When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine #2)(11)

You have given me no other choice. Consider your challenge accepted, ma fifille.

The memory of Lucien’s low, ominous threat played back in her head for the hundredth time. Well, the moment had come. What was he going to say? What was he going to do about her bold decision to show up here today, pretending to be his new chef? Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d done it. Another part—the part that had stared hopelessly at the rundown décor in the Cedar Home Extended Stay Hotel last night—told her that she’d had to do something, no matter how crazy or brash, to try to keep her dream for a future from dying. She would not concede failure this time. Lucien was a fearsome presence, but he was a familiar face in a country full of strangers. He was furious at her, but he would help her when no one else would.

Wouldn’t he? He sent you away once before.

Yes, but he’d said something about the dinner prep to Sharon, as if he expected Elise to be completing her day there. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her brain had been spinning in overdrive ever since Ian Noble had walked into the kitchen earlier. She’d sensed Lucien’s edginess, even though he’d outwardly appeared calm. The voice of the strange man she’d heard in Paris echoed yet again in her brain.

You’re not feeling guilty, are you? About what you plan to do with Noble?

Had Lucien relocated his entire life to Chicago because of Ian Noble? If so, why? What did Noble have that Lucien wanted? It made no sense to her, given everything she knew of Lucien. Lucien was an extremely wealthy man in his own right, so she couldn’t imagine that his motives were financially motivated. Although extreme wealth never vanquished greed. If anything, it did the opposite, she thought, reminded of Lucien’s father.

One thing was certain. Lucien hadn’t denied it when Ian assumed that Lucien had hired her as an interim chef. Clearly, Lucien hadn’t wanted the compelling billionaire to know about their past connection . . . or about what she’d overheard in Paris.

But what did Lucien’s father’s crimes have to do with Ian Noble?

She washed her hands, her anxiety mounting by the second. Irritation spiked through her when she saw that Sharon waited for her when she turned to wipe off her hands. Did she plan to escort her like a jailer to Lucien’s office?

“Thank you, I know the way,” she said, even though it was a lie. Mario had disappeared alone last night when he’d apparently gone to raid Lucien’s private store of premium cognac. She lifted her chin and breezed past the manager, noticing from the corner of her eye that Sharon followed her out of the kitchen. In the main dining room, she paused next to a busboy.

“Which way to Lucien’s office?” she muttered without moving her lips.

“All the way at the end of the rear hallway, last door on the left,” the busboy said so loudly that she grimaced and rolled her eyes.

She started down the long, empty hall, hearing the sounds of the restaurant becoming muted until she could hear only the throb of her escalated heartbeat in the thick silence. By the time she knocked on the massive carved door of Lucien’s office, she felt as if she were willingly walking to her own execution.

She started when the door whipped open suddenly. He looked dark and intimidating standing there, wearing a pair of black trousers that hung elegantly on his tall, athletic form, a dark gray shirt, a black and silver silk tie . . . and an unreadable expression. He nodded once and she entered the room, glancing around nervously at the masculine, luxurious office. The heavy door closed behind them with a loud click. She heard another snick of metal and spun around, alarmed.

“Did you just lock that door?” she asked, her already rapid heartbeat redoubling its tempo.

His nostrils flared slightly as he stared at her. “If you decide to stay, I think you’ll prefer that the door was locked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come. Sit down,” he said, waving his hand at the chairs before his desk. She sat slowly, watching him warily as he leaned against the edge of his desk directly in front of her. He had beautiful thighs—long and powerful. She had a sudden urge to see them naked, to run her hands over the sleek, hard muscles, to absorb his strength. . . .

She blinked, shocked by the thought in this tense situation, and looked away. Feeling vulnerable, she thought the best defense might be a strong offense.

“Lucien, did you come to Chicago because of Ian Noble?”

“Of course I did,” he said. “He asked me to open the restaurant in his new tower. I did it as a personal favor to a friend.”

“How long have you two known each other?”

“I didn’t ask you back here to discuss Ian.”

“But why didn’t you deny to him that I was the interim chef?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why do you think?”

She glanced at his face skittishly.

“Because you didn’t want me to mention anything about our past association, your past identity . . . about your father?” It wasn’t precisely what she’d meant to say. She meant that conversation she’d overheard. On that night in Paris several years ago, she’d hidden in the rear entrance area of Renygat when she’d realized the mysterious German man was taking his leave, glimpsing only the back of the man as he left Lucien’s office. Then she’d approached Lucien, who was now alone in his office, and confronted him about what she’d overheard. He’d been furious at her when he realized she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation.