When You Defy Me (When I'm With You Part 2) (6 page)

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to speak with Sharon. I’ll just leave you two to get better acquainted,” he said
politely.

Denise Riordan and she sat in the chairs before Lucien’s desk and got to know each other. By the time Lucien returned twenty
minutes later, she felt certain she could work well with the older, knowledgeable woman. Two chefs in a kitchen was never
an easy scenario, but Elise was eager to learn, and she had no problem with taking on the subservient role. It’d been what
she’d expected when she came to Chicago, and she was convinced Denise Riordan had significant things to teach her.

“Please stay for a moment. I need a word,” Lucien said to Elise after he’d returned and Ms. Riordan was saying good-bye.

Neither of them spoke for a moment after the new chef closed the door behind her. A prickly, electrical atmosphere descended.

“I received the medical exam results you left me,” he said. “Did you receive mine?”

“Yes,” she replied airily, as if she discussed such things all the time despite the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks.

“Do you like her? Denise?” Lucien asked quietly from where he stood near the door.

“Very much. I don’t suppose there’s a reason you chose a female chef, is there?”

“I chose the best qualified candidate.”

She gave him a dry glance. “I wasn’t going to fall into bed with any male chef that you hired.”

He gave a small grin. She stilled at the appearance of the twin dimples, the flash of white teeth. “What about Mario?”

“What about him?” Elise asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

“Wasn’t that where things were headed on that night I caught you two here?”

“No. I had no intention of sleeping with Mario.”

“What, precisely, were you doing here with him then?”

“He was going to supervise my training. When he asked me to dinner, I didn’t really feel I had the option of saying no. I
didn’t know he was planning on trying to get me into bed.”

He gave her a weary glance and walked toward his desk. “Right. That dress you were wearing screamed a practical day at the
office. I hired the best candidate for the job, but I’m not at all unhappy that she’s a female, the truth be told. I know
the effect you have on men. They lose about forty points off their IQ in your vicinity. No need to light the fuse if it can
be avoided.”

“I resent your constant allegations that I’m promiscuous.”

“That’s funny,” he said, unconcerned by her offended act. He lowered to the chair behind his desk. “Because
I
resented learning about your constant displays of promiscuity. I even witnessed them a time or two.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly, not sure she actually wanted an answer.

“Half of Europe saw that photo of you dancing nude on top of a cocktail table at the engagement party for the son of the
archduke of Luxembourg,” he said dryly.

“I was wearing a thong,” she defended, chin up. Lucien’s sharp, annoyed glance made her wilt on the inside, however.

“And how about the night I came upon you in a secluded alcove at the Opéra de Paris?
You were busy demonstrating what was apparently your enthusiastic,
deep
affection for a married, middle-aged politician. I believe you were nineteen at the time. Do you recall?”

“I . . . you . . .
wait
.” Her heart squeezed tight and seemed to stop in her chest. “Was that
you
who interrupted when I was with Hugh Langier?”

His sarcastic expression was her answer.

Enthusiastic
, deep
affection
.

Oh no. She shut her eyes, but Lucien’s stare continued to score her. She hadn’t seen who had walked in on her tryst with
Langier; she only knew someone had. Knowing that
someone
was Lucien made her feel light-headed with shame. How could she have been so impulsive—so
stupid
—at times?

No. She wouldn’t think of it. She
wasn’t
that person anymore.

“I doubt you’d like what I did to your paramour when he came into Renygat two nights later,” Lucien muttered. “Slimy sod.”

“He
wasn’t
my paramour,” she bit out, but then she fully absorbed what he’d said. “Did you hit him or something?” Lucien gave her a
bland glance. “You got in a fight with a
senator
?”

Over me?

He didn’t comment further, but she saw the way his nostrils flared, a sure sign he was subduing his anger. What he’d referred
to had occurred during the height of her careless self-indulgence. There’d been a time when she found life meaningless, when
everything had been a joke. Her only concern was to have as much fun as she could, and damn the consequences. Acquaintances
in Paris—not to mention her parents—had looked the other way during her wildest, most desperate, period.

Wasn’t it better that Lucien was angry versus uncaring?

“I know you believe in me, Lucien. Even if only a little bit. I know you’re not so callous as you behave. I wish you’d quit
putting on the act,” she said, plucking up her façade of confidence.

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Riordan told me that you specified that her job was provisional upon her taking me on as a stage.”

A silence stretched between them. She’d been stunned and pleased when Ms. Riordan had revealed that morsel of information
during their discussion.

“And I told you, if you are to live in this city, I’d just as soon have you nearby where I can monitor you. Speaking of which,”
he said, talking over the disgusted sound she made. She knew very well he’d just sidestepped her revelation that he’d done
something kind for her. “I’d like to escort you tomorrow evening to Ian and Francesca’s party.”

Her heart leapt. Denise Riordan had been hired. Francesca was no longer his employee. Lucien would feel freer now to act
on his proposed relationship. A thought struck her, deflating her ballooning excitement like a dead-on torpedo.

“You want to supervise me, don’t you? I told you I wasn’t going to tell anyone that I know you from before. Don’t you trust
me?”

“Let’s just say that I’d rather be in close watching distance so that I know where I stand.”

“You don’t, in other words.”

“Trust is something that has to be earned, Elise,” he said quietly. “And don’t play the martyr. I know that you don’t trust
me completely, either. Not yet, you don’t.”

His intensity took her by surprise. She absorbed what he’d said, feeling unsteady.

“Where shall I pick you up?” he asked after a moment, his quick topic change only increasing her sense of being off balance.
“At the address you put down on your application?”

“No.”

She realized how abrupt she’d sounded. The last thing she wanted was for Lucien to see the rundown extended-stay hotel where
she was living. It would only affirm his belief that she was scatter-brained and impulsive. She did some quick thinking when
she noticed his narrowed gaze on her. “Can we meet here? In front of the Noble Tower building?”

His handsome face settled into an unreadable mask. “Of course, if you prefer it. Seven thirty?”

“That will be fine,” she said, starting to back out of the office. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Elise?” he asked sharply when her hand was on the door.

“Yes?”

“Your employment with me has ended now that I’ve hired Denise.”

She held her breath.

“Just remember. My rules,” he reminded significantly. “Denise being here means your salary will stop as well. You
do
have adequate funds to live here in the city, correct?”

“Of course. Didn’t you tell me that Papa would never see me starve?”

He raised his eyebrows slowly. Not liking the suspicious expression settling on his features, she hurried out the door.

Lucien remained seated and unmoving once the door closed behind Elise. He thought of how pale she’d gone when he’d mentioned
catching her in flagrante delicto
with Hugh Langier, illustrious member of the French senate and renowned womanizer. He regretted embarrassing her, but the
memory was still volatile to him; it still made something hot and unbearable swell in his gut, not to mention what it did
to his cock.

He’d been looking for her that night five years ago, having noticed her luminous face from a distance during the opera. It
had been a year since his father had first mentioned the possibility of him marrying Elise. He’d flat-out refused to even
discuss the idea, of course. No one was going to choose his future wife but himself. But the idea had lingered in his consciousness:
not heavily, but lightly, like a radiant, teasing smile, the prospect of a stolen summer day or a sip of the perfect champagne—light-filled
and effervescent . . .

. . . like Elise herself.

He couldn’t help but be curious about what sort of a woman that smart, funny, sad girl had become.

Still, his curiosity hadn’t been so great that he’d sought her out when he’d moved permanently to Paris to open his first
hotel and restaurant. It’d been completely by accident that he’d glimpsed her at the opera. Their boxes were almost directly
across from each other. The curtain was about to go up when he noticed several faces in the audience flicker to the left of
the stage. He’d followed their gazes idly, wondering what was causing the stir. His body sprung into instant alertness.

She’d stood and was making her way to the back of the box. The gown she wore was jaw-dropping. No, not the dress itself,
but Elise in it. It was made of a pale ivory metallic material that clung to her ripe, svelte curves, the material giving
off a pearl-like sheen that nowhere near rivaled the luminosity of her pale skin. She was completely covered, but the clinging
fabric and its similarity to her coloring gave the impression of nudity. Her hair had been long back then. Lucien recalled
that during that summer five years before, she’d forever worn her hair in a thick ponytail, tendrils increasingly escaping
the band as the day wore on until by nightfall, her delicate face was surrounded by a riot of golden waves and curls. That
night, she wore it up, but the casual twist gave a man the impression he could have the glory of it spilling down her shoulders
and into his greedy hands with just a gentle tug.

He’d jerked up out of his chair, making a quick excuse to his companion.

Five minutes of searching later, he’d finally found the sweet, gawky girl he recalled, but that girl was no more.

She’d been on her knees in a velvet-draped alcove before an ecstatic-looking Hugh Langier.

The image haunted him to this day . . . killed him a little . . . aroused him a lot. When he’d whipped back the heavy drapery,
Elise’s lips had been clamped tightly around the base of Langier’s cock. She’d slid her mouth back, revealing inches of slick,
thick penis—not to mention the full extent of her talent for fellatio.

No wonder the senator had looked so ecstatic.

It had infuriated him that Langier had taken advantage of a young girl like that while his wife sat out in his choice box
watching
Tosca
, unaware of her husband’s lechery. The entire experience had infuriated him, period, when it should have been an eye-opening
moment that he later considered with amusement.

Lucien shut his eyes, trying to vanquish the memory even though he knew by now it was an utter impossibility.

Take control of Elise Martin? Gain her trust? It was a challenge most men would fail. It was a dare the dominant in him could
no longer resist, a trial he was anticipating unlike any other before in his life.

He’d have to willingly walk into the flames in order to control the fire.

She spotted him immediately from a block away, leaning against a limestone abutment of the super-sleek, modern-gothic Noble
Tower. Her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t been familiar with the sensation for most of her life, but had experienced it far
too much recently. She’d assumed since running into Lucien again that the uncomfortable feeling was anxiety due to his intimidating
presence. No other man affected her like Lucien did. Maybe it was because of that idyllic summer he’d given her as a child.
It might have been because of the way he kissed. Or perhaps it was simply because she knew he had no reason to manipulate
her for her fortune.

Or maybe it was that he was the most powerful, sexiest man she’d ever met. By far.

Tonight, she had a sneaking suspicion the fluttery feeling was akin to that of a first date with a very attractive man.

Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t a date. Hadn’t he said he just wanted to be with her because he didn’t trust her? She frowned,
even though her gaze traveled over him covetously. Still . . . he’d said he was attracted to her, that he planned to have
sex with her. They’d both dressed up and they were meeting at an assigned spot. The similarities to a date were not insignificant.
Now that an official chef had been hired, how would he go about advancing this unorthodox relationship he’d proposed?

He drew glances from nearly every passerby, man or woman, even though he seemed completely unaware. His arms were crossed
loosely beneath his chest. His looks were such a striking, unique combination of effortless elegance and raw male sexuality.
He wore black pants that fit his long legs to eye-catching perfection, a starkly white shirt open at the collar and a handsome
tan and black herringbone blazer. He stared fixedly in the direction of the Chicago River. She admired his ability to stay
so completely still, and yet remain so calm. Rarely had she observed such complete focus in a man. She recalled he used to
quietly chastise her when they fished and she would fidget and sigh.

“You will scare the fish away.”

“But it’s so boring,”
she’d complained.

“If you can learn to handle your boredom, you will have truly mastered yourself.”

“What’s that mean?”
she’d queried, puzzled but curious.

He hadn’t answered her at the time, but she’d studied his calm, patient attitude while fishing or soothing an anxious horse
or handling his drama-queen mother, and strived to follow his example. She’d failed for the most part, but she’d learned to
respect that calm, steely strength in him.