The Billionaire Bad Boys Club (21 page)

God, let them stay steadier than she was.

A gap between arrivals allowed Trey to sneak his fingers over to chafe her wrist. “Stop agonizing,” he scolded. “If the kitchen were having problems, someone would have come out to get you.”

“Only if they realized the problems were happening,” Rebecca gritted from the side of her mouth.

Trey was spared from trying to counter this by the arrival of her brothers.

“Look at you!” she cried, hands flying to her lips. “All dressed up in your suits.”

Pete wrapped her in a bear hug and then stepped aside for Charlie. Next to him was a little redhead with horn-rimmed glasses. Rebecca saw at once how a girl like this might drive Charlie to anxiety attacks, fictional or otherwise. She was the precisely the sort of nerdalicious siren smart boys dreamed about. Ordering herself to act like a sister ought, Rebecca fought not to recall Charlie’s story about snogging in the library stacks.

“This is Caroline,” he said, pride mixing with nervousness. “My friend from school.”

“So nice to meet you,” Rebecca said, taking the girl’s hand. “Charlie’s mentioned you.”

“Sorry I couldn’t make it to your Sunday dinner,” the girl responded politely. She looked down as if surprised. Too late, Rebecca remembered she shouldn’t have touched her. “Wow, your hands are like ice!”

Pete laughed. “Our big sis is a perfectionist. Leaving her crew to cook a new menu by themselves is her idea of a trip to the guillotine.”

“Pete!” Rebecca chided, though what he said was true.

“You know Raoul can handle it,” he returned.

He squeezed her arm as the busy hostess came back to lead them to their table. Wistful, Rebecca craned around to watch them go. Her brothers were so tall now, handsome in their gangly way. Suddenly, she could see why the
Bad Boys
editor had chosen them for the cover. They had a presence most young men didn’t, a lively . . . interestingness. Other diners glanced at them as they passed—including at shy Charlie.

“Well, well, well,” said a voice she wished she didn’t recognize. “Enjoying your fifteen seconds in the spotlight?”

Reluctantly, Rebecca turned back toward the street door. Neil Montana stood before her, backed up by a circle of his cronies. He wasn’t quite six feet tall. His build was skinny but soft, his pasty face not improved by his trying-too-hard-to-be-fashionable beard scruff. She’d worked for him all of six days before quitting—which was six days more than any chef with standards should have had to take.

Had Trey invited this idiot? Or maybe Neil had bought one of the tickets whose proceeds were going to charity. God, it didn’t matter. Rebecca forced her shoulders straighter and her jangled brain together.

“I
am
enjoying myself,” she confirmed. “Though of course I prefer working in the kitchen to all this attention.”

Neil let out a skeptical snort. Attention was what he lived and breathed for.

Thankfully, the hostess appeared to lead him and his gang away. “Enjoy your meal,” she called after them before hissing, “Did you invite him?” to Trey.

“I believe he’s Gordon Hewitt’s guest. I sent him a handful of tickets.”

Gordon Hewitt was the editor of
Boston Eats
and a well-known food critic. Her head whipped around to confirm he was with Neil. Sadly, he was, his short form dashing in a rumpled jacket and bow tie.

“Crap. I didn’t see him. Hewitt must think I’m completely stupid. Why did he bring Montana? He can’t possibly like his food.”

Noting her horrified stare, the dapper food critic smiled and lifted two fingers. Weakly, Rebecca returned the greeting.

“Crap,” she repeated, jerking forward again.

“It’s okay,” Trey soothed. “Hewitt has a reputation for being puckish. He probably invited Montana in the hopes of inciting a drama.”

“Just kill me now,” Rebecca moaned.

Trey laughed underneath his breath. She was glad he was taking this in stride, though—strictly speaking—she should have followed his example. God, she wished she were in the kitchen. Her nervous energy would have served a purpose there.

She was so overwrought she didn’t immediately identify the striking woman who swung legs first out of a limo that had pulled to the curb. A chauffeur handed her out, a service the woman seemed used to. Her dress was Marilyn-esque: white, pleated, its flowy skirt poised to lift at any convenient draft. Though her hair was dark, its waves were styled to resemble the iconic movie star’s. Her pouty red lips glistened with reflections from the Lounge’s decorative outdoor lights. Strings of the twinkly bulbs spiraled around the entrance.

“Mystique,” Trey said when she reached them. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Oh you know.” She waved a hand whose glossy manicure matched her lips. “Spur of the moment thing.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He accepted her air kiss. “It’s always nice to see you.”

The tilt of the model’s head struck Rebecca as dubious. Did she think Trey
wasn’t
glad to see her, and if so, why not? Rebecca realized she hoped Trey disliked her. Bad enough Zane and she were cozy.

She probably had a weird expression on her face when Mystique shifted her gaze to her. “You must be the chef. Congratulations on the big night.”

She showed no awareness that she knew who Rebecca was—not that she was worth mentioning by Zane.

“Thank you,” she said, her spine inescapably poker stiff. “I hope you enjoy the meal.”

Sensing her tension, Trey laid his hand in the small of her back.

“I’m sure I will,” Mystique said pleasantly.

She continued in, stirring murmurs even among the ritzy crowd. Zane hadn’t appeared behind her, so perhaps the couple was meeting here. Hardly steady to begin with, Rebecca’s pulse began skittering. She knew he’d probably attend tonight, but she been trying her hardest to compartmentalize that knowledge. Could she bear seeing Zane in person with his beautiful arm candy? Did she have the nerve to face him with Trey no more than six inches from her side? For that matter, could this situation get any more uncomfortable?

“Jesus,” Trey murmured, looking at her. “You’ve broken into a sweat.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I just really want to oversee the kitchen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Oversee. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

Rebecca hurried off as if she
were
escaping a guillotine.

A server stopped her in the back hall. “Chef,” she said, a smile on her face. “Your clam chowder is a hit. Folks are scraping their bowls!”

“Great,” Rebecca said. She moved aside to let the waitress pass. Though glad to hear the accolade, she wondered if it meant her other appetizers were simply
meh
.

Steady
, she ordered, grabbing her chef’s whites. Even as she shoved her arms through the sleeves, she pushed through the kitchen door. There she found the sort of chaos she didn’t like to see.

Raoul was haranguing two of the newbies with the Spanish version of
get your asses into gear
.

“What?” she said to get his attention. “Are we in the weeds?”

“No. Just slow getting off the mark. These two—” he narrowed his eyes at the flinching cooks “—need to get over their fucking quivers at turning up the heat.”

“You,” Rebecca said to the newbie she knew had quicker hands. “Go help plate. I’ll take over your station.”

“Yes, chef,” he said, already trotting off despite looking unhappy.

“Fast and pretty!” she yelled after him. “Presentation is important. Don’t send anything hot out cold!”

“You’re staying?” Raoul asked, seeming relieved by this. Apparently, they were closer to the weeds than he’d wanted to let on.

“Yes.” She took control of the departed newcomer’s sauté pans. “You’re overseeing the grill?”

“Yes. Lorenzo’s expediting.”

She’d seen this on her way in. Lorenzo was one of their senior men. Once they picked up speed, he ought to have no trouble keeping the train on track.

“Focus,” she reminded the sweating newbie beside her. “When Lorenzo calls an order for your station, let him know you’ve got it. If someone is working on the other half of your dish, keep him in the loop on how far along you are.
Everybody communicate!
” she finished with a bellow.

“Yes, chef!” the kitchen bellowed back.

She smiled at that, and turned back to work. For the next ten minutes, the kitchen’s chaos became the nimble dance it was meant to be.

Then the lobster started returning.

Lobster couldn’t be rushed. You had to cook it gently or you’d lose its exquisite taste and texture. The Lounge’s version was butter-poached with creamy broth and orzo. Topped with savory Parmesan “crisps,” it made a memorable small entree, the sort diners would come back for . . . assuming, of course, that it was actually cooked.

In spite of the hubbub around her, the second server to call for a re-fire put Rebecca on full alert.

“Crap,” she said. Adrenaline poured through her as she signaled the second newbie to take her pans. Fearing the worst, she headed straight for the pass-through. Lorenzo was poking the rejected food in befuddlement.

“They’re raw in the middle,” the server insisted, which Rebecca could see for herself.

“Why are you letting them go out like this?” she demanded of Lorenzo. “You’re supposed to check every plate.”

“I—” Lorenzo stammered, his big brown eyes filling up with tears.

Rebecca’s brain went into panic mode. The senior man was built like a wrestler and normally tougher than alligator hide. She hadn’t cursed him out yet, so the problem had to be personal—a fight with his girlfriend, or some such thing. “Christ,” she said, too stressed out to be sympathetic. “Don’t do this to me tonight.”

“Sorry, chef.” His eyes welled up even worse, tempting her to slap him out of it. “I’ll pull it together.”

“Damn it. You’re my best expediter after Raoul, and he’s better than you at meat. Don’t make me take you off this post.”

Lorenzo dragged his sleeve across watery eyes. “Yes, chef. I’m sorry.”

Rebecca didn’t want
sorry
. She wanted her crew to straighten up. “Seafood!” she called over her shoulder to that station. “Give your fucking lobsters more time in the oven.”

The smattering of
yes, chefs
she got back didn’t satisfy.

“Fuck,” she snapped in her deepest drill sergeant’s voice. “You know that bastard from Wilde’s is out there. He’s dying to see us fail!”

“We never fail, chef!” Raoul roared back at full volume.

Her head chef was grinning, which put her nearer to an even keel. She slapped Lorenzo’s shoulder to let him know they were all right, then pointed to the newbie she’d shifted to plating. “We’re a team here,” she said in a quieter tone. “You be Lorenzo’s back-up if he needs it.”

“I’ll tell the guests new plates are coming,” the waitress assured her.

Nodding curtly, Rebecca strode back to the sizzling cooktop and her orders. As a rule, she didn’t relish blowing up. She was so wired now her hands shook. Her entire life seemed to be trying to overwhelm her at the same time: the twins, her house, her fucking sweetheart of a boss and his fucking too-sexy-to-stand best friend. Her breath caught in her chest as if an ogre had her around the ribs. Emptying her lungs required a conscious effort.

Focus
, she ordered.
Just like you told the crew
.

The newbie at her elbow glanced at her sideways. “You okay, chef?”

“I will be,” she promised him grimly.

~

Zane was having a bad Monday.

This, he decided, was a fitting follow-up to his shit weekend—not to mention every crappy minute he’d suffered through since waking alone on his yacht. If Rebecca had tried to put a whammy on him, she couldn’t have done a better job.

The trip to Montreal had begun as merely uncomfortable. Missy had been a smidgen too curious about why Trey didn’t want to see his aunt.

“I know so little about you,” she’d wheedled on the Bad Boys jet. “I’m not some on-the-make groupie. You can trust me with your personal life.”

Except he couldn’t. He liked lots of things about Missy, but trust wasn’t in the mix—not on his own behalf and certainly not on Trey’s. Maybe she’d have kept the gory details about their childhood to herself. Maybe she’d have let them slip the next time she wanted to seem in the know in an interview. Zane couldn’t predict what she’d do and didn’t care. He didn’t
want
to share his past with her.

Few realizations could have clued him in more clearly to the lack of substance in their relationship.

Because he’d agreed to join her for the weekend, he tried to be a decent companion. He squired Missy around to her parties, listened to her chatter about her dramas, and only made a single call to check on Trey and his upcoming opening night.

Missy knew something was up anyway. They had sex once, the night they arrived in the hotel. Missy wasn’t a stranger. Zane had expected going to bed with her would be a step up from his recent one-night stands. Instead, it had been worse, not just soulless but dishonest. Sleeping with Missy had felt like misleading her.

She must have noticed his heart wasn’t in it, because she didn’t press for more. Zane’s relief was premature. Missy saved her big confrontation for the return flight.

Why was he so withholding? Couldn’t he see she cared about him? Didn’t he feel anything for her?

“You have more real emotion in your voice when you talk to Trey,” she accused. “I deserve to be more than a convenience.”

Zane choked back an urge to declare that it wasn’t her, it was him. He said other soothing things, no doubt just as annoying, basically admitting that she was right. She
did
deserve better than he was offering her.

“I understand,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste any more time with me.”

This wasn’t the response she’d been looking for. They were the only passengers in the private jet’s cabin. Missy gaped at him from the leather seat opposite his, her mile-long legs crossed and her high-heeled shoe jiggling. Her perfect nails worried the label on the designer water she was drinking.