So Irresistible (2 page)

In a sense, the whole horrible snowball of events was all Gabriella’s fault. At least it felt that way to her.

But still . . .
hallucinations
? It was either that, or her parents really had just given her the slip. Inexplicably. They definitely weren’t anywhere in sight anymore.

Ordinarily, Gabriella was much tougher than this. The pressure must be getting to her. If she didn’t let off some steam soon . . .

“Hey, Gabriella!” The mushroom guy held up his hand. “How’s it going? Are you guys planning to reopen Reggio soon? It’s the pizzeria closest to my house. I hate seeing it shuttered.”

“Me, too.” The Grimanis owned six pizzerias throughout Portland. All were named after cities the Grimani family had once lived in in Italy. Reggio, Abruzzo, Tropea, Salerno, and Benevento were temporarily closed, thanks to the expenses her father had incurred while trying to fight the takeover. Now, only Campania remained to carry on the family tradition. “If everything goes according to plan, I’ll have the other pizzerias up and running soon.” She eyed the mushroom vendor, belatedly recognizing him. “If you have any leads on kitchen staff looking for work, send them my way. Staffing’s been a beast.”

“Yeah. I heard you’ve been having problems since you came back.” Idly, he rearranged a basket of chanterelles. “It’s not that surprising. Nobody wants to work for a bad house.”

“Campania isn’t bad!” Gabriella was shocked he would say so. Especially to her. “
None
of our pizzerias are—”

“Ever going to reopen?”

“—bad.” Surprised by his hostility, Gabriella regrouped. Obviously, she’d missed something here. He’d sounded friendly enough at first, but she’d been distracted. Evidently, she’d misinterpreted him. “As soon as I get my feet under me—”

“You’ll run away to Astoria again?”

His bitter tone made Gabriella frown. Her split from the Grimanis’ pizzeria business was pretty well known around town. Especially in foodservice circles. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be attacked this way. She had an urge to hit back—say, with a snarky comment about his foraged mushrooms—but decided not to. Being defensive and combative wouldn’t help. She needed to be smart. So she squared her shoulders and faced this situation the same way she did everything else in life.

Straightforwardly.

“Exactly what is your problem with me?”

He seemed taken aback. “Wow. Hostile, much?”

Argh
. She hated it when people got passive-aggressive. It didn’t solve anything. “Quit taking shots at me and explain yourself. Otherwise nothing will ever get sorted out.”

“Hmmph. I can’t imagine why
you
have staffing issues.”

“Sarcasm isn’t helpful, either.”

“Geez.” He pulled a goofy face. “Settle down, will ya?”

“I’m not the one who picked a fight.” She crossed her arms and waited. “I don’t need to settle down. You need to explain.”

“I was just
saying
.” The mushroom vendor glanced around at the other farmers market visitors as though beseeching them to come to his rescue. “You don’t have to get all bent.”

With effort, Gabriella held on to her patience. She didn’t understand why people went through all these gyrations, when they could just as easily speak their minds. Deliberately, she softened her voice. “You’re right. I can be blunt. Big deal.” She smiled at him. “At least you know where you stand with me.”

That seemed to get through to him. The mushroom vendor inhaled deeply. He gave her a sheepish look, then said, “My brother worked at Reggio. He lost his job when it closed.”

Aha
. “Then you weren’t asking about reopening Reggio because you have a die-hard craving for a sausage pie.”

“No. I saw you, and I got pissed.” He cast her an aggrieved glance. “I didn’t expect you to go all ‘Terminator’ on me.”

Gabriella broadened her grin. “We don’t know each other very well. My default mode is Terminator.”

He nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard. But you look so—”

Illustratively, he gestured at her and her typical uniform: boy-cut jeans, clingy rose-colored T-shirt, several necklaces, and just enough smoky eyeliner to make her feel edgy. Just because she was a ghostly pale restaurateur who got more heat from the kitchen salamander than she did from the sun didn’t mean she couldn’t roll her own glam-rock-boho personal style.

“So like a quirky best friend straight out of a romcom movie? Yeah. I get that a lot.” Gabriella ruffled her close-cropped dark hair. “It’s the haircut. It’s misleadingly twee.”

The mushroom vendor nodded. “Usually, the toughest person at the farmers market isn’t wearing lip gloss and pink high-tops,” he pointed out, “while standing six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than me. But
you’re
pretty tough.”

“I make up with willpower what I lack in muscle power.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t want to get between you and a goal, that’s for sure. The look on your face a minute ago . . .” He shuddered, then pantomimed wiping his brow. “I feel lucky to have escaped with my portobellos intact just now.”

“I like your portobellos. I wish I could use them at Campania.” Feeling suddenly stricken, Gabriella touched his forearm. “I’m sorry about your brother. I know my dad didn’t want to let anyone go. If there’s
any
way I can help—”

“Well . . . I can try sending him to Campania.
If
he’ll go.”

“
If?
Why wouldn’t he, if he wants a job?”

The thought of people being out of work, even temporarily or tangentially because of her spat with her dad, left Gabriella feeling awful. She wanted to help if she could.

The mushroom vendor looked away. He cleared his throat. “Nobody wants to work for you. Not now. Not when all the other Grimani pizzerias are already closed. You’re on death watch.”

Ugh
. Hearing it made Gabriella feel worse than ever.

“You know how it is,” he went on semiapologetically. “This town is full of solid restaurants. It’s a kitchen worker’s paradise. Easy in, easy out. My brother
does
have another job now. He likes it okay. Not as much as he liked working for Mr. Grimani, but well enough.” He cast her a pitying glance. “You’ve been around, Gabriella. You know as well as I do that the only people who’d be willing to work in a dying house like yours—”

“Whoa.” Gabriella held up her hands. “Too much honesty.”

“—are down-and-outs. Shoemakers just looking for a quick buck.”

“That explains a lot about my current staff. I’ve hired some real questionable types lately, just to get pies in the oven and on the tables.” Determinedly, Gabriella rallied. “But that’s temporary. That’s why I’m looking for more workers.”

He nodded, silently acknowledging her request for help.

“Once I’ve gotten Campania back on its feet,” she went on, “I’ll reopen the other pizzerias. So if your brother wants a job later,
after
I’ve saved the day, tell him to come see me.”

“You sound pretty confident. Or crazy.”

Gabriella shrugged. She was used to hearing herself described that way. It had been happening ever since she’d started up her first lemonade stand at the age of eight—and kicked ass on the other neighborhood kids with her special top-secret recipe . . . and her earnings. “Maybe I’m a little of both.”

“Speaking of crazy”—the mushroom vendor looked around—“when you got here, were you
chasing
somebody? Because I thought I saw—”

“I was chasing some
thing
,” Gabriella interrupted before he could make her seem even crazier.
I was chasing redemption. And a chance to rebuild my family, too
. Not that she intended to share anything as sappy-sounding as that. “But it got away.”

Catching her unintentionally wistful tone, the mushroom vendor gave her an empathetic look. “Better luck next time?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Gabriella picked out a packet of dried wild mushrooms. Then she added four more to her pile. “That’s the thing about us crazy types. We just keep coming till we win.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I have the feeling you might make it.” Amid the bustling market, he accepted her money, then dished out some change. “Sorry about what I said before. I saw you and I just . . . lost my mind for a second. I didn’t mean it.”

“Mmm.” Unbothered, Gabriella wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s okay. I have that effect on people sometimes.”

Then she tucked her dried mushrooms in her messenger bag, offered the vendor a nod, and headed on her way . . . off to save the pizzeria she’d accidentally imperiled with her own stupid stubbornness and inadvertent inattentiveness. Gabriella knew she could do it. From kickball games to projects at PSU, she’d always had a knack for assembling a team and then leading that team to victory, no matter what the odds were.

Sure, the stakes were high. But they were nothing she couldn’t handle, Gabriella assured herself as she wended her way back to her bike and pedaled away from the farmers market. All she had to do was follow the rules, stick to the chain of command, and remember to keep tradition in the forefront. Because when crunch time came, rules inevitably triumphed over chaos, authority always prevailed, and tradition trumped everything else.

As long as she remembered those principles and made them work, Gabriella knew she could win. Definitely.

She hoped.

Well, if all else failed, at least she had a plan....

“They won’t even know what hit ’em,” Lizzy Trent announced as she sailed into Shane’s high-rise apartment. Moving with her usual air of purposefulness, she plunked a pile of shopping bags from Pioneer Place mall on Shane’s plush new sofa. “We’re almost set here. By the time you’re through in Portland, the Grimanis will be begging you to take their pizzerias off their hands.”

“Mmm. Probably.” Dispassionately, Shane turned his gaze back to the rapidly darkening view outside his windows. Beyond them, the sylvan hillsides of Forest Park rose into the cloudy evening sky, turning an ever deepening shade of green as the sun called it quits for the day. With effort, he transferred his attention back to his assistant. “Have you ever been hiking?”

“Hiking?”

He nodded. “Walking around outdoors. In the woods. With a campfire and s’mores at the end of it.”

“
I
know what hiking is. I didn’t think you did.” Setting aside her purse and keys, Lizzy gave him a concerned look. “Are you all right? The Walthams don’t ‘do’ outdoorsy, remember?”

“I’m not a real Waltham,” Shane reminded her.

“You’re ‘real’ enough to have a trust fund—”

“Which I don’t spend.”

“—and apartments in Paris, Tokyo, and London—”

“Which I only use for work.”

“—and connections all over the world—”

“Not
all
of those came from the Walthams.” Shane tossed her a disgruntled look. “They didn’t adopt me until I was fifteen, remember?” When Shane had first come “home,” his adoptive father had introduced him to his new stepsiblings
and
to twenty-five-year-old Highland single-malt whisky, all in the same day. It had been a “celebration” meant to commemorate Shane’s move from a grungy foster home to the mansion. In retrospect, it should have been his first warning sign. “I have friends of my own.”

“Right.” Playfully, Lizzy tossed her wavy brown hair. Her shaggy layers only partially hid the way she rolled her big blue eyes at him. “Friends, financial perks, and a facile grasp of cynicism—the inestimable advantages of prep school. I forgot.”

“The advantages of
living
,” Shane disagreed. He hadn’t gotten any of those things the easy way. He’d paid for all the “advantages” he’d garnered . . . one way or another. “
And
the advantages of years’ worth of troublemaking.” He couldn’t help grinning. “Not all my friends are the reputable kind.”

“You and your knack for finding fellow miscreants.” His assistant stepped away. “I guess that’s what happens when you get tossed out of numerous prep schools. Both here
and
abroad.”

“Yeah. Fun times. Academic faculty members get so bent about little things like selling exam answers or dating the dean’s daughters.” It wasn’t Shane’s fault he hadn’t been able to choose between the two girls. “Both here
and
abroad.”

“Right. So . . . remind me why we’re taking this trip down memory lane?” Unaffected by his mercurial mood, Lizzy began pulling out items from her shopping bags. Throw pillows. Framed photos. Candles and knickknacks and a pair of umbrellas. She’d been setting up Shane’s home base for this job with her usual competence and meticulousness. Clearly, these were the finishing touches, since D-day was tomorrow. “Are you testing my prep? Because I can promise you, when I’m on the job, not a thing goes down that I don’t notice
and
remember. That’s why you hired me.”

“I hired you because you made me.”

Lizzy shrugged, then removed some hardcover books from a Powell’s Books bag. “What’s a little blackmail between friends?” She started shelving. “Things worked out okay for both of us.”

They were more than okay. Shane knew it. Without Lizzy, he’d have been even more alone in the world than he already was.

He trusted Lizzy. He relied on her. Once, he’d also tried to charm her. He was glad that mistake was behind them both.

Shane felt her patient gaze return to him and knew she was still waiting for an answer. She’d wait forever if necessary.

Remind me why we’re taking this trip down memory lane
?

He refused to admit the real reason—that being softened up by free “regular’s” coffee, Aussie Bill’s advice, and a daylong bout of smiling at strangers had left Shane feeling weird and regretful and susceptible to sentiment in a way he never was.

Screw those things. They had no place in his life.

Instead, stubbornly, Shane asked, “Do you like it here?”

Hands on her hips, Lizzie gazed at him curiously. “It’s okay.”

“You don’t think it’s . . . weird here in Portland?”

“Sure, it’s weird. You’ve never heard that saying they have? ‘Keep Portland weird’? They’re unique and proud of it.”

“But it hasn’t . . . affected you? Being here?”

With a frown, Lizzy headed straight for him. She put her hand on his forehead. “You don’t
feel
feverish.” Her astute gaze probed his expression, undoubtedly seeing the confusion he felt. She glanced at the bound dossier he’d left untouched on his lap. “What’s wrong? Usually you’d be champing at the bit to get started. This is a big job. Your father is counting on you.”

At that, Shane gave a derisive chuckle. “I can’t believe he actually said it.” He mimicked his father’s aristocratic tone. “‘I’m counting on you, Shane.’” He clenched his jaw and added an arrogant chin jut for authenticity’s sake. Gregory Waltham was nothing if not self-important. “‘I need your skills for this one. I need
you
.’”

Lizzy nodded in acknowledgment. But Shane shook his head, still feeling dumbfounded by that phone conversation.

Until now, his father had never even acknowledged Shane’s reputation as a fixer, much less sought out his help. This time, though, his father’s “usual troubleshooters” had failed him. Now he needed Shane to save the day. He needed Shane to set up some Podunk family pizzeria for an easy takeover, so that the international company his father was on the board of could get a toe in—so they could enact some “faux-thentic” pizzeria scheme.

In the same way a major coffee chain had recently done with its deliberately
unbranded
, under-the-radar new “indie-style” coffeehouses, Gregory Waltham’s company planned to outwit the competition. Not by going toe-to-toe with them as the behemoth global chain it was, but by pretending to be independent sites with better wares, more sophisticated menus, more creative atmospheres, and (depending on the locale) higher prices than their familiar franchised pizzerias. The company planned a major trial phase before going wide with the concept. If Shane did his job right, Portland was destined to be its proving ground.

In Portland, the company had identified an ideal target: the Grimanis’ family pizzerias. They were popular, perfectly located, and—most importantly—came equipped with longtime loyal customers who could serve as unwitting concept testers. Freed of the need to start from scratch, the company planned to go incognito and dominate both sides of the market: high and low.

It wasn’t enough to be the McDonald’s of pizza anymore. To succeed, the company had to capture broad markets and indie ones. It had to be both commercial and alternative, cookie-cutter and original. It had to be like the pizzerias in the Grimanis’ small, homespun chain, but on a much broader scale.

The end result, if successful, would be a collection of international “artisanal” pizzerias, complete with flour-dusted “independent” chef’s coats and authentic “hometown” flair . . . every ounce of it coerced, faked, or outright stolen. The new pizzerias would
look
like indie outlets, but they’d sneakily take advantage of their parent company’s cost-cutting labor practices, homogenized service models, and prefab food items.

Despite the idea’s franchise-honed, PowerPoint mediocrity, Shane figured it had potential. In fact, he was surprised more companies hadn’t tried it. Why work to reinvent the wheel if you could just take some other guy’s wheel? People didn’t really want an authentic experience. They wanted a
good
experience, whether they were having pizza, beer, or sex. If you were enjoying what you had, who cared how real it was?

It was
real
for as long as it lasted. That was enough.

At least for Shane, it always had been.

The trouble with Portland was, the “fixer” who’d been on the job before Shane had behaved like an amateur. He’d pushed the buyout offer too aggressively, causing the Grimanis to panic. Then, to overreact. They’d defended their pizzerias by overspending on advertising, offering loss-leader Internet coupon deals, changing their menus willy-nilly, and even turning over staff haphazardly. Because of the money lost in those misguided efforts, several of the Grimanis’ pizzerias were now shuttered (compromising their value when they eventually reopened), and a number of their employees had lost their jobs (affecting their future morale and productivity).

It was a mess, plain and simple. As far as Shane could discern, the only advantage to this botched job was that a few weeks had passed. By now, the Grimanis’ initial wariness would have died down. When
Shane
got close to them, he figured they’d be eager for the workable solution he planned to offer.

For once (in this scenario at least), Shane would seem like the guy in the white hat. That was novel. But at least
he
did things cleanly. That was better than the alternative. Better than letting a pizza-throwing David keep struggling against a corporate Goliath.

“Well, Mr. Waltham
did
say that to you,” Lizzy reminded Shane, sucking him back to the present with her from-the-hip way of talking, “and
you
agreed to it. You’re on the job. Tomorrow, everything kicks off. That means you’d better get busy.” When Shane didn’t budge, she gave him a doubly perplexed look. “Come on. It’s not like you to sit around like this. Don’t you have reconnaissance to do? Groundwork to lay? People to meet?”

“All I’ve done since I got here is meet people,” Shane grumbled. “
Nice
people. People who like me.”

“People generally like you. You’re likable.”

“When I’m working,” he agreed. “Sure. But this—”

“‘This’ is just pent-up ‘fixing’ waiting to get out,” Lizzy diagnosed. “You’re wound up, that’s all. You need action.”

“Maybe.” It didn’t feel that way. It felt like . . . discontent, not a need to get busy manipulating things. Puzzling over that, Shane tapped out a cigarette from the pack at his elbow. Holding his smoke between his lips, he searched for his lighter.

Lizzy’s muttered swearword cut off his quest. So did the way she snatched the cigarette from his mouth. She frowned at it, then stared at him through disbelieving China doll eyes.

“Have you been sniffing glue? You quit months ago.”

“And you gave up swearing. I guess we both lose.”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, unaffected by his dour assessment. “Looks like you bring out the worst in me, boss.”

“You think so, Columbo? I’m surprised it took you this long to notice. I’ve been expecting you to quit since day one.”

That silenced Lizzy. For all of thirty seconds. Then . . .

“Wow. You
are
stressed out. You haven’t accused me of an imminent bailout for at least a year.” Marveling at him, she shook her head. “Besides, you only smoke when you’re nervous.”

Shane ignored her. Again, he reached for his pack.

Lizzy grabbed it first. Holding it, she gave him a look that hinted at tenderness. “Look, I know impressing your dad means a lot to you. I know this job is important. But—”

“All jobs are important.”

Lizzy seemed taken aback by his interruption. Then, “Oh. I get it. You’re going to pretend this one isn’t special?”

“It isn’t special,” Shane lied, trying not to think about that phone call from his dad. “I’m not even sure it’s doable.”

Most of all, he wasn’t sure it was advisable to try.

Shane had never impressed his dad before. If he didn’t admit he wanted to now, no one would be disappointed later.

“
Everything
is doable for you,” Lizzy disagreed. “I didn’t hitch my wagon to just any old star, you know. When I needed to make a getaway and start over, I picked
you
to be my Kemosabe.”

At that moment, Shane wished she hadn’t. He didn’t need additional pressure—and that’s all he glimpsed in Lizzy’s trusting, dedicated gaze. Tomorrow, he planned to infiltrate the Grimanis’ pizzerias and finish the takeover the previous fixer had started. But given the bizarre way Shane had been feeling lately, he’d be almost as likely to fist-bump the pizzeria’s manager, become besties with all its employees, and lay down his own considerable fortune to buy David a better slingshot.

He was
not
that freaking idealistic. He never had been.

Especially when it came to doing something that would subvert his own father’s company. That wasn’t how Shane operated. On the other hand, he’d never been prone to chatting with strangers in the park about their stupid mutts, either. Shane had done that today while out exploring the city.
Twice
.

He wiggled his fingers at Lizzy, then leveled her with a serious look. “Give me back my cigarettes, Tonto.”

Lizzy flipped him off instead, then tucked his pack in the back pocket of her jeans. She returned to shelving books with her customary diligence, letting those smokes taunt him from derrière height. Short of giving her a pat-down, Shane didn’t have the recourse of lighting up a spare. He felt . . . twitchy.

“I didn’t hire you to be my babysitter,” he complained.

“Someone’s got to do it,” Lizzy said breezily, not bothering to stop sorting books. “Might as well be me.”

Shane considered her position. He had deft fingers. He knew he could sneak out that cigarette pack from her pocket without her noticing. As a teenager, he’d gotten good at pickpocketing. He’d needed to. But he didn’t want to abuse her trust.