05

 “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.