Chapter 2

This is precisely the place that should have lobster and champagne on the menu!

The marina is packed with multimillion-dollar, private vessels and we should be in competition with the yacht club, catering to the culinary whims of every Richie Rich!

Instead, we’re festering at the end of the dock, squandering our coveted views and prime real estate.

I grind over this predicament for all of two seconds. My first response is to send Tanya to the yacht club’s cantina for a bottle of champagne. But I’m not sure we even have enough cash in the drawer to cover the expense.

I crank on this some more. And then… Suddenly, I remember we do have a bottle of bubbly onsite.

I’d bought it for an employee, end-of-summer beach bash, back when I’d been relatively new here and had still optimistically held the misguided notion that the owner was going to wake up one day and realize what a true treasure trove this restaurant could be. Once was, even.

Oh, those had been bright-eyed, bushy-tailed days. Especially when he’d popped in twice, seemingly assessing the possibilities and evaluating my performance. I’d practically held my breath in anticipation of him concluding we were worth saving.

What’d I get?

Crickets.

Both times, he disappeared and absolutely nothing came from his visit. Soon after, I’d been informed by his accountant/HR person that I’d deal with him on all restaurant matters, going forward.

I’d been deflated. Way to poke holes in all my party balloons.

He wasn’t the only one to do so. A tropical storm rolled in on the weekend of our planned celebration and closed the marina, so the champagne was left to chill on the bottom shelf of the walk-in cooler. That’s if no one’s since discovered and pilfered it.

I tell Jared, “Serve water with lime to stall. Fresh twists, not wedges or slices from the bar.” To Tanya, I say, “Find me a clean, white towel. Clean. As in spotless and without even the tiniest, microscopic snare in it.” That’ll be a quest unto itself.

I whirl around and dash off to the kitchen, to search for the champagne. I miraculously locate the grand brut, guessing my staff would prefer to discover a stray bottle of rum vs. champagne. I grab the two less-questionable towels Tanya proffers and ceremoniously wrap one around the neck. Naturally, it dawns on me belatedly that we don’t have flutes, so I have to improvise with a daiquiri glass.

“He requested two,” Jared informs me.

My brow jumps. “He’s expecting someone to join him? Here?”

“One plus one equals two.” He wanders off.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I really should fire him. But I don’t exactly have applicants beating down my door to replace him.

Then again, I’m not sure I’d need to replace him.

I am, after all, the one who delivers the champagne to the man who makes my skin tingle and my pulse race.

His gaze lands on me as I come through the wide opening, the tray expertly balanced in the palm of my hand.

I have to will myself to remain steady, not let the ripples of exhilaration he incites cause me to topple over the bottle and glasses.

Fortunately, this is one of my fortes and I manage to delicately set everything on the table.

I pull the cork with the additional towel and splash a sample into one of the glasses. He sips and nods his approval, though I can see in his eyes he’s not wholly impressed.

I bite back a sigh.

It’s only a fifty-dollar brand I picked up at a wine warehouse.

Ring-a-ding-ding. Fifty dollars. I’d venture to say one of his socks costs more than that. This isn’t a man who’s going to find my personal splurge to be momentous.

And he’s well in his right for thinking that way.

Damn it, we should have a vast and ridiculously high-end selection available in an honest-to-God wine cellar, given the wealth and affluence at the other end of the pier.

I manage not to stomp my foot in angst. Yes, the struggle is real.

I concentrate, instead, on the challenge presented to me. That being graciously pretending we’re not just a rung or two above a boardwalk vendor or street corner hot dog stand. (Only because we have an actual roof, not just a popup tent or an umbrella.)

I ask him, “Would you like me to pour now, or wait until your dining companion arrives?”

“She just has.” He grins at me. A sexy, seductive grin that sets my inner thighs ablaze and ignites everything within me. And steals my breath. Again.

Somehow, I force myself to tear my gaze from his and glance over my shoulder. But all I see are the bodyguards he’s brought with him. That unto itself is intimidating.

As is his deep, sensual, though quietly forceful voice. “I want to have a drink with you, Ms. Storm. Please, take a seat.”

One of the burly bodyguards immediately appears at the table to pull back the chair across from the downright dreamy stranger.

“I’m sorry… I’m confused.” I eye Dark and Devilish, quizzically.

He gestures to the chair. “I’m here specifically to meet with you. I apologize for not making a formal appointment. This is an impromptu trip.”

I refrain from asking if his megayacht required a refresh of caviar before continuing onto its true destination. I’m not much on snark.

“I had a break in my schedule and was able to fly in for the evening. I’m Nicholas Angelini. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I murmur. Not only because I’m thoroughly perplexed. Mostly it’s that… I am a million times over dying a slow death from sheer, unadulterated lust—and curiosity.

I sink into the chair. It’s scooted forward for me by one of the entourage. I’m a bit numb, totally at a loss.

“Please, call me Nick,” he immediately says in his warm, intimate timbre. Which basically oozes down my spine like melted molasses.

He gazes at me expectantly, as though I’m to know his name, as though it ought to be familiar to me.

But I can’t place him. Or his accent. It’s richly textured, like everything else about the man. Sensual, with what I clumsily guess is a hint of Portuguese, mixed with French, laced with Russian, tinged with…Italian? It’s like a decadent international crème brûlée that sends an erotic thrill ribboning through me, making me squirm in the seat I’ve just taken.

As I stumble over this, his bodyguard pours the second glass of champagne. For me.

I have instantly entered an alternate universe.

Nick raises his glass and I automatically do the same. His gorgeous, grey-green eyes are locked with mine as he says, “You’re even more beautiful than I was informed.”

We clink rims.

I’m not sure why. It wasn’t exactly a toast.

And who would have “informed” him of me? Curt Donaldson? Was he actually a “scout,” not an investor, himself?

Fuck. That brings back the convo about the online reviews. There are a number of them purporting things like, “other than the beautiful, overly-qualified-for-this-venue manager and the views, this restaurant is a waste of time, money, and space—don’t stop here!”

One-star review, one-star review, one-star review…

They keep piling up.

Why am I still working here, you might ask?

I have faith.

Perhaps too much faith.

Faith something fantastically bizarre will happen to flip the tables, change the tides.

Faith that lightning will strike.

And then it does.

Nick gets right down to business, saying, “My brother owns this restaurant, Miss Storm. He’s planning to sell. You know this. You want to make an offer. So. Let’s make a deal.”

I stare at him over the rim of my glass, my eyes wide, my hand suddenly shaking. “I can’t afford his price. Otherwise, I would have given it my best shot already.”

“You misunderstand me.” Nick leans in close and murmurs, “You have dreams, Bailey Storm. I can make them come true…”

He’s speaking. I see his highly tempting mouth move. The man has the perfect lips. Soft and supple looking. Not too thick, not to thin.

I imagine they’d feel like velvet and sin as they graze my skin. And I can tell he kisses like a world-class champion, without even having to experience it firsthand. (Not that I don’t want to. Lord, do I!)

You know how some men just have that appearance about them? As though they were graced with the ability to kiss a woman senseless with no real effort on their part? They’re also the type who end up getting swept away by the passion as well, so that they increase the intensity of the kiss, deepen it, turn it hot and demanding until nothing else exists. Except that heat and intensity.

It's a thoroughly mesmeric thought, a wildly captivating one.

So much so, I’m convinced that is precisely how Nick Angelini kisses a woman. And I am instantly craving the full effect, the loss of time and space, the searing sensations, the insistency for more.

Which is… Very peculiar, I’ll admit.

I’m not a believer in i***a-lust. I’m not into one-night stands or casual flings. I’ve had a couple and, well, let’s just say, they left much to be desired. One of the reasons my undivided attention is on my job.

Such as it is.

I’m pulled from these thoughts.

“Cristoff says you’re extremely good at running his business.” Nick’s darkly exotic voice caresses my soul. Thus, I am not fully released from his hypnotic allure.

However, I am perplexed again.

My gaze narrows. “Cristoff is your brother?” I’m a bit flabbergasted. “His last name is Vandenburg.”

“Half-brother, technically. And he took his first wife’s name. She’s an heiress. Very well-connected, internationally. Therefore, he kept the credentials following the divorce.”

“I’m not quite sure—”

“I’ll explain everything,” he assures me. “First, sip your champagne.”

I do, primarily because I’m in need of a little fortification. The effervescence is lovely, though I do murmur, “My apologies for the brand and vintage.”

He grins again and I just… I can’t breathe when he does that. It’s so natural and easy, and yet so deliciously taunting. I nearly wither right out of my chair.

He says, “I’m fine with the brand and vintage. No apologies necessary.”

“It’s not exactly a private-reserve,” I add, because he looks like the type to care not only about ratings points, but also price points—strictly for the superiority and prestige they infer. “Or an elusive, pure pinot noir.” I rattle off a few top-tier, notable labels.

Now he pins me with an incredulous expression and a crooked brow. “Those are extraordinary bottles of bubbly.”

“Not even a true contender for the best of the best.” I mention one highly regarded cuvee I suspect is in his wine cellar. The man is wearing a tailored designer suit with diamond cuff links. He exudes wealth and affluence. Therefore, I know he knows what I’m talking about.

He sips from his faux champagne glass, his eyes never leaving mine. And asks, “How do you know so much about expensive vintages?”

“They were an obsession when I was in college. I studied them so extensively, I have an emphasis in Sommelier Services and an honorary degree in Riddling.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’ll be impressed if you tell me that a bottle of forty-three-thousand-dollar champagne truly is in your cellar.”

“I’d happily show you,” he more flirtatiously says—which throws me completely off guard. “I have cases, in fact.”

I’m caught up in his penetrating gaze and the sexual tension that arcs between us. Scorchingly. Electrifyingly.

But he more easily pivots, seemingly realizing we’re entranced in something powerfully entrancing and he instantly…snaps out of it.

He takes a sip, then sets aside his glass. Changing the subject, and effectively removing his previous invitation from the table, he gets back to our true business at hand.

He says, “Cristoff won this restaurant in a poker game. Did he ever tell you that?”

“We weren’t exactly chummy,” I utter, having an infinitely more difficult time coming around than Nick did. “He’s only been in a couple of times since I was hired. In the beginning, to check on my progress. Then he vanished.”

“He has the attention span of a gnat,” Nick divulges. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I would like to have spent more time with him, discuss ideas with him to increase the patronage here, improve his bottom line.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t care about the bottom line. He has more money than he knows what to do with—and his last three wives haven’t been able to get their hands on any of it.”

“Then why…?” I’m completely astounded now. I thought the man was flat-broke. “Why hasn’t he done anything with this place? It’s a sensational location and there’s a killer clientele right down the dock!” I blurt. Then clamp my hand over my mouth.

I’m not tipsy, I’ve only had a few small sips! But I’m definitely lightheaded, once more.

Not from the champagne.

Purely because of the man.

Yet, I’m capable of latching onto one logical, coherent thought.

I say, “My understanding was, he couldn’t afford this place any longer, so he’s putting it on the market. I’d snatch it up, in a heartbeat. Renovate it. Redecorate it. Hire more staff and an executive chef who excels in seafood and other  delicacies. My wine cellar would win awards and all those yacht owners would be torn, every single night, between their members’ only club and my public restaurant.”

I heave a despondent sigh and reach for my glass.

I can envision this deck being the most romantic venue for date night and anniversaries. Birthday parties and other special occasions. I can visualize an upscale, elegant dining room with servers wearing contemporary uniforms, certainly more formal than our current khaki shorts and tank tops. I have such huge dreams for this place and yet…

I accept a beverage refresh from the head bodyguard, at the same time lamenting the fact I’m the one who should be pouring!

But I’m trapped in a vortex at present.

Nick further expounds, “Cristoff had mentioned this property, in passing, some time ago. Then I think he forgot it existed. Until I approached him with a problem I was having. And that brought this restaurant back to the forefront of his mind. Well…actually…” Nick’s gaze on me turns more penetrating. Deeply penetrating. Like he’s looking into my soul. “It was you, Miss Storm, he was fixated on.”

My head whips back. “Me?” My eyes bulge. “I’m sorry…what?”

With a low chuckle that reverberates within me and sends more shivers down my spine, Nick says, “Cristoff is ready to unload this property, because he sees no value in it. He knows you’re hopelessly devoted to it. Even his accountant raves about your diligence and your dedication. Cristoff knows you can’t afford to even lease from him. And that, Bailey Storm, is where I come in.”