Читать книгу A Taste of Temptation - Cat Schield - Страница 11

Two

Smugness from her encounter with Ashton lasted about a second as she strode out of the restaurant and headed toward her office. What had she been thinking to walk off with his luggage? He must think she’d gone mad.

Well, hadn’t she?

She’d agreed to an evening with him. Harper had no doubt she’d signed on for more than a private tasting of his menu. Which meant she was in big trouble. Already her mouth watered at the prospect of being the beneficiary of his culinary prowess. As long as that was the only prowess he plied her with, she might survive the evening without making a fool of herself. If he decided to test her level of resistance to his manly charms she wasn’t going to maintain her professionalism very long.

Her skin burned as she thought of how he’d called her on her assumption that he wanted sex in exchange for hiring the chef she preferred. Not once had she suspected Ashton was the sort of man to make such a sordid offer. So why had she jumped to that conclusion? Even worse, why had she lobbed the accusation at him? Naturally, he’d presumed her misunderstanding represented her deepest desires.

And he was probably right. For the past nine months she’d been complaining that the real Ashton Croft wasn’t as wonderful as the one on television. But that wasn’t exactly true. His persona on TV was charismatic and amusing. He was the cool guy everyone wanted to hang out with. The flesh and blood Ashton Croft was no less appealing. It was just that the travel series didn’t fully convey the masculine energy of the man. The rawness of his sex appeal.

Most of the time she focused on how frustrating he was. She was terrified of being bamboozled by his dimples and rakish grin. If he had any idea how easily he could knock her socks off, he’d probably go after a few other items of clothing, as well.

Harper shook her head at the thought. She was not going to sleep with Ashton Croft. It would be different if they’d met in some exotic locale; she could see herself being one of his random hook ups. The next morning, she would chalk up the evening as an adventure worth having. Hadn’t she spent tedious hours on the treadmill imagining all sorts of spicy scenarios where she bumped into Ashton at a vineyard in Tuscany or on a walk around Dubrovnik’s ancient city walls? There they would share a sunset and he’d persuade her to join him for dinner. On a private terrace overlooking the Adriatic Sea and surrounded by candles, he’d take her into his arms and...

The faint smell of cigarette smoke ripped Harper from her daydream.

Parking Ashton’s go bag just inside the door of her office, Harper surveyed her formerly pristine sanctuary. Her mother’s ostrich leather Burberry holdall sat on the sky-blue sofa, half the contents scattered around it. An empty pack of cigarettes lay crushed on the coffee table beside a crystal tumbler with a pale pink lipstick stain. The elegant lines of a cream trench coat were draped over Harper’s executive chair. Her mother had definitely moved in.

Penelope Fontaine stood by the window overlooking the Las Vegas strip, her right hand resting at her throat, as if protecting the string of large black pearls she wore. A thin tendril of smoke rose from the cigarette pinched between the fingers of her other hand. In a black-and-white Chanel dress, with her long blond hair pulled away from her face in a classic chignon, she looked elegant and untouchable.

The sight stirred up memories of the day her parents had sat her down and explained that they were splitting up. Her mother needed to move to Florida for her health. Harper would remain in New York City with her father. Which basically meant she’d be alone with the staff because Ross Fontaine had spent most of his time avoiding the company’s New York headquarters and his father’s expectations. With Fontaine Hotels and Resorts’ extensive holdings in the U.S. and abroad, Harper’s father could be as irresponsible as he wanted without Henry Fontaine being the wiser.

“Mother, I would appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in my office.” Harper advanced toward Penelope, ready to pluck the cigarette from her mother if she didn’t comply.

“I’m sorry, Harper.” Crossing to the coffee table, she dropped the cigarette into the empty glass. “You know how I revert when I’m upset.”

The lingering smell of smoke made Harper’s nose tingle unpleasantly. “What’s bothering you?” She fetched a can of air freshener from one of the cabinets that lined the east wall and sprayed the room with ocean breezes.

“I need your help.” Penelope’s voice warbled as she spoke the last word.

Unsure whether her mother was being theatrical or if she was truly in trouble, Harper took a quick inventory. Penelope’s eyes looked like a forest after a downpour, the green enhanced by the redness that rimmed them.

“You’ve been crying.” This was no bid for her daughter’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

“Something terrible has happened.” Harper heard the weight of the world in Penelope’s voice. “Why else do you think I came to this godforsaken city? It’s not as if you’d come visit me in Florida.”

“The hotel is taking all my energy right now.” Harper knew better than to book passage on her mother’s guilt trip, but her encounter with Ashton had stirred up her emotions. “Why didn’t you go to Grandfather?”

Penelope fiddled with the ten-carat diamond she wore on her left hand despite her husband’s death five years earlier. Why would she take if off now when she’d worn the ring through eighteen years of being separated from Ross Fontaine?

“Henry can’t help me with this.”

“But I can?” Harper struggled to get her head around this shift in her world’s axis.

Never once had her mother reached out like this. Penelope was of the mindset that only men could solve the world’s problems. Women were supposed to adorn their husbands’ arms, looking beautiful and displaying graceful manners. They weren’t supposed to run billion-dollar corporations at the expense of attracting lovers, much less suitable husbands.

“You’re the only one who can.”

All her life Harper had been waiting for her mother to acknowledge her as powerful and capable. That Penelope had turned to her daughter for help was as thrilling a victory as Harper had ever known. “What do you need?”

“Money.”

Her mother received a sizeable allowance each month from the Fontaine family trust. What could she possibly need to buy that she couldn’t turn to Harper’s grandfather? “Why?”

“I’m being blackmailed.”

Blackmailed? This was the last thing Harper expected to hear.

“Have you spoken to the police?” To Harper’s mind, paying a blackmailer was never a good idea.

Penelope stared at Harper as if she’d suggested her mother get a job. “This is private business.”

“Blackmail is illegal.”

“I will not have my personal affairs become public knowledge.”

Until her mother had retreated to Florida, Harper had been conditioned daily to believe that image was everything. And even though she’d subsequently found her true strength lay in being resourceful and focused, that earlier rhetoric wasn’t easily ignored.

“I understand your reputation means everything to you, but what’s to say the blackmailer won’t leak the information even though you pay him?”

“He’s promised not to.” Penelope said this as if stunned that her daughter could be that stupid. “I came here thinking you’d help me.”

Harper chewed on a sigh before saying, “How much do you need?”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

The sum rendered Harper speechless for a long moment. “What did you do?”

Treating her mother with such bluntness wasn’t going to win Harper any points, but the amount had caught her off guard.

Penelope gathered outrage around her like a shawl. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Excuse me for interrupting.” Ashton strode into the room, looking far from remorseful that he’d barged in.

Too stunned by the bomb her mother had dropped to react to his intrusion, Harper sat motionless and watched him approach. His gaze shifted from her to Penelope, and Harper wondered if he was comparing mother and daughter.

Was he making the assumption that Harper and her mother were the same? Wealthy women, confident in their identity, knowing exactly how their lives were going to play out and content with the direction. Most days that’s how Harper felt. Not today.

“Harper?” her mother’s low warning tone prodded Harper to her feet.

“Mother, this is Chef Ashton Croft. He is the creative genius behind Batouri. Ashton, this is my mother, Penelope Fontaine.”

She ignored the flash of humor in Ashton’s eyes as she introduced him as a creative genius. It was true. No matter how big a pain in the ass he’d been, there was no denying the man was brilliant in the kitchen.

“Delighted to meet you,” Penelope murmured, extending her hand like a queen to her subject.

Harper mentally rolled her eyes as Ashton clasped her mother’s hand and flashed his charismatic celebrity grin.

“I’ve enjoyed working with your daughter.”

Liar.

He’d tolerated her at best.

Seeing the effect his dazzling persona was having on her mother, Harper momentarily surrendered to amusement. Not normally one to be charmed by a handsome face or flirtation, Penelope appeared as if she’d forgotten all about the blackmail that had driven her more than two thousand miles to seek her daughter’s help.

As much as she hated interrupting their mutual love fest, Harper wanted to return to her mother’s blackmail problem and get the issue solved. “Is there something you needed from me?” she asked Ashton.

His attention swung to her. “Just my laptop. I have a video conference in ten minutes.”

“It’s over there.” She gestured toward the black bag.

He bent to a side pocket in the duffel and took out a thin silver computer. Harper followed the smooth bunch and flex of his muscles, and her breath hissed out in appreciation. Strong and athletic in his cargo pants, denim shirt and hiking boots, sun-streaked shaggy hair falling into his bright blue eyes, he represented everything that Harper was not. Physical, unpredictable, exciting. The yang to her yin, she realized, and felt heat rise in her cheeks.

“Leave the bag,” she commanded, her voice a husky blur. “I’m not done with you yet.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Of course.”

She caught his smug gaze and stared him down in silence, refusing to backpedal or stumble through an explanation of what she’d actually meant. And maybe just a little afraid to ask herself about the subtext he’d picked up on.

“Check with Mary to see which conference room is available.”

“I appreciate the accommodation.”

“Come see me when you’re done. I’m interested to hear how your conversation with Chef Cole went.”

“I look forward to telling you. Will you be here?”

Harper glanced at her mother. “I’m not certain where I’ll be. Ask Mary. She has a knack for finding me.”

He nodded and exited her office. With his departure, the energy level in the room plummeted. Harper’s heart pounded in her chest as if she’d done a two-minute sprint on her treadmill.

“You’re letting that scruffy man open a restaurant in your hotel?”

Penelope’s criticism would’ve stung if Harper hadn’t witnessed her mother batting her eyelash extensions at that scruffy man only moments before. “He only recently returned from four months in Indonesia.”

“I thought you said he was a chef. What was he doing there?”

“Filming his television series, The Culinary Wanderer.” Harper waited for her mother to recognize the name. “He travels all over the world, eating local cuisine and bringing attention to the history or current troubles of the places where he films.”

“I don’t watch much television. It’s too depressing.”

Harper didn’t bother arguing. Penelope lived in a snug bubble. She played golf in the morning and then lunched with friends. After a few hours spent shopping, the remainder of her day was taken up by something cultural or philanthropic. The only interruption to her schedule happened when she traveled to the Hamptons to visit her mother or decided a room of her condo needed updating.

“His show is very popular.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Penelope replied, her tone indicating that she’d dismissed a subject that no longer interested her. “How soon can you get me the money I need?”

“I’ll call the bank and have them wire the funds as soon as you tell me who is blackmailing you and why.”

“I’m your mother,” Penelope huffed. “Don’t you dare barter with me.”

Before Harper could argue, Mary appeared in the doorway. “Your grandfather is on line one and Carlo called to say Chef Cole wants to talk to you as soon as you’re available.” Mary placed a wealth of emphasis on that last part.

She needed to do some damage control. “Tell him I’ll be down as soon as I’m done talking to Grandfather. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes.”

Penelope clutched her daughter’s arm as Harper began to rise. “You can’t say anything to Henry.”

“Why don’t we sort this business out over dinner later,” she suggested, attempting to pacify her mother. “I need to know more details before we proceed.”

“But you are going to help me,” Penelope stated, anxiety shadowing her determined tone.

“Of course.” Harper’s gaze skittered away from the relief in her mother’s eyes and fell on her assistant.

Mary had been waiting patiently through their exchange. Seeing she’d regained Harper’s attention, she switched on her headset and spoke to the caller. “She’s on her way to the phone now. Okay, I’ll let her know. Your grandfather has had to take another call. He’ll catch up with you at four our time.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Harper turned to her mother. “I have some business to take care of. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

Penelope glanced at her watch. “I have a manicure appointment in half an hour.”

It made perfect sense to Harper that her mother would schedule a beauty treatment in the midst of a personal crisis. No matter how bad things got, she never neglected her appearance.

“Mary will get you settled in a suite. I’ll order dinner to be served there at seven. We can talk then.”

* * *

Ashton lounged in the Fontaine Ciel’s executive conference room, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in a rhythm that called to him from the past. He had his back to the large monitor set on the wall opposite the door that led to the hall. The network suits in New York had not yet figured out the connection was live and he was gaining some useful insights into their thought processes.

He’d been in negotiations for a brand-new television series for almost five months now. The Lifestyle Network wanted him to star in a culinary show that “showcased his talent.” Or at least that was the way his manager, Vince, had pitched it. Ashton agreed that it was a solid career move. Something he’d been working toward these past eight years.

It would allow him to live permanently in New York City. He’d never again have to travel under the most uncomfortable conditions to places that no one in their right mind wanted to live.

Too bad he loved all those miserable out-of-the-way places he visited. Nor was Lifestyle Network’s demand that he quit The Culinary Wanderer if they gave him his new show sitting well with Ashton. With the sort of taping schedule he had with the travel show, there was no reason why he couldn’t do both. He’d given six years to Phillips Consolidated Networks and The Culinary Wanderer. The show remained vital and continued to do well in the ratings. Giving it up made no sense. And then there was all the aid that the places he visited received as a result of the show.

He hadn’t set out to do a culinary series that highlighted socioeconomic and political issues around the world. He’d started out romping around the globe doing a six-part series featuring out of the way culinary adventures for the network’s travel channel. At some point toward the end of the first season, he’d started to see the potential of shining the light of television on some of the places regular travelers would never go. But it wasn’t until the first segments aired that he realized he was raising social awareness.

The series’ high ratings caught the network executives’ attention. They liked what they saw and wanted to work with him again so Ashton pitched them a show focused as much on the problems faced by the locals as it was about the regional cuisine. Six months later, The Culinary Wanderer was born.

By the end of the first season, his viewership had increased threefold. Inspired by the flood of emails from viewers asking how they could help, the network partnered with a world help organization to bring aid to the areas hit hardest by war and poverty. It was somewhat surreal to discover he did more good with his half-hour television series than his parents did in a year with their missionary work. And it was sad to realize no matter how much he did, they would never approve of his methods.

Still, money had been raised. People had been fed and given medicine. Sources of fresh water had been brought to villages that needed it. But no matter how much Ashton accomplished there was always another town ravaged by unrest or burdened by poverty. His gut told him he shouldn’t walk away from all those who still needed help. Yet wasn’t it this exact sort of arrogance—that he was somehow special and necessary for others’ salvation—that made him so angry with his father?

“Chef Croft, are you ready to begin?”

Ashton swiveled around and gave the assembled group an easy smile. “Whenever you are, gentlemen.”

He could see that his manager was on the call from his L.A. office. Vince’s expression gave away none of the concern he’d voiced to Ashton late last night, but he wasn’t looking as relaxed as usual. This show would take Ashton from celebrity chef to household name. From there the possibilities were endless.

“Chef Croft,” began Steven Bell, a midlevel executive who’d been acting as the group’s mouthpiece these past several months. He was the third in a line of conservatively dressed, middle-aged men with a talent for pointing out problems and little else. “We have slotted the new show to begin the end of February and would like to start taping in three weeks. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.”

Several of the men exchanged glances, and Ashton picked up on it. If he’d learned anything in the past several months, he’d discovered the path to superstardom wasn’t a smooth one.

“We’ve been told your restaurant in the Fontaine hotel is behind schedule,” said the man Ashton thought of as Executive Orange because whatever spray tan he used gave his skin a sunset glow.

“Untrue. It’s set to open in two weeks.”

“And your expectation is that you’ll have it running smoothly immediately?”

Ashton knew what was going on. Vince had warned him that since Ashton was unwilling to give in on the matter of quitting The Culinary Wanderer they were looking at other chefs in an effort to force his hand.

“I will be leaving my kitchen in good hands. I offered Chef Dillon Cole the head chef position.” He left out the fact that Cole hadn’t agreed to take the job.

“He’s out of Chicago, correct?”

Unsure which of the six executives had spoken, Ashton nodded. “A talented chef.” Which was perfectly true, despite his earlier criticism. Ashton just wasn’t sure he was the right man for Batouri, but he was running out of time and options. If he wanted to host the new show, he needed to be available.

“We’d like you to come to New York next week and spend a couple days working with our producers. We feel you should be on the set and run through a couple versions of the show to get some film that we could run past a couple of our current hosts for their input.”

“What days did you have in mind?”

“Wednesday and Thursday. We could schedule something in the afternoon, say around two?”

Harper was going to filet him when she caught wind of this impromptu trip. “I’ll be there.”

“We’re looking forward to seeing you.”

After a few more niceties and good luck wishes for his restaurant opening, the New York executives signed off. When it was just Ashton and Vince still on the call, the manager let his true feelings show.

“Those bastards are not making this easy, are they?”

“Did you really expect them to?” Ashton countered. “This isn’t a travel network with a couple hundred thousand viewers. This channel draws over a million viewers for some of its least popular primetime shows.”

“What I expected is for them to be falling all over themselves to bring you in. They’re looking to give their lineup more sex appeal. While the numbers have been slipping for cooking shows lately, home improvement segments are on the rise.”

“Any idea why?”

“If you listen to my wife and daughter, it’s all due to the hunky carpenters they’ve been hiring.”

Ashton grinned. “So you’re saying they aren’t as interested in my culinary expertise as my impressive physique?”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Like we should be negotiating for more money.”

“Maybe I should suggest you do the episodes shirtless.”

“Don’t give them any ideas.” Ashton grimaced. “They’ll probably turn it into a bit. Stay tuned for the next segment when Chef Croft will burn off his shirt.”

“Well, you’d better get that restaurant of yours open in Vegas or you won’t have to worry about what they want you to wear.”

“Have you heard from the guys over at Phillips about the proposals I made regarding next season’s location?”

In addition to negotiating with the Lifestyle Network, he was in talks with Phillips Consolidated Networks for his seventh season of The Culinary Wanderer. They were pushing him to film next season in Africa. They’d reasoned that since he was South African, he would enjoy returning to the land of his birth. The exact opposite was true, but since he’d created an elaborate backstory that had nothing to do with his true history, he couldn’t provide an excuse strong enough to dissuade them.

“They rejected England immediately. Apparently your best ratings come when you are off the beaten track. The Indonesian stuff has been a huge hit with everyone who’s seen it.”

“What about South America? I could get six or seven episodes out of Brazil alone.”

“They said they’d consider it for next year.” Vince rolled a pen between his palms. “I think if you want to keep doing the show, it’s going to have to be Africa. Of course, that’s dependent on whether Lifestyle Network gives up on getting an exclusive on you.”

Frustration with the producers of The Culinary Wanderer had led him to talk to Lifestyle Network. He wanted to grow his career in a big way and the new show could do that. Becoming a household name would open a lot of doors. But it wasn’t where his heart lay. He’d never stop craving new adventures in exotic locations. It’s why he intended to find a way to do both. Being forced to choose between his passion and his ambition wasn’t an option.

“I really don’t want to go to Africa.”

“Come on. How bad can it be? You still have family there, don’t you?”

“Sure.” In fact, he had no idea if his parents were still alive. He hadn’t spoken to them since he left home at fifteen. A lot of bad things could happen in twenty years, especially in the sort of places his parents took their missionary work.

He heard the door open behind him and noticed the change in Vince’s demeanor. His manager sat forward in his desk chair and ran his fingers through his short sandy-blond hair. Glancing over his shoulder, Ashton noticed Harper had entered the room. She didn’t look happy.

“Gotta go, Vince. Keep in touch.” He ended the network connection and the monitor in the room went blank. “Thanks for letting me borrow your equipment. This is some nice stuff.”

“Chef Cole tells me he’s not going to be our head chef.”

“I offered him the job just like you wanted.”

“I wanted you to hire him.”

“He turned me down.” Ashton pushed his chair back from the conference table and stood up.

“So, now what?”

“You have me.”

“I need someone permanent. How long before you take off again?”

Next week, but in her current state of displeasure, he wasn’t going to mention that.

“Not to worry. I have someone I trust who I’ve been training. He arrives tomorrow.”

“Who is it?”

“I met Dae Tan a few months ago. Helped him out of a jam.”

“What sort of a jam?” Her skepticism came through loud and clear.

“He was arrested for something he didn’t do.”

“You’re sure he was innocent.”

“Absolutely. After that, things got a little hot for him. He’s been traveling with me and I’ve been training him.”

“Why didn’t he come with you today?”

“He wanted to see L.A. He has this thing about movie stars.”

Harper regarded him with suspicion. “Where has he worked? Is he capable of handling the pressure of a restaurant like Batouri?”

“It’ll be fine. The kid’s got talent.”

“Kid?” She echoed his description and her irritation grew. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-five. Twenty-six.”

“You can’t be serious.” Harper advanced on him. “You’ve passed on chefs with twenty-five years of experience and now you’re telling me you want to hire someone who’s been in the field a couple years.”

“Months,” Ashton corrected. “He only had the most rudimentary skills when I met him.”

Harper’s eyes closed while she sucked in a deep breath and let it out. When she opened them again, she looked no calmer. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll go for this.”

“You really don’t have a choice.”

“We’ll see about that.” Harper folded her arms across her chest. “You forget we have a contract.” Her tone indicated he’d stretched her goodwill as far as it would go.

“I have a great deal riding on this restaurant, as well,” he reminded her.

“Then act like it.”

The trouble was, he had a great deal riding on every iron he had in the fire. He was determined to leave his mark on the world and that meant going big. Would it have been smarter to not stick his neck out? Sure. He could have played it safe, kept going with the same shows he’d had success with these past eight years, but Ashton liked the rush of conquering new territory, seeing what lay beyond the horizon.

Harper continued, “Go convince Cole to take the job at Batouri.”

“I thought you said he’d gone to the airport.”

“I caught him before he left the hotel and convinced him to fly to Chicago tomorrow. You have reservations next door at Fontaine Chic’s award-winning steakhouse at seven. You might as well sample the competition. Perhaps you will both dislike the food and find some common ground to build a relationship on.”

“And our evening together?”

She shot him a cool smile. “When Cole takes the job, I’ll block out two hours for you.”

“Make it three and you have a deal.”