Thrill of the Chase (City Shifters: the Pride Book 1) Read online

  Thrill of the Chase

  City Shifters: The Pride

  Layla Nash

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  Epilogue

  18. A Sneak Peek…

  Untitled

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Layla Nash

  Copyright © 2015 by Layla Nash

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Resplendent Media

  One

  The kitchen was slammed for dinner, despite having only ten tables, and as my sous chef scrambled to plate dishes before anything cooled, I faced off with the manager through the door of his office. "We're out of tuna. There were at least twenty steaks in the cooler yesterday, and now there's nothing. What the hell happened, Joey?"

  He leaned his chair back, the squeak grating on my ears even with the din of the kitchen in the background. "I'm sure you miscounted."

  "Fuck you, I can count." I slammed my fist into the door jamb. "I cannot run this kitchen if my inventory disappears whenever one of your shitbag friends shows up."

  "Slow your roll, sweetheart." He got up, eyes narrowed, and tried to loom over me. His five foot six was no match for my five ten, though, and I folded my arms over my chest. It also helped that I had a scary large butcher knife in my hand. The manager glanced behind me, then raised an eyebrow. "Don't concern yourself with this fictional tuna. My guy will be here in a couple days with fresh. Go take care of your own business."

  My teeth ground until pain spiked in my temples. "I swear to God, Joey, if this doesn't stop, I'm quitting. I'll walk the fuck away."

  "Go ahead and try." His dark eyes studied me, his voice low and tense. "See how far Bob lets you run. Just remember where you started, sweetheart." He reached out, trailing his knuckles across my cheek, and I jerked back.

  "If you ever touch me again," I said, butcher knife held even with his chin. "I will gut you like the swine you are. I butchered a whole cow in school, Joey. You're not even a challenge."

  We faced off, neither of us looking away. I wondered if I would have to kick him in the junk to get him to back down, but instead my sous chef, Jake, called from behind me. "Chef, get your ass back in here, we need a hand with the special."

  I scowled at the manager, "Get better vendors, for fuck's sake, all of your friends have shitty product," and turned to storm back into the kitchen.

  Jake took one look at my face and directed me to where one of the line cooks tenderized the steaks, so I pounded my rage out on the beef with a meat hammer. It didn't help much, except when I imagined Joey's ugly, narrow face under the spikes. I'd almost worked off the fury at the missing tuna and Joey's casual disregard for my menu planning when one of the waiters crept into the kitchen.

  He pitched his voice over the hiss and pop of the sauté pans. "Chef? A guest asked to speak with you."

  "Which guest?"

  "The one who sent back his steak."

  My lip curled in disgust. He sent back a perfectly prepared filet and claimed I did not know medium rare. The steak was perfect — I'd inspected it myself before it went out. I waved my towel at the server and took over preparing the hollandaise from the young saucier, not wanting to end up with scrambled eggs. "I do not have time to listen to his apology."

  "Chef, he wanted to send it back again."

  I dropped the bowl and hollandaise splattered across my apron and the rest of the workstation. "Again? I prepared that steak myself."

  The waiter offered only an expressive shrug, taking no responsibility for the man's lack of taste. I gritted my teeth; no one ever said customers would take up this much time for a head chef. On a normal night, I probably could have pretended and listened to the man's complaint without wanting to snap my towel in his face, but after the confrontation with Joey... The towel twisted in my hands. I didn't like people. That was why I worked with food.

  Jake wiped up the spilled sauce as he said under his breath, "Don't go out there unless you can be civil. We need every paying customer."

  "That steak was perfect."

  Jake sighed. "We just got the lights turned back on. Is it worth it?"

  "This is my kitchen," I said, taking a step back as anger bubbled up still more. It was bad enough I had to deal with chauvinist pigs in every kitchen as I worked my way up, and that I had to fight to be taken seriously by my vendors and my staff and the competition up and down this trendy street. Even worse that Joey sold my inventory out from under me whenever he wanted. Now some jackass who wanted to eat my food insulted me in front of my entire kitchen and the other guests. "I'm supposed to send out another steak?"

  He shook his head, concentrating on the other dishes being plated. "Very well. I will keep everything else going. Go alienate some of our paying customers."

  I muttered about his family tree under my breath as I stormed out of the kitchen, still wearing the splattered apron and pristine chef's coat, my hair covered with a thick bandanna. I wiped my hands on the towel as I followed the server, the young man hustling to the problem table. I should have known who it would be as the server paused at a table with five men, all wearing expensive suits and designer ties. Well-groomed. Big and strong, probably from an over-priced trainer at a fancy gym. Alpha males accustomed to getting their way in everything. Well. This was my restaurant, my domain.

  The waiter tilted his head at the complainant for my benefit, though he half-bowed and gestured at me as he addressed the man. "Sir, the chef."

  "Took long enough," he said, turning slightly in his chair to look at me. By his expression, whatever he saw surprised him — no doubt that I was young, that I was female, that I was pissed as hell. Something changed in his face.

  I arched an eyebrow, putting on an imperious facade that had saved me from the attention of every male student at every culinary school I'd attended. He was unfortunately handsome, hard-eyed with a strong jaw and blonde hair a little too long and shaggy for my taste. I slapped the towel against my palm, and when I spoke, a French accent tinged my words — earned the hard way after years of culinary school in France. "Leonard tells me you have something to say. About my food."

  "Yes." He touched the edge of his plate, where the steak sat in a bloody puddle. Perfectly grilled, seasoned, aromatic. From a butcher who purchased local meat raised in the Kobe style. Well marbled, aged, tenderized. The cows practically got massages and therapists. And yet this man, this corporate raider who gazed coolly at me as if I worked for him, sat back in his chair and gestured to dismiss all that work. "It's over done. I sent it back once already and expected it to be done correctly. And yet — here we are. I thought it best to tell you exactly how to prepare it."

  The blood boiled in my veins, and I twisted the towel before smacking it against my palm again. His companions glanced at each other, then at me. One grinned openly and leaned his elbows on the table like a naughty kid. I shifted my weight and leaned forward, head tilted as I studied him. Smug bastard. "I am s
o sorry; I did not realize you attended Le Cordon Bleu. When did you graduate?"

  "I didn't —"

  "Oh, my mistake, it must be the Culinary Institute of America, no?" The French accent grew stronger, and his expression darkened. I threw my hands up. "No, perhaps not the Culinary Institute. That explains it all, certainly."

  "Explains what?" he said, grim. Pale brown eyes narrowed as he studied me from head to toe. Not entertained at all, despite that all four of his friends grinned and looked back and forth between us in delight, as if it were a high-stakes tennis match.

  "It explains," I said in a lower voice as the other diners began paying attention. It was a very small restaurant, after all. Boutique. "How you did not recognize that both of those steaks were perfectly prepared. Impeccable."

  His hands braced on the table, massive paws with long blunt fingers and a neat manicure. "I asked for medium rare, they were —"

  "They were perfectly medium rare," I said, the words escaping in something close to a hiss. Too much, because he sat up, lines gathering around his mouth as he frowned. I held my hands up. "Perhaps you have never had a steak this good; perhaps you do not recognize quality when you see it. This is your burden to bear."

  His friend, dark haired and younger, smiled at me with even, white teeth, but spoke to the complainant. "Logan, the steak is amazing, just —"

  "The steak is over-done," he said, sharp, and the kid sat back, shaking his head. The blonde turned back to me, frown deepening to a scowl. "I want medium rare. I'll keep sending it back until it is done correctly."

  I picked up the plate, pretending to examine the steak, and then shrugged. I handed it to the server and jerked my head at the kitchen, where Jake and the rest of the staff watched through the window. When the waiter was on his way, I glanced back at the entitled asshole. "If you cannot appreciate the quality of the food I prepare, or the talent with which I prepare it, you should not eat it."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You must not understand me." I faked concern as the towel swung in a wide gesture. I folded my arms over my chest and looked pointedly at the door. "Get out."

  His eyebrows climbed to his hairline and the man across the table burst out laughing. Logan, the corporate raider, looked incredulous to the point of not being able to speak, though he managed to grind out, "What?"

  I looked at his friend, still laughing, and pointed at his plate. "You enjoy your ravioli, no?"

  "Yes ma'am," the friend said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Delicious and perfectly prepared. Merci."

  "De rien, I am pleased you enjoy it." I looked back at Logan, who still stared at me as if I'd grown a second head. Perhaps no one had ever rejected him before, maybe in his normal day everyone jumped through their ass to appease him. Not here. Not in my restaurant. "So. Your friends appreciate my work, and yet clearly you cannot. You are welcome to sit as your friends enjoy their food, or you may leave. But I will not waste my time, or my staff's time, preparing yet another meal for you."

  I turned on my heel and strode to the kitchen, not looking back as the rest of the patrons applauded. I threw the towel against the wall once behind the door and ignored Jake's long-suffering expression. He read off the remaining orders and started talking about the soufflé. The only thing that could pull me out of a foul mood was cooking, but I couldn't forget the jackass still sitting in my restaurant, insulting my life's work by his very presence, and the malevolent toad in the manager's office.

  * * *

  Even an hour later as Carter and Atticus stuffed themselves with decadent chocolate soufflés, Logan couldn't believe what happened. That damn chef yelled at him. Refused to make him a steak. A perfectly unreasonable slip of a woman, spitting mad before he had a chance to explain himself. His brothers practically rolled around in his irritation, celebrating that someone finally put the alpha in his place, and he could do nothing about it. It set his teeth on edge.

  Edgar, grave as usual, studied the half-finished glass of wine he'd been nursing all night. "Is there a plan already, Logan? A specific target?"

  He put the chef out of his mind, though she was like a sore tooth — he kept going back around to her, probing the irritation to see whether it still bothered him. And it still did. His stomach growled, and Benedict grinned more, pushing the bread basket in his direction. Logan scowled; he was the leader of their pride, though his brothers still felt the urge to ridicule him. Their family might be only five brothers, but it would expand soon. It had to expand soon. They all needed mates, lionesses to hunt with them, to give them cubs. He'd given up on finding his true mate, the other half of his soul, and was prepared to settle for someone he could live with long enough to fill his home with children.

  "There are options, some of them more appealing than others." He poured more wine for himself, ignoring Carter's raised glass and chocolate-smeared face. "A matchmaking service, online dating, the bars, social clubs, the auction."

  The auction. Edgar's expression hardened. "No."

  Logan didn't blink. "We explore all options. Including that one, if need be."

  The others grew restless. No one like the idea of the auction, but most shifters had at least considered participating. Some parts of the country and some types of shifters produced more females than others. Female shifters, regardless of species, were strong enough to mate with other shifters, which was not always the case with pure humans. So those shifters occasionally got together to offer an auction of their eligible women. Everyone assured the purchasers that the women went willingly to the auction, although there were rumors that wasn't always the case.

  As much as his stomach turned to think of purchasing an unwilling woman, the idea of his kind becoming extinct nearly stopped his heart. The lions were on the verge of disappearing. He was the alpha of one of the last prides in the country. If they went — the rest of the prides would not be far behind.

  Atticus, the youngest, frowned as he played with a coffee spoon still on the pristine white tablecloth, the utensil doll-small in his massive hand. "Isn't there a matchmaker for the wolves? Maybe we could hire them."

  "That's a possibility." Logan glanced at Edgar, his second in command. "Look into it, make contact with someone if need be and establish price and timeline."

  Benedict, the middle son and the clown, studied him for a long time before speaking. "Why the sudden motivation to get this sorted? We've been wandering around for a couple of decades without much urgency, but now we're all going to find mates in a month? Why?"

  Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. The chef's face flooded his vision for no reason, her smooth pale skin with a smattering of freckles across her nose only making those blue eyes snap. And those lips — full and sensuous, as if she were someone who enjoyed the hell out of every kind of sin. He shook himself, ignoring the others' smiles. "Another pride broke up. Their last female died, the cub died with her. That means there are exactly three lionesses left, only one of age to bear cubs."

  Silence.

  Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He wanted out of that damn suit, but they'd gone straight from work to dinner. Sitting in a boardroom beat fighting on the savannah, but not by much. He'd rather spend his days in nature; too bad there wasn't any money in it. The expensive watch gleamed from his wrist as he checked the time. "So, gentlemen, this is serious business. That does not mean run out and knock up the first girl you take home, but we need to be deliberate in our choices and our focus. We'll start with the matchmakers and leave the auction as the absolute last resort. There's one in three months, from what the wolves said, so if we do not have at least one of us with a mate, we'll go there. No argument."

  It would come later. He knew just by looking at Edgar's face.

  Before any of them could speak, the waiter returned to ask for any additional requests or orders, and then provided the bill. Logan gritted his teeth and deliberately ignored the kid. Edgar glanced at the bill, about to hand it over with the corporate credit card, bu
t paused to take a closer look. He looked at the waiter. "The steaks aren't on here."

  The kid's expression didn't change, and Logan had to grudgingly admit he was very professional. Well-trained, certainly. "Chef said not to charge for the returned meals."

  Benedict, ever the prankster, winked at the kid. "That wasn't really what she said, was it."

  The waiter looked on the verge of smiling. "Not — exactly, sir."

  Logan wanted to punch his brother as Benedict went on, practically elbowing Atticus in his glee. "Come on, what did she really say?"

  "She may have said the bum who lives in the alley traded two hours of washing dishes for both steaks, and she considered that fair payment. He did not get the risotto."

  All said with a reasonably straight face.

  Edgar handed over the credit card. "She'd rather feed the homeless dude who can't pay than a customer who would? Doesn't seem like a good business decision."

  "She always feeds the homeless, sir." The waiter took the card, back to expressionless. "She stays late to prepare the leftovers for them."

  And that left Logan feeling like more of a jackass.

  But necessity was the mother of invention, after all, and as they waited for the server to return, the seeds of a plan worked into his brain. He couldn't get the chef out of his mind. He didn't even know her name, just the way her accent got stronger as she yelled at him and actually stomped her foot in anger. He stared at the swinging door to the kitchen, his superior hearing catching a thread of her laughing voice. No telling what it meant.

  His chest tightened as she passed by the window in the door and a curl of chestnut hair caught his attention. Beautiful. Almost too classically feminine for someone that feisty.

  "Logan."

  He shook off the spell she cast over him and frowned at Edgar. "Yeah."

  "You ready, or going to take a run at the kitchen?" The solemn security chief only raised an eyebrow, though Benedict came perilously close to giggling.