Make Me Risk It by Beth Kery Page B

it
is
my business. How long has it been since you’ve been drinking again? Or did it ever really stop?”
    Her elegant neck convulsed at his whip-like question. She’d cut her long, glorious mane of blonde hair since he’d last seen her two years ago. She wore it short, the gleaming waves combed behind her ears. He’d have thought the sheering of those curls and tresses might have symbolized the taming of Elise’s infamous wild spirit, but he’d have thought wrong. Elise’s rebellion came from her eyes.
    “I told you it’s none of your business. And you can’t fire Mario, just because you don’t like me.”
    “I can do whatever I please. This is my place.” He saw the familiar defiant expression tighten her features, the same one she’d worn as a fourteen-year-old girl when he’d told her that a stallion in his father’s stables was too strong and dangerous for her to control.
    “But—”
    “There’s no but about it,” Lucien said, forcing his tone into its usual calm cadence and volume. He would
not
let the presence of Elise set him off balance. She had a habit of doing just that—of whipping the usually staid upper crust of European society into a scandalized whirlwind with her outrageous stunts . . . of sending a man spinning with her unparalleled beauty and the temptation of taming her. He remembered all too well their last meeting three years ago at Renygat, his Parisian restaurant. He recalled Elise looking up at him as she unfastened his pants, her fingertips brushing against a cock that teamed with hot, raw lust, her lips red and puffy from his earlier angry possession of her mouth, her eyes shining like fire-infused sapphires, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, addictive and sweet—yes, even with the flavor of too much premium scotch blending with it.
    You want to forget your past, Lucien? I’m going to make you feel so good, you’re going to forget your
name.
You know, the name I mean? Your father’s?
    His body tightened at the memory. It had cost him to send Elise away that night, but he’d done it. The memory of what had occurred after she’d stormed out of his office pained him to this day . . . infuriated him in fact.
    Elise had a long history of emotional manipulation. She knew precisely how to slip the most formidable foe in her hip pocket and make him beg like a hungry dog. Lucien had far too much at stake to allow a gorgeous, rich bad girl to sidetrack him.
    Even if that gorgeous, rich bad girl was Elise Martin.
    “I want both of you to get out of here. You’re lucky I don’t call the police,” Lucien stated, starting to turn again. He paused when he noticed Mario move jerkily toward him from the corner of his eye. Apparently, the chef had regained some of his typical hauteur in the intervening seconds.
    “Don’t be a fool. You have to open Fusion tomorrow. You need me. What will you do for a chef?”
    “I’ll manage. I’ve been in this business long enough to know how to deal with stealing employees.”
    “Are you calling me a thief? An
employee
?” Clearly, Mario couldn’t decide which label was more insulting: criminal or paid worker. His color faded beneath his olive-toned skin.
    Lucien paused, gauging, taking in the glassiness of Mario’s eyes. Apparently, Mario had imbibed his fair share before he’d brought Elise here to ply her with Lucien’s brandy. Did he plan to make love to her on the leather couch in his private office, as well? The thought sent his anger to a low boil. He supposed Mario might be attractive enough to some women, but he was in his forties, and far too old to be seducing Elise. No matter that Elise had probably taken four times as many lovers as him, Mario was still a rutting cradle robber, as far as Lucien was concerned.
    “I hadn’t yet called you a thief, but that’s precisely what you are. Among other things.”
    “You can’t fire him!” Elise blurted out. Lucien glanced sideways at her, startled by the panic in her