11 - Temptation

THE line cooks of the world formed an effective spy network. They worked everywhere, knew everyone, and—most importantly—were bonded by a fellowship of incredibly grueling work. They were like cops in a way, only with knife rolls instead of badges. Nobody understood a cook as well as the guy who stood shoulder to shoulder with him at a blazing hot grill station.

Having spent a sleepless night that strengthened her resolve not to give up too easily, Rebecca stumped to her kitchen wall phone at daybreak. Her targets also roused early, so this was a good time to call. Within fifteen minutes, she had the information her plan of attack required.

Trey Hayworth’s limo driver, who bought his daily bagel and a cup from a cafe in Faneuil Hall, was ferrying his boss to his new restaurant’s site today. The decor was nearly finished, and Mr. Hayworth wanted to check on it.

Rebecca dabbed concealer on her under-eye circles and dressed herself for battle.

In her case, this meant throwing a light summer jacket over her standard white shirt and black trousers. Also, she swiped on lipstick with actual color. If she were careful, she wouldn’t gnaw it off too quickly.

She took it as a good sign that her old Nissan Versa agreed to start.

The address she’d been given was on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Beacon Hill was quintessential old Boston, the most sought-after neighborhood for elite Victorians. People sought it out today as well. Cobbled streets delighted tourists, sidewalks were paved in brick, and Federal-style residences all seemed to sport historical black shutters. Here on Charles Street, swanky shops and restaurants were as common as ivy.

Rebecca thanked the parking gods for helping her find a spot just a block away.

The Bad Boys Lounge inhabited the lower floors of two adjoining brick row houses. An old fashioned wooden sign swung above the sheltered entry. The custom painting showed a pair of rakes in Colonial dress, escorting two buxom ladies in for dinner. The scene was happy rather than leering, and Rebecca

smiled at it.

The door beneath was propped open by a potted topiary tree.

No need to knock then, and no chance to be tossed out before she had her say. Cautiously, she stepped inside the big dining room. Morning light slanted in from the front windows, cutting through the dimness inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. The soon-to-be restaurant was empty, a scatter of construction and design clutter indicating it wasn’t yet finished. Free to humor her curiosity, Rebecca looked around. As she did, her heart sighed within her breast.

However she might resent testosterone-based entitlement, the bad boys had a rep for doing things top-drawer. She’d known that when she applied to work for Hayworth—counted on it, in fact. What she hadn’t prepared for was this exceedingly mellow place.

The atmosphere was upscale men’s club with a soupcon of modern edge. Dark plank floors threw their gloss to dark leather, which blended beautifully with aged wood. Antique tin tiled the ceiling, where tiny industrial lights hung down between exposed pipes. For color, stacks of fat coffee table books were in the process of being shelved in recesses at horseshoe booths. To her left, an elegant archway opened onto a softly glittering bar space. She couldn’t see a single bad table, and the traffic paths for wait staff appeared to be well thought out. The end result was comfortable and stylish. Men would salivate at these surroundings, but women would as well.

A bad boy who took his date here seemed likely to get lucky.

The covetous urge that seized Rebecca was impossible to throw off. This leather-scented little kingdom ought to be hers to rule. She wanted her savory clam chowder served at the round tables, her fresh lobster with butter sauce. Wilde’s most regrettable trait was its sad lack of ambience. Even unfinished, The Bad Boys Lounge had enough for three eateries.

Damn, she thought. I could spin magic here.

Since wishing wouldn’t bring this about, she continued along the just-wide- enough back hall to the kitchen’s logical location. The wainscoting in the passageway was black oak, the carpet protected from deliverymen by taped- down brown paper.

She saw no one until she reached the pass-through window. This was where wait staff would hand in their tickets and pick up plates. The shelf was sturdy, the height good for servers to dip their knees and cheat a heavy tray onto their shoulders. At first, Rebecca thought the kitchen was empty. The lights were off, and it was shadowy inside.

Then she noticed the tall man rubbing his bottom lip in front of the brand new grill.

A hot prickle slid across her breasts. She didn’t simply recognize Trey Hayworth’s profile; she recognized his whole shape. Considering she’d just met him, she found this disquieting.

“Mr. Hayworth,” she called softly before her nervousness could worsen. He spun around at her voice like a gun had gone off.

“Fuck,” he said, which didn’t strike her as promising.

“Sorry,” she said, stiffening a little but aware she was trespassing. “The entrance was open. I was hoping for a chance to talk to you one more time.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook himself.

“That’s okay,” he said with a surprising lack of anger, considering. “You just startled me.” He walked toward the pass-through. Then—belatedly remembering he could—he veered aside to open the kitchen door for her. “Please come in and have a look.”

His politeness knocked her off balance more than his curse.

“Thank you,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t have showed up like this.”

He’d invited her to have a look, but didn’t seem inclined to give her one. He stood in front of her, too tall to see around, hands shoved in his pants pockets. When you were a big-deal boss, she guessed you could dress as you pleased. Today he wore a pale green polo shirt that stretched over broad shoulders. His jeans appeared to be faded in all the right places. Rather than check them out and confirm, she kept her eyes on his face. His dark brows screwed together as he gazed down at her. He seemed so boyish any second Rebecca expected him to start rocking on his heels.

“What—” He cleared his throat. “What did you want to say to me?”

His strange reception had made her forget her prepared speech. She retrieved it with an effort. “I thought it might help your decision to know why I left my last position.”

“Not a mystery,” he said. “Latest owner brought in a new executive chef and demoted you. You were perfectly right to quit. I’m sure you can cook rings around that yahoo.”

“I don’t know about perfectly right,” she admitted wryly. “I could have waited to leave until I had another job.”

Hayworth smiled, his eyes warm with understanding—unnervingly warm, actually. He seemed weirdly happy that she was here. Rebecca tried to ignore how that unsettled her. Nothing she’d read about Trey Hayworth suggested he was this eccentric. But that didn’t really matter. Plenty of good bosses were quirky. With her responsibilities, she couldn’t afford to be picky.

“What do I need to do to get this job with you?”

“Ah,” he hemmed, rubbing his lower lip again. “I want to hire you . . .”

“But?”

He looked at her, seemingly unable to answer.

“You could try me out,” she offered. “Let me work for a month for free.” “That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Then what would be?” she asked, her determination unshaken. “Because my gut tells me this combination of The Bad Boys Lounge and me would work out.”

His grin burst out like sunshine, momentarily dazzling her. His dimples were as deep as she’d expected. “Really?” he said, like she’d given him a gift.

“Really. I have no trouble imagining me and your restaurant being a big success.”

“Me too.” He put his hands on her shoulders, their size and warmth unavoidably perking up her hormones. “I can picture you here. I can picture us having fun.”

Okay, that was a strange response. Her mind said um, but her temporarily fractious libido urged her not to protest. His lovely hands chafed her shoulders, comforting little rubs like he thought she was cold. Though she shivered at his touch on her linen jacket, she was anything but chilly. Tingles pulsed between her legs, fire spreading through her clit and beyond. Her nipples tightened with a vengeance, practically punching against her bra. Hayworth’s gaze dropped to the sharpened peaks like they were magnetized.

When he licked his lips, her shiver grew bigger.