When I'm With You: The Complete Novel Page 2

  “I put him in a cab. Now—what to do with you?” he asked, his gaze dropping over her.

  Her nipples tightened beneath a stare that was fire and ice at once. Her spine stiffened; her throat froze. The truth was still ricocheting around her skull: Lucien Sauvage owned Fusion. She’d unknowingly put her future in the hands of a man who had rejected her.

  And nobody rejected her.

  Well, hardly anybody, at least when she wanted otherwise. She’d definitely wanted “otherwise” with Lucien. Just my luck. Of all the restaurants and gin joints in towns all over the world, she’d had to walk into his, she thought with a panicked sense of amusement.

  “You’re going to do the only thing you can do with me,” she replied, her voice cool enough for someone who was playing the poker game of a lifetime with a crap hand. It was a mark of their shared past—their onetime friendship—that they spoke English to each other. Both of their mothers were English, their fathers French. It was a commonality they shared, a small intimacy that used to seem significant to a fourteen-year-old girl who craved the feeling of closeness to a beautiful young man who forever seemed unattainable to her. “You’re going to have to let me fill in as Fusion’s chef now that you’ve made such a mess of things with Mario.”

  He blinked and his expression went flat. “What are you rambling about? Are you drunk?”

  Anger bubbled up in her chest. “I had one glass of wine all night,” she said honestly. She noticed his sarcastic glance at her brandy snifter on the bar. “Mario handed it to me; I took it. Lucien, what are you doing here?” she asked again, her curiosity about him trumping her worry about her future. “You disappeared from Paris over a year ago. None of your employees in Paris will say where you are. My mother spoke to yours recently. Even Sophia doesn’t know where you are. She’s miserable with worry.”

  “Right,” he said sardonically. “My mother is sick to death at the idea of me not touching all that money she wants for herself ever since my father has been locked up in prison.”

  Elise blinked. He had a point. She had heard he was being strangely stubborn and elusive about accepting his ancestral fortune.

  “If you tell a soul you saw me here, I’ll make you pay, Elise.”

  Quiet. Succinct. Completely believable.

  Her heart leapt into overdrive. He’d paused a few feet away from her. She had to stretch her neck back slightly to see his face and hoped he didn’t notice her pulse throbbing at her throat. He struck her as even larger than she remembered—tall, lean, hard, and supremely formidable. He’d cut his dark hair since she’d last seen him, wearing it in a short, very sexy shake-out style that emphasized his masculine, chiseled features and an effortless sense of masculine grace. She’d always had a desire to run her fingers through that soft-looking, thick hair . . . wantonly fill her palms with it. He’d grown a very trim goatee since then, too. He wore jeans and a buttoned ivory cotton shirt, the color along with his silvery-gray eyes creating a striking contrast to smooth, caramel-hued skin. Mario wasn’t the first to refer to Lucien as a devil. Men said it with bitter envy. Women said it with covetous lust.

  His size and an undeniable aura of physical strength had always thrilled her, but Lucien intimidated her as well. His quiet, calm voice; contained, confident manner; and brilliant, charming smiles belied a coiled power inside him. There was a darkness to him that didn’t exactly match the white, flashing smile and easygoing manner with which he charmed the upper strata of the social world and his affluent hotel and restaurant guests.

  She had no doubt that Lucien could be dangerous when he chose. She also knew he’d never really harm her—not the young man who had once showed her kindness and taken her under his wing.

  But that didn’t make his threat any less intimidating.

  “Now,” he said calmly, stepping closer still and placing a hand on the rail of the bar. She suddenly felt cornered. “When are you leaving Chicago?”

  “I’m not leaving. I plan to live here.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Chicago is my new home,” she said with supreme confidence, even though she didn’t feel it. Elise was nothing if not an actress, and spirited aplomb was her finest role.

  Unfortunately, her father had been contemptuous of her plans to become a chef and relocate to Chicago, refusing to fund her new career. She couldn’t access her trust fund until she was twenty-five. Six months had never felt so far in the future to Elise. The nest egg she’d squirreled away after almost a year of waitressing in Paris had never seemed so pitifully small.

  “Why would you come to Chicago? It hardly suits you,” he said, his downward glance at her evening gown infuriating her.

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “My culinary school in Paris has matched me up with Mario Vincente for my training. I’m staging with him, Lucien,” she said, referring to the process whereby a new chef trained for a period of time under an established chef. She studied his stoic expression anxiously. “I have a contract,” she added defensively when he seemed unmoved by her confession. “You can’t send me away.”

  “You’re mad,” he said dismissively, picking up the brandy snifters on the counter and starting to walk away. The panic amplified in her chest. She despised the sight of Lucien’s back.

  “I’ve completed my training at La Cuisine in Paris. The only thing remaining is for me to stage with a master chef—the master chef you just fired!”

  He turned around and she saw he was smiling. Her heart swelled and seemed to press against her breastbone. Merde. Lucien’s smiles—the white teeth, the twin dimples, the firm, shapely lips. If the devil did exist, he’d definitely take on Lucien’s form in order to sow as much sin in the world as possible. She’d never seen a more handsome man in her life, and unfortunately, she’d seen more than her fair share of men.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, her spine stiffening. She took offense at his condescending tone.

  He chuckled. Her stomach felt hollow, seeing him laugh at her aspirations. She felt hollow.

  “So you’re going to be a chef this week.”

  “I’m going to be a chef for the rest of my life.”

  He shook his head, his smile fading. “This is the latest item on your crazy to-do stunt list. You’ve already tried race-car driver, sommelier, and photographer.”

  “I’ve grown up. I’ve turned my life around. I want my life to have . . . substance. I’m trying to create a career for myself.”

  “Why does an heiress need a career?” he asked. He had a decadently sexy voice. Rumor had it that women were regularly seduced by it alone, forget the rest of the package. Not that anyone would ever forget the smallest detail of Lucien. Elise knew she never had. She watched him as he moved behind the bar.

  “Why does an heir?” she countered. “You’ve always worked, first at your father’s hotels and then in your own hotels and restaurants. You of all people shouldn’t be questioning me.”

  He glanced up, all traces of amusement gone. Her lungs couldn’t expand as he held her stare. Pain welled up in her—shame about her past wild behavior and cynical attitude toward life, lancing fear that her plans for a future were hollow, that she truly didn’t have what it took to be a functional adult who could give and take and make the world a bit of a better place. She hadn’t possessed any role models for such a thing. She was afraid that greatly diminished her chances of success.

  It was Lucien’s stare that made her feel her shortcomings so completely. He saw a lot with those X-ray eyes. He always had.

  He’d immediately seen her foolishness when they’d first met at his parents’ estate in Nice. Elise had been a headstrong, wild thing, desperate for her preoccupied parents’ attention, for the staff’s, other houseguests’ . . . anyone’s. Lucien had been a coolly elusive twenty-one to her fourteen years that summer. From the beginning, he’d seen her ragged neediness, although she ha
dn’t realized it at the time. He’d befriended her, much to her delight. She’d been like a pitiful, neglected puppy, in awe of every scrap of attention he threw her way. It had been the best summer of her youth, those golden months on the shore of the Mediterranean.

  Of her life.

  She hadn’t realized until years later that their fathers had implored Lucien to take her under his wing. More than likely he’d been paid well for spending time with her, riding, swimming, and boating during that unforgettable summer. The knowledge shamed and infuriated her to this day.

  “You must realize this is an unexpected—not to mention ridiculous—situation, Elise,” he said, his tone softer than it’d been before. She tensed when she suspected it was from pity. “You can’t work at Fusion.”

  “I told you. I have a contract.”

  “You have a contract with Mario, not with Fusion or me. I understand that master chefs take on stages. I allow them to arrange that on their own, respecting a talent I don’t possess. You aren’t one of Fusion’s paid employees, however, and as you just witnessed,” he said, wiping off the snifter he’d just washed, “Mario no longer works here.”

  She stood there, panic gripping her, her thoughts coming a mile a minute. Had she failed so quickly in her plans? Were they so brittle? Was she? Would she be forced to return to the sterile emptiness of her existence in Paris, once again the vanquished fool?

  No. It would not happen.

  “Why did you change your name?” The random question just popped out of her throat she was so frantic.

  For a moment, he didn’t speak, just finished wiping off the snifter and hanging it with the other glassware, leaving her with her thoughts. Taking his time, he strolled around the bar. He approached her and stood close. Closer than she’d expected. The spice scent of his cologne filtered into her nose.

  “I’d actually already changed my name during our last meeting in Paris. Apparently, you’d been partying too much. You likely are a bit cloudy about a few things that occurred that night.”

  She stilled, suddenly growing wary. Something about his reference to their encounter at Renygat and the subtle suggestion that she might be mistaken in her memories of it triggered a warning signal in her brain.

  She’d left her companions and sought out a private meeting with Lucien that Saturday night two years ago, nervous, but eager to reconnect with her childhood infatuation now that she was a woman. True, she’d known he was in Paris for a while, but her parents’ pushy desires about Lucien had made her standoffish about approaching him. She’d been embarrassed, lest he think she was just enacting her parents’ wishes like some kind of robot socialite, bent on marriage to one of the most eligible males in the country.

  She’d tapped lightly on the only door in the hallway, taking a moment to realize when she got no response that the door only led to a shorter hallway—an entryway of sorts. It led to the true door to Lucien’s office. The outer door had been shut, but as she went through it, she’d seen that the inner one was cracked open an inch. Standing in the entryway, she’d accidentally overheard that puzzling conversation between Lucien and a German-accented stranger.

  “I’ll need top-notch insider information on Noble—his background, his family, his financials.”

  “That won’t be easy. Ian Noble is known for being a control freak about security.”

  “That’s why I hired you,” Lucien had replied, sounding preoccupied. “You’re supposed to be the best.”

  There had been a grunt of acknowledgment followed by a pause.

  “What’s that expression on your face?” the German man had asked, sounding vaguely amused. “You’re not feeling guilty, are you? About what you plan to do with Noble?”

  “Subterfuge isn’t pretty, no matter how you dress it up. Sins of the father haunting me, I suppose,” Lucien had said in a subdued, sardonic voice. “We carry those ghosts with us, no matter what.”

  The man had given a harsh laugh. “Forget all that, and focus on your prize. Trust me. What you’re planning with Noble doesn’t compare to the crimes committed by your father.”

  “I’m not cloudy about that night, Lucien. I remember it all,” Elise said, hesitant to bring up the volatile topic in this delicate situation. His expression remained impassive, but something flashed in his eyes. She swallowed through a tight throat. “I don’t recall you saying anything about changing your name, though.”

  “I think you know why I changed my name and left France.” His quiet voice rolled over her like a sensual wave.

  “You shouldn’t let your father’s crimes taint you. You’re your own man,” she whispered, referring to the fact that his adoptive father, Adrien Sauvage—wealthy industrialist, hotel chain owner, and head of a media empire—had been sent to prison two and a half years ago for corporate espionage. She knew Lucien had been questioned by the police about the possibility of him colluding with his father in the stealing of high-level corporate secrets. Elise had never believed he was guilty for a second. She had firsthand experience of Lucien’s quiet, restrained disdain when it came to Adrien Sauvage. In the end, Lucien had never been charged with anything, but it seemed the taint still clung.

  “I don’t let his crimes affect me. I’m very aware that I’m not him.”

  His voice had gone quiet and husky as his gaze ran over her face. She stilled, the back of her neck prickled in anticipation. He reached up and touched her hair. She shivered at the sensation of his fingers sliding over it and gently tucking a lock behind her ear. Her entire body quickened, tingling with excitement. It felt strange, being so acutely aware of a man. She hadn’t let herself get close to many men romantically—let alone a man as attractive as Lucien—since she’d thrown herself into her cooking career and begun to support herself. She hadn’t ever let men get too close to her, truth be told. She’d had a major crush on Lucien as a girl, of course, even though he hadn’t known she’d existed in a romantic sense. But this was different. She was a grown woman now, one who was much clearer on what she wanted out of life.

  “I would have thought I wouldn’t like your hair short,” he murmured distractedly, his warm breath striking her temple. “But it suits you perfectly. Elegant sass.”

  “Lucien—,” she began breathlessly when she saw the heat in his eyes as he caressed her again. He interrupted her by stepping back.

  “I’ll help you to arrange moving back to your parents’ home in Paris, if you like. Are you set for money? Do you need any?”

  “No. I’m perfectly fine,” she muttered, jarred by his abrupt change of topic and the absence of his touch.

  “You can’t stay in Chicago,” he said so resolutely that she blinked in surprise.

  “Who are you to say I can’t live here? Did you buy the city or something?” she fired, forcing herself to ignore the flicker of delicious sensation between her thighs, a direct effect of his touch . . . his nearness. Her anxiety mounted at his droll, unmoved expression. “You need a chef! Let me fill in for you at least until you find someone else.”

  “No. That’s out of the question. I’m sorry.”

  Anger rose in her, stiffening her spine and making her stand tall. How could he sound so resolute? Was she that disgusting to him? “I won’t have you ruin everything I’ve planned,” she declared.

  “I won’t have you doing the same to me.”

  “What?” she asked, set off balance by his rapid-fire response. “How could I possibly ruin anything for you?”

  He leaned against the bar, displaying lean, honed muscles to optimal effect. “That night at Renygat? In my office?” he prompted significantly.

  She flushed with heat. After they were alone, she’d confronted him about what she’d overheard. He’d been furious about her eavesdropping, and their angry exchange had turned heated. The tension had segued to the sexual variety. She’d broken his rigid restraint that night . . . momentarily. He’d kissed her angrily and completely, fully acknowledging the fact that the girl he’d known was now a fu
ll-blooded woman. She knew she’d pushed him too hard with her flirtatious taunts. She just hadn’t realized how fearsome Lucien could be when his control broke. . . .

  How thrilling.

  She noticed Lucien’s narrowed gaze on her.

  “Of course I remember,” she said. She suddenly found it difficult to meet his stare. “I don’t see how that relates to me ruining anything for you.”

  “I have enough distractions in my life at the moment. I don’t need you adding to the mix.” Her heartbeat escalated. Was he suggesting he was attracted to her? Or was he referring to that overheard conversation she could make no sense of whatsoever? Elise couldn’t decide if she should be flattered or offended by his declaration.

  “I’m not going to distract you. I came to Chicago for one reason and one reason alone—to get the training I need to be an excellent chef. I’m very good at what I do.”

  “I have no doubt of it. But you’re forgetting one thing—there’s no longer a chef here to train you, ma fifille.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll find another chef in this city. I came to this place to start a new life, a fresh start, and I won’t let anyone—not even you, Lucien—set me off track. And I’m not a little girl,” she added fiercely, referring to the French endearment he’d given her as a child.

  His nostrils flared slightly as he shoved himself off the bar with a graceful, sinuous movement. Her heart started to throb in her ears as he reached for the silk wrap she’d draped over a stool earlier. He was going to send her away. Again. She remained frozen in place when he held up the garment, a challenge in his gray eyes.

  “You are a child. A beautiful, stubborn one, but a child nonetheless,” he said. “It’s time for you to go, Elise.”

  Fury ripped through her like lightening. “You bastard,” she hissed. She grabbed the wrap out of his hands. “I should have known you’d never help me. You’re as selfish and narcissistic as your father . . . as any of our darling, beloved parents.”

  He caught her arm in an iron grip as she stormed past him toward the doors. “I’m not like my father,” he grated out. Elise balked at the evidence of his sudden, potent anger, but she rallied. She jerked at her arm, but her reaction was just for show. Lucien’s restraint triggered a completely different response than Mario’s had.