Read Cooking up a Storm for Free Online

He’d taken off his jacket. He wore a grey silk T-shirt beneath it and snug black trousers. She could see every lean, curved muscle through his clothes. He must work out. Nobody’s genes were that good.
    He reached towards her with a beautifully shaped tan hand. She put her own hand into it. A tingle shot up her arm at his firm, dry grip. A tiny muscle in her pussy quivered and, a second later, her panties were wet. Good Lord, she thought, this man was dangerous.
    ‘Thank you for taking time to see me,’ he said, smiling down at her, but not very far down. ‘My name is Storm Dupré.’
    He had a slight, delightful accent — soft consonants, sensual ‘s’s and half-swallowed ‘r’s. French maybe, she thought, which would go with his surname. As she stared, the corners of his mouth curled upward and he lowered his silvery-blue eyes, as if his smile were a secret he couldn’t share. A fan of black lashes shadowed his sculpted cheekbones.
    Abby shook herself. ‘Abigail Coates,’ she said, her voice embarrassingly breathy. Alarmed at the sound, she released his hand. Hers was damp. She dried it on her flowered skirt. ‘Marissa tells me you’re a chef.’
    ‘That’s right.’ He pulled out a chair and gestured her towards it. ‘Why don’t we sit and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’
    Though his tone was not overtly suggestive, Abby couldn’t suppress a blush. She cleared her throat. ‘Have in mind for what?’ she asked.
    He proceeded to tell her. New menus, he said, with fewer dishes per night, but more variety from night to night. He’d go over her old receipts, keep the most popular dishes and jettison the rest. He’d want uniforms for the staff, nothing fancy — black trousers and clean white shirts would do. Advertising was advisable or, at the very least, press attention for the change in personnel. He was an award-winning Californian chef; he was certain they’d find him newsworthy. He didn’t see any reason why the Coates Inn shouldn’t be a place people ate at all year round.
    ‘And the portions are too large,’ he said, holding her with his soft, burning eyes. ‘I don’t propose we switch to nouvelle cuisine but, when it comes to eating out, a little too much is just right. People should go home feeling pampered, not pained.’
    Abby nodded, just as she’d been nodding all along. The man named Storm waited.
    ‘Oh,’ she said, jerking out of the warm, floaty place where his voice had sent her. ‘That all sounds very interesting. I should warn you though–’ she smoothed the edge of the table cloth ‘–I’m on a limited budget. I can only afford to pay the salary I promised for six months and, if we aren’t making money by then, I’ll have to let you go. If I do all the things you suggested, we’d have to turn a profit much sooner.’
    He leant back in his chair. ‘Ah,’ he said. The single syllable rang with foreign charm.
    ‘Where are you from?’ she asked, unable to restrain herself.
    ‘Montreal,’ he said, the word very Gallic on his lips. ‘But I moved to the States when I was sixteen.’
    A silence fell then, a repressive silence that did not encourage further questions. Abby fidgeted. She wondered if she ought to tell him the extra operating capital existed, but her sisters — who owned the restaurant in common with her — had dithered endlessly about freeing it up. Nervous, she looked up at him. His face gave nothing away, though in repose he appeared sad. The corners of his beautiful mouth turned down, as did his lambent eyes. No, she told herself, family business was family business. It wasn’t meant to be shared with strangers, no matter how alluring and competent they seemed.
    Finally, the man sat forward and rested his forearms on the table. Perhaps he’d come to a decision. Abby held her breath. She realised she wanted to hire him. Looks aside, he sounded like the sort of go-getter she needed.
    ‘I don’t think money will be a problem,’ he said.