Her New Boss: A Rouge Erotic Romance (7 page)

‘She asked about you,’ Mac said as Jackson began to walk toward the first restaurant he’d ever owned and the only business property still under his name in Dabery. He heard the telltale teasing to the man’s tone.

Jackson knew he should keep walking, but he couldn’t stop himself from turning back around. Zoe preoccupied his fantasies, stirring the kind of constant lust he thought he finally had under control once he hit his mid-twenties. But one thought of Zoe had him as randy as an eighteen-year-old boy hiding in the girls’ locker room during shower time.

‘She asked if you were married.’ Mac grinned. ‘And about your family.’

‘Normal questions,’ Jackson said, though inside his stomach tightened.

‘Did the secret code change? Because when I was
your
age and a pretty woman asked if I was married, it meant –’

Jackson laughed. ‘Mac, tell the truth. When did a pretty woman ever ask you anything?’

‘Boy, you’re not too old to bend over my knee,’ Mac warned, suppressing a good-natured grin. ‘But you are sure as hell old enough to know you won’t be young forever and if a pretty girl is interested you ask her out on a date.’

Date his new cook? A woman who he had brought down here in a drunken fit to punish? Jackson gave a small laugh. ‘They have laws against dating employees.’

‘We’re from the South.’ Mac winked. ‘Since when do we worry about laws?’

‘Jackson pumped new life into the town. He bought shares in the old stables, rebuilt them better than ever and created jobs. Now Dabery’s stallions are bought all over the world. Once they were operating enough to support themselves, he sold his share to the original ranchers and became a local hero.’ Marta smiled, pointing at the pictures along the walls of her bed and breakfast. The old newspaper clippings were from the mid-1900s when horse shows seemed to draw much of the town’s attention. ‘A run of bad luck struck this town in the 70s and we all struggled. People were moving away and this town almost died, but Jackson brought us back to life.’

Zoe nodded, following Marta’s hand to more recent editions of the
Dabery News
. Jackson’s face graced the clippings. Some of the earlier ones showed him with hair to his chin, in T-shirts and blue jeans, then later in business suits and a crew cut, to the most recent with short, styled hair expertly mussed with gel, and designer-label clothing.
She
paused, captivated by his frozen smile and the happy light in his eyes. Her heartbeat quickened. If she were a teenage girl alone in her room, she would have pressed her mouth to the photograph. She tried to ignore the attraction she felt for her new boss, but it was there – raw and so very real.

Marta’s cheery disposition fit the Victorian-decorated farmhouse atmosphere of her business. Her blonde, upswept hair created a curled effect around her smooth face. Tiny lines gave away her advanced age, but it was impossible to tell how old she really was. Dangling crystal earrings and a matching jewel necklace added flair to the rose-embroidered jacket dress she wore.

Wooden floors, fireplaces and antique furniture graced the many rooms. Equestrian-themed paintings and small horse figurines covered the walls and many shelves of the downstairs sitting room. Zoe had already been shown to her room upstairs. According to Marta, it was one of three, though the others were empty. She’d been placed in the largest room, with a king-sized bed, white-painted walls and rose porcelain vases.

‘I’m sorry, but I should get going.’ Zoe touched Marta’s arm lightly as she pried her eyes from the hypnotic smile on Jackson’s picture. She hadn’t really been listening to what the woman had been saying anyway. ‘Can I borrow your phone to call a taxi?’

‘Taxi?’ Marta laughed, waving her hand in the air. ‘Sweetie, the restaurant is only two blocks that way.’ She pointed toward the west side of the house. ‘And there is no taxi service in Dabery.’

‘Of course there isn’t.’ Zoe looked down at the chef uniform she wore, having a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Though with all the horses it was possible
the
restaurant had a booming tourist business. A rich, powerful clientele who demanded the best wherever they went – whether it was a Swiss ski resort or Dabery, South Carolina.

She left the house, her head down as she quickly descended the steps. Hearing an engine, she saw the car that had dropped her off an hour before driving away down the street. Her eyes followed it, automatically going down the sidewalk in the direction of the restaurant. Seeing a man in blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she stumbled. Without seeing his face, she knew it was Jackson. He might not be in a suit, but the tilt of his head, the stride of his walk, the controlled movements of his arms gave him away.

She made a move to catch up with him, running her fingers through her hair. Suddenly, he turned and she stumbled again. Dark eyes pierced hers and her breath caught at the intensity in his gaze. Nerves fluttered in her stomach, and her heart beat faster. Hating the breathiness in her tone, she said, ‘Hi.’

His gaze slowly roamed over her chef uniform and a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. When she reached him, he began walking next to her, not saying anything.

‘I wanted to thank you for this opportunity,’ she said, feeling some mysterious need to fill the silence. ‘I won’t disappoint you.’

‘Just try not to be rude to the customers.’

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She nodded, not looking to see if he noticed. It wasn’t as if she could blame him for the jibe. Businesses clustered the long street, a continuous front that only broke at the end of each block. Wooden signs carved and lined with
gold
inlay hung along the eaves of each one – a general store, clothing boutique, jewellery, curios, horse supply, shoes. The quaint little shops weren’t like any she’d seen in New York. Walking under a sign that said
DINER
, she looked forward for a restaurant set off from the rest of the town.

Jackson cleared his throat. Zoe stopped, realizing he was no longer beside her. She found him waiting, a door held open to the diner. Unsure, she glanced at the front window. In white and gold window paint, old-fashioned letters like the script from a wanted poster spelt out the single word, ‘
Renée
’.

Her eyes wide, she looked from the window up to the diner sign and back again. ‘I …’

Jackson motioned inside. ‘We’re closed today because of the re-staffing. Otherwise, you’ll open at nine, close at seven thirty. You’re off Saturdays and Sundays when the relief cook comes in. You have no say on the way weekends are handled and the weekend staff will not interfere with what you do. When you arrive is up to you and you leave when your work is done. Come in, get acquainted with your area, figure out if you need to order anything, numbers are on the back wall of the kitchen. Food orders are delivered by the local grocery and they can have whatever you need dropped by with only a day’s notice – unless it’s something fancy they don’t keep in stock. Then you’ll want to give them a couple days. The waitress takes care of deposits and you just need to keep your receipts together for the accountant who comes in at the end of each month.’ Pulling his key from the lock, he handed it to her. ‘Your copy.’

Numbly, she followed him in, hoping the second she entered she’d see it wasn’t as bad as she thought. Though clean, the restaurant was definitely a diner, with plastic
menus
and a long row of booths along a stretch of countertop. It had red and white-chequered wallpaper accented with a large clock and tables whose tops were lacquered newspaper clippings – most with pictures of horses.

‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered, her nose burning with sudden unshed tears. Her hands shook. A diner? She’d left her home, her city, her family for a diner? If she wanted to work in a diner she could have moved somewhere closer to New York City. Unable to stop her feet, she followed him toward the metal swinging door with a small round window leading to the kitchen. Basket fryers were next to a stainless-steel range complete with a griddle and six burners. A high shelf was set right beneath the pick-up window showing out over the main floor. Double ovens lined one wall, next to a worktable with a butcher block and an array of appliances. The red ceramic floors had a darkness to them that would never look completely clean, no matter how hard a person scrubbed. The white walls were constructed of washable panelling, covered with clear plastic splashguards at places.

Jackson stared at her, his face unmoving, his dark eyes searching for her reaction. Was this a test? A joke? Was he waiting to see what she would do?

‘I thought you said you needed a head chef.’ Zoe tried to choose her words carefully, tried to keep the disappointment from her eyes, tried to look as blank as his expressionless face.

‘And I do. You just happen to be the only chef. What do you care? You needed a job, I needed a cook, you begged for this –’

‘I didn’t beg for this.’ She felt as if she were being punished for something.

‘You begged for a job. This is a job.’ He took a step toward her and she became aware of how very alone they were in the kitchen. The breadth of his shoulders blocked her line of sight until all she saw was his body looming forward. ‘I told you the position wasn’t glamorous and that I had more pressing matters with a new restaurant proposal in Texas. I don’t have time to interview for cooks here. I need someone who can just come in and do it. Did I make a mistake in bringing you here?’

‘That’s it?’ Zoe swallowed, wondering if he knew how close he was standing. The gentle scent of his cologne wafted across her senses. She saw a subtle shift in his expression, a lifting of his brow, a curve of his full mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, even as her heart sped in her chest. She did her best to hide her trembling.

‘You want there to be more?’ The soft brush of his words fanned her cheek, carrying the accent of his voice. What he implied was not what she’d meant, but as the words left him and he leant his face toward hers, she found herself meeting his kiss. Aggression poured between them, as if they fought with their mouths instead of words. Only, Zoe wasn’t sure what they were arguing about. A warm hand gripped the side of her face, holding her tight. His body grazed the length of hers and she touched his firm waist, not pulling or pushing as she made contact.

The forcefulness only increased when his tongue delved into her mouth, conquering the depths with a bruising intent. Zoe didn’t back down. She’d never been kissed with such knee-weakening passion. Desire warmed her stomach and thighs, centering its slick burn in her dampening sex. Something grazed her stomach, so lightly she couldn’t be sure which part of him it was by feel alone. But when it happened again, she had the distinct impression it was his
erect
cock. Every ounce of her wanted to grip him tight, force his muscled body to hers, but the mild shock that she was being kissed by
the
Jackson Levy kept her from instigating more.

‘Hel-low!’

The loud call punctuated by the bell over the front door caused them to jerk apart at the same instant. Zoe licked her lips, tasting the cool mint of him on her tingling mouth. Jackson’s hand stayed on her face, his shocked expression saying more than words ever could. He was as amazed by their kiss as she was. Though their bodies had not pressed together, her hand was still on his waist.

‘Jackson? Boy, you in here? Bob said you were coming by today.’ The voice that interrupted them continued, the sound tired with the deep gravelly quality of a heavy smoker.

Zoe panted hard. Jackson pulled away, putting distance between them. His hand slid from her face as her fingers left his side. She tried to speak, but had no idea what to say. He visibly swallowed, his gorgeous lips parting in a deep breath. He pointed at her, bouncing his hand lightly in the air. ‘We’ll, ah …’He didn’t finish as he turned to the metal kitchen door in time to see it swing open. ‘Sheryl, hey there, sweetheart. How’s my best waitress?’

Zoe felt jealousy burn through her at his easy tone, until she saw the older woman he talked to. Her dyed-black hair contrasted with the paleness of her wrinkled face. The short locks were cut straight along her chin and the cat-eye style of her glasses was actually pretty trendy in some artsy New York circles. Her white button-down blouse tucked into her black, pleated, knee-length skirt.

‘I’m your only waitress,’ Sheryl answered with a wink. Her playful expression faded when she acknowledged
Zoe
. ‘You must be the new cook. I’ll do the pies and the pound cake. I don’t do rolls. I don’t cook and if the dishwasher doesn’t show, you’re in charge of the dishes. I’ll need a list of specials at the beginning of the week. I like to tell the regulars what to expect and I highly recommend you make Tuesday meatloaf. If you don’t, I won’t protect you. Mashed potatoes must be homemade. If it comes from a box the customers will scream louder than a stuck pig. Other favorites include ham and beans with cornbread, zucchini pancakes, potato pancakes, sweet potato pie, meatballs, barbeque chicken, chicken and dumplings, fried chicken gizzards and smothered pork chops. Recipes are in the desk file in case you don’t know how to make them right, being as you’re from New York and all. Potato salad is homemade, but you don’t have to do it. I’ll leave it in the fridge every Monday. And it’s not on the menu, but when tomatoes are in season, we always offer fried green tomatoes.’

Zoe couldn’t answer. Her heart still fluttered in her chest from Jackson’s kiss. If his plan had been to throw her completely out of her element, he’d succeeded.

‘Good.’ Sheryl nodded in approval. ‘Quiet ones work harder.’

When the woman left the kitchen, Zoe said, ‘I thought I was the head chef.’

‘Technically, you are. But Sheryl’s been here a long time. I’ll leave it up to you if you want to try and cross her.’ Jackson nodded once before pulling out a card. He tossed it on the butcher block. ‘My number if you need it.’

Zoe watched him leave before growling under her breath. Ranting to herself, she said, ‘This is a joke. I finally have control over my own restaurant and it barely qualifies as a restaurant and a waitress thinks she can tell me what to do.’