L.A. Confidential (2 page)

“Of course, you'll have to move to New York.”

She blinked. “Of course,” she murmured, trying not to scowl. How stupid of her to not have realized right off. As did Woody Allen and a handful of other producer/directors, Tyrell worked out of New York, refusing to set foot in Los Angeles unless absolutely necessary.

She didn't have a clue why he avoided California. Fear of earthquakes, an allergy to smog, an intense hatred of freeways…who knew? Didn't much matter. The bottom line for her was simple—work for Tyrell, move to New York. Cut, mark it, that's a wrap.

He watched her, silent, not pressing, but neither did he offer to give her time to make up her mind. People like Tyrell expected action—folks jumped when they said “Boo.” If she wanted the job, she had to let him know before he walked away. Every instinct in her body told her to jump at the chance. This was her career, after all.

And then there was Ken.

Her eyes welled, and she blinked back the tears, annoyed with herself for being so emotional. She made a point of being perfectly sensible where her career was concerned, but that didn't change the fact that she and Ken had become remarkably close, and it was going to tear her up inside to move so far away.

But she'd worked her tail off for years—all with the goal of one day being a full-fledged player in the
Hollywood scene. She had to grab her chance while she could. Opportunity was pounding on her door; she needed to open the dead bolt and let it in.

Surely Ken would understand. After all, just this very night he'd taken the first step toward realizing his own ambition. And it wasn't as if they were engaged or anything. Besides, she wasn't breaking up with him, just moving away. She'd come back when she'd made something of a name for herself—hopefully sooner rather than later.

The bottom line was, she had to take the job. If she didn't, for the rest of her life she'd wonder “What if?”

“Lisa?” At Tyrell's voice, she sat up straighter, pulling her thoughts together into one cohesive package. “Are you interested?”

A real job, working for Drake Tyrell. Scary, but undeniably enticing.
And everything you've ever dreamed of wrapped up in one package.
There was no way she could say no, no way at all. This was her dream.
Her life.

Taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she looked Drake in the eyes. “Absolutely.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “I won't disappoint you.”

Five years later…

A
S ALWAYS
during the lunch rush, every seat at Oxygen was full, and the hostess was issuing pagers to the intrepid souls who hadn't thought to make reservations and were now faced with a two-hour wait. At least at lunch they had the option of waiting. During the dinner hours those without reservations were politely turned away, and even clients with reservations usually waited at least half an hour.

The difficulty in getting a table didn't seem to bother the patrons. For that matter, it seemed to add to the clamor to be among those who dined regularly at the trendy restaurant—which, of course, was exactly what Ken had planned.

Still, the crowds were intense, and when he had first realized just how huge a success the restaurant was going to be, Ken had considered expanding. Brant Tucker, who owned the Bellisimo Hotel, had agreed to let the restaurant take over almost the entire mezzanine, and Ken had even gone so far as to hire an architect.

In the end, though, he'd decided to keep his firstborn
just the way it was. More than one review had raved about the cozy atmosphere, and Ken wasn't inclined to take risks with the establishment that had literally launched his career.

Instead he'd compromised by opening a north location in Malibu and a south location in Marina Del Rey. With more capacity, the satellites were soon doing more business than the original location. But the first restaurant held a special place in Ken's heart. And even after he'd opened a half dozen other restaurants with different names, he spent most lunch hours and weekend nights at the original Oxygen.

There were days when he still couldn't get his mind around the extent of his success. Five years ago he'd mortgaged himself to the hilt to get it up and running, but he'd actually pulled it off—and in a big way. Not bad for a college dropout from Blanco, Texas. He wished his parents were still alive to see it, but he knew they'd have been proud.

It was his mother to whom he owed his success. She convinced his father to open a BBQ restaurant on the town square when Ken was just a toddler. He grew up in that kitchen, helping his mom when he could, getting underfoot and generally being a pest most of the time. But he saw how the town folk gravitated to the humble spot. And by the time he was in high school, On the Square had become the local after-school, after-work, after-church hangout.

It didn't take Ken long to realize he wanted to create something like that. A miniature town meeting hall. A place folks could come and enjoy the food, drink a little, dance a little, and have a good time.

He'd started out by studying business at the University
of Texas, earning his tuition by working in every restaurant that would have him. At first he'd planned to open a simple restaurant in Austin, figuring its laid-back community would be perfect for what he'd had in mind.

But then one drunk driver had changed everything. Suddenly his parents were dead. His home had been ripped out from under him, and he'd felt more lost than he'd ever imagined possible. Uncomfortable in his own skin, he'd dropped out of college and escaped to the West coast, drowning his grief in a newly fueled ambition. He may have started out only wanting to operate a dive reminiscent of his mother's place, but he'd accomplished so much more. He'd become a rich man, powerful in the industry.

As usual, this afternoon he was moving among the tables, shaking hands and greeting the attorneys and brokers who made up the majority of the regular lunch crowd. He was chatting with a newly elected judge when he noticed one of the restaurant's publicists, Marty Talbot, waving at him from a two-top across the room. After excusing himself, Ken headed over, greeting a few regulars along the way.

“I didn't expect to see you today, Marty. I figured you'd be tired of me after we spent all day yesterday together in a conference room.”

The older man chuckled, his silver-gray hair giving him a congenial appearance that belied his slick negotiating skills. “I never get tired of a man who pays my bills so promptly.” Marty gestured to the empty seat, and Ken sat down. “Actually, Alicia asked me to pitch her show to you one more time.”

Ken stifled a groan. A former news anchor, Alicia Duncan now had her own morning talk show. Apparently
she didn't have anything better to fill the air with, so she'd taken to bugging Ken.

He shook his head, annoyed that he had to revisit what he'd thought was a dead issue. “I told both of you yesterday, I'm not interested.”

“Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure you'd fully considered her proposition before turning it down.”

“I've considered,” Ken said, trying to hide his irritation.

“Have you?” Marty asked.

“Come on, Marty. You of all people should know how I feel about publicity.” An old college friend of his father's, Marty had known Ken his entire life.

Marty waved his fork in Ken's direction. “Promotion's a good thing, son. It's not like you'd be falling in with the enemy.”

“That's not the point. I built this restaurant up my way, and I've always advertised it my way. So far, I think my plan has worked like a charm.”

All of his advertising focused on the food and the mystique that had grown up around the Oxygen name. No testimonials, no personal appearances, no tacky commercials filmed inside the restaurant, nothing that might diminish the aura that Ken had worked so hard to build.

And since every restaurant he'd launched had been a remarkable success, Ken had no intention of now screwing with his advertising plan. As his dad used to say, “If it ain't broke, don't fix it.”

Marty just shook his head and took another bite of salad without saying a word. Marty's habit of suddenly dropping out of conversations drove Ken crazy. And this time Ken was certain the older man was doing it
on purpose, presumably to give Ken time to once again ponder Alicia's proposal.

One pernicious side effect of Ken's success was his semi-celebrity status—a status that unfortunately attracted the Alicias of the world. But just because the press now treated him as a celebrity, that didn't mean he had to encourage such nonsense. So when Alicia had suggested filming a segment of her show in the kitchen—and having the restaurant's hailed executive chef, Tim Sutton, whip up one of his famous creations on camera—Ken had flatly and resolutely said no. It wasn't an answer he intended to change, no matter how much Marty or Alicia pleaded.

Across from him, Marty finished his salad without saying a word. Not until the waiter slipped over and silently removed the empty plate, did Marty look up and meet Ken's eyes.

“Go ahead,” Ken said, his voice resigned. Years of experience told him that there was no getting rid of Marty without first hearing him out. “Finish what you came here to say.”

“It would bring in a broader clientele.”

“I'm content with the clientele I've got.”

“Then do it as a favor. For Alicia.”

Ken ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what the hell Marty was talking about. “Excuse me?”

Marty just shook his head, then ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it into his coffee.

The
clack
of the spoon against the coffee cup grated on Ken's nerves. “Marty…”

“Well, son, it's just that I think you ought to think
of the girl,” he said, signaling for a waiter, “especially after the way you two broke up.”

Ken swallowed a burst of anger as he wondered what kind of nonsense Alicia had been spouting. “For one thing, we weren't dating. We went out to dinner twice. That doesn't make a relationship.” They'd slept together, true, but both of them had known it wasn't going anywhere. “And even if we were, I'm not changing my philosophy for anybody. Not you, and certainly not Alicia. Nobody. I'm off limits. My restaurant's off limits. And that's just the way it is.”

“If you're sure…”

A waiter, Jake, came over.

“I'm sure,” Ken said.

“It would make a great tie-in with the anniversary. Five years next Saturday since you opened this place.” He let the thought linger, then turned to Jake and started discussing the day's dessert selection.

Ken's stomach twisted. He knew perfectly well what day next Saturday was. Every year at this time he struggled through his own private hell. When the anniversary of Oxygen's opening rolled around, it was as if someone opened a memory floodgate and he was sucked out with the tide.

Five years ago he'd thought he had it so good. The opening of his first restaurant, a woman he adored and whom he thought adored him. But he'd been a fool. He'd stood right in this very room with an engagement ring in his pocket, so sure she wanted a life together as much as he did. Two days later, she'd left for New York with another man. Years later, the memory still rankled.

He'd wanted to wait until after they were married to make love, but apparently that wasn't enough for Lisa,
and soon enough Ken heard the rumors and saw the pictures in the tabloids. She and Drake Tyrell were an item, a regular fixture in all the Manhattan hot spots.

The turn of events had completely sideswiped him—and Ken didn't consider himself anyone's fool.

What bothered him most, though, was that after five years, he still couldn't get her out of his head. If he saw her again, he didn't know if he'd want to run to her or away from her. He hoped the latter. The thought that, after so much time, Lisa Neal still had power over him was more than a little disturbing. And yet it was true. The woman had gotten under his skin and stayed there.

“I've decided to skip dessert,” Marty said. “How about you? Have you made a decision about Alicia's program?”

Keeping his expression mild, Ken stood. “I'm skipping it, too,” he said. “And this discussion is over.” He told Jake to comp Marty's meal, then headed back through the tables toward the kitchen, needing some down time to relax and regroup.

Ken wasn't the type to feel sorry for himself, but one week out of the year didn't seem too outrageous an indulgence. The other fifty-one weeks he focused on his business and generally got on with his life. But despite the parade of women that came with his pseudo-celebrity status, so far he hadn't met a woman who affected him the way Lisa had. Half of him prayed that one day he would, so that he could finally forget about her. The other half wanted to hang on to the memory of her forever. Unfortunately, though, right on the heels of the memory was always the now-familiar anger that
burned a hole in his gut every time he thought about the way she'd left him.

“I know that look,” Tim said. “That's your one-week-before-the-anniversary look.”

The familiar smells and sounds of the kitchen accosted his senses and lifted his spirits—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of oil in a skillet, the gentle hiss of steam rising, the pungent aroma of minced garlic and diced onions. Despite himself, Ken's lips curved into a grin. “I think I'm entitled.”

“Entitled? To what? To mope?” Tim looked up from where he was supervising his sous-chef, his face ruddy from the heat of the stove. Behind him, the assistants were doing prep work and the expeditor was finishing up the final orders for the latecomers to lunch.

“The woman I loved turned down a marriage proposal and told me she was moving to New York five years ago,” Ken said, making sure his voice was low enough for only Tim. “A year later, she dumped me and shacked up with some Hollywood big shot. I think I'm entitled to a touch of melancholy.”

Before Lisa left, Ken had been absolutely certain of the way his life was going to go down. He was going to live in a bungalow near the beach with his filmmaker wife and their beautiful kids, and they'd spend Sunday mornings trying to outdo each other with exotic and bizarre omelet variations. Weekend afternoons, they'd go see movies, then sit on the deck overlooking the ocean and analyze the heck out of the film they'd just seen while the kids played in the surf. During the evenings, he and Lisa would mingle among the Hollywood elite as they dined at a Ken Harper restaurant.

It had never once occurred to him that Lisa had a different view of the world.

Of course, they'd never seriously talked about marriage, although his insistence that they not sleep together until after they were married had meant that the topic had come up once or twice. The fact was, he'd wanted to bury himself inside of her more times than he could count. But he'd been down that road before, though never with a woman like Lisa. He'd thought she was special. He'd thought she was
the one.
And cliché or not, he'd wanted his ring on her hand before they'd shared a bed.

When she'd walked out, he'd been shaken to the very core. He'd begun to second-guess every decision as he lost the control he so prided himself on. His business acumen faltered, and he'd made some bad decisions. Decisions that had set him back months. He didn't intend to lose control like that ever again.

Tim was still staring at him, an almost sorrowful expression on his usually jovial face.

“What?” Ken demanded.

“You need to move on.”

Ken crossed his arms and leaned against the stainless-steel prep area, trying to find a retort. But nothing came. Tim was right, but he didn't have the faintest idea how to go about it.

Lord knew, he'd cursed Lisa enough, especially on those rare occasions when he'd let the bitterness and humiliation get the better of him. He'd cursed and yelled and ranted until sheer exhaustion pulled him back. And still she was there, just under his skin. Part of him.

So how the hell could he move on?

Tim turned to Kelly, his sous-chef, then added some
herbs from a nearby bowl to her roux, and Ken inhaled the wonderful scent. “Smells great,” he said, partly to change to subject, but mostly because it was true.

“Of course.” Tim's grin broadened shamelessly. “It's my recipe.”