Room Service

“See that you don’t.”

“I was thinking,” Caya piped up to Jacob. “We should all go out tonight.”

By “all,” Caya could mean anyone and everyone. While Pru batted for that all-girl’s team, Caya had never limited her options by choosing a side.

“I’ll bring that woman from the spa for Jacob,” Pru said.

“Don’t bother, I’m busy tonight,” Jacob told her, and before they could object, he put an arm around each of them, steering them toward the door.

Laughing, Pru dug in her heels. “You are not busy.”

“I am extremely busy.”

“Fine. I can easily party without you guys,” Caya said breezily.

At the flash of disappointment on Pru’s face, Jacob sighed. Ah, hell. The Ice Queen had a thing for the carefree, spirited Caya, who went through sexual partners like water. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but Pru was the monogamous sort, always in it for the long haul. She’d been dreaming of her own special “the one” since he’d known her.

And now she was bound for Hurt City. “Maybe we could go out,” Pru said to Caya. “You know, just the two of us.”

Caya stared at her, then laughed. “Right. The sommelier go out with the lowly waitress. That’s sweet, Pru, but you don’t have to do that.” Leaning in, she kissed each of them on the cheek. “See ya later, guys.”

With that, she took her most excellent behind out of the kitchen.

Pru watched her leave the kitchen and Jacob shook his head. “Pru, what the hell is this?”

Pru swiped all expression from her face. “What?”

“You were looking at her.”

“So? I was looking at you, too.”

“Yes, but not like you wanted to lap me up with a spoon.”

Pru reached for her briefcase and, taking a page from his own book, said nothing.

Jacob shook his head. “You should just come right out and tell her.”

“Tell her what? There’s nothing to tell.”

Her face was pure stubbornness, and after a second, Jacob lifted his hands. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Pru left, too, shutting the door just a little too hard behind her.

Jacob shrugged it off and strode back toward his waiting ingredients with the same anticipation he would have had striding toward a woman in his bed.

3

EM, ERIC AND LIZA looked up as Amuse Bouche’s maître d’ came toward them. “We can seat you now,” she said with an easy smile.

Amuse Bouche turned out to be casually elegant and extremely eye pleasing, with slender black urns holding arrangements of a variety of flowers that matched the art deco vibe of the rest of the hotel. The tables were well spaced and gorgeously done, each with its own discreet partition, so that while voices and laughter were audible, there was an illusion of intimacy for each party.

Em could use some privacy to obsess over what she thought of as the E.I.—elevator incident. Not going to happen with Eric and Liza just behind her, side by side and yet ignoring each other—well, if ignoring meant staring and pretending not to be.

Granted, Liza looked amazing in a tiny scrap of a red cocktail dress, which probably accounted for the glazed look on Eric’s face. He didn’t look too shabby in his finery, either, turning the head of more than one woman.

“Here you go,” the maître d’ said and gestured to their table. “Tonight you’ll be experiencing Chef Jacob Hill’s renowned cuisine creations. Enjoy.”

“I’m starving,” Liza said and lifted her menu, which she used as a shield so she could covertly stare at Eric with the unguarded longing she sometimes got in her eyes.

Eric got the same look while pretending to watch the crowd, though really checking out the long length of Liza’s bare, smooth legs.

It drove Em crazy—how could they not see they belonged together? Everyone knew it.

Everyone but them.

Em didn’t look at her menu yet. She was still trying to find her own balance, and while she did, she looked around, too. Each place inside Hush had turned out to be more exciting and different than the last, full of a spirited energy and yet somehow also a Zen-like peace.

Not much of a hotel person herself, this one had won her over. Her room was large by Manhattan standards. Beach inspired, it was done in creamy blues and greens and earth tones, with a mural of the sun rising over the Atlantic on one wall, and a mounted waterfall on the other, giving off the soothing sounds of water running over rocks. Her California king bed had lush, thick bedding she couldn’t have afforded at home, and her bathroom came with a huge sunken hot tub she could happily drown in, with scented candles lining the edges. The towels were Egyptian cotton, and on the counters had been lotions, bath oils, scrubs—a virtual day spa.

There had been more, as well: the TV channels that were exclusive to the hotel and showed an array of erotica, the beautifully illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra and a selection of self-heating lubricating oils in the bedside table. But the coup de grâce…in the tall closet outside the bathroom hung a long, intricately braided leather whip. She’d fingered the thing in amused shock, had even tapped it against her palm.

Ouch.

Em would have called herself sexually adventurous. Okay, maybe not quite, but she was at least sexually game. Now she had to admit, maybe she wasn’t nearly as game as she’d thought.

This hotel had certainly been an eye-opener. A costly one. She thought of her expense account and winced as she stared at the elaborate but somehow elegantly simple, menu of Amuse Bouche. And yet, she reasoned, if coming here got her Chef Jacob Hill, then every penny spent would be worth its weight in gold.

Or so she hoped.

Logically she knew that even if she somehow managed the miracle and convinced him to come to Hollywood to star in his own TV show, it was only half the battle.

She still had a successful show to make.

One crisis at a time.

Liza set down her menu, took one look at Em and nodded. “Alcohol,” she said. “We need some.”

“Not until I talk to him,” Em said, determined, but getting nervous. “I need all my wits about me for that.”

“Honey, with this guy there’s no chance of having your wits at all. The guy’ll charm the pants right off you without trying.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve heard. And then what happened today proves it.”

Em was already regretting that she’d told her friend about the E.I.

Liza waggled her carefully waxed eyebrows. “Personally, I think you should go for it, you could use the cookie.”

“Cookie?”

“Orgasm,” Eric explained, checking into the conversation. “She calls orgasms ‘cookies’. She thinks it’s cute.”

“You used to think it was cute,” Liza sniffed.

Eric’s blue eyes sparkled. “Maybe I still do.”

Liza stared at him, then reached for her water as if parched. Em eyed the door to the kitchen. “What’s the best way to approach him, do you think?”

Liza was still staring at Eric. With what looked like great effort, she tore her gaze from him, her thumb rubbing her ring finger where her wedding band used to be. She turned to Em. “What did Nathan suggest?”

Nathan wanted her to play hardball from the start, offering Jacob standard money, and when he balked, adding small slices of the profits. And when all else failed, she was to resort to hair in the food.

As if she’d ever really do such a thing. “Maybe I could ask the waitress if I could talk to him.”

“Jeez, at these prices, he oughta come with the meal. Maybe sing and dance, too.” Eric tossed down his menu and smiled as the waitress came close. “Excuse me, do you know the chef?”

“Of course.” The waitress smiled back. “Wait until you taste his food, it’s out of this world.”

Liza leaned close to Em. “And according to you, his food isn’t the only thing that tastes out of this world.”

“Stop.” Em felt the blush creep up her face.

The waitress rattled off the specials. “Everything is fabulous. Trust me, you’ll love everything you taste.”

“Including the chef himself,” Liza murmured for Em’s ears only.

“Could we have another minute before deciding?” Em asked the waitress.

“Oh, you bet. Take your time.”

Em waited until it was just them and turned to Liza. “I shouldn’t have told you about the elevator incident. I don’t even know for certain that it was him.”

“Well, it was somebody named Chef. You sure you don’t know why he kissed you?”

“No, he just said ‘do you mind?’ and then he was doing it.”

“And you didn’t think about kneeing him in the ’nads?” Eric asked.

At the first taste of him, Em hadn’t thought at all. In fact, she’d been the one to deepen the connection. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Liza looked at her speculatively. “Must have been some kiss.”

Oh, yeah. “It was…interesting.”

“Interesting? Honey, this menu is interesting. The decor is interesting. But a kiss? A kiss is either hot stuff or not worth the trouble. No in-between.”

Worth the trouble. Times ten. Times infinity.

Eric was studying Liza thoughtfully. “Which was it with us?”

“What?”

“Those two months we were married. Was it hot stuff or not worth the trouble?”

Liza opened her mouth, then closed it.

Eric’s amusement faded, replaced by an unmistakable hurt. “Right.”

The waitress came back and took their orders by memory, and then offered the services of their sommelier, who could come to the table and make wine suggestions if they’d like.

The sommelier turned out to be one of the women in the elevator, though if the tall, elegant, beautiful brunette recognized Em, she gave no indication of it.

When they were alone again, Liza set down her drink and looked at Eric. “It was hot stuff.”

Now it was Eric’s turn to blink in surprise.

Liza seemed just as taken aback and abruptly turned to Em. “If you don’t approach the chef tonight you’ll have to make an appointment,” she babbled. “By all accounts, this guy is media reclusive, and not interested in a career path other than what suits him personally. I bet he wouldn’t easily grant you an interview.”

“I know.” Em had worried about this. She worried about a lot of things. But mostly facing the sexy, gorgeous Jacob Hill now that she knew he lived up to his reputation. “I need to make contact tonight—” She broke off when the waitress came back and set down a plate of appetizers that they hadn’t ordered.

“From the chef,” the woman explained. “Vegetable spring rolls with chili oil and teriyaki mustard sauce. They’re a favorite here.”

Eric looked around at the other tables. They were all filled with people having conversations, sharing food, all enjoying themselves greatly, if the happy buzz in the place meant anything. “Does the chef always give away his food?”

“For his friends, or special guests, yes.”

Liza looked at Em.

So did Eric.

Em laughed nervously. “Uh, thank you.”

“Enjoy.”

“Oh, boy,” Em whispered when she’d left. “Do you think he sees us here?”

“You, you mean,” Liza said. “Does he see you here. Of course he does. He sent the food over.”

Em stared at the appetizers, then looked around her. Waitstaff moved easily and discreetly around the crowded room. No chef in sight.

“Must have been a helluva kiss.” Liza dug into the spring rolls, then moaned. “Oh, my God. Em, you’ve got to taste this.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eric said when he’d popped one in his mouth. “This guy knows his stuff.”

“The man’s a god,” Liza moaned.

“Are you sure all you did was kiss him, Em?” Eric reached for his second. “Because this isn’t a thank-you for a kiss. This is a thank-you for a good fu—”

“Eric.” Liza glared at him.

Eric just popped another appetizer into his mouth.

“Men,” Liza muttered. “Dogs.”

“Woof woof,” he agreed happily.

Em shook her head and tasted a roll herself. It did melt in her mouth, made her stomach rumble happily, and actually brought a helpless smile to her face, just as a movement caught the corner of her eye.

A tall, broad man stood at the back of the restaurant, leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen. Seeming extremely comfortable with both himself and his surroundings, his posture and manner spoke of a quiet, rock-solid confidence.

A confidence she’d experienced firsthand.

Unlike earlier in the elevator, he wore a white chef’s hat and jacket, which only accentuated to his height and well-built body. His staff moved around him like a well-tuned army, most of them taking the time to say something to him, or at least cast him a smile, which he always returned.

“That’s him?” Liza whispered. “Because wow.”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Em felt hot in the cool room, and reached for her water. Even from this distance she felt the weight of his quiet, assessing stare, and wondered what he was thinking.

Then his lips curved oh-so-slightly, and she knew.

He was thinking about the kiss, the one that would have knocked her socks off if she’d been wearing any, the one that had rendered her deaf, dumb and blind.

And made her wet.

Even now, her thighs tightened with the memory, and she squirmed.

And his not-quite-smile went just a bit naughty.

Oh, God. Her glass nearly slipped out of her hand, and she set it down with such awkwardness on the table that water sloshed over the edge.

“Easy,” Liza murmured, putting a hand over hers. Then she smiled at the chef, pointing to the appetizers, and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

Chef smiled and gave a slight nod of his head.

Nope, no trouble in the confidence arena.

“He is pretty yummy,” Liza noted, and Eric craned his neck to check him out.

“Not that yummy,” he said.

Liza laughed and patted Eric’s arm. “Don’t worry. You’re yummy, too.”

“Yeah?” He turned a suddenly extremely interested face toward her. “You still think so, huh?”

Liza shrugged. “You have a mirror.”

He grinned and leaned in close. “If I’m so yummy, why did you let me go?”

They all knew why. Because Liza’s crappy childhood memories of her mother’s eight marriages had made her afraid of commitment.

Eric, who’d grown up without a mother at all, had the same issue. Together, they hadn’t trusted their love enough, and they’d had two collective feet halfway out the door at all times.

Now Liza, more mature in many ways, strove to keep it light and tapped him playfully on the nose. “I let you go because you’re an ass.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m a yummy ass.” Eric grabbed her hand and ran his thumb over her bare ring finger. “Now tell me the truth. Why did you let me go?”

“An ass is an ass, Eric.”

“Right.” Eric nodded, and sat back. “That explains it. Clear as mud, thanks.”

Across the room, the sommelier handed the chef a champagne bottle and gestured to a table. Jacob Hill nodded, then walked over to the couple seated there, where he began conversing with them as he smoothly, easily, opened their champagne for them.

“Just look at him,” Liza murmured. “Do you suppose he makes love to a woman the same way he opens a bottle of champagne? I bet he does.”

Em thought about that and felt her body heat up even more.

The waitress set their dishes on the table, momentarily blocking Em’s view of the other table. By the time she moved away, Jacob Hill was gone.

She didn’t see him again during the scrumptious meal during which the three of them shared two bottles of wine. They turned down dessert and once they’d settled the bill, Liza stood up first and visibly wobbled.

Eric surged up and slid an arm around her. “Whoa there, tiger.”

Liza grinned and set her head on his shoulder. “You’re so pretty.”

Brow raised, Eric looked at Em.

“Three glasses of wine,” Em explained.

“That’s right. I’m a cheap drunk.” Liza grinned, sliding her hand down Eric’s back to pinch his butt.

Eric narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

She waggled her brow. “What did it feel like?”

Eric shook his head. “You are not coming on to me.”

“Okay, I’m not.” She laughed and patted the butt she’d just pinched. “But I am,” she whispered extremely loudly.

“You said you’d rot in hell before you slept with me again,” he said, confused.

“Silly man.” She went to pat his cheek, missed, and nearly poked out his eye. “Never take a PMSing woman seriously.”

“Okay.” Eric caught her hand, saving his other eye, and nodding agreeably as he pulled her close. “I can work with this information.”

“Eric. She’s tipsy,” Em admonished. “You can’t take advantage of a tipsy woman.”

“Sure he can.” Liza bit his throat, eliciting a rough sound from Eric. “Take advantage of me all you want.”

Eric let out another sound, this one of regret. “Em’s right. Knock it off.”

“Fine. I’ll go to my room,” Liza said. “Where I plan to eat everything in the minibar. Did you see that thing? It’s completely stocked with stuff from Dean & Deluca.”

“You just ate,” Eric reminded her.

Liza waggled a finger in his face, this time almost poking it up his nose. “Do you know nothing of women?”

“Apparently not.”

“Just take me to my bed, superhero.”

Eric’s eyes darkened. “I like the super part.”

“Eric,” Em warned softly.

“Right.” He frowned at Liza. “I’ll put you to bed, but that’s all I’m doing.”

“Oooh, playing hard to get.” Liza sighed and again set her head to his chest, staring up at him adoringly. “You’re good at that.”

Eric looked over her head at Em helplessly.

She shook her head.

Eric’s jaw ticked. “I’ll get her to her room. You going to be okay here by yourself?”

“I’ll be safer than you,” Em assured him, watching as he led Liza out of the restaurant.

Alone, Em looked around her and decided if she sat for much longer, she’d just begin obsessing again. Maybe instead, she’d walk around the city for a little bit to clear her head. Make a plan of action that involved more than drooling after the man she needed to talk into saving her sorry butt.

She got as far as standing up and reaching for her purse when a low, husky voice drawled in her ear, “Leaving without dessert is an insult to the chef.”

Her heart kicked once hard, and she turned her head, coming eye to chest with Chef Jacob Hill. At the sight of him, the rest of her kicked. The man exuded a raw sexuality that made her feel her own sexuality in ways she hadn’t in a long time, if ever. “You.”

“Me,” he agreed. “You look beautiful.”

“Oh…thank you.” She tugged at her black cocktail dress, modestly cut, but snug and—she hoped—relatively sexy. “I wasn’t sure of the dress code here—”

“I didn’t mean your clothes.” When he smiled, as he did now with a dash of wicked intent, he flashed a single dimple on his right cheek, and she had the sudden, shocking urge to run a fingertip over the spot.

He hadn’t shaved, and the slight stubble on his jaw was nearly longer than the short hair on his head. She wondered if it would be soft to the touch, then wondered why she wondered.

Because she was losing her mind, that was why.

He was younger than she’d imagined, but there was something about the way he held himself, and the way he took her in, that spoke of a much older soul. His mile-long legs were encased in black trousers instead of his Levi’s, his feet in much cleaner, much newer black boots than the ones he’d had on in the elevator.

Chef Jacob Hill cleaned up real nice.

“Crème brûlée or white peach cobbler?” he asked. “Or maybe a cheese plate with an imported selection of artisanal?”

She slid her hand to her belly, which was jumping nervously. Ask him. Ask him to be your TV chef. She was afraid if she opened her mouth she was going to ask him something else entirely.

Come to my bed.

“I’m full.”

“Are you kidding? You’re never too full for dessert.”

His voice was somehow extremely arousing, which she told herself would be great for the show, and that was why she’d noticed.

Alie.

She’d noticed because she was a woman. A woman who’d felt his voice all the way to her toes. In fact, the tingling effect began deep in her womb and spread, and she squirmed some more.

He noticed. His eyes cut to her body as she wiggled, and then back up to her gaze, something new there besides the curiosity and wry amusement.

Heat. Lots of heat.

Oh, boy. Resisting the urge to fan cool air in front of her hot face, she searched around for something else to lock her gaze on, for something to occupy her mind, because ever since that elevator kiss, nothing else but this man had.

The tables were all hopping with activity, everyone enjoying themselves. Waiters and waitresses moved around, serving with easy charm and personality, all so beautiful Em could have hired any one of them for her show and the cameras would have been thrilled.

One particularly beautiful waitress was serving a table of elderly gentlemen with professionalism, even when the oldest of the bunch reached out and patted her butt.

In return she shook her head and patted the top of his head with a smile. The old man adjusted his toupee and smiled with only a hint of regret.

Oh, good. Everyone had sex on the brain, not just Em. Maybe it was the hotel. She reached for her water and gulped it down.

“You okay?” he asked her, bringing her attention back to him.

As if she could possibly forget he was there.

Not quite sure she trusted herself to speak, she nodded her head. See? See how fine I am? And by the way, will you come with me to Hollywood and save my sorry career?

“Please, sit,” he urged, putting a hand on her arm.

Just like in the elevator, his touch electrified.

“I’d really love to bring you dessert,” he said. He smiled a little. Could he see how he turned her on without even trying? “I owe you.”

“No, that’s okay. Really. I—”

He put a finger on her lips, yet again touching her, and yet again causing her every hormone to stand up and take notice.

“Wait here,” he said in quiet demand.

Wait here, repeated those hormones, and quivered. She nodded, and he gave her another little knowing smile that told her he realized exactly what he did to her. She watched him stride off, tall, sure…confident that she’d wait simply because he’d commanded it to be so.

She didn’t understand it, but he had this unsettling way about him of getting her to do what he wanted.

What was that?

She had no idea, but she waited. But only because she wanted to.

4

HE’D MADE HER SQUIRM, Jacob thought, intrigued. He walked into the restaurant kitchen, grabbed a plate and loaded it himself, intending on sitting with her to watch her eat, and to see if he could make her squirm again because it was damned arousing.

She was arousing, with her wide, expressive eyes, her full lips that she kept licking nervously. Her voice. Her taste. The way she looked at him. As if he was some forbidden treat tempting her to the ends of her restraints.

He moved back into the dining area, which was filled with contented diners, and felt that same surge of fulfillment he got every single night. She was still sitting there, watching him approach with both wariness and something else, something he recognized well. Awareness.

Let the dance begin, he thought, and smiled as he sat. “Try this. Bouche S’mores. House-made marshmallow, fresh graham crackers and imported semisweet chocolate, all melted over an open flame.”

“House-made marshmallow?”

“Yes.” He met her gaze. “We get a lot of requests for marshmallows via room service, melted of course.”

She stared down at the plate, a lovely flush working up her cheeks.

“People are very fond of melted marshmallow,” he said. “Specifically, they’re fond of licking them.”