After a hesitation, he inclines his head and finally releases my wrist, his hand curling into a jerky fist after he lets me go.
It takes so much willpower to turn away from him and march to the sink, it scares me. But I need this job and the income it provides, so I staunchly ignore the eyes I feel drilling into my back all night…and I do what I do best. I focus on survival.
Chapter Two
Draven
Iam not a soft man.
In fact, a lot of my employees would refer to me as a tyrant. They would be right. Now, I’m barking at the sous chef to hurry up and plate thecarre d’agneu, also known as rack of lamb and he has grown pale in the face, his hands clumsy as they drizzle the sauce that took me years of my life to perfect. Yes, I believehewould call me a tyrant.
That’s what I am.
That is the reputation I’ve built and grown comfortable with.
For her, for thisClaire, however…
I find I am feeling rather soft.
In the center of my chest, at least.
There is another part of me that is unfortunately quite hard from watching her move so gracefully all evening—a fact that disgusts me to no end, because she is too young for a thirty-two-year-old man. Far too young. Inexperienced in the workplace, too, although she doesn’t let that slow her down. She doesn’tcomplain or stop for a well-deserved breath or flinch when the busboy enters the kitchen and noisily unloads a fresh mess into the sink. She just keeps scrubbing, like a tiny Cinderella, her blonde hair steadily coming loose from her bun.
I should be concentrating on the meal service.
Food is my life.
But I can’t help but notice that the apron strings irritate the back of her delicate neck until finally, she folds the apron down, leaving her in a tight white t-shirt, the thin material straining over her tits. And when the front of that shirt grows wet from the act of washing dishes, well…my cock can do nothing but stiffen in my trousers.
Where did you come from, Claire?
And who the fuck mistreated you?
Toward the end of dinner service, my brother, Pierre, waltzes into the kitchen with a clipboard nestled into the crook of his arm. No doubt he has been keeping track of profits all night, like the greedy bastard that he is. Still, as always, when I look at Pierre, guilt swamps my gut with such severity, such horrendous weight, that I press my hand to the spot.
“We have a very satisfied dining room,” he crows, eliciting a cheer from my staff. He gives each of them a tight smile, before turning his derision on me. “Mr. Brilliant strikes again, I suppose. Although I’m still waiting on the new fall menu. Has inspiration struck yet, Draven?”
I glance at the pot on the stove which contains the new sauce I’ve been experimenting with, to no avail. Nothing seems to make it right. “It will strike when it strikes,” I respond, repeating the same phrase I’ve repeated night after night for weeks. “If you don’t mind, we have a service to complete.”
Pierre smirks and turns his head—
And I watch with a hot, cloying irritation as my little Cinderella catches his eye.
My stomach sours at the blatant interest in his expression.
“Well, well, well…” Pierre says, sauntering in the dishwasher’s direction. “I had a feeling you were hiding something luscious beneath that coat.”
My brother’s words are still hanging in the air when I step in between him and Claire, a strange satisfaction coming over me when she instantly snuggles into my back. Oh…shit, that’s nice.Toonice. “We’re not going to speak to our employees like that,” I say to Pierre, lowering my voice to add, “Especially this one.”
His laugh is incredulous. “You’re reprimanding me about howIspeak to employees?”
Point taken. “There’s a difference in demanding excellence from my staff and how you’ve just spoken to her. And you fucking know it.” Her small hand twists in the back of my white chef’s coat and something is now crushing my windpipe. What the hell is happening to me? I don’t know, but this girl needs protecting, and I can’t fathom ignoring the responsibility. Not claiming it with both hands. “Don’t let it happen again.”
There’s a dangerous glint in my brother’s eye. “Are you calling dibs?”
My temper spikes more dramatically than it ever has in the kitchen—and that is really saying something, because I once got so angry over burned coq au vin, I shattered a porcelain Dutch oven my knee. “How about this? If you speak to her again, Pierre, I will dislocate your jaw.”
His face grows blotchy with anger, yet he laughs. “Wow. It appears we’ve found the one thing Draven finds more enticing than food.” He sidles in closer. “I’m going to let you get away with embarrassing me in front of my employees this time. Just remember that you owe me. We’d be running this restaurant with our mother if you hadn’tkilledher.”