Tempting Donovan Ford

He eyed her steadily. “You should. I recommend one to anyone signing a contract.”

She glanced down at the pages, then carefully closed the folder. “Well, you’re either shockingly honest or this is your attempt at reverse psychology.”

He didn’t see the need to argue. He simply wanted to get the job done and was looking for the shortest and easiest path. “I’d like to get this settled as soon as possible.”

“I would, too.” She clutched the folder to her chest.

“A week?”

“A week.” She smiled and Donovan felt something warm bloom in his chest.

No, that was a lie. It was a bullet of heat that shot straight to his groin. And despite his best attempts to shake it loose, including a ten-minute drive back to the office, it remained with him.

Or she did.

Donovan parked on the street in front of the three-level building in the heart of Yaletown, which not only housed the Ford Group’s offices but also their first and most popular bar, Elephants, which served wine from around the world and paired food to suit it. The bar took up the first two floors and even now was filled with people. Primarily office workers who’d popped in for a tasty lunch.

They’d debated opening for lunch since it wasn’t a particularly profitable time, but they’d discovered that customers often came back after work and stayed through the evening. And it looked good to anyone wandering by. Here was a place that was busy and vibrant, a place they should consider patronizing. And often, they did.

Donovan chose the stairs over the elevator to reach the third-floor offices. He greeted Bailey, their young receptionist, briefly as he headed down the hall to his office.

He had the second-largest space on the floor. His father’s currently dark office was larger, but Donovan thought his own was actually nicer. His father had a stunning view of the mountains, but Donovan had that and a peek of the ocean. More important, he could keep an eye on the sidewalk in front of the bar. See who was entering and exiting.

He hung his coat on the rack in the corner of his distinguished office. The space was decorated in high-gloss whites and ivories. Glass-topped desks and Lucite chairs. Everything open and transparent with elegant accents of silver and gold. It was a wealthy look and one that fit the jet-set lifestyle their company tried to sell.

La Petite Bouchée looked like a poor country cousin. But that would be simple to change. He made a note to call his designer this week and start discussing the renovation. Something simple and quick. Donovan saw no reason to dump a whack of money into a project when it wasn’t necessary.

The restaurant needed updating, but there was nothing wrong with the space that some freshening up wouldn’t fix. The room was open, there was a bar that could be easily extended to add visual interest and more seating, and a wall of windows that looked out onto False Creek, the inlet that separated downtown from the rest of the city.

He moved to his heavy glass desk and checked his email. He really did have plenty to keep him busy today and tonight and tomorrow. But his mind kept wandering back to Julia. Her sleepy eyes and slow smile. A man could lose his head to a smile like that.

“How did it go?” Mal, his younger sister—his only sister—stuck her head in, interrupting his thoughts. She was wearing the wireless earpiece that kept her in constant contact with her cell phone and meant she was liable to spin away midsentence to start a new conversation. But right now she simply watched him with knowing brown eyes. “Oh, my God.” She plopped down in one of the low-slung visitor’s chairs, kicking up her needle-thin heels. “Are you smiling? After that fit you threw when Dad insisted on going through with the purchase?”

He brought out his best older-brother I’m-in-charge-here expression. “It wasn’t a fit.” It had been a well-reasoned, logical attempt to change Gus’s mind. Donovan hadn’t even stomped his foot. “We had a discussion.”

“Right.” He never had managed much success in pulling anything over on his younger sister, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “So what happened?”

Donovan shook off thoughts of rosebud lips and sexy curves. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Not what I asked.” Mal raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. I’m here now. I can help.”

“I’m not doing everything myself.” He wasn’t. Hell, he didn’t even have a signed contract. “I’m just letting you know that I have everything under control.” Including his libido. Good thing he was seeing Tatiana tonight. The tall platinum blonde would be the perfect antidote to the discomforting feelings coursing through him.

Mal rolled her eyes in the same way she’d been doing since she was ten. “Whatever, Donovan.”

“I’m not trying to keep you out of the loop.” Or he was learning not to. Over the past couple of years, he’d gotten used to being the only Ford child heavily involved in the family business and the one their father relied on. Owen had never shown any interest beyond doing enough to collect a paycheck and, until their father’s heart attack, Mal had been living in Aruba with her fiancé, Travis, running a beach bistro. But Mal had flown home immediately after getting the call and had stayed, taking on the role of marketing and media-relations director for the company. And there had been plenty of times since then that Donovan had been grateful for her support. Not only was she a whiz at the job, but she was also someone he could count on to make good business decisions. “I’ll ask if I need help.”

“No, you won’t. You always think you need to do everything yourself.” Mal pulled out her smartphone, tapping something on the screen. An email pinged on Donovan’s computer in response. “The projections for Dad’s little restaurant and my media plan when we’re ready to relaunch.”

He and Mal had discussed the plan in depth last night. Her plan was three step. First, the announcement of the sale. Followed by a short article highlighting the new look and extolling the exciting new path La Petite Bouchée was on. Finished with a personalized interview showcasing their chef. Donovan felt another flicker of attraction as Julia’s face flashed through his mind.

“When will we be ready to go?”

Donovan shoved Julia’s dark eyes out of his mind. They wouldn’t be ready to go until they had said chef’s signature on a contract. “I’ll let you know.”

But rather than nodding and accepting his information as gospel, Mal frowned. “No, I’m going to need more than that. Dates, decisions.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “We can’t hold off indefinitely. No one is going to write about the purchase two months after the fact.”

He knew she was right. He also knew that they couldn’t move forward without Julia’s consent. “Then we come up with a new strategy.”

She stared at him with that skewering glare she was so good at. “You thought this was a great plan this morning. What happened?”

“Nothing.” Which was the truth. No signed contract. No verbal one. Just a promise that they’d meet in a week and that sizzle of attraction.

Mal scowled, her earlier good humor disappearing. But she’d been like that lately. Quick to grow irritated over small details. About the same time she’d returned from a visit to Aruba no longer wearing the sapphire ring Travis had given her. “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you to dole out information? When, Donovan? I need to know when to start contacting my people, dropping hints about an exclusive and setting up other events.”

He rubbed his temple. “I know. Let’s discuss later.”

“When?”

He knew Mal wouldn’t leave until she’d pinned him down. It was just one of the many reasons she was so good at her job. He made a decision. “First thing tomorrow morning. You and me.” They could pick some hard dates and make decisions based on the assumption that Julia would have signed the contract by next week. He didn’t want to consider the fact that Julia might turn him down.

“You and me and coffee,” Mal agreed. She tapped on her phone again. “Should we invite Owen?”

“Why?” Donovan loved his brother even though he was regularly annoyed by him, but Owen was not a businessman. “What’s he going to do? Offer to sleep with the reporter?”

Mal smirked, some of her earlier good mood returning. “Oh, I don’t think you should be throwing any stones, brother.”

“Me?” Donovan enjoyed the company of women. A lot. But he was hardly the Romeo his brother was. Donovan doubted Owen had ever gone out with the same woman twice in a row and he regularly juggled multiple lady friends. Donovan was a one-woman-at-a-time guy. It was just that he hadn’t met a woman who made him want to give up all others forever. Nothing wrong with that.

“Yes, you.” Mal shrugged. “Hey, maybe you’d find the reporter so appealing that you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, and the great story with excellent placement on the front page would just be a bonus.”

“You would pimp me out for the family business?”

Mal considered that and then shook her head. “You’re right. It would be wrong of me.”

“Exactly.” Now, if she wanted to pimp him out to convince the new chef to sign...

“I’d pimp out Owen. He’s much prettier.”

Donovan snorted.

CHAPTER TWO

“I STILL CAN’T believe you refused to sign.” Sasha stared at her with wide green eyes, looking impossibly innocent though Julia knew that to be far from true. Still, Sasha’s innocence or lack thereof wasn’t the point here.

They were holed up in a corner booth at Elephants, a destination Julia hadn’t chosen and wasn’t comfortable with. But when she’d mentioned to Sasha that perhaps they should find another place to have a bite to eat and a drink to unwind, Sasha had overruled her since they were now part of the Ford family group of establishments.

Julia didn’t know about that, but she was keeping an eye out for the family in question. Or for one particular member. “Of course I refused to sign.” It was probably ridiculous to think that Donovan would be down here in the wine bar. He worked in the offices. He didn’t get down and dirty in the trenches. “No doubt it was full of legal ropes that would bind me to a lifetime of servitude.”

The interior of the bar was gorgeous. Not Julia’s style, but stunning. Although the lighting was low, everything sparkled and gleamed, like the inside of a snowflake. A long white glass bar and crystal lights that gave off just enough illumination to see without ruining the cool ambience.

“Exaggerate much? I hardly think he’s trying to trick you into indentured servitude. Although I have to say, if I was going to be tied up, he would definitely make the list.” Sasha tapped a finger against the stem of her wineglass. “And I thought he seemed nice.”

Julia rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the food on the table. It was a little boring but tasty. Not something she’d serve, but then, this wasn’t her restaurant. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Ignoring the fact that she didn’t have a restaurant to call her own. Not really.

“He had a nice body. Or are you going to tell me you didn’t notice that, either?” Sasha wasn’t giving up.

Oh, she’d noticed, and filed it away as a wasted observance. Because the only thing Donovan Ford had that she wanted was La Petite Bouchée.

Julia noted the lascivious glint in Sasha’s eye, obvious even in the dim interior of the wine bar. She didn’t like it. “Not that it matters, but he’s off-limits.” She wasn’t going to get into a session about the rest of Donovan Ford’s obvious attributes. Danger and distraction lay that way. And really, she didn’t care who or what he did in his spare time, so long as her staff weren’t involved.

“Oh, is he?”

Julia ignored the teasing tone and questioning look. “I told him I wanted him to pay me in shares.”

The diversion appeared to work, since Sasha frowned and asked, “For the restaurant?”

“Yes. Like the deal I had with Alain.” The original owner, the one who’d loved the restaurant as much as she did. The deal she’d never bothered to get in writing because she’d trusted Alain. Julia sighed. It was her own fault.

When she’d returned to Vancouver, she’d been thinking only about caring for her ailing mother, not her career. But Suzanne had wanted Julia to take the role of executive chef at La Petite Bouchée, a role Suzanne had held for a decade. Julia had agreed, noting that it was only temporary, just until her mother recovered and could return to the kitchen. Except Suzanne had never recovered, the cancer metastasizing through her body, leaving Julia with no family and a temporary job.

When Alain had offered her the position permanently, she’d agreed. There had been comfort in working at the same place as her mother, working with the staff who had loved Suzanne as much as she had. And she found consolation working in a space imbued with her mother’s presence. Due to the restaurant’s struggling fortunes, Alain had been unable to pay her the salary she knew she deserved, but he’d offered something better. The promise that when he retired the following year, he’d sell her La Petite Bouchée at a discounted price.

Except Alain had passed away before retirement, and when his nephew and sole heir, Jean-Paul, claimed no knowledge of the deal, Julia found herself with no legal recourse. Just a nearly empty bank account. But she could learn from her mistakes. This time, she’d get everything on paper. And notarized. Assuming she could talk Donovan Ford into it.

“And what did he say?”

“He wasn’t amenable to the idea.” Which was putting it mildly. He’d been painfully, stridently clear that he wouldn’t offer shares. On the other hand, he’d admitted he wanted to sell, which provided her with opportunity. If she could find a way to merge the two, they might have a deal.

“And will you sign without them?”

That was the question that had been rolling around in her head since the meeting. Without some sort of ownership promise from the Fords, she was merely an employee and replaceable. After all, there were plenty of fantastic cooks in the city.

The thought of leaving the restaurant made her stomach twist. A strong, visceral gut reaction of no. No way. No how. No dice. La Petite Bouchée was hers. No matter if her name was on the deed or not.

“I don’t know,” she told Sasha, not willing to go into her thoughts until she had some of them sorted out.

Julia had spent too much time thinking about it. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. Not when she chopped vegetables, oversaw the evening service or assisted with cleanup after closing. But she was still no closer to figuring out what she would do if she and Donovan couldn’t come to an agreement.

She did know one thing. “I won’t be undervalued.” Julia didn’t think it was bragging to say that the only reason La Petite Bouchée hadn’t gone completely under when Jean-Paul took over and decided to cut her budget in half was that she’d made it work. Unwilling to see the once-grand restaurant where her mother had been head chef declare bankruptcy, she’d worked around his ridiculous decisions, always with an eye on the final prize of buying it from him.

Of course, that hadn’t gone according to plan.

Julia’s throat tightened. She lifted her wineglass to her lips and then put it down without sipping. Wine wasn’t going to ease the rigidity there. The restaurant, her mother, family had all gotten twisted together and she didn’t know how to separate them. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyelashes.

“Your mom?” Sasha asked, her voice quiet but still audible under the hubbub of other conversations, most patrons half-corked by this time of the night. One of the benefits of being such close friends and spending so much time together meant she didn’t have to explain why she was feeling emotional.

Julia nodded. Her mom had been gone for just over eighteen months, but it still felt so close. There were mornings she woke up and couldn’t believe she was gone. She wondered if that place in her heart would ever be filled or, at least, not feel so big.

She had no other family. An only child of an only child. Her grandparents had died when she was little and she’d never known her father. All her mother would tell her was that he was a Parisian she’d met while apprenticing as a chef in the City of Light. No name, no background, not even a photo, though Julia could surmise he’d been lithe and dark like her. Her mother had been short and round, the years of butter and heavy cream she featured in her dishes showing on her round cheeks and rounder hips. Suzanne had also been much fairer than Julia.

“I miss her.”

“Of course you do.” Sasha hugged her. Julia absorbed her friend’s comfort. The kindness and sympathy offered without judgment or expectation of payment. Sometimes Sasha reminded her of her mom. The welcoming way they invited others into their lives so easily.

When she’d gone to Paris for staging—working in high-end kitchens for a pittance, the real salary being the opportunity to train under a highly respected chef—she’d looked for her father, checking the eyes of every man of the right age to see if they looked like hers.

Her direct appraisal had gotten her hit on a few times, but no closer to finding her father. She’d finally come to accept that she would probably never know. Her mother claimed not to have even told the man she was pregnant. Julia suspected he might have been married. Maybe she had an entire family in France, half brothers and sisters, a stepmother who would make those clucking French noises when she didn’t like something and a father who shared her eyes. But she wasn’t going to find them.

She sighed. Instead, it was just her against the world.

“I want to buy the restaurant.”

She didn’t need to tell Sasha. Her best friend was well aware of her plans.

“I know.” Sasha rocked her for a moment. “But what if you can’t?”

Julia didn’t like thinking about that. Not tonight. Not when she was already physically and emotionally drained from the long day on her feet and the surprise of the sale.

So she didn’t. She shoved it out of her mind and sat up, picking at the food in front of them. She knew that although Sasha was empathetic, she couldn’t really understand.

Their dreams were as different as their upbringings. Sasha had come from a nice suburban childhood with a big backyard and parents who were still married. Julia had grown up in a two-bedroom apartment in the city. A beautiful top-floor apartment, but far from the picket fence Sasha had known. Sasha’s mom thought gravy from a bag was an acceptable choice, while Julia’s mother had made everything from scratch, even bread. And Sasha had zero interest in owning her own place and had once told Julia that she wasn’t sure she wanted to even become an executive chef. The one night a week she ran the kitchen was enough for her.

It was as foreign an idea to Julia as growing up with two parents in the suburbs.

“Can we talk about something else? Who’s your latest boyfriend?” Sasha always had a new beau, claiming that she’d yet to find one who could hold her interest for more than a few weeks. It amused Julia to see the way she cut a swath through them, somehow always managing to have an amicable breakup.

And because she was a good friend, Sasha went along with the subject change, telling a humorous story about a man she’d met last week and how he already wanted to take her away for a tropical vacation.

But Julia couldn’t keep her mind on the story or on anything but the dilemma now facing her. She was going to have to figure something out. Luckily, she had a week and she planned to take every minute of it.

“Uh, Jules?”

“Yes?” Julia blinked, mentally rewinding their conversation to see if there was something she’d missed. Some particularly outrageous comment or a question that she hadn’t responded to, but she didn’t recall anything. Sasha’s eyes seemed to take up half her face. “What is it?”

But Sasha was busy fluffing her hair and pouting her lips.

“Okay, who is it?” Julia asked, smiling as she turned to see what fine specimen of man had caught her friend’s attention. And right there, having just come through the entrance in a tux that he no doubt owned, was Donovan Ford. With a beautiful blonde on his arm.

Julia swiveled back and reminded herself that she didn’t care who was on Donovan’s arm. But she turned her body just enough that she could sneak another peek.

The blonde’s dress flowed around her, rippling like waves, and was a blue so pale that it almost appeared white. There was virtually no color to her. Skin like the glow of the moon, platinum hair of a shade not found in nature and eyes an even paler blue than the dress. She looked like part of the bar’s design. The perfect woman in the perfect room, and her fingers were wrapped around Donovan’s forearm, a clear announcement that he was spoken for.

Julia hoped he got frostbite.

“Damn. There’s someone with him.” Sasha sighed heavily. “Guess that means he’s off-limits.”

“I already told you that.” Julia rarely got involved in the love lives of her staff. As long as they showed up for work on time and didn’t bring their personal issues to the kitchen, they could sleep with whomever they wanted. Even Jean-Paul.

But not Donovan.

“Yes, I remember that.” Sasha raised a strawberry-blond eyebrow in her direction. “Care to explain?”

Julia raised an eyebrow back. “Not really.”

Sasha smiled, a broad, bright smile that had won and then broken the hearts of plenty of men in the city. “Please, please, tell me it’s because you want him for yourself.”

“I don’t want him,” Julia said, but her stomach twisted. She ate another dull bite from her plate and washed it down with a sip of wine.

“Right. You just want his shares.”

“I don’t want his anything. And even if I did...” Her fingers fluttered up to her hair. “Oh, God. Stop talking. He saw us. He’s coming over.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear though she didn’t know why she cared. So what if her hair was a bit messy because she’d only pulled it out of her bun and done a quick finger comb? That was life. Not shellacking her coif into a helmet that could break someone’s nose like the ice queen over there.

At least her clothing was nothing to sniff at. She straightened the hem of her nutty-colored tweed blazer, an investment piece she’d splurged on when she lived in Paris, and reknotted the leopard-print scarf around her neck. Paired with an army-green tee and black skinny pants, she looked chic and casual.

Keeping a spare change of clothes in her office was a necessity of being friends with Sasha. Sasha liked to go out after work and Julia liked to go with her. She loved cooking, but the industry could be hard on a person’s social life. She worked while others were out and having fun. When she was off work, most people were in bed. Now Julia wished she’d begged off after work and gone home to bed, too.

She could feel Donovan’s eyes on her, homed in, noting everything about her. A shiver passed through her. She hid it under a small smile and picked up her wineglass, raising it toward him as if in toast. A statement that she saw and acknowledged him but no further contact was necessary.

He didn’t take the hint.

“Sasha.” Donovan strode up to their table looking very dashing and debonair and just the slightest bit mussed. His bow tie was angled as though he’d stuck his fingers beneath it to loosen the knot and his cuffs weren’t perfectly even. A man who knew who he was and didn’t have to put on a show for the little people.

He bent to kiss Sasha on the cheek, and Julia inhaled his scent. Basil. Fresh and just a little spicy, like the scent of summer. Another shiver rocked through her, rocked harder when he turned toward her.

“Julia.” He bent to kiss her cheek. Cool air radiated off his skin, highlighted the warmth of his lips.

The shiver didn’t come back, but that was because Julia was swamped with a wave of them. She swallowed and tried to act like his kiss, his nearness, didn’t affect her in the least.