Dreamveil (9 page)

After a long moment, heavy footsteps moved across the landing and down the stairs. A few seconds later the back kitchen door opened and slammed shut.

He was gone, and she was sliding down the door until she sat on the floor in a muddled, jittery mess. Rowan hugged her legs with her arms and pressed her forehead to her knees, willing herself to calm down. So Meriden was an oversized, bad-tempered jackass; at least she knew that up front. He worked days; she would be working nights. All she needed to do was learn his schedule and avoid him whenever he was coming or going.

Then she’d work on figuring out why it wasn’t terror that was making her shake like this.

He had intended only to see to her wounds and assure himself that she did not need to be taken to the hospital. That much he would swear to. But as soon as he had closed the door, the scent of her enfolded him, sinking into him and going straight to his head.

Dansant had controlled himself until she had uttered those words:
All right, Dansant. Do whatever you want.

Rowan remembered nothing of what had happened next, of course. Later, after he had regained his control, he had taken the memories from her as easily as he had brought her under his influence.

Rowan. Look at me. Look.

Your eyes—something . . . wrong . . .

Her own had widened as she resisted him for a moment, and then her lashes drifted down, framing the faint reflection of shining turquoise from his own.

Now the same longing and hunger besieged him as soon as he breathed in her scent, but while it was as intense as before, he seemed to have a better grip on his self-control now.

Dansant also felt a terrible weight lift from his heart, as if some part of him had been convinced she would be gone before he came here, before he could touch her again. But she had stayed. She must have slept well, too, for her color was better and her eyes brighter, although she still moved with some residual stiffness. Her head turned as she became aware of his presence and she smiled, although that seemed carefully measured as well; just so much of a welcome and no more.

She must feel the same as I
, he thought.
But if she does, she does not wish me to know it any more than I want her to remember what I did to her.
“
Bonsoir
, Rowan.”

“Hey, boss.” She had dressed simply in jeans and a T-shirt, and had tied a blue bandanna around her dark curls.

She appeared younger tonight, barely more than an adolescent, which helped steady him. Compared to him she was a child, one who needed a friend more than a lover. He would keep reminding himself of that. “You look as if you slept well.”

“I did,” she agreed.

Last night he had not wasted time with polite inquiries or any sort of finesse. As soon as Rowan’s defenses had fallen he had stood and placed his hands on either side of her face. She smiled blindly up at him, her lips parted, her soft skin warm against his palms.

He had watched her eyes as he slid his fingers into her hair, angling her face so that the overhead lights bathed every inch of her. She was a midnight jewel, this girl, alabaster moon-skinned and onyx star-eyed.

Her mouth, soft and gentle and unguarded, had drawn him down. As their lips met, her breath whispered out of her, a silent sigh that he covered and drank in.

“Ready to put me to work?”

Her voice brought him back to the present. Glad to have something to do other than remember what he had done to her, Dansant took a white bib apron from the stacks shelved above the sink and gave it to her.

“I will show you the setup of the kitchen, the stations, and how we do things before the others arrive,” he told her. “We begin preparations at seven and seat at nine.”

“What’s the seventy-seven for?” she asked as she tied on the apron, looking down at the small embroidered patch on the left side of the bib.

“It is the restaurant’s logo,” he told her. “The street number for our building is seventy-seven.”

“To remind people where you are. Smart. You could have called the restaurant 77, too. Everyone remembers digi-named places, like 17 Murray, or 2 West at the Ritz-Carlton.”

He thought of the true meaning of the number. “I prefer D’Anges.”

“For a French restaurant, that doesn’t hurt, either.” She smoothed down the tapered pockets below the waist ties.

He watched her hands as he recalled the taste of her. Her mouth had been especially luscious, rich and sweet, like brandied pears. His first taste of her had led to a second, and a third, and then to an endless, mindless kiss that tore into him, deep and savage as a jagged blade.

“Dansant?” When he looked at her, she asked, “Why do you seat so late?”

Late? Last night he had lifted her from the crate and held her against him, all his to do with as he pleased. Now he had to chat with her as if none of it had happened. “We seat late to, ah, discourage the before-timers.”

“Sorry?”

He’d been so wrapped up in his recollections that he’d forgotten the term in English. “It is like capons. No, not them.” Just when he thought he could speak her language well enough, he stumbled over something like this. “Older people who arrive at opening and expect special pricing.”

Her smile flashed. “Early birds.”

“Oui.”
He turned his head so he wouldn’t stare at her mouth.

Last night he had been intent on that, hers and his. In the thrall of pleasure he had forgotten that he had brought her inside to care for her, but it had never been like that for him. He had come to this country and lived this life not of his choosing because there had been nothing left of him or for him. That he woke every night and found he was still alive, still able to live, seemed a miracle each time he opened his eyes.

After learning what had happened to him in France, he had never dared dream of more.

Now this woman had crashed into his life, and she was looking at him with no knowledge or understanding of what he was, or what he would never again be.

“No early birds,” she said. “Check.”

He had to move away from her, so strong was the compulsion to touch her. He had to get on with it, this charade of employing her.

“The work begins here,” Dansant told her as he led her out to the back entry door. “Everything we do in the kitchen is by design—
la marche en avant
.”

Rowan frowned. “We’re moving backward out of the kitchen, not forward.”

She had managed to surprise him again. “You understand French?”

“I can read it, not speak it.” She sounded defensive now.

“I’ve . . . worked in a couple restaurants, and picked up some stuff from books, mostly kitchen and cooking terms. It sure doesn’t sound the same as it looks on paper.”

“But you have a natural ear for it, I think.” Dansant decided to test her. “I will say the French for each place in the kitchen, and you will tell me what it is in English and what you know of it.” He gestured at the door.
“Entrée, réception des matières.”

“Entrance and receiving,” she translated. “Where everything comes through and is delivered.”

He nodded and moved to the right into the main storage room.
“Stockage à sec.”

“Dry storage, where you put the dry goods.” She made a face. “I cheated. I looked at the shelves and guessed.”

From there he introduced her to the three
chambres froids
used to store meat, frozen goods, and fruits and vegetables; the
légumerie
where the vegetables were washed; and the
plonge
sinks and equipment on the opposite side of the section for cleaning pots and dishes. She correctly identified each one and even began echoing the words he said in French under her breath.

It pleased him that she wanted to improve her understanding of his language. Years of living in New York had taught him that few Americans were willing to make such an effort.

“Why is everything sectioned off this way?” Rowan asked after he had brought her back into the front of the kitchen. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do all the prep work in one area, have the storage units together?”

“Using
la marche en avant
, the staff assure that work is done in the correct order,” he explained, “with no clean foods coming near the unclean things like garbage and soiled dishes.”

Her expression cleared. “Okay. So everything moves clockwise until it’s plated and ready to be served: delivery, initial prep, storage, hot and cold prep, plating, then service.” She waited until he nodded. “Trash and bus bins are brought through the side door and go down that way to the sinks and the compactor, away from the food.”

He smiled at how quickly she comprehended what had taken the French three hundred years to perfect. “You must have worked at many restaurants.”

“To be honest, only a bakery shop—Emmanuel’s Pâtisserie,” she amended. “We had a couple of tables out in front for coffee, cakes, sandwiches, that kind of thing. Manny ran his kitchen the same way you do.”

“Then he was French, or taught by a Frenchman.” Dansant escorted her to the center
cuisine
island, where the bulk of the cooking was done, and explained the layout of the equipment. “Here we have cooktops and stoves on this side, rotisseries and broilers on the other. The
brigade de cuisine
work mainly here, but the
garde-manger
,
rôtisseur
,
saucier
, and
pâtissier
all have their own
mise en place
at their stations where they ready the food for final cooking. When the orders begin they will go through their provisions quickly and call for what they need from cold or dry storage. That is when you will collect it for them, and perhaps assist or plate for them.”

“Sounds good.”

“Later, after we have our family meal, you will help clean and sanitize the kitchen surfaces.” He saw her palm as she tucked back a curl that had strayed from the edge of her bandanna, and caught her wrist without thinking. “What is this?”

“It’s a hand.” She sounded puzzled. “I come equipped with two of them.”

So she did. Last night both of her palms had been grazed, but not deeply enough to mar her fair skin. Now he saw no trace of them.

“They weren’t as scratched up as I thought,” she said quickly, as if she had read his thoughts. “It was mostly blood from my knees. I must have grabbed them right after I crashed.”

She was lying now. “How are your knees?”

“Sore.” She checked the chunky watch she wore, deftly removing her hand from his in the process. “Who takes care of cleaning up the restaurant tables and stuff out front?”

“The front of the house,” he corrected. “A cleaning crew comes two days each week. The waiters and service manager see to the rest before they finish their shift.”

“So all we have to worry about is keeping the kitchen clean.”

“Everyone tends to their own stations. The rest we do together.” He regarded her steadily, trying to see what else he had missed last night. She had the unmarked, translucent skin of a child, and he saw no lines or other indications of her age. “How old are you, Rowan?”

“Twenty-one. Completely legal.” She didn’t like him asking. “What, you want to see my ID?”

Dansant wondered if it would be genuine. He had not intruded on her mind last night more than was absolutely necessary—he had violated her enough by holding and kissing her—but certainly she was young. Perhaps she spoke the truth, and was nothing more than what she appeared, but now doubt brought with it one possible explanation for what had compelled him to touch her. “Where is your family?”

“I told you last night, I don’t have any.”

He had to be sure. “No parents, brothers, sisters?”

“None.” Her tone grew bitter. “I was abandoned at birth, and raised in foster care. No one has ever claimed me as their daughter or sister or third cousin twice removed, but then, they probably would have gone to jail for child abandonment if they had.” She turned away from him.

Dansant felt like an ogre for pressing her, but from the scant details she had given him he would have to know more. Silently he decided to have Meriden perform a discreet background check on his newest employee as soon as possible. “I did not ask to be rude, Rowan.
Je suis désolé
.” His staff would soon be arriving, and he had yet to post the menu for the night. “How is your handwriting?”

“Readable, but nothing fancy.”

“Then it is a thousand times better than mine.” He took down the big blackboard and handed her a piece of chalk. “We offer a small menu each night, five
plats principals
with
hors d’oeuvres
and desserts that suit them. We list the main courses on the board in French and English.”