Chase Me (Paris Nights Book 2)(38)

Do something adventurous to claim her life back.

Because after that she had to face the hotel owners. The two people who had hired her, who had supported her as she took the restaurant in a completely new direction, who had ignored all controversy in their firm belief she could do it. A flamboyant female chef in a field so dominated by males its sexism was its own legend, she could take Au-dessus all the way to the top. Three stars. Nothing to hold her down.

“I could be quick,” Chase said plaintively.

Vi snickered. “I’ve never had any doubt of that.”

His eyes gleamed. Oops, she had challenged him. Scruffy and tousled, he straightened from the wall.

“No,” Vi said.

He scowled. “Damn it, hot sex was one of my primary motivations for getting involved with you, you know.”

Vi started to laugh. It just bubbled out of her, far too much of it for his ridiculous sense of humor, but once it started, it felt too good to stop.

“Later, I fell in love with you for your mind,” Chase said soulfully, trying to gaze deeply into her eyes.

Vi doubled over.

“Also your spirit,” Chase murmured. “So fine.”

Vi waved his nonsense away with her splinted hand. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“Half a sec.” Chase rubbed his hand over his hair to half-straighten it, yawned, and then, in that one blink of an eye, no longer looked sleepy at all. “I’ll drive you.”

Vi stiffened. “I drive myself.”

“Sorry, honey.” Chase crossed the room in a couple of strides and took her splinted hand. Lifting it, he kissed the visible tip of her constrained fingers. “Not for another three weeks you don’t.”

Vi froze. She’d thought about all the challenges she’d have cooking. She’d actually cried—not that anyone better ever find that out—in the shower as she tried to wash her hair. But still, somehow, in her vision of herself, she was cutting through Paris on the back of a powerful motorbike, in charge of herself and her destination.

She stomped her foot hard and began to curse. A long, colorful string.

“Wow,” Chase said admiringly. “You’re better than some of those Legionnaires I’ve worked with. Do you want me to teach you some Spanish words to mix in?”

“I want my life back!” Vi yelled.

“You know, you might want to consider another place for hitting a man than his chin, if a little boxer’s fracture is going to throw you off your stride so much. I know the chin always attracts amateurs, but it’s a great way to break your pinky if you haven’t had training in how to properly throw a punch.”

Vi made a sound like a growling dog and stomped off, grabbing her leather coat.

She couldn’t pull it on over her splint, because the sleeves were too tight.

She threw it on the floor and cursed some more.

Chase smiled at her as if she was some vision from heaven. “You are just all energy, all the time, aren’t you? Here.” He held out his own leather jacket.

“What are you going to wear?”

He shrugged. “You?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Well, you will wrap your arms around me and hold on tight to protect me, won’t you?” he asked, big-eyed and anxious.

“You idiot. You know perfectly well that won’t help if we get in an accident. Your skin will get ripped right off if you’re not wearing leather.”

“So will yours,” Chase said calmly, pushing the jacket at her.

Vi folded her arms. “No.”

He gazed at her a moment. His own eyes narrowed. Unstoppable force met immovable object.

Chase picked her jacket up off the floor, produced a lethal folded knife out of nowhere and sprang the blade, then sliced up half the sleeve. Vi gasped. “Here.” He handed it to her. “Now your hand fits. Satisfied?”

Vi grabbed the jacket to her like a wounded child. She loved that jacket. She loved it so damn much. It made her feel sexy and strong, able to handle anything. When she had it on and the handlebars of her bike under her hands, she felt as if she could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything—a limitless potential that made it clear that she was doing and being exactly what she had always dreamed of doing.

Tears welled up in her eyes before she even knew they were coming. “You—damn—bastard!” she yelled to cover them.

Chase looked at the way she was clutching her jacket, looked at his knife, looked at her face—and suddenly was absolutely horrified. “Honey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Just to get your way!” she yelled. “Just to win against me. You ruined it!” She needed that jacket to face this day. She needed it.

This horrible, f*cking day, where everyone would be talking about her, everyone bashing her, journalists hovering around her, inspectors blocking her out of her kitchens. She needed it.

“I didn’t realize it meant so much to you,” Chase said hurriedly. “It’s your special gear, isn’t it? That you made sure was just perfect for you? Honey, I’m sorry.”

“You would have known if you asked!” Vi yelled. “Before you did it! If you’d asked if it was okay if you destroyed something of mine!”

He looked down at his knife, shamefaced.

“I could have worn my damn denim jacket for a few days! I could probably have taken off the splint long enough to get my hand through! I could have bought another jacket to use for a while! I could have done all kinds of things that it was my choice to do or not do, but you’re the damn man, so obviously you got to ride right over me!”