“Personally, they’re gonna have to bury me on Saint Barts,” Chaz declared. “I’ve been wanting a place there so long I’m never leaving. In fact, the way this deal all came down, let me tell you, man, it made me believe in miracles— like this was all some big cosmic enchilada. Offenbach’s
Topaz
had just come on the market. I was lusting after it big time, trying to figure out how to swing a deal, and then out of the blue you called and said you wanted to buy my restaurant. ”
Jake grinned. “Definitely a psychic phenomenon.” And the fact that he wanted a restaurant with a prime location on the Mississippi River.
“No shit. I finally must be living right,” Chaz said with a grin. He put out his hand. “Since I have a two o’clock flight to paradise, I’d better hit the road. Good luck, man.”
Jake took Chaz’s hand in a firm grip. “Same to you.”
“Check out my new place next season,” Chaz offered. “The views are a helluva lot nicer than the ones here. Not that I’m knocking river views.”
“Hey, each to his own,” Jake said with a smile. “And don’t be surprised if I show up in Saint Barts.”
“You always have a place to stay, amigo.” Chaz turned to go. “Not to mention prime room service,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
A minute later, the front door shut on Chaz Burnett, and Jake surveyed his new restaurant space with that feeling of anticipation and impatience he always experienced when taking on a new venture. He’d given the staff a month’s vacation so he had time to start renovating the bar and redoing the menu. With luck, the River Joint would be open for business in six to eight weeks.
And this time, he wasn’t interested in pleasing the food critics or decorators or even a certain segment of the population that followed, lemminglike, each new entry onto the restaurant scene. This place was for himself alone. No pretensions, no sleek decor. He wanted it to be comfortable and laid back, a neighborhood joint that just happened to have world-class food and wines.
He’d earned the right to indulge himself in this labor of love. The fact that he used to spend summers near here with his aunt was only a nostalgic bonus to his new creative endeavor.
Everyone in his organization had tried to talk him out of buying in the Midwest. The profits wouldn’t compare to those in major metropolitan centers, they’d argued. But he’d lost interest in profits alone a long time ago—or he’d been fortunate enough to be allowed that luxury.
People only eat bland food in the Midwest, he’d been cautioned. And even if he wanted to introduce more eclectic cooking, the ingredients couldn’t be found locally, his colleagues had warned.
“Not true and wrong,” he’d replied. “Besides, I need some downtime.” Which was perhaps the more cogent reason for his flight to what his West Coast cohorts perceived as the outland of the world. He’d been working too hard and playing too hard. “I’ll check back with you in six months,” he’d added, knowing he was leaving competent managers in charge of his restaurants. “Consider this my long-delayed sabbatical.”
At thirty-five, he’d been in the business in one form or another for twenty years, and while wildly successful in every sense of the word, he found he wanted more or something else—or something different.
Not that he knew what the hell
something different
meant.
But he’d given himself six months to find out.
Two
Olivia Bell, known as Liv for obvious reasons— or at least obvious reasons to anyone who had been plagued with the teasing designation Olive Oil in grade school—lifted her booted feet up on the railing of her front porch and leaned back in her chair.
It was hotter than hell today, especially with the sun at high noon. She was dripping with sweat under her jeans and T-shirt, her fingernails were dirty as usual—no matter she’d scrubbed them after working in her vineyard—her pale hair was a riot of curls with the humidity at near record highs, and even unkempt and sweaty, she was happy, content, and really grossly self-satisfied. Sitting on the porch of her old farmhouse, surveying her vineyard that bordered a bubbling creek running through her land, she felt as though she’d found that much-lauded promised land. Or at least her own little piece of heaven, she decided, opting for a modicum of modesty in her assessment.
Lifting the glass of wine resting on the arm of her chair, she studied the deep ruby tones sparkling in the sun before bringing the glass to her nose and inhaling the scent. Perfect: lush; ripe; a brooding, classy beauty. Taking a sip, she held it in her mouth, savoring the voluptuous flavors and long, sweet finish.
Times like this made all the years of hard-ass toil as a model worth it.
More than worth it.
Six years ago she’d saved up enough to buy this farm in the rolling hills of the Saint Croix Valley. Even though most of her modeling friends thought she was crazy, they’d given her a memorable two-day party send-off after the spring shows in Milan, and she’d retired to the life of a farmer. Last fall, her first credible vintage from mature grapes had come on the market to universal acclaim—at least in her little part of the world.
Which was good enough for her.
She didn’t have grandiose aspirations.
After years of traveling the globe from one fashion shoot to another, after seeing just about all there was to see in terms of sights, both people- and planet-wise, she was more than happy—in the words of Faust—to till her own garden.
She’d probably made more money than she deserved for simply smiling into camera lenses. But then she didn’t set the rates. And thanks to a seemingly insatiable demand for young blonde models with good cheekbones, she was now able to enjoy the rewards of her labor and make some damned fine wine in the process.
But in terms of seeing that her small business continued to prosper, as soon as she finished her glass of wine, she’d better shower, dress, and drive into town to make her usual Monday deliveries to her restaurant customers.
Three
Chaz’s restaurant was the last on Liv’s list, and by the time she pulled up to the back door, it was after six. The door was ajar as usual, but the reggae rhythms Chaz liked to have blaring from the loudspeakers were gone, and instead the muted sound of piano music could be heard.
The restaurant was always closed on Mondays; maybe Chaz was auditioning some new entertainment.
Lifting a case of wine from the back of her pickup truck, Liv moved toward the kitchen door. Shoving it open, she walked in, set the case on the stainless steel counter, and left to get a second case. A few moments later, finished with her delivery, she glanced around the kitchen, wondering where Chaz and Louie were. Chaz’s bookkeeper, Louie, who had no life unless comic book conventions counted, was always at his desk in the back of the kitchen crunching numbers.
Everything was strange enough that rather than barge into the dining room where the music was coming from, she opted for discretion. Chaz might be hitting on some female piano player. He hit on every good-looking woman who came into range. “Hey, Chaz!” she called out, figuring she’d let him know she was here, and he could respond or not. “Delivery!”
The piano music abruptly stopped.
Whatever he was doing apparently allowed for interruptions. Moving toward Louie’s desk to drop off her invoice, she placed it in his in-box.
“The delivery people dress better around here.”
Spinning around at the low, husky tone, she saw a tall, dark, more than ordinarily beautiful man instead of blond, boyish Chaz standing in the doorway to the dining room. “Where’s Chaz and Louie?” she asked, ignoring his comment as well as the approval in his quick, raking glance. She was used to men looking at her like that.
Jake glanced at his watch. “About now, I’d say Chaz is in the Miami airport waiting for his flight to Saint Barts; Louie’s on vacation.”
Liv gave him a questioning look. “And you are?” Although she was pretty sure she already knew, a second glance having confirmed her suspicions.
“Jake Chambers. The new owner.” Taking in the printing on the side of the cases—Liv Bell Wines—he quickly reconsidered his stance on Minnesota wines and smiled. “You must be darling Livvi.” And she certainly was, from her golden curls to her slender tanned feet—the face and body in between definitely magazine-cover material.
“Chaz calls everyone darling. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He was more than ready to ignore that warning tone in her voice, seeing how he was suddenly reexamining his plans to lead a monastic life during his downtime. The blonde in his kitchen looked damned fine in that red flower print summer dress, green strappy heels, and not much else, if her pert nipples straining the fabric of her dress were any indication. “Do you need help carrying in anything?”
He suddenly found himself thinking plans were made to be broken—a purely libidinous but irresistible impulse. Enjoying some
downtime with benefits
might not be so bad.
“No, thanks. I’ve heard of you,” Liv added, her gaze deliberate, not sure whether he was hitting on her.
He smiled faintly. “It must not have been good.”
“You’re not from around here, that’s all.” His thick black hair had been pulled back carelessly in a short, untidy ponytail, accenting his stark cheekbones and dark, exotic eyes. And whether she found his fame or his beauty disturbing was unclear.
“Do I need vetting?”
His smile this time was incredibly sensual, as though he knew very well he didn’t need vetting. Nor did anyone who looked like him, she thought. Even casually dressed, or maybe
because
he was casually dressed in sandals, jeans, and a white T-shirt with the logo of his L.A. restaurant in small letters on the left side of his muscled chest, he exuded a kind of accessibility, as though he wasn’t a famous megachef or breathtakingly handsome, as though he was an ordinary man.
When he wasn’t.
But her voice was composed when she answered; she’d met more than her share of notable, handsome men. “No, of course not,” she said. “Forgive me if I gave that impression. ”
Her restraint was palpable. “Not a problem.” He smiled. “Tell me about your wines. Chaz says they’re excellent.” Something beyond his male predatory instincts made him want to put her at ease.
He didn’t know why it mattered that he see her smile.
He knew less why he was making the effort.
Maybe he was overtired and not thinking straight after leaving L.A. at five that morning. Or maybe he was in a good mood about his new restaurant and wanted company. Bottom line though—libido or not—there wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be interested in meeting darling Livvi’s criteria—picky or not.
She was one gorgeous woman and not in a beautiful blonde from Hollywood or Vegas way. She exuded a fresh wholesomeness, like say—she worked in a sunny vineyard. Her skin glowed, her eyes were a clear aquamarine, her pale hair was bleached by the sun, and that hint of cleavage just barely visible above the scooped neck of her dress was— let’s face it—damned enticing.
“Care to give me a taste?” Understanding her startled look required further explanation on his part, he gestured at the case of wine on the counter.
Had he known her startled look had to do with something else entirely—something warm and tingly revving up in her pleasure centers, something wholly sexual—he would have been gratified.
It must have been too long between men, Liv thought, trying to remember when last she’d had sex, when she’d last felt that delicious jolt of desire.
Shit. Not that long ago.
So much for abstinence as an excuse.
But regardless, it
felt
like it must have been too long, she decided as a lustful heat shimmered through her body and settled between her legs as her body opened in welcome. Like wow—she’d never felt the urge to jump a guy on first sight before.
Although, perhaps her sudden, bolt-from-the-blue carnal cravings were predicated by the samurai comic books she adored or her penchant for Japanese films. That Jake Chambers’s Eurasian looks were nothing short of awesome could not be ignored. Or maybe there was some real basis for the pheromone theory, and she could blame a sudden blast of biological stimuli for her unusual response. Or it could be her inexplicable horniness was based on some weird familiarity. She’d actually met Jake once years ago in L.A. “Sure—we can taste my wines if you like,” she said, making sure she made it clear
what exactly
they were tasting. “And I don’t know if you remember, but we met before, ” she added, hoping banal conversation would help mitigate her outlandish rush of desire. “We were introduced at your restaurant in L.A. It was years ago—I forget exactly when—but it was around the time of the Academy Awards.” Perfect. Cool, detached—or at least her voice was. Her body continued on its own willful path.
“No way we met,” Jake said. “I would have remembered. ”
“I was with someone
and
with a large group.”
That explained it, at least. He didn’t zero in on other men’s women.