Tempting Donovan Ford

“I don’t know. A bottle of wine with a gold bow around the neck sound important?”

“What?” Julia’s head whipped up to look at Sasha, who was smirking in the doorway.

“I sense you haven’t told me everything about the meeting.” Sasha gestured to the chair with her head. “Well, go look at it and then come back to the kitchen and tell me everything.”

Julia almost didn’t. She didn’t even know whom the bottle was from. But the excitement bubbling inside her did. An instinct confirmed when she pulled the note from the envelope attached by the ribbon.

To a bright and satisfying future.

Donovan

She recognized the label. An expensive and uncommon bottle. She hadn’t needed to read the card to know it was all Donovan. All class. Attraction flared. Which showed just how long she’d been without a boyfriend, if a bottle of wine, even one that cost more than most people’s weekly paychecks, was enough to get her all heated up.

Well, that may be so, but she didn’t have to act on it. Couldn’t act on it. Her focus needed to be on the restaurant. She didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe in a few years when her name was on the deed, when La Petite Bouchée was spoken about in the same breath as other great Vancouver restaurants, she could ease off a little. But until then, she’d accept the gift at face value, a way of welcoming her and her team to the company. Nothing more. Then she went out to tell the staff they were going to have a treat with family meal tonight, the meal she cooked and served before the start of service to make sure everyone was fueled for the long night ahead.

Because what was the point of having such a fantastic bottle of wine if not to share it with the ones you loved?

* * *

DONOVAN LOOKED AROUND La Petite Bouchée with a discerning eye. In the glow of the lights, without the sharp, exposing brightness of the sun, the space looked better. Not good but better.

The walls were plain but clean, as were the tables and chairs. The bar was too small and should extend another couple of feet to make full use of the space. They could easily fit in three or four more stools at a longer bar, which would mean three or four more people eating and drinking and adding to their profits.

The parquet flooring was worn and scuffed, and even if it was salvageable, Donovan had no plans to keep it. It was just a dated look that added nothing to the space. He was bringing in the designer next week to look the place over and discuss some potential changes. Hopefully, it could be done quickly and cheaply.

“Stop working,” Mal said, shooting him a withering stare. “Enjoy your meal and the fine company of your siblings.”

Donovan hadn’t wanted to bring them along when he’d decided to pop in for dinner tonight. Well, not entirely true. He never minded Mal tagging along, not even when he’d been twelve and she an annoying seven-year-old, but he could have done without Owen, who had already hit on both the server and the hostess and was even now eyeing up the bartender.

But he supposed they provided a better cover story than the one he’d come up with on his own. That he just happened to be in the neighborhood when what he really wanted was to see Julia.

He’d debated sending the wine. It was a vintage bottle, one from his private collection. Not the sort of thing he generally sent to staff no matter their level in the company hierarchy. But there was something different about Julia. A fact he’d been forced to acknowledge that night at Elephants when, instead of going home and enjoying an athletic and gratifying bout of sex with Tatiana, he’d sent her off with the clear disclosure that while he’d enjoyed dating her, he didn’t see it going any further and saw no point in continuing.

“I’m not working,” he said and forked up another bite of his meal. He’d selected the steak frites despite Owen’s advice that if he was going to be stubborn and not get the coq au vin blanc, he should choose the boeuf bourguignon. And he was perfectly satisfied with his meal. “I’m just looking around.”

“You’re making mental notes. And, Owen,” Mal said, turning her attention to him, “stop flirting with the staff and pay attention. Maybe if you thought about business once in a while instead of your sex life, you’d be able to convince Donovan to give you that promotion you want.”

Donovan blinked at his brother. “You want a promotion?”

A flash of panic tightened Owen’s face before it smoothed out into his usual laissez-faire expression. “Of course not. I don’t know what Mal’s talking about.”

But Donovan wasn’t sure he believed him. Still, he didn’t chase his brother down. Owen had shown little interest in the business. While Donovan and Mal had worked summers in the office and gone to university to learn skills that would help them one day take over the business, Owen had preferred to spend his time lounging at the beach and had flunked out of university after two semesters.

Even now, while Donovan and Mal held management positions that helped shape the future of the company as a whole, Owen seemed content to manage Elephants. It was a mind-set that Donovan simply couldn’t understand, and he’d long since given up trying.

He understood that Owen might not be interested in the food-and-wine industry. He might not even be interested in business. But Owen didn’t seem to be interested in anything else, either. He flicked from hobby to hobby and woman to woman like a butterfly. Barely settling anywhere long enough to get a feel for the surface, let alone mine the depths. But that wasn’t Donovan’s problem. So long as Owen managed to keep Elephants running, he would leave him be.

They talked about other things. How their father was doing, the local sports teams, a ski vacation Owen was planning on taking next weekend. “And then maybe somewhere tropical.” Owen looked at Mal. “I thought I might go and visit Travis.” Owen and Travis had always gotten along well, far better than Owen and Donovan.

Donovan saw the way his sister seized up at the mention of Travis’s name, though she covered it well, smoothing her napkin and picking up her wineglass without the slightest shake. Yes, there was definitely something going on, but she didn’t seem inclined to talk about it, and Donovan wasn’t about to bring it up here. He changed the subject, noting the release of his sister’s shoulders.

The conversation meandered after that, and Donovan was grateful when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else.

“Yes,” Owen said. “Could you ask the chef to come out? I’d like to give her my compliments personally.”

Donovan felt something strange and sharp bite through him. Owen shouldn’t be asking for Julia, implying that he was the one who knew her. He glared at his brother. Kept glaring when Julia came out, looking warm and sexy, and allowed Owen to kiss her on the cheek and then kissed him in return.

“Julia, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Mallory.” The two women greeted each other with a friendly smile and murmured pleasantries. “And you know Donovan.”

Julia’s gaze barely flicked to him, fluttered over like nothing. It cut. He wasn’t used to being passed over and he decided he didn’t care for it.

“How was your meal?” Julia didn’t even mention the bottle of wine, which surprised him. Unless she hadn’t received it?

No, he knew it had arrived. He’d insisted on a signature upon delivery and recognized Sasha’s name. While Donovan didn’t know her well, he found it highly unlikely that Sasha would have forgotten to give Julia the bottle or kept it for herself, which meant Julia didn’t want to acknowledge it. Or him.

His brother was practically falling all over himself and Julia, praising the excellence of the meal. Mal was a little more circumspect, but she was incredibly complimentary, too. Of course, they hadn’t had their gifts ignored.

“Did you like your gift?” Donovan said when Julia finally looked at him.

She jolted. “Yes, thank you. The staff and I enjoyed it very much.”

She’d shared it with her staff? The thousand-dollar bottle he’d handpicked from his stash to give to her personally had been passed around the kitchen? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Donovan could appreciate the magnanimity of her gesture. What better way to show people how much you appreciated them than by sharing your good fortune, which was exactly what he’d done with her. He’d just hoped she might return the favor by sharing the bottle with him. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Julia nodded, a light flush rising on her cheeks. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen.”

“Of course,” Donovan said before Owen could. He watched her walk away, the sway in her step that made him forget all about the skinny blondes of his past. Tatiana who?

“I didn’t know we were sending wine to our staff now.”

“We’re not.” This was a personal gift from him. But he didn’t tell his sister that. And he wasn’t even sure what had brought on the generosity. He needed to concentrate on getting the restaurant up to par so that when he managed to get his father’s agreement to sell, they could list the property immediately. He needed to focus on work. They all did.

Donovan glanced at his brother, who was smiling at the bartender across the room. “Owen.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, but first Julia and then the bartender? Was there anyone safe from Owen’s charms? “Don’t you have to work tonight?”

Owen should be on-site at Elephants, making sure everything was running smoothly, not sitting in a restaurant. He didn’t appear upset by Donovan’s tone. “I’m heading over after dinner. The staff can handle things without me.”

Donovan was sure they could, since the assistant manager at Elephants was incredibly competent. She could probably handle the Apocalypse without batting an eye. Still, that didn’t excuse Owen from his work. If he wanted to get paid, he needed to put in the hours. “You’re expected to be there—”

“I haven’t had a day off in two weeks and I’m working tonight. Okay?” Owen patted his lips and then rose. “If it makes you happy, I’ll go now.”

But Donovan noticed that Owen stopped by the bar, charmed the woman working behind it, and chatted with the hostess on his way out. Donovan wouldn’t have minded any of that. Owen’s people skills were his greatest attribute. But when Donovan saw Julia duck back out of the kitchen and head straight toward his brother, saw them hug and kiss each other once more, his hands fisted.

No. His brother was welcome to spread his charm across the city. He could date a different woman every night. He could bring them into his bar and comp them drinks and food all night. But he could not date Julia. Hell, no. Donovan had just gotten her to sign a contract. He wasn’t about to have Owen risk that for a quickie.

But he kept his aggravation hidden under a polite smile. This was nothing to get into now. Especially since he’d be sure that it wouldn’t amount to anything.

Donovan and Mal chatted about work for a while, and when their server came by to ask if they’d like anything else, he ordered dessert and coffee. Just getting the full meal experience provided by the restaurant. And if he got another look at Julia, that would be okay, too.

Mal declined. “I’m exhausted,” she told him. “If I have coffee this late, I’ll be up all night.” She did look tired.

“We can go, then.” He started to lift a hand to call for the check and cancel the dessert.

“No, no.” Mal waved a hand. “You stay.” She stood and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy the dessert. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He considered leaving anyway. He didn’t need the dessert, but he really should try to get a handle on the customer service provided by La Petite Bouchée.

Instead of remaining at the table, he caught the server’s attention and said he’d like his coffee and dessert at the bar. The server nodded and walked him over, making certain he had everything he needed before disappearing. Donovan was impressed. Julia had trained her staff well and the food was excellent, which would make his job much easier.

The bar stool he was on was rickety and the cushioning was almost nonexistent, but the bar was clean and the woman behind it was friendly. She answered all of Donovan’s questions knowledgeably, keeping an eye on the other customers and segueing between all of them easily.

While he sipped his coffee, Donovan studied the beer-and-wine list. Satisfactory, but with the number of craft breweries and boutique wineries that permeated the West Coast, Donovan knew it could be better.

The pair of men beside him were waiting for their table and chatting about their day. He eavesdropped, only half listening while he mentally planned the changes. New interior, new seats and bar stools, new menu. Then one of them said something that caught his ear.

“If this place didn’t look so terrible, I would totally consider having our wedding reception here.”

“Excuse me.” He turned on his friendly business smile. He was no Owen when it came to people skills, but he was entirely capable of holding his own. “I’m Donovan Ford. My family just bought this restaurant.” He shook their hands and proceeded to elicit their feelings on the restaurant.

They had a lot to say.

“So why do you come?” he asked after they’d filled him in on their many observances. Apparently, they came often. At least once a week.

“The food,” the dark-haired man said.

“As good as anything we had in Paris last year,” said the blond. “The chef is too good for this place. No offense.”

“None taken.”

The blond smiled. “I didn’t think she’d stay this long.”

“Have you been coming awhile?” Donovan was interested to hear this. Loyal, regular customers were the lifeblood of the industry. If these men were regulars, he wanted to know why.

“Oh, yeah, at least three years. We started coming because we were friends with Alain, the original owner. But when Julia took over cooking from her mom, we started coming for the food.”

“Her mom?” Donovan tapped a finger against the side of his coffee mug. What did her mother have to do with the restaurant?

“Suzanne was the chef here before she got sick. When she couldn’t work any longer, Julia came back to Vancouver to help. I think she only intended to stay until her mom got better...” His voice trailed off.

Donovan studied them, noting the sad tilt to their eyes. “But she didn’t.”

“No.” The brunette shook his head. “She died. We thought Julia might leave then. Go back to Paris.”

Donovan ignored the clamp of his own heart. His father had survived. According to the doctor, as long as he continued to take care of himself, Gus Ford would live a long life. “But she didn’t leave.”

“No, she settled in.” The dark-haired man smiled. “I think it’s sort of a tribute to her mother.”

Donovan could understand the desire. And felt as though maybe he knew Julia a little better than he had before.

He chatted with the men until they finished their drinks and moved to their waiting table. Then he waited for Julia.

* * *

JULIA REMAINED IN the kitchen until the last plate was served and she was sure there were no further orders coming in before she made her way back into the dining room. She knew Donovan was still there. Had been informed by the staff the moment he’d left the table and taken up a stool at the bar instead of leaving.

The room was only a quarter full, which wasn’t terrible considering it had been only half-full this evening to begin with. She saw Donovan across the room, still sitting at the bar. He had a menu in his hand and was frowning. Even with twenty tables and about twenty-five feet between them, she could feel his magnetism. But that magnetism, that draw of attraction, wasn’t why she walked over. She was simply being polite, making nice with the new owner.

Still, when he noticed her, putting down the menu and focusing all his attention on her, Julia felt the pull all the way to her toes.

“Donovan.” She slid onto the stool beside him. “I didn’t expect you’d still be here.” A subtle hint that he shouldn’t be.

He smiled, either ignoring or missing the gentle rebuke. “I thought we could talk.”

“Oh?” The bartender, Stef, arrived to place a glass of water in front of her. Julia stilled the sudden fluttering in her chest with a sip of it and smiled at the woman who was working her way toward a law degree. “Thanks.”

“The menu’s dated,” Donovan said.

Julia stiffened. She knew the menu was dated. It hadn’t changed in thirty years. But her attempts to modernize it had fallen on deaf ears. First with Alain, who hadn’t wanted to change anything, and then with Jean-Paul, who’d refused to spend money.

She reminded herself that she should be grateful Donovan saw the need, too—she wouldn’t have to convince him—but something about his tone put her on the defensive. As if he thought she was the one responsible for it.

“I happen to agree. I hope this means you’re open to changing it.”

He nodded, his eyes already scanning the room. At least the space was decent. It needed a bit of polishing, but nothing major. Julia had convinced Alain to repaint the walls so they were a crisp white, and the photos on the walls were full of charm. A mix of pictures from Alain’s childhood in Bordeaux and some from her mother’s personal collection of travels through France. Besides the one of Julia playing in the fountain, there was also one she’d taken during her first year living in Paris. In her opinion, they created a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. A personalization that let diners know the meal wasn’t just about eating but was an experience.

The floor could use a good sanding and restaining to return it to its former golden glory and the light fixtures should be swapped out for something more current, but other than that, the restaurant looked nice. It was classic, like the food they served.

“And the space needs a major update.”

Apparently, Donovan Ford felt otherwise.

Julia felt the stiffness travel up her spine, across her shoulders and settle in her jaw. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction?”

His eyes met hers and held. She felt that spark of attraction again and doused it with a quick toss of common sense, like flour on a grease fire. Always best to tamp those things out before they had a chance to catch.

“I’d say the renovations are a necessity. The seats aren’t comfortable.” He shifted as though to prove his point. “And the decor is at least twenty years out of style.”

Out of style? Well, only if you thought looking like the inside of a snowflake was style.

“It’s old-world,” she countered, recalling the lovely bistros and family-owned restaurants she’d favored during her years in Europe. She didn’t want La Petite Bouchée to be quite as authentically homespun as that—it didn’t suit the food she wanted to serve—but the aesthetic of appearing like something that had lasted hundreds of years and would last hundreds more appealed to her. Classic was what she aspired to. Glossy white bar tops and Lucite seats were tomorrow’s Harvest Gold appliances and velvet wallpaper.

“It’s old-fashioned.” Donovan lifted one dark eyebrow, a quirk Julia always wished she’d been able to master. Mostly because she hated it being directed at her and wished she could do the same in return as a way to negate the skill. “Who is the target market?”

She scowled. “Are we talking about numbers, then?”

“If you want.”

She didn’t want. She’d looked at the numbers often enough to know they weren’t going to support her argument. The fact was La Petite Bouchée was lucky to break even on any given night, but Julia didn’t think that was because of the decor.

“I know it could use some freshening up,” she admitted, “but the decor is part of the charm.” And she wanted him to stop talking about any potential changes. One thing at a time. It was enough that she’d signed the contract today and agreed to the marketing blitz. She didn’t want to hear how he planned to rip the heart and soul out of the place, as well.

“It’s not charming.” Now she did feel insulted. “But it could be. It will be when we’re finished.”

Julia peeked up at him. “I’m not going to let you make this a carbon copy of every other place you own.”

To his credit, Donovan didn’t get his back up or look put out by her comment at all. “You don’t like the wine bars?”

His calm tone helped her find her own cool. “I do like them. For bars. But that’s not what La Petite Bouchée is about. We’re an iconic and classic fine-dining establishment. The decor should reflect that.” And since she was the one who’d hopefully be buying it from him in the future, Julia felt she should have some say in the matter.

Donovan watched her, and Julia felt a warm flush crawl over her skin. “I’ll take that into consideration.” And before she could get her back up about how he should do more than consider her opinion, he said, “The service was good and your food was excellent.”

“Not dated?” She couldn’t help sniping.

He grinned and accepted the verbal tap. “Not dated. But nothing about the decor showcases just how good it is.” Julia opened her mouth to object. Her food was classic. The decor needed to follow suit. But he had more to say. “Which is why it needs updating.”

Julia sipped her water instead of arguing. He was right. She knew that. She just wanted to protect the traditional charm that would make La Petite Bouchée stand out. But she should hear him out before deciding that he was wrong. “Okay. Like what?”

He smiled and it slipped through her like warm chocolate sauce. “That is a question for my designer. Why don’t we table this discussion until she’s had a chance to look the space over and come up with some options.”

Julia frowned. In her experience—okay, from what she saw on TV—designers rarely kept anything the same. They wanted to make a bold statement, something bright and flashy that held no reminders of what the space had looked like before. A designer would eradicate all the good years La Petite Bouchée had experienced. The happy memories that used to fill the space before time and customers began to slip away.

She wanted to bring that back, to revive the space, not revolutionize it. “Part of the restaurant’s heritage is in keeping things the same. If you change it too much, it’ll just be like any other restaurant.” It was a good point and one Julia was prepared to make over and over until he got it. “People will have no reason to come here.”

Donovan glanced around the room, which had emptied out completely while they talked. “Is anyone coming here now?”

She bristled at that. “They come. Just not often enough.”

“Exactly.”

CHAPTER FOUR

JULIA WOKE UP after only a few hours of sleep, and instead of rolling over and drifting back off, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking. Alone with her thoughts didn’t always feel like a good place to be. Not when her head was filled with worries about the restaurant. Or worse, like this morning, memories of her mother.

Julia had always planned to come back to Vancouver after she got all her European living out of her system, her various training at both Michelin-starred and nonrated establishments. She’d thought she’d have years left to live in the same city as her mother. And instead, she’d received a phone call one hot August afternoon just before her twenty-eighth birthday. Only, instead of hearing her mom’s cheerful voice on their weekly phone call, it had been Alain telling her that she needed to come home because her mother wasn’t well.

It had scared her. Badly. And when she’d gotten hold of her mother—while sitting at the Orly airport in Paris, waiting for her flight to Vancouver to board—she’d heard the truth in her mother’s voice. That she’d been sick for some time. That she hadn’t wanted to tell Julia because she’d believed she was going to get better and hadn’t wanted to worry her. And that the doctor’s prognosis had been dire during her last checkup and he’d recommended that Julia return to Vancouver. Now.