When I'm With You: The Complete Novel Read online

  “Let go of me,” she said shakily, not sounding convinced it was what she wanted, even to her own ears.

  “You should be glad I do let go and worry about the day I don’t.”

  Her chin went up, pride and anger and hurt battling for room in her consciousness. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He pulled on her, drawing her closer, so that her body brushed against his hard length and the fullness behind his fly. He scorched her with that almost otherworldly stare. She waited on a sharp ledge of anticipation, her breath burning in her lungs, when he lowered his head until their mouths were just inches apart.

  “You’ve always tested me. You’ll always be that girl I remember, foolishly poking at a sleeping snake. You’d better get out of here. You’ve been begging without words to be disciplined since you were a girl, and you have no idea how much I’d love to give you what you so richly deserve . . . what you need.”

  He noticed her wide-eyed, shocked expression and smiled grimly. “Not so sure of yourself now, are you?” he asked, his voice a low, purring threat. “What do you say? Do you want to stay with me and get what you need, ma chère?”

  Something in his low, rough voice made her flesh prickle with excitement and adrenaline to run in her blood, but mostly she was confused. Hating to show vulnerability in front of a man like Lucien, she fell back on the brittle armor of pride.

  “I said to let go of me,” she repeated.

  When he released his grip, she staggered several steps in her heels, not because he’d pushed her, by any means—he’d actually been quite gentle—but because her mind was reeling. Something had happened to her at Lucien’s touch. His words. It was like a sealed door inside her had been thrown wide open, and what she saw in the depths of her being had excited and bewildered her in equal measures.

  Discipline. Need.

  Her heart raced faster yet as she recalled the words uttered in Lucien’s low, silky tones. She headed toward the doors. Out of pure habit, she threw a rebellious glance over her shoulder.

  She took flight at what she saw—an angry, aroused, prime male animal. She hoped Lucien didn’t notice how fast she moved as she scurried out the door, feeling as if the devil truly was on her heels.

  Chapter Two

  Lucien looked up when Sharon Aiken, his manager, tapped lightly on his office door late the next morning.

  “Sharon. You are the picture of loveliness, as always, but I hope your beauty is accompanied by good news this morning. I could use it.”

  The middle-aged woman laughed. “Do they teach French men to charm just like they teach you to say please and thank you?”

  “Haven’t you heard, it’s part of our genetic makeup.” He raised a brow expectantly while Sharon laughed. She noticed and silenced her mirth.

  “Don’t worry, the interim chef you hired has indeed arrived. We are saved,” she said.

  “Bless you,” Lucien said feelingly. He took a final swig of the café au lait he held in his hand and stood, ready for business. Even though he was relatively new to Chicago, he’d managed to create a network of professional contacts in the restaurant industry. A friend had informed him that a qualified chef had recently been let go from Chez Pierre. Having once sampled Baptiste’s cooking, Lucien had leapt at the chance, despite the warning accompanying the referral. “John Baptiste is an exceptional chef, but he’s very temperamental,” his friend had said.

  “Is there a chef that exists that isn’t?” Lucien had asked wryly.

  He’d risen early and set about the task of contacting Baptiste, who had proved to be elusive, both in the physical sense and the practical. Baptiste had been insulted by Lucien's offer of a provisional contract, with its renewal based upon how well he fit at Fusion. But Fusion was known for its blend of French Moroccan fare, after all, and not all chefs felt comfortable with the subtleties of the combination. The Spanish-born chef had been infuriatingly vague about showing up this morning, thus Lucien’s immense relief at Sharon’s news. He’d figured Baptiste was a fifty-fifty gamble.

  “Can you please send him back to my office so that we can take care of his contract?” he asked Sharon.

  “Him?”

  Lucien looked up in the process of gathering the contract from his desk. His skin prickled with wariness when he saw Sharon’s dumbfounded expression.

  “It’s a she?” he asked slowly, filling in the blanks reluctantly.

  “Well . . . yes. I was surprised at how young she is, but she’s got Evan and Javier hopping to her every command,” Sharon said, referring to two of their culinary assistants. “She certainly has a way about her.” Sharon studied him anxiously when he dropped the papers in his hand and stalked around the desk. “Lucien? Were you expecting someone other than Ms. Martin?”

  “Yes. More fool me,” he muttered with barely restrained anger. That little demon’s imp had more couilles than a tanked-up bull rider. How dare she challenge him? Sharon backed up against the wall, looking slightly alarmed, as Lucien swept past her.

  His blood boiling, he peered through the kitchen door window, assessing the situation and attempting to gather himself before he would enter. Elise stood behind a metal table with a saucepan in her hand and was talking animatedly, grinning as she did so. For a few seconds, he remained still and watched her, enthralled despite himself. She was like a quick, flickering flame.

  She’d come back, even with his warning. He was going to have to deal with this godforsaken attraction he had for her. It wouldn’t be vanquished. He could only hope to control it. He’d been a coward by sending her away before. Yes, she was a handful, but some things were inevitable. Elise had made it so by defiantly walking back into his life again.

  “Mincing isn’t so bad,” he heard her saying through a crack in the door. “I had a little game I used to play whenever Monsieur Eratat—he was my meanest, foulest instructor at La Cuisine—set me to it. I’d pretend I was his barber, and I’d imagine mincing up his stupid little mustache to within a hair’s breadth of his fat nose. Of course I had to do tiny, perfect little slices to prolong Monsieur Eratat’s torture.” Elise’s silvery laughter twined with masculine chuckles. “Even Monsieur Eratat had to admit to the class that no one had a finer mince than me,” Elise added, a smile in her voice.

  “I would never imagine that about you, Ms. Martin. Everything about you is too perfect to ever . . . er . . . mince,” Evan, one of his culinary assistants, stuttered awkwardly. Lucien flung open the door when he registered Evan’s worshipful tone.

  Yet another mouse in her trap.

  Evan and Javier immediately ceased their furor of chopping. They stared at him wide-eyed, Javier standing before mounds of porcini mushrooms and Evan before cloves of garlic. Only Elise continued in her task, glancing up at him with infuriating calm as she continued to dribble a sauce over dozens of duck fillets.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lucien asked glacially, ignoring Javier and Evan.

  “Roast duck with cèpes and green beans. It’s on your lunch menu.”

  “I know it’s on our lunch menu,” he grated out. Elise looked calm enough when she glanced at Javier and Evan, but he noticed the pallor of her already fair skin.

  “We’re going to be pushing it for the lunch crowd, you two. Better get going,” she urged in a friendly, competent manner. Much to Lucien’s deepening fury, his two employees went back to chopping with enthusiasm.

  He raised his eyebrows in a challenge. “May I see you in my office, Ms. Martin.” It was worded like a question, but it was a command. He saw her bite at her pink lower lip as if to still its quaking. He felt a surge of satisfaction at her subtle show of nerves. She looked much younger than her twenty-four years at that moment. Her figure seemed especially slight in her white chef’s jacket and loose black pants, her face appearing dewy and freshly scrubbed. For some reason, the vision of her youthful, glowing beauty combined with her competent manner sent him into a higher pitch of rage and helplessness.

  H
e was going to have to handle her, once and for all. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be dealt with like just any beautiful woman. No, she’d been right about her cutting ability. Elise sliced to the bone.

  “It’s not really a good time—”

  “Get into my office this second before I drag you there, Elise.”

  All the chopping sounds ceased again, although Evan and Javier kept their heads lowered. The remaining color in Elise’s cheeks faded.

  “Lucien.”

  His heart jumped. He glanced around at the sound of the crisp, unexpected voice. Ian Noble stood with his hand holding the kitchen door open.

  “Ian, what can I do for you?” he said smoothly. It wasn’t unusual for Ian to stop by and see him—Ian owned the tower where Fusion was housed after all. It was just that his presence there today was highly inconvenient. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Elise set down the saucepan. He sensed her focused attention, ratcheting up his anxiety.

  “I wanted to stop by to tell you that I won’t be able to meet you for our fencing appointment tomorrow afternoon.”

  Lucien nodded. “Going out of town?”

  “No, there’s something very important I’m considering buying for Francesca,” Ian said, referring to his very lovely artist girlfriend, Francesca Arno. “It takes a bit more research and thought than the common gift.” Lucien rapidly took note of his friend’s distracted air.

  “You’re not going to rely on Lin’s shopping expertise?” he teased. Lin was Ian’s exceptionally talented executive assistant.

  “I’m a busy man, but I’m not a fool,” he returned. Lucien laughed. He’d gathered from a few things Ian had said in the past that he’d gotten into trouble a time or two with Francesca for allowing his assistant to plan a little bit too much of the gift-giving and romantic outings. Francesca definitely preferred Ian’s personal touch, and it was a sign of Ian’s devotion to her that he freely gave her his most prized asset: his time. A man like Ian Noble had precious little of that commodity.

  Ian’s gaze flickered over to Elise. Lucien stiffened when the sharp blue eyes stuck. It wasn’t just that Elise was lovely. She was like a luminous flame that radiated sexuality.

  “Where’s Mario?” Ian asked quietly under his breath, referring to his disgraced chef.

  Damn Elise and her intrusions.

  “I fired him last night,” Lucien replied.

  Ian’s brows rose in subdued curiosity. “And this is your new chef?”

  “I’m Elise Martin,” Elise said, wiping off her hands with a towel and coming around the table.

  “Ian Noble,” Ian said.

  Lucien stood there, steaming in a vat of helplessness as he watched Ian and Elise shake hands. He couldn’t think of a way to deny that Elise worked with him without highlighting their past association, and possibly causing her to reveal something he wanted kept secret at all costs.

  “Ian Noble. Noble Tower?” she murmured under her breath. He saw when it clicked into place for her. She cast an amazed, curious glance at Lucien that made him stiffen. “I knew Fusion was in the Noble Tower building, but I didn’t realize the Noble referred to you. This is your headquarters?”

  “That’s right. I look forward to sampling your creations. Francesca and I are regulars here at Fusion,” Ian said.

  Lucien frowned when he noticed Elise’s upturned face as she studied Ian. Ian couldn’t help it that he was very attractive to the opposite sex. Ian’s greeting and gaze were politely interested, nothing more, but Elise’s inspection of him didn’t have to be so openly curious, did it? Her sapphire-blue gaze transferred to Lucien and her smile widened. Lucien ground his teeth in impotent fury, unsure what the little minx would do next and wondering how quickly she could ruin in seconds what had taken years to create.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Elise told Ian, although she was goading Lucien, of course.

  “You’re French?” Ian asked.

  “Yes. I understand from some of the articles I’ve read about you that you are as well.”

  Ian nodded. “I was born in France, raised in England, schooled in the States. Where did Lucien find you?”

  Lucien flashed her a warning glance, which she ignored.

  “In a pot of trouble, I’m afraid,” Elise said, her grin gamine, not to mention sexy as hell. Lucien’s body responded to that smile against his will. An uncomfortable blend of fury and lust simmered in his blood, sending an alarm blaring in his brain. She opened her lips to explain further, but Lucien cut off the potential catastrophe of Elise’s mouth.

  “Elise and I just met. She’s a friend of Mario’s,” Lucien said. It seemed imperative at that moment of crisis that the lie he told was simple and easy for Elise to understand. They needed to be on the same page for this unexpected—undesirable—encounter.

  “You’re very kind to step in and help Lucien in a pinch,” Ian said.

  Elise’s gaze flew to Lucien, gauging his reaction to what Ian had said. Unwilling to say much else that might cause further inquiry on Ian’s part, not to mention unsolicited revelations on Elise’s, Lucien remained silent. He scowled when he saw her face grow radiant with triumph. She’d gotten just what she wanted, and she knew he knew it.

  I’m going to punish you for this.

  He wondered if she’d read his mind, because her triumphant expression faded.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something in private?” Ian asked Lucien, giving him just the excuse he needed to get Ian away from Elise.

  “Of course. In my office?” Lucien suggested, extending his hand toward the door.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Martin,” Ian said before turning.

  “The pleasure was mine.”

  Lucien waited until Ian had cleared the kitchen before he spoke in a low, confidential tone to Elise. “You have given me no other choice. Consider your challenge accepted, ma fifille.”

  Before he turned to follow Ian, he had the thin satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in panic.

  * * *

  Lucien waved at the bar in his office. “May I get you a drink?”

  Ian shook his head and sank into one of the deep leather chairs in front of Lucien’s desk with a swift, graceful movement for a man so large. He glanced distractedly at the polo mallet Lucien had never gotten around to replacing last night.

  “Been practicing at your club?”

  “A bit. The field is still soaked from all this rain. It’s probably better to just get it off your chest,” Lucien added mildly as he settled into the chair behind his large mahogany desk. He knew perfectly well that Ian had no interest in horses or polo.

  Ian gave him a quick glance. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

  Lucien smiled. Yes, it was that obvious. He’d first met Ian several years ago in his restaurant in Paris, and they’d become quick friends. Lucien had moved to Chicago a little over a year ago, upon Ian’s request, in order to open and oversee the restaurant in Ian’s brand-new tower headquarters. When Lucien had decided his position was more secure in Chicago, he’d given in to his entrepreneurial nature and bought the restaurant from Ian last Christmas. Their friendship had entered a new level of closeness. Ian Noble was never an easy man to read, but Lucien suspected he’d learned his mannerisms and moods as well as most anyone on the planet, save a few.

  “Let’s put it this way: damn you for canceling our fencing match today. I’d bury you, as distracted as you are,” Lucien said.

  Ian gave a mirthless smile. “You’re undoubtedly correct.”

  “What is it? Is it business?”

  “No,” Ian said almost before he’d finished asking.

  Lucien leaned back in his chair. “Ah. Francesca, then,” he said with finality. Of course. Only his lover could have the power to make Ian this distracted. The passionate flash in Ian’s eyes confirmed his guess. Lucien waited patiently, knowing that Ian would eventually get to the point if given the opportunity. Ian had become one of the most powerful, wea
lthy men in the world because of his singular focus. If he’d come here to speak to Lucien about something, he’d get to it. Eventually.

  He began to wonder about that, however, when Ian continued to sit in morose silence.

  “I’ve been considering asking Francesca to marry me. In fact, I’m more than considering it. I plan to choose her ring tomorrow,” Ian said abruptly, his crisp, British-accented voice somehow not matching his almost tangible tension.

  Lucien blinked. “That’s wonderful.”

  “You’re surprised, aren’t you,” Ian stated, studying him from beneath a brooding brow.

  “No. I know how much you two love each other. It’s a wonderful thing to witness, seeing you and Francesca together.” He didn’t flinch under Ian’s laser-like stare.

  “You’re telling the truth, but still . . . you doubt that I could make a commitment like that. Deep down, you thought you and I were alike in that way.”

  Lucien grinned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ian gave him a droll glance and stood, pacing in front of the desk and reminding Lucien very much of a trapped tiger. “We both like women, but neither of us has ever been the settling type. What about that woman—Zoe Charon? You were serious about her last year. But when her manager offered her a promotion in Minneapolis you let her go without a second glance.”

  “That’s not true. I glanced.”

  Ian gave him a skeptical look, but Lucien didn’t blanch. He had hesitated about letting Zoe Charon walk away last winter. He’d liked her a lot. But in the end, there was always an unavoidable rift between him and intimacy. Now more than ever.

  “What has my past experience with women got to do with the fact that you’re considering asking Francesca to marry you?” Lucien wondered.

  “Nothing, of course,” Ian said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, fell again into one of the chairs, and crossed long legs. “It’s just that . . . I have never once in my life considered myself to be the marrying type. I’d assumed the same thing about you. Perhaps I was wrong?”