to call us for anything.”
If only it were that easy. Just call the front desk for Chef Jacob Hill…She took the room key with a wry smile and caught up with Liza and Eric at the elevators.
Eric held out a beer, lifting it in a toast. “This place is really something. You can actually smell the excitement in the air.”
Liza inhaled and shrugged.
Eric laughed. “This place is for people who want a rush, who want to feel cosmopolitan, exotic. I feel it.”
“Since when did you ever want cosmopolitan, Mr. Beer-on-the-couch-with-the-remote?” Liza asked.
“Since two women in Erotique practically lapped me up just now.”
Liza’s eyes fired with temper but she merely inquired, “Erotique?”
“The bar. You should have seen me in there. Hot stuff, baby.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You should have kept me while you had the chance.”
“Ha.”
Appearing happy to have irritated the thorn in his side, Eric smiled at Em. “Here’s to phase two,” he said and lifted his beer in another toast. “To getting our TV chef.”
Liza nodded. “To Em’s success.”
“Absolutely.” Eric’s eyes locked on hers and went warm, his smile genuine.
Liza’s slowly faded.
“What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
Liza shook her head. “Did we just…agree on something?”
He laughed. “Doubt it.”
“No, we did.”
“Mark the calendar,” he said softly. “Hell must have frozen over.”
“You’re a funny guy.”
“No, it’s true.” He stepped closer to her. “When we were married, you’d disagree with me no matter what I said. I’d say, �honey, the sky is blue,’ and you’d say, �nope, it’s light blue. Maybe dark blue. But not just blue, because I wouldn’t want to agree with you on anything, even a frigging color thing.’”
Liza took a step toward him this time, her body leaning forward. “That’s not what I did.”
Their noses nearly touched. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it, babe?”
The two of them were breathing heavily, tension dripping off them in waves, and not all of it anger.
“Guys,” Em said.
“You know what’s the matter with you?” Liza asked Eric.
“No, but I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”
“Guys?” Em said again.
“You think you’re God’s gift to women,” Liza said to Eric. “It’s obnoxious.”
“I’ll try to keep it to myself then,” Eric said lightly. “Thanks.”
“This was stupid,” Liza said. “Being here, the two of us.”
“Right. Em, you want to give up on this whole chef search and just use me? Seeing as I’m God’s gift and all? Then we can all go home.”
“We’re doing this,” Em said. “You guys can do this. Please.”
Eric looked at Liza. Liza looked back. Both sighed and nodded.
Em let out a breath. She’d done her research. She was as prepared as it got. They needed Jacob Hill, and she intended to get him.
Her way.
As they waited for the elevator doors to open, Liza scoped out a gorgeous man walking through the lobby.
Eric watched her, eyes shuttered.
Em sighed, then bent to pet a sleek black cat who’d showed up out of nowhere, wearing a bright pink collar with a tag that read Eartha Kitty. With a purr, Eartha Kitty wound around Em’s ankles until the elevator doors finally opened.
Em stepped on. The inside was as plush as the rest of the place, lined with mirrors and decorative black steel. As she contemplated the row of glowing pink buttons, the doors began to close—without Liza and Eric, who were facing each other and once again bickering over something or another.
Fed up, determined to do this with or without them, Em pushed the twelfth-floor button. The doors slid all the way closed, and blessed silence reigned. With a sigh, she leaned back against the mirror, closing her eyes. If Liza and Eric didn’t kill each other by sunset, she’d happily do the deed herself.
No, better yet, she’d lock them up in one of the rooms here and let them work out their frustrations.
Unfortunately, Em had no outlet for her frustrations. Most of the men in her life had turned out to be toads. Okay, all of them had turned out to be toads, and though she’d kissed quite a few while looking for her prince, he hadn’t yet showed up.
Opening her eyes, she caught a glance of herself. Yikes. Hair wild, eyes tired…if a prince showed up today, he’d go running at the sight of her. She closed her eyes again, opening them only when the doors slid back, revealing…the second level?
How had that happened?
A man stepped into the elevator. He wore black Levi’s and battered boots, and a black long-sleeved shirt with the pink HUSH logo on his pec. His eyes were covered with mirrored aviator sunglasses, and when he shoved them to the top of his head and looked at Em, her heart stopped. Not because he was drop-dead gorgeous. No, that description felt too neat, too pat, too…GQ. In fact, he was the furthest thing from GQ she’d ever seen.
He was tall, probably six-four, all tough and rangy and hard-muscled. His hair was cropped extremely short, and was as dark as his fathomless eyes, which were set in a face that could encourage the iciest of women to ache. And that face told the tale that he’d lived every single one of his years as fast and hard as he could.
Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t appealing. In truth, she couldn’t tear her eyes off him. But she could tell he was the kind of man who would worry his mother, the kind of man who would worry a father with a daughter. He seemed…streetwise, tough as nails, edgy, possibly even dangerous.
And then he smiled.
Yeah, big and rough, and most definitely badass. This was a man who’d seen and done things, the sort of man who could walk through a brawl, give as good as he got, and come out unscathed.
A warrior.
Em would have sworn her heart gave one last little flutter before it stopped altogether.
But the most surprising thing was what he said.
“Good, you’re here.”
Um…what? Her? Em looked behind her, but they were alone. Me? she mouthed, pointing to herself, nearly swallowing her tongue when he nodded.
“You.” His voice wasn’t hard and cold, as she might have expected, but quiet and deep, and tinged with a hint of the South, which only added to the ache in her belly.
What was it about a man with a hint of a slow, Southern drawl?
Before she could process that thought, or any thought at all actually, he slipped an arm around her and turned to smile at the two women who followed him onto the elevator. “See?” he said to them. “Here she is.”
Both women were very New York, sleek and stunning, and…laughing? Whatever the man had been referring to, they weren’t buying it. “Come on, Chef,” one said, shaking her head.
Em stood there, not quite in shock, but not quite in charge of her faculties, either, because the man had her snug to his body, which she could feel was solid muscle, and warm, so very warm. Her head fit perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. At five foot nine she’d never fit into the crook of anyone’s shoulder before, not a single one of her toads, and feeling—dare she think it?—petite and delicate made her want to sigh. The feminist in her tried to revolt, but was overpowered by her inner girlie-girl.
Then the man holding her tipped his face to hers. He had a day’s growth of dark stubble along his jaw, a silver stud in one ear and the darkest, thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen. He could convince a nun to sin with one crook of a finger, Em thought dazedly.
He was still smiling, only it wasn’t a sweet, fuzzy smile but a purely mischievous, trouble-filled one.
My, Grandma, what big teeth you have. Really she needed to get herself together. But he was so yummy she hadn’t yet decided whether to smack him or grab him. And then he leaned in, brushing that slightly rough jaw to her ear, the friction of his day’s growth against her soft skin making her shiver.
“Do you mind?” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “If I kiss you?”
Kiss her? She wanted to have his firstborn!
“Just for show,” he murmured, drawing her in closer as if she’d already agreed.
Em’s mind raced. He didn’t look like the toads she’d been with lately. He didn’t feel like a toad. But would she ever really know unless she kissed him…?
No, it was crazy; it was beyond crazy, letting a perfect stranger touch her, much less kiss her, but something about his mocha eyes, about what she saw in them—places and experiences she’d never even dreamed about—made her let out a slow, if unsure, nod.
He rewarded her with a smile that finally met those eyes of his. And then he lowered his mouth.
The two women behind him, the ones who’d been laughing at him only a moment ago, both let out shocked gasps.
That was all Em heard before her mind shut itself off and became a simple recipient of sensations. His lips were firm yet soft, his breath warm and delicious, and on top of it all, the man smelled so good she could have inhaled him all day long.
As a result, her lips seemed to part by themselves, and at the unmistakable invitation, her prince let out a rough sound of surprise and deepened the kiss, his fingers massaging the back of her head at her nape, his other hand sliding down, down, down, coming to rest low on her spine, his fingers almost on her butt, anchoring her to him.
Oh, my.
And the kiss…it didn’t make any sense. She didn’t know him from Adam, but somehow she felt as if that weren’t really true, as if maybe she’d always known him, as if her body recognized the connection even if her brain couldn’t place him. Confusing, bewildering, but she held on to him as if it didn’t matter. And he kept kissing her, kissing her until she felt hot everywhere, until she was making little sounds in the back of her throat that would have horrified her if she could have put together a single thought.
It was as if he knew the secret rhythm that her body’s needs responded to, as if they’d been lovers before.
And yet it wasn’t real. Logically Em knew this, even through the sensual, earthy haze he’d created, but it also seemed shockingly profound. And nothing, nothing at all, like a simple toad’s kiss.
Then he lifted his head, her perfect stranger, and for one beat in time looked every bit as flummoxed as she.
But the moment passed and he smiled—a smile that was sin personified. She tried to respond in kind, she really did, but all she managed was to open her mouth, and quite possibly drool.
With one last stroke of his hand up her spine, a touch that conveyed a carefully restrained passion, he pulled his arm free, and when the elevator doors opened, he pushed his gaping friends off the elevator.
Then turned back to Em.
She stood there blinking like an owl, unable to shift her tongue from drool mode into talk mode.
“Thank you,” he said.
Thank you?
“I’m in your debt.” His voice was far tighter and more tense than it had been before the kiss. Interesting.
And then, just like that, the shockingly sexy, charismatic man walked away.
Still gaping, body still pulsing, Em became vaguely aware that the elevator doors closed again. Her heart pounded, her knees shook, and she stood there like a stunned possum until the elevator doors once again opened.
A few people got on.
At least she finally managed to close her mouth, then leaned back against the mirrors, happy for the support.
There was some talking around her but her brain couldn’t process the words.
When the doors opened again, everyone got off and she had to laugh at herself.
She was back on the lobby floor.
“Get it together, Harris,” she told herself, and even hearing her voice seemed funny. She sounded shaky, a little off her axis.
A little? She’d fallen right off her world, that’s what she’d done.
Shrugging, she once again hit the button for the twelfth floor, wondering when the doors had opened there and she’d missed it.
During the kiss?
Or after, when she’d been rendered a mass of sensual nerve endings incapable of doing anything but reacting?
Because of that kiss. The mother of all kisses. The kind of connection a woman dreamed about but was never really certain even existed, except in romance novels or the movies.
How did a man learn to kiss like that?
Given her reaction to it, that sort of ability should be registered as a lethal weapon.
And she didn’t even know his name…
When the doors opened on the twelfth floor, again, she stopped hugging herself and stepped off, still in enough of a daze to do so without her roll-on luggage.
She ran back onto the elevator and grabbed her belongings.
Then she headed toward her room, unable to help but wonder if the rest of her trip was going to prove as adventurous as the first few minutes had been.
And that’s when it came to her, what the women had called her glorious stranger.
They’d called him Chef.
2
To: Maintenance
From: Housekeeping
Check the air vents and temp regulator on elevator 2A. Guest seen coming out of it today looking dazed and flushed.
JACOB HILL walked through the employee quarters, located on the second sublevel. Employees were treated well at Hush, probably because the creator of the hotel, Piper Devon, was a genuine, caring people-person, no matter that the press liked to call her the original Paris Hilton. That was because they saw only a gorgeous blond trust-fund baby. But anyone who’d ever worked for Piper knew the truth. She worked her ass off, especially on Hush.
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.
Ouch.
Em would have called herself sexually adventurous. Okay, maybe not quite, but she was at least sexually game. Now she had to admit, maybe she wasn’t nearly as game as she’d thought.
This hotel had certainly been an eye-opener. A costly one. She thought of her expense account and winced as she stared at the elaborate but somehow elegantly simple, menu of Amuse Bouche. And yet, she reasoned, if coming here got her Chef Jacob Hill, then every penny spent would be worth its weight in gold.
Or so she hoped.
Logically she knew that even if she somehow managed the miracle and convinced him to come to Hollywood to star in his own TV show, it was only half the battle.
She still had a successful show to make.
One crisis at a time.
Liza set down her menu, took one look at Em and nodded. “Alcohol,” she said. “We need some.”
“Not until I talk to him,” Em said, determined, but getting nervous. “I need all my wits about me for that.”
“Honey, with this guy there’s no chance of having your wits at all. The guy’ll charm the pants right off you without trying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve heard. And then what happened today proves it.”
Em was already regretting that she’d told her friend about the E.I.
Liza waggled her carefully waxed eyebrows. “Personally, I think you should go for it, you could use the cookie.”
“Cookie?”
“Orgasm,” Eric explained, checking into the conversation. “She calls orgasms �cookies’. She thinks it’s cute.”
“You used to think it was cute,” Liza sniffed.
Eric’s blue eyes sparkled. “Maybe I still do.”
Liza stared at him, then reached for her water as if parched. Em eyed the door to the kitchen. “What’s the best way to approach him, do you think?”
Liza was still staring at Eric. With what looked like great effort, she tore her gaze from him, her thumb rubbing her ring finger where her wedding band used to be. She turned to Em. “What did Nathan suggest?”
Nathan wanted her to play hardball from the start, offering Jacob standard money, and when he balked, adding small slices of the profits. And when all else failed, she was to resort to hair in the food.
As if she’d ever really do such a thing. “Maybe I could ask the waitress if I could talk to him.”
“Jeez, at these prices, he oughta come with the meal. Maybe sing and dance, too.” Eric tossed down his menu and smiled as the waitress came close. “Excuse me, do you know the chef?”
“Of course.” The waitress smiled back. “Wait until you taste his food, it’s out of this world.”
Liza leaned close to Em. “And according to you, his food isn’t the only thing that tastes out of this world.”
“Stop.” Em felt the blush creep up her face.
The waitress rattled off the specials. “Everything is fabulous. Trust me, you’ll love everything you taste.”
“Including the chef himself,” Liza murmured for Em’s ears only.
“Could we have another minute before deciding?” Em asked the waitress.
“Oh, you bet. Take your time.”
Em waited until it was just them and turned to Liza. “I shouldn’t have told you about the elevator incident. I don’t even know for certain that it was him.”
“Well, it was somebody named Chef. You sure you don’t know why he kissed you?”
“No, he just said �do you mind?’ and then he was doing it.”
“And you didn’t think about kneeing him in the ’nads?” Eric asked.
At the first taste of him, Em hadn’t thought at all. In fact, she’d been the one to deepen the connection. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Uh-huh.” Liza looked at her speculatively. “Must have been some kiss.”
Oh, yeah. “It was…interesting.”
“Interesting? Honey, this menu is interesting. The decor is interesting. But a kiss? A kiss is either hot stuff or not worth the trouble. No in-between.”
Worth the trouble. Times ten. Times infinity.
Eric was studying Liza thoughtfully. “Which was it with us?”
“What?”
“Those two months we were married. Was it hot stuff or not worth the trouble?”
Liza opened her mouth, then closed it.
Eric’s amusement faded, replaced by an unmistakable hurt. “Right.”
The waitress came back and took their orders by memory, and then offered the services of their sommelier, who could come to the table and make wine suggestions if they’d like.
The sommelier turned out to be one of the women in the elevator, though if the tall, elegant, beautiful brunette recognized Em, she gave no indication of it.
When they were alone again, Liza set down her drink and looked at Eric. “It was hot stuff.”
Now it was Eric’s turn to blink in surprise.
Liza seemed just as taken aback and abruptly turned to Em. “If you don’t approach the chef tonight you’ll have to make an appointment,” she babbled. “By all accounts, this guy is media reclusive, and not interested in a career path other than what suits him personally. I bet he wouldn’t easily grant you an interview.”
“I know.” Em had worried about this. She worried about a lot of things. But mostly facing the sexy, gorgeous Jacob Hill now that she knew he lived up to his reputation. “I need to make contact tonight—” She broke off when the waitress came back and set down a plate of appetizers that they hadn’t ordered.
“From the chef,” the woman explained. “Vegetable spring rolls with chili oil and teriyaki mustard sauce. They’re a favorite here.”
Eric looked around at the other tables. They were all filled with people having conversations, sharing food, all enjoying themselves greatly, if the happy buzz in the place meant anything. “Does the chef always give away his food?”
“For his friends, or special guests, yes.”
Liza looked at Em.
So did Eric.
Em laughed nervously. “Uh, thank you.”
“Enjoy.”
“Oh, boy,” Em whispered when she’d left. “Do you think he sees us here?”
“You, you mean,” Liza said. “Does he see you here. Of course he does. He sent the food over.”
Em stared at the appetizers, then looked around her. Waitstaff moved easily and discreetly around the crowded room. No chef in sight.
“Must have been a helluva kiss.” Liza dug into the spring rolls, then moaned. “Oh, my God. Em, you’ve got to taste this.”
“Oh, yeah,” Eric said when he’d popped one in his mouth. “This guy knows his stuff.”
“The man’s a god,” Liza moaned.
“Are you sure all you did was kiss him, Em?” Eric reached for his second. “Because this isn’t a thank-you for a kiss. This is a thank-you for a good fu—”
“Eric.” Liza glared at him.
Eric just popped another appetizer into his mouth.
“Men,” Liza muttered. “Dogs.”
“Woof woof,” he agreed happily.
Em shook her head and tasted a roll herself. It did melt in her mouth, made her stomach rumble happily, and actually brought a helpless smile to her face, just as a movement caught the corner of her eye.
A tall, broad man stood at the back of the restaurant, leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen. Seeming extremely comfortable with both himself and his surroundings, his posture and manner spoke of a quiet, rock-solid confidence.
A confidence she’d experienced firsthand.
Unlike earlier in the elevator, he wore a white chef’s hat and jacket, which only accentuated to his height and well-built body. His staff moved around him like a well-tuned army, most of them taking the time to say something to him, or at least cast him a smile, which he always returned.
“That’s him?” Liza whispered. “Because wow.”
“Yeah.” Suddenly Em felt hot in the cool room, and reached for her water. Even from this distance she felt the weight of his quiet, assessing stare, and wondered what he was thinking.
Then his lips curved oh-so-slightly, and she knew.
He was thinking about the kiss, the one that would have knocked her socks off if she’d been wearing any, the one that had rendered her deaf, dumb and blind.
And made her wet.
Even now, her thighs tightened with the memory, and she squirmed.
And his not-quite-smile went just a bit naughty.
Oh, God. Her glass nearly slipped out of her hand, and she set it down with such awkwardness on the table that water sloshed over the edge.
“Easy,” Liza murmured, putting a hand over hers. Then she smiled at the chef, pointing to the appetizers, and gave him the thumbs-up sign.
Chef smiled and gave a slight nod of his head.
Nope, no trouble in the confidence arena.
“He is pretty yummy,” Liza noted, and Eric craned his neck to check him out.
“Not that yummy,” he said.
Liza laughed and patted Eric’s arm. “Don’t worry. You’re yummy, too.”
“Yeah?” He turned a suddenly extremely interested face toward her. “You still think so, huh?”
Liza shrugged. “You have a mirror.”
He grinned and leaned in close. “If I’m so yummy, why did you let me go?”
They all knew why. Because Liza’s crappy childhood memories of her mother’s eight marriages had made her afraid of commitment.
Eric, who’d grown up without a mother at all, had the same issue. Together, they hadn’t trusted their love enough, and they’d had two collective feet halfway out the door at all times.
Now Liza, more mature in many ways, strove to keep it light and tapped him playfully on the nose. “I let you go because you’re an ass.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m a yummy ass.” Eric grabbed her hand and ran his thumb over her bare ring finger. “Now tell me the truth. Why did you let me go?”
“An ass is an ass, Eric.”
“Right.” Eric nodded, and sat back. “That explains it. Clear as mud, thanks.”
Across the room, the sommelier handed the chef a champagne bottle and gestured to a table. Jacob Hill nodded, then walked over to the couple seated there, where he began conversing with them as he smoothly, easily, opened their champagne for them.
“Just look at him,” Liza murmured. “Do you suppose he makes love to a woman the same way he opens a bottle of champagne? I bet he does.”
Em thought about that and felt her body heat up even more.
The waitress set their dishes on the table, momentarily blocking Em’s view of the other table. By the time she moved away, Jacob Hill was gone.
She didn’t see him again during the scrumptious meal during which the three of them shared two bottles of wine. They turned down dessert and once they’d settled the bill, Liza stood up first and visibly wobbled.
Eric surged up and slid an arm around her. “Whoa there, tiger.”
Liza grinned and set her head on his shoulder. “You’re so pretty.”
Brow raised, Eric looked at Em.
“Three glasses of wine,” Em explained.
“That’s right. I’m a cheap drunk.” Liza grinned, sliding her hand down Eric’s back to pinch his butt.
Eric narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”
She waggled her brow. “What did it feel like?”
Eric shook his head. “You are not coming on to me.”
“Okay, I’m not.” She laughed and patted the butt she’d just pinched. “But I am,” she whispered extremely loudly.
“You said you’d rot in hell before you slept with me again,” he said, confused.
“Silly man.” She went to pat his cheek, missed, and nearly poked out his eye. “Never take a PMSing woman seriously.”
“Okay.” Eric caught her hand, saving his other eye, and nodding agreeably as he pulled her close. “I can work with this information.”
“Eric. She’s tipsy,” Em admonished. “You can’t take advantage of a tipsy woman.”
“Sure he can.” Liza bit his throat, eliciting a rough sound from Eric. “Take advantage of me all you want.”
Eric let out another sound, this one of regret. “Em’s right. Knock it off.”
“Fine. I’ll go to my room,” Liza said. “Where I plan to eat everything in the minibar. Did you see that thing? It’s completely stocked with stuff from Dean & Deluca.”
“You just ate,” Eric reminded her.
Liza waggled a finger in his face, this time almost poking it up his nose. “Do you know nothing of women?”
“Apparently not.”
“Just take me to my bed, superhero.”
Eric’s eyes darkened. “I like the super part.”
“Eric,” Em warned softly.
“Right.” He frowned at Liza. “I’ll put you to bed, but that’s all I’m doing.”
“Oooh, playing hard to get.” Liza sighed and again set her head to his chest, staring up at him adoringly. “You’re good at that.”
Eric looked over her head at Em helplessly.
She shook her head.
Eric’s jaw ticked. “I’ll get her to her room. You going to be okay here by yourself?”
“I’ll be safer than you,” Em assured him, watching as he led Liza out of the restaurant.
Alone, Em looked around her and decided if she sat for much longer, she’d just begin obsessing again. Maybe instead, she’d walk around the city for a little bit to clear her head. Make a plan of action that involved more than drooling after the man she needed to talk into saving her sorry butt.
She got as far as standing up and reaching for her purse when a low, husky voice drawled in her ear, “Leaving without dessert is an insult to the chef.”
Her heart kicked once hard, and she turned her head, coming eye to chest with Chef Jacob Hill. At the sight of him, the rest of her kicked. The man exuded a raw sexuality that made her feel her own sexuality in ways she hadn’t in a long time, if ever. “You.”
“Me,” he agreed. “You look beautiful.”
“Oh…thank you.” She tugged at her black cocktail dress, modestly cut, but snug and—she hoped—relatively sexy. “I wasn’t sure of the dress code here—”
“I didn’t mean your clothes.” When he smiled, as he did now with a dash of wicked intent, he flashed a single dimple on his right cheek, and she had the sudden, shocking urge to run a fingertip over the spot.
He hadn’t shaved, and the slight stubble on his jaw was nearly longer than the short hair on his head. She wondered if it would be soft to the touch, then wondered why she wondered.
Because she was losing her mind, that was why.
He was younger than she’d imagined, but there was something about the way he held himself, and the way he took her in, that spoke of a much older soul. His mile-long legs were encased in black trousers instead of his Levi’s, his feet in much cleaner, much newer black boots than the ones he’d had on in the elevator.
Chef Jacob Hill cleaned up real nice.
“Crème brûlée or white peach cobbler?” he asked. “Or maybe a cheese plate with an imported selection of artisanal?”
She slid her hand to her belly, which was jumping nervously. Ask him. Ask him to be your TV chef. She was afraid if she opened her mouth she was going to ask him something else entirely.
Come to my bed.
“I’m full.”
“Are you kidding? You’re never too full for dessert.”
His voice was somehow extremely arousing, which she told herself would be great for the show, and that was why she’d noticed.
Alie.
She’d noticed because she was a woman. A woman who’d felt his voice all the way to her toes. In fact, the tingling effect began deep in her womb and spread, and she squirmed some more.
He noticed. His eyes cut to her body as she wiggled, and then back up to her gaze, something new there besides the curiosity and wry amusement.
Heat. Lots of heat.
Oh, boy. Resisting the urge to fan cool air in front of her hot face, she searched around for something else to lock her gaze on, for something to occupy her mind, because ever since that elevator kiss, nothing else but this man had.
The tables were all hopping with activity, everyone enjoying themselves. Waiters and waitresses moved around, serving with easy charm and personality, all so beautiful Em could have hired any one of them for her show and the cameras would have been thrilled.
One particularly beautiful waitress was serving a table of elderly gentlemen with professionalism, even when the oldest of the bunch reached out and patted her butt.
In return she shook her head and patted the top of his head with a smile. The old man adjusted his toupee and smiled with only a hint of regret.
Oh, good. Everyone had sex on the brain, not just Em. Maybe it was the hotel. She reached for her water and gulped it down.
“You okay?” he asked her, bringing her attention back to him.
As if she could possibly forget he was there.
Not quite sure she trusted herself to speak, she nodded her head. See? See how fine I am? And by the way, will you come with me to Hollywood and save my sorry career?
“Please, sit,” he urged, putting a hand on her arm.
Just like in the elevator, his touch electrified.
“I’d really love to bring you dessert,” he said. He smiled a little. Could he see how he turned her on without even trying? “I owe you.”
“No, that’s okay. Really. I—”
He put a finger on her lips, yet again touching her, and yet again causing her every hormone to stand up and take notice.
“Wait here,” he said in quiet demand.
Wait here, repeated those hormones, and quivered. She nodded, and he gave her another little knowing smile that told her he realized exactly what he did to her. She watched him stride off, tall, sure…confident that she’d wait simply because he’d commanded it to be so.
She didn’t understand it, but he had this unsettling way about him of getting her to do what he wanted.
What was that?
She had no idea, but she waited. But only because she wanted to.
4
HE’D MADE HER SQUIRM, Jacob thought, intrigued. He walked into the restaurant kitchen, grabbed a plate and loaded it himself, intending on sitting with her to watch her eat, and to see if he could make her squirm again because it was damned arousing.
She was arousing, with her wide, expressive eyes, her full lips that she kept licking nervously. Her voice. Her taste. The way she looked at him. As if he was some forbidden treat tempting her to the ends of her restraints.
He moved back into the dining area, which was filled with contented diners, and felt that same surge of fulfillment he got every single night. She was still sitting there, watching him approach with both wariness and something else, something he recognized well. Awareness.
Let the dance begin, he thought, and smiled as he sat. “Try this. Bouche S’mores. House-made marshmallow, fresh graham crackers and imported semisweet chocolate, all melted over an open flame.”
“House-made marshmallow?”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “We get a lot of requests for marshmallows via room service, melted of course.”
She stared down at the plate, a lovely flush working up her cheeks.
“People are very fond of melted marshmallow,” he said. “Specifically, they’re fond of licking them.”
She gave a slow blink. “Oh. Um—”
“Off of each other,” he clarified. “Not the plate.”
She reached out to touch the stack of marshmallow. Felt the soft, warm, gooey texture. She cocked her head as if considering exactly how to lick it off another person and, just like that, the tables turned, and Jacob was the one squirming.
“Interesting,” she said, throwing him further off balance. “Seems a bit fattening, but I’m sure it’s worth it.” She bit her lower lip, each of her thoughts chasing another across her face.
She was picturing it. With him.
He sank a fork into his fun creation and leaned across the table, touching the marshmallow to her lips. She opened her mouth, tongue darting out to catch a dollop.
Their gazes locked, and when she moaned in delight at the taste, he nearly moaned, too, at the look of rapture on her face.
“Delicious,” she said when she’d swallowed. “But I have a feeling you already know it.”
Ah. She was quiet but not shy, and that in itself was another unexpected turn-on. “Yes. I know it.” When she laughed, he decided he liked the sweet, musical sound because it wasn’t silly, it wasn’t fake. It was real.
She was real, and damn if he didn’t want to know more about her.
“I don’t even know who you are,” she murmured, clearly having some of the same thoughts. “And yet here we sit, discussing your marshmallows and their incredibly diverse uses here at the hotel.”
A conversation he most definitely wanted to have, but…“You don’t know who I am?”
She slid him a self-deprecatory smile. “Okay, so you’re Chef Jacob Hill.”
“Which leaves me at a disadvantage.”
She smiled. “I doubt you’re ever at a disadvantage.”
He laughed and relaxed, realizing his instincts had been right. He was going to enjoy himself with her, immensely. “What’s your name?”
“Emmaline Harris. Television producer.”
“Emmaline,” he repeated, liking the way her name rolled off his tongue. “Are you enjoying your stay here at Hush?”
She seemed surprised that he hadn’t jumped on her profession. But they were nothing if not discreet here at Hush, where they hosted celebrities and movie stars all the time, and she guessed he wouldn’t bring it up again unless she did.
“Yes, I’m enjoying myself,” she said. “It’s very lovely here.”
Lovely. Not a word he’d have used to describe the more adventurous and eclectic services the hotel had to offer, which meant she was either being coy, or she hadn’t experienced any of it. “Are you staying for business or pleasure?”
At the word pleasure, her tongue darted out again and nervously licked her lips. “Business.”
“That’s a shame.”
She laughed, a little nervously now. “Yes.”
It should have given him pause that he’d flustered her, but instead, it excited him. He was thinking of all the ways he could fluster her some more when she spoke again.
“I’m here to find the next new reality TV star.”
Reality TV. The genre appealed to him about as much as a trip to the dentist. “Hmm.”
“You don’t like reality TV?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m not into any kind of TV,” he admitted. “Not my thing.”
“What about if you could be on it?” she asked. She was watching him carefully. “On your own show.”
“Sounds like a nightmare.”
“Oh.” She looked at him for a long moment, assessing for God knew what. Speculating on the mysteries of the female mind was always a bit like tiptoeing through a minefield. “Tell me something,” she said. “Do you kiss every strange woman you meet in the elevator?”
“Ah.” He’d been waiting for her to broach the subject. “That.”
“You must have known we’d have to talk about it.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“What if I’d been married?” she asked. “Or attached?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then no harm, no foul.”
“Is that a life motto for you?”
“Pretty much.” He smiled.
She returned it, but he could still see the wheels spinning. Her eyes were clear on his, such a mossy, pretty green. The rest of her was pretty, too. Shoulder-length brown wavy hair with long choppy bangs that she kept shoving out of her eyes, a narrow strong face, with a most lovely mouth, as he had reason to know. She had good height on her—another bonus for him at six foot four—and plenty of curves, he was happy to note. He didn’t approve of skinny.
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