A Gentleman in the Street (38 page)

She eyed him, trying to draw the tattered remnants of her cool around her. “I came here because I thought you might be reasonable. All I want to do is work out some sort of payment plan. I have savings. I can loan that to Ron, and he can repay his debt. If, in return, you agree to not press criminal charges.”

“He
stole
from me. I can’t abide thieves. And fifty thousand dollars is hardly chump change.”

Oh. My. God. Neither Caitlin nor Ron had gone into the details, beyond saying thousands. Perhaps naively, Tatiana had assumed they had meant, at the most, ten thousand. Ron was a blackjack dealer who would be hard-pressed to find any kind of job if word of this got out. Caitlin stayed at home with the baby. How could he have ever thought he could replace this kind of money? Did he honestly think no one would notice it?

Anger at her brother overwhelmed her, but she tried to focus. She’d rip the kid a new one later.

She looked Wyatt in the eye and reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed against those damn letters, but she dug past them to her checkbook. “Fine.” She pulled it out, slid her pen free, and looked up at him. “Give me the exact amount, and we’ll make this right.”

Oh, she loved the way he eyed her in that superior way. He named a figure, obviously expecting to call her bluff.

She briskly filled in the blanks, trying not to think of the fact that she’d never put so many zeros on a check. Years of living the life of a starving artist, unwilling to take a dime from her parents after she’d bucked them and left college, had made her appreciate her success when she had achieved it. She’d saved like a squirrel hiding nuts for a cold, hard winter.

Wintertime was here, she supposed. Family above all. Plus she would get it back, if slowly, from Ron. It was worth it to save her stupid, loveable brother from prison. She made a mental note to transfer the necessary funds from her savings account that evening.

Wyatt watched her tear the check off and lay it on the coffee table. “You don’t have that kind of money.”

She capped the pen, tucking it back into her checkbook. “What makes you say that?”

“Your dress and shoes. If they even came from a department store instead of a supercenter, I’d be surprised.” His gaze dipped to her neck. “The gold in your necklace is real, I’ll grant you, but it’s hardly a liquid asset you can tap into.”

“Since when did you get so good at women’s fashion?” He
was
good, too. She’d bought her dress and shoes at Target. On clearance.

Oh she loved shopping. But not for boring, conservative clothes like these. Floaty fabrics, slinky dresses, impractical shoes, unnecessary accessories. If she splurged, those were her weaknesses.

“Since my job consists of assessing the depth of my opponent’s pockets.”

“Is that how you see everyone playing downstairs? Your opponents?”

“They’re betting against the house, aren’t they? I
am
the house. And I always win.”

“Well, you’re wrong this time. The fact that I’m not wearing expensive clothes right now doesn’t mean I don’t have money.” She hooked the necklace in her finger and lifted it. “This
is
real. Wearable, precious art. And people pay dearly for my creations, Caine.”

His black eyes glinted with an avaricious gleam as he studied the necklace, as if he was cataloging its weight and price tag. “You’re talented.”

The small compliment smoothed some of her ruffled feathers. “I know.” She allowed the necklace to drop, to lay against her breasts. “I may not be as wealthy as you, but I’ve been as successful in my field as you’ve been in yours.”

His lashes dipped. “Apparently.”

She placed her fingers on the check and slid it across the table. “So I can afford to pay back my brother’s debt. I’ll speak with Ron. There’s no need to bring legal pressure against him.”

“This feels like hush money.”

“It’s not. It’s restitution.”

“And if I don’t take it? What then?”

She met his gaze evenly. “Then maybe I do beg prettily a little.”

He stilled. She didn’t know how long they were locked in a staring contest. Frankly, she didn’t care. Part of her, a frighteningly large part of her, was enjoying it too much.

She’d handed him everything, all the power, and he knew it. She could pull out those letters she had as well. Remind him of the things he’d said to her, in his own words. Really strip them both bare.

Wyatt leaned back on the sofa. “What if I said I would promise not to press charges against your brother…” he spread his legs slightly, putting his palms on his powerful thighs, “…if you spent a night in my bed?”

Read more from
Play With Me
, Book One of the Bedroom Games Series!

Glutton for Pleasure

Chapter One

Thick, firm and curved just right, the shiny red skin stretched taut over hot seed and juice. Devi Malik squeezed the turgid flesh.
Perfect
.

The kitchen door burst open. “He’s back!”

“That’s nice.” Devi tossed the whole red chili pepper into the pan of sizzling shrimp and vegetables. She’d need to put in a larger order of the little buggers next week. When had spicy become the new black?

“You’re not even listening to me.”

Accustomed to her eldest sister’s dramatics, she took her time to stir the pepper evenly into the entrée before looking up. Rana stood in front of the commercial range, one fist propped on a curvy hip and a Cheshire-cat smile on her beautiful face. The Saturday dinner crowd would be piling in soon, and Devi needed to get in her groove, but long experience told her she wouldn’t get any peace until Rana vented whatever news she carried. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“He’s back. Mr. Tuesday Special.”

Devi’s hand jerked and hot oil splashed the inside of her wrist. “Damn it!” She dropped the spatula, yanked on the cold water at the faucet next to the stove and thrust her hand under the stream.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

The icy water brought the painful throb down to a bearable sting. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“You should be more careful. If I’d known the news would startle you that much, I would have warned you.”

Devi cast a sharp glance at Rana’s face. For just a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of shrewd cunning in her sister’s eyes, but it vanished into simple concern. She withdrew her hand from under the water and dried it with studied casualness on the towel tucked into the front of her apron. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a flourish, Rana placed her orders on the board and lowered her voice to a whisper. Devi didn’t know why she bothered. They were alone but for the two other chefs hard at work at the opposite end of the kitchen. “Jace is here.”

Jace Callahan. Middle initial R. She knew that because she had gotten tired of Rana’s silly nickname for the man and looked up his credit card receipt one night. Talk about stupid and pathetic.

In the face of her silence, Rana huffed an impatient breath. “Tall, dark and delicious? I know, I’m surprised too. He’s not usually here on Saturdays.”

Devi opened her mouth to deliver a blithe reply but the steam in front of her caught her attention. “Oh crap.” She turned off the burner and fanned at the smoke. “Look what you made me do. You know the Jacobs send their plates back if everything isn’t perfect.”

Rana barely spared a glance at the pan. “It still looks fine to me.”

“Shrimp isn’t like other meat. It’s not something you can overcook and have it still taste the same.”
A distraction, please God
. Her mind raced. There was no way she could discuss her secret crush with either of her sisters—they could read her like a book.

She speared a shrimp, stuck it into her mouth and grimaced. Too chewy. She took too much pride in her craft to serve customers of The Palace chewy shrimp. Devi grabbed the pan and scraped the rest of the dish into a plate. She didn’t believe in waste, so it would be her dinner later. The Jacobs would have to wait a little longer. Devi turned to the small dark woman at the far end of the room and raised her voice. “Asha, can you take the incoming? Redo table six. My sister,” she continued, lowering her tone so only Rana would hear, “won’t let me do my job. Don’t you have customers to wait on?”

“All my tables are covered. Leena’s gone for the night, and I need to get some paperwork done for her. And guess what? You’re covering one of the tables for me.”

No, no, no. Of course Rana hadn’t brought up Jace for kicks and giggles. Devi’s stomach sank under the suspicion of where her sister was going with this. “The Jacobs?” she stalled, and tried to look mildly curious. “You’re right, they are so difficult, let me handle them.”

Rana shook her head. “Jace said he wanted to meet his chef. So you need to serve him tonight.”

In their small, family-owned restaurant, it wasn’t unusual for the regulars to meet the chef. Hell, sometimes she even ended up waiting tables while she mingled if they were short on staff. How could she hand her secret object of lust his dinner, stand close enough to touch him and act as if he were just any other customer? She needed time to think about this, needed time to work this out. “Ummm…”

“Awesome, table eight.”

Time up. “
Wait.
”

Rana turned with one hand on the door.

Damn it. “What’s the order?”

Rana beamed. “Jace gave me the cutest little smile and asked if we could give him his usual even though it was Saturday. How could I say no?”

How, indeed. Though orders off menu always created a hassle for her, she couldn’t blame her sister. If it had been her, she probably would have offered to feed him whatever he wanted by hand. Naked. Or by any other body part he preferred. Naked.

Rana sighed, as if reading her mind. “Aren’t those black Irish types perfect? Brooding and charming, without even trying.”

“I don’t care how brooding he is. I’m just handing him his dinner.”

Rana rolled her eyes. “Jeez, I’m kidding. Though it wouldn’t kill you to flirt a bit. I swear, getting you a love life is a full-time job.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Lately Rana had been hinting, in her usual heavy-handed manner, that Devi needed to get out more. Ironic, really, since her overprotective big sisters had a well-known history of finding massive faults with the men she did finally bring home.

“Just be nice to him. I’m not telling you to strip naked. You save that for a date you’re not cooking.”

She wished.

“Oh, and by the way, he’s got a guest. Double the order.”

A guest? What? He always ate alone. Jealousy fired through her veins. After all, it was a Saturday night. He probably had a date.

It could be his mother, his friend, anyone.

Or a date.

Rana had already left and it wasn’t like she could ask, anyway, without launching the Spanish Inquisition. She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out onions. The specials were hers and hers alone, one for every day of the week, some of her favorite meals. When one was ordered, she did all of the prep and the cooking. The customers didn’t know how small the kitchen was—they got a kick out of ordering something
prepared exclusively by the head chef
, as her middle sister and the restaurant’s manager, Leena, had written on the menu.

Devi minced the garlic and ginger in a bowl of ice water to put aside while the onion turned transparent in the oil. Naturally, she had noticed when table eight had ordered her special twist on a thick lamb curry, her personal favorite, four weeks in a row. Noticing turned to curiosity when Rana had gushed over his attractiveness, tipping habits and overall perfection. One peep outside the little window turned her curiosity into full-blown lust. How could she have not snuck outside the kitchen to get a better look?

She added fresh tomato paste, yogurt and her secret spices to the onion and left it to simmer while she cut up chunks of lamb and dropped it in a separate pan.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried his arrogant good looks well—short dark hair, eyes the color of melted chocolate framed by thick lashes and a face that could have been chiseled by a master sculptor. He wore expensive suits, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself, thanks to all of the office buildings surrounding their restaurant in downtown Lewiston. Unlike the rest of the after-work crowd, though, he didn’t look at all tired or rumpled from the day’s work or the Florida summer heat. Oh, and his butt always looked awesome. Devi made sure she caught at least one glimpse of the spectacular view during each visit.

His solitary status also set him apart and gave her foolish heart another tug. Sure, people ate by themselves, but when he did it, he appeared incomplete. Not sad or lonely, but alone. All the same, he shrugged off any of the feminine attention he received, even Rana’s teasing. Men made giant fools of themselves over Rana when she scowled at them—no one resisted her once she entered flirtatious mode. Jace seemed immune to her sister’s charms though, focusing on his meal, and later, on the music and entertainment they provided.

Devi poured the curry and the ginger-garlic infusion over the now-golden lamb and tossed in diced potatoes. She left it to simmer while she plated two steaming bowls of white rice and pulled hot loaves of
naan
from the oven, automatically doubling their usual portion for two. After his first couple of visits, Devi had taken to sneaking a few extra pieces of the leavened bread into the cloth-covered basket. Jace always polished it off, using it until the end to soak up any remaining sauce on his plate. The chef within her appreciated his enjoyment of her food—he ate her favorite dish with a delicacy and tidiness at odds in such a big man.

As a woman, she loved the way his mouth looked closing over the bread.

She shivered, poured the curry into two earthenware bowls and added a garnish of cilantro to each. With a deep breath, she stood in front of the swinging doors, the large tray balanced on her hand.

No big deal. You’re not an agoraphobic, you’ve served people before. Hand him his meal, wish him a good dinner. Nice and professional. And maybe even mildly flirtatious.
She could use the practice, futile as it may be. She couldn’t remember the last time she had batted her eyes at a man. No wait, she had never batted her eyes at a man. Maybe she should ask Rana for eyelash-batting lessons before she met Jace.