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

  "Let's go." As he stood, Logan pulled out his wallet and dropped a stack of cash on the table.

  Edgar cleared his throat. "I already —"

  "I pay for my meals. Even if they're sent back." Logan turned and strode out of the restaurant, the chef's musical laugh chasing him out the door. He pulled out his phone and dialed his realtor. There were plans to set in motion.

  Two

  Two days later as I stalked the delivery entrance of the restaurant before dawn, the owner called. I juggled the largest cup of coffee I could carry and my cell phone, barking orders as the vegetable guy tried to unload some dicey-looking kale. I managed to answer the phone without scalding myself. "Hey, Bob. What's up?"

  "Morning, Natalia. Everything's fine. We got an unusual request yesterday."

  "Oh?" I frowned as I gestured at the vegetable guy and aimed a kick at the crate of bruised eggplant he carried past, mouthing 'Are you fucking kidding me?' when he feigned surprise. Dick.

  "Yes. Apparently a guest was so impressed with your food he requested you prepare a private meal at his home, for his family."

  I snorted, setting my coffee down so I could dig through the bags of onions they unloaded. Organic, locally-sourced produce my ass. "I don't think that's going to happen."

  "He offered to compensate the restaurant your full salary for the evening, to pay for a replacement chef, and pay you an additional ten thousand dollars."

  The onions landed with a splat on the muddy ground, my phone almost following. "How much?"

  "Exactly." Bob chuckled. "He apparently really loved your risotto. And the soufflé. He asked specifically about the soufflé. So. Tonight."

  "Tonight?" I turned in a circle, searching for something or someone. Certain it was a dream. Ten grand would go a long way toward paying the bills and rent and helping out at the soup kitchen. "I don't know if I can get a replacement. It's such short notice —"

  "Apparently it's a special occasion." Bob cleared his throat. "This is important, Nat. He's well-connected, CEO of some big corporation here in the city. This would open doors for us."

  I rubbed my forehead, no longer paying attention to anyone else on the loading dock. My mind raced to think of someone who could run the kitchen for me. Jake could be trusted with my menu. "Okay. I'll see if I can get someone. We'll figure it out."

  "Good." Bob gave me details for the guy's secretary, who apparently had the requested menu as well as directions.

  By the time I'd scribbled the phone number on the back of my hand and hung up, the vegetable guy was gone, but his crates of sub-par produce remained. Irritated, I started making calls for a new vegetable guy and carried my coffee inside the restaurant to plan without freezing to death.

  I hadn't found the vegetable guy but managed to recover my equilibrium ten hours later by the time I drove up to a massive wrought-iron gate of what could only be described as a compound outside the city at six o'clock that night. The speaker box crackled before I could ring the bell, and a disembodied voice said, "Ms. Spencer, please drive up to the house. You may park along the west side of the driveway. Someone will meet you."

  "Uh, okay," I said, but it was lost in the static and the rumble of the opening gates. I may have added, "Holy fucking shit" for my own benefit, but hoped it was also lost in the noise.

  My piece of shit car wheezed into the circle drive around a giant fountain in front of a white mansion that had to be at least four stories and half a dozen wings. I drove around to the far side of the circle and parked the car, no idea if that was the west side of the driveway, and unloaded a few bags of groceries.

  As I bumped the door closed with my hip, the front door of the mansion opened and a man in a black suit appeared. A butler. A goddamn butler. He smiled with restrained cordiality, inclining his head as he reached for the bags. "Ms. Spencer, please. Let me take those. Is there anything else?"

  "Uh, no. That's it." I cleared my throat, absently patting the shoulder bag that contained my chef's coat, apron, and knives. "I can carry those, really, it's not a problem."

  "This way, please." He turned on his heel, every movement crisp, and bustled back into the house. I hurried to keep up, almost slipping on the stairs up to the massive wood and iron door. He paused in the foyer to close the door behind me. "May I take your coat, Ms. Spencer?"

  "I can hang it up," I said, shedding the coat and scarf and looking for a place to put it.

  The butler may have been hiding a smile as he called to someone else in the house, and another man in a suit appeared, whisking away my coat without a word. I scrubbed a hand through my hair and tried not to stare. It looked like a house from the movies or at least a magazine. Marble floor in the foyer and a double curved staircase sweeping from either side of the open room created a sense of classic grandeur that was lacking in most of the McMansions around the city. To the right was an open gallery with a grand piano and a couple of weird little pianos, the walls covered with portraits.

  My jaw shut with a click as the butler inclined his head toward the interior of the mansion. "This way, Ms. Spencer."

  I followed, clearing my throat. "Forgive me, I didn't ask your name."

  "It's Hamilton, miss. I am the senior butler for Mr. Chase and his family."

  "Good to — good to meet you, Hamilton."

  He led the way through a few twists and turns to what I assumed was the back of the house and an unbelievably enormous kitchen. It easily dwarfed the restaurant's kitchen, with two of everything — massive commercial quality fridges, cooktops, wall ovens, dishwashers. An island in the middle of the kitchen could easily seat ten people around two sides, with a pot filling station on the side nearest the cooktops.

  The butler placed the bags on the island, then turned to look at where I'd stopped short in surprise. "Mr. Chase will be down directly to provide specific guidance. They would like to eat at seven thirty. Is there anything I can assist you wish, Ms. Spencer?"

  My mouth worked soundlessly for a good ten seconds as I stared at the acres of cupboards and drawers. "Um... Do you have a map I could use to find things?"

  That definitely got a smile, quickly hidden. Hamilton cleared his throat and composed himself to seriousness as he opened a drawer in the island and pulled a laminated card from its depths. "We have frequently found a guide useful, Ms. Spencer. Hopefully this will suffice?"

  "Thank God," I said under my breath as I took the card. "Otherwise I'd be looking for a spatula until tomorrow."

  "If you have any questions, please use this," he said, pointing to a phone on the wall. "It will dial to the main office; they will be able to find me."

  "Sounds good." I rubbed my hands together and pulled on my coat. "Would you like anything, Hamilton? I make a mean grilled cheese."

  Definitely got a smile that time, and it stuck around as he said, "Thank you, Ms. Spencer, I may take you up on that later. Please call if you have any questions." He gave almost a half-bow as he retreated.

  I shook my head, laughing a little as I tied the apron and unrolled my knives. Nice guy. Hopefully the mysterious Mr. Chase was equally nice, or at least not a total douche. I hummed to myself, poking through cupboards and drawers to find what I needed. Steaks and risotto, the house specialty.

  Steps echoed on the marble or stone floor and I turned, hoping it was Hamilton back for a grilled cheese. My blood ran cold as the burly man in jeans and t-shirt strode into the kitchen, carrying three bottles of wine.

  "You." My throat almost didn't work. But it was him, all right — the corporate raider from the restaurant. All six foot something of him, tanned and muscled and smiling as he set the bottles down on the island. His biceps, hidden by the suit before, were probably the same size as my thighs. Brown eyes, mild as milk chocolate, studied me briefly before he went to retrieve wine glasses from a cupboard near the cooktop.

  "Me."

  "Wh-what are you doing here?" I pinched myself to get control. I was a grown damn woman. I could not be stuttering like a foo
l around that man. He was a jerk and would no doubt take any hesitation as weakness. I couldn't afford to show any weakness — even when my knees knocked together at the way the muscles slid under his t-shirt as he uncorked one of the bottles.

  "I live here."

  My hands braced on my hips, and I flushed as his slow gaze landed there instead of my face. "What the hell is going on?"

  He shrugged, something like mischief in his eyes and the corner of his mouth. He filled two glasses with red wine from the old, old bottle and placed it on the island next to me. "I want you to make me dinner. Since I didn't get to enjoy the meal on Monday, this seemed easier than trying to get reservations."

  I laughed in disbelief. "Seriously?"

  "I'm always serious," he said, leaning to clink his glass against the one next to me before taking a sip. He frowned at the wine, swirling it a little.

  My mind didn't want to register the absurdity of the entire situation. He'd paid close to twelve grand, easily, rather than try to get reservations. The first response that escaped was incoherent French, then I managed to get hold of my temper. "This is — ridiculous. I'm not going to cook for you."

  "Oh?" His eyebrows rose a touch. "Why not?"

  "This —" I shook my head, started to untie my apron as another incredulous laugh snuck out. "I can't encourage this kind of behavior."

  He laughed, loud enough I jumped and almost knocked over my wine. The corporate raider rubbed his mouth, still chuckling, and sketched a slight bow. "I promise, this is the only time I've done something like this."

  "I don't believe that." I wadded up the apron. "And I don't need the money."

  It was only a small lie. Ten thousand dollars would buy a lot of ... everything.

  "Maybe." He studied me closely, head tilted. "But you definitely need the job, right?"

  "Are you threatening to call my boss?" I drew my shoulders back and clenched my fists. Ready to fight. The bastard might be sexy to the point of my good sense taking a walk, but he wouldn't dazzle me out of my kitchen.

  "I'm threatening to fire you," he said.

  "How dare you, you don't —"

  "I bought the restaurant," he told the wine glass with a frown.

  My heart sank. "You — what?"

  "I bought it." He straightened from his lean against the counter to nudge the wine glass closer to me, and then reached for the groceries. "The owners were happy to sell. We finished the paperwork this afternoon. It helped that I paid twice what it's actually worth. And most of that value was tied to you." He nodded in my direction, as if that were a good thing. "You are a most in-demand chef, Natalia."

  The way he said my name, all slow and drawn out, made my hands tingle. As if he tasted every syllable. I sought refuge in anger, though — he threatened to fire me, even knowing I was the only valuable thing about that restaurant. But panic bubbled in my stomach as well. I'd worked hard to make that kitchen and that staff perfect, like family. I couldn't lose that. Except for Joey. He would definitely have to go. Pride was a stupid reason to lose the best gig I'd found.

  The silence stretched as I stared at the island, finally reaching for the wine glass with numb fingers. Shit. I managed to shake off the sinking feeling, trying to see him as the new employer instead of an asshole customer with an ass that didn't quit. It should have been illegal for men like him to wear jeans. "What are your plans, then? For the restaurant."

  I could have kicked myself for adding the last bit, particularly as he smiled at the bags of food. "First, you're going to cook me and my brothers dinner. Then you and I can talk about the future of the restaurant."

  He looked up and fixed me with a penetrating stare, though there was no threat in it. More like he tried to look into my soul, read my past, measure my worth with his eyes alone. My heart beat faster and sweat broke out on my palms.

  I swallowed hard as I reached for a kitchen towel. I'd worked with bigger assholes and sexier men — well, maybe not sexier, but definitely as sexy. Re-buttoning my chef's coat provided a convenient distraction from his long, dark lashes and the small white scar on his chin. "Very well. It'll take an hour if you want the risotto."

  "I want everything." His voice went husky and goosebumps spread over my arms. Then Logan smiled, just a hint of white teeth. "Please. Get started."

  "I'll call you when it's —"

  "I'll watch."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm going to watch you cook." He pulled out a stool on the far side of the island and rested his elbows on the smooth quartz top. "Go ahead."

  I stared at him for so long I thought he would speak again, but he only waited. Sipped his wine. Watching me with those damn laughing eyes and sexy smile. I gritted my teeth. If I could cook under the disapproving glare of chefs with four Michelin stars, I could grill a damn steak in front of some ridiculous playboy with no taste. I spun on my heel and started sharpening my knives.

  Three

  From the way she sharpened the knives, Logan was reasonably sure the chef wanted to stick one between his ribs. He didn't blame her. He hadn't meant to purchase the restaurant right out from under her, but the owners weren't interested in selling a controlling share. They wanted to sell the whole damn thing. Apparently they'd been underwater on their loans for some time and were a hot second from shutting the doors entirely. The only thing keeping them open was her — Natalia Spencer, one of the most in demand, up-and-coming chefs in the city and the entire country.

  His accountants still worked through the books, as there were some questionable numbers related to the suppliers and the manager, but Logan was committed. The restaurant was his and with it — so was she.

  Natalia worked quickly and efficiently, something he appreciated more than he could articulate. Watching her move around the kitchen reminded him of the werepanthers — sleek and silent and deadly, with none of the lumbering gravitas of the lions and tigers. No, she would be a panther. He refilled his glass with the good wine, the stuff he kept in the back of the cellar so Atticus wouldn't glug it down like the box wine he got at the gas station.

  Logan caught a clove of garlic as it shot out from under the flat of her knife, and Natalia frowned. He handed it back, made sure his fingers brushed hers as the clove slipped free, and hid a smile at the way she jumped. So the master chef was not impervious to charm. Neither was he, though, as the spark that zinged between them startled him as well.

  She wasn't impressed, though, instead shoving a cutting board, an onion, and small knife at him. "Make yourself useful. Small dice, this size." She flashed a pinky nail at him.

  The urge to catch her hand, study the petite nail, take her finger in his mouth, nearly overwhelmed him. Instead, he studied the knife. "For ten grand, I have to cut my own onion?"

  "If you're in my kitchen, you work."

  "And here I thought this was my kitchen."

  She gave him a sideways look, then pointed the big knife at him. "Wherever I cook is my kitchen." The blade dipped to indicate the onion. "So if you're going to sit there mooning at me, you work."

  He thought about calling Edgar or Benedict, making them do the work so he could just watch her, but he knew better. The moment his brothers intruded, Logan would be the butt of not-so-subtle jokes, and that would spook the girl. The last thing he needed was Benedict asking her to marry into the family, even in jest.

  So he started cutting the onion, frowning as it rolled and he couldn't get the rough peel off. He paused as he caught her watching, her expression almost comical in its consternation. As if she hadn't considered for a moment that he wouldn't know how to cut a damn onion. Logan tried to sound dignified. "Yes?"

  "I've never seen that — technique."

  "I doubt my advanced onion chopping is on the curriculum at Le Cordon Bleu."

  She snorted, shaking her head as she pounded the steaks and threw the garlic into a pan with hot oil. The sizzle and mouth-watering aroma of sautéing garlic filled the kitchen. He kept chopping at the damn onion, thou
gh none of the pieces came out even or small enough. She leaned her elbows on the island, eyebrow raised as she studied his handiwork.

  "Don't say a word," Logan said, irritated but also pleased he'd amused her.

  Natalia chewed her lip furiously, but a smile escaped nonetheless. "Right. Of course." She took the cutting board and dumped the onion in with the garlic, shaking her head as she said over her shoulder, "Don't you dare blame those onions on me. My mentors would hunt me down and take away my toque if they thought I served such raggedy food."

  "I cannot promise your name won't come up if the onions are an issue." Logan refilled her wine glass. "My brothers will be kind to you, but they will never let me forget it if I fail."

  She made a thoughtful noise, absently sipping the wine as she checked a simmering pot of broth. She stirred it with a graceful flourish before searching for something else in the grocery bags.

  "What?" Logan just wanted to hear her talk, no matter the subject. He also wanted her to lose that damn bulky white coat. At least a stupid bandanna didn't cover the cascade of wavy hair down her back, though it was pulled away from her face and the food. The delicate line of her shoulder and throat called to him when her coat gapped, distracting him as she turned on the oven and fiddled with the controls.

  Natalia bent to glance into the oven and the chef coat lifted enough to show an amazing ass as her jeans stretched. He shifted on the stool, adjusting himself to conceal the effect she had. She had unbelievable curves, soft and inviting in all the right places. He wanted to squeeze her ass and hips, wrap himself around her, bury his face in her breasts. Rip that bulky, unflattering chef contraption off her and find the soft curves underneath.

  She was talking, and he had no idea what she said. Logan forced his concentration back to her voice, rather than the bird thin bones of her wrists and the tiny scars that decorated her hands and forearms. "I'm sorry, what was that?"