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The security team rushed over the minute they exited, wide eyed and apologetic and seemingly wondering if they ought to pull their guns.
Zane handed his thrashing burden over to two of them. “Find out where she’s staying. Get her there safely and make sure she doesn’t gain entrance here again. If I hear she’s gotten ten feet into this lobby, all of you are fired.”
The guards assured him they’d take care of it.
“Sorry,” he said to Missy, vibrating with tiny tremors as Trey’s relative was carried out of sight. He was so angry for his friend’s sake that his heart thumped wildly. Trey was too good a person to have to deal with this.
“That’s okay,” Missy said, a little shaken herself. “You know what they say about family. Can’t live with them. Can’t make them go away.”
He laughed at her joke, hugging her with genuine gratitude. “I’ll make this up to you,” he promised.
Liking that, Missy smiled coyly at him from under her fake lashes.
~
Somehow Rebecca made it to Sunday night without imploding, no easy task after she’d ordered her crew to relax over the weekend. She’d heard through the line cook grapevine that Neil Montana—the jackass whose hiring had driven her out of Wilde’s—was predicting an epic fail for The Bad Boys Lounge. As celebrities went, he was a nonentity, destined to be forgotten as soon as Monster Chef’s next winner was announced. For the moment, he had a soapbox, and some people would enjoy hanging on his words.
To anyone who’d listen, he dubbed the Lounge “Beantown Boredom”—his idea of scathing wit.
Rebecca longed to call Trey and sound off but restrained herself. Venting equaled bonding, and she and Trey didn’t need any more of that. So what if he’d have settled her in two minutes? He wasn’t responsible for her mental state.
Too keyed up to sleep and hoping to blank her thoughts, Rebecca switched on the TV in the living room. A gossip show was on. What was Miley up to? Who were the latest Kardashian love interests? Soothed by the inanity, Rebecca was debating which of her new outfits she’d wear tomorrow when a familiar face appeared onscreen.
She slid forward on the couch so fast she almost fell off.
She couldn’t tell if the footage was live or taped; she hadn’t been paying enough attention. Whenever it had been filmed, the piece showed Zane Alexander emerging from a French nightclub, looking like expensive sex incarnate in a royal blue shirt and black trousers. A woman hung on his arm laughing. She was nearly as tall as him and drop-dead stunning. Rebecca recognized her as a famous swimsuit model. Mystique, she thought was called. Though Rebecca thought Zane was more intriguing, the video paparazzi were there for the brunette.
“Did you enjoy the band?” one reporter called to her, sticking out his microphone.
“How could I not,” she cooed, “with a fine man like this to keep me company?” She hugged Zane’s arm, and he smiled down at her.
Face and chest flaming with embarrassment, Rebecca seized the remote and snapped the TV off.
Boy, Zane hadn’t taken long to get over her dumping him—if dumping was the right term. And so much for what they had being more than a hookup!
She lobbed three couch pillows in swift succession against the wall. The final was aimed so wildly her framed poster of a Parisian boulangerie fell down. Didn’t people say Paris was for lovers? How nice for Zane to be there with his!
She might have descended into a tantrum, but her own growl of rage shocked her.
“They’re not yours,” she reminded. Not Zane. Not Trey. And what sort of idiot was she to want to claim them both?
The answer to that was simple: a female idiot with a pulse.
Rebecca’s chest hitched as if gearing up for a crying jag.
“No,” she growled for a new reason.
She wasn’t allowed to fall apart. Not over this, not the night before the Lounge opened. She forced herself to breathe—one breath in, one breath out—until she’d calmed as much as she was going to.
CHAPTER TEN
Opening Night
THE Bad Boys Lounge put its most beautiful face forward. Flickering candles and fragrant flowers softened the men’s club atmosphere. The fat coffee table books were shelved in their built-ins, the glassware polished like crystals. Everyone who stepped through the entrance looked glamorous. Here was a female anchor for local TV news; there a player from the Bruins with a date so stunning she could have been the celebrity.
Some of the guests congratulated Rebecca on her brothers’ recent interview—either because they assumed it was smart promotion, or because they admired her courage in raising the twins alone. She accepted the slightly discomfiting compliments with the best grace she could. Mercifully, they were infrequent. Rebecca bought the “Best New Wines” issue every year, but at more than ten bucks a pop, the subscription base for Bad Boys Magazine wasn’t huge. She expected this was deliberate. Neither Zane nor Trey was afraid of appearing exclusive.
Then again, who was she to talk? She might not be a high flyer, but she wanted people to feel privileged to eat her food.
Given the crowd, she was grateful she’d splurged on the pearl necklace to dress up her ivory silk blouse and black skirt. Though the outfit reminded her of Zane and his fickleness, at least she didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
Her feet already ached in the two-inch heels.
“Thanks so much for coming,” she said for the umpteenth time. She’d stopped offering her hand a while ago. The coldness of her fingers had shocked people.
She and Trey stood ahead of the hostess’s podium, greeting guests as they came in. Rebecca was no stranger to schmoozing dining rooms. Having faces to associate with a restaurant personalized the diners’ experience and made them feel valued. She simply wasn’t accustomed to being away from her true job so long. She longed to be with her crew, heading off the million and one disasters that might be unfolding.
Barring that, she wished she could focus on the action behind her back. Early sitters had ordered and received their first courses. The noise of talking and laughter obscured what she believed were hums of approval. The wait staff seemed slightly harried as they passed to and fro, but no more than a filling house and first night jitters could account for.
God, let them stay steadier than she was.
A gap between arrivals allowed Trey to sneak his fingers over to chafe her wrist. “Stop agonizing,” he scolded. “If the kitchen were having problems, someone would have come out to get you.”
“Only if they realized the problems were happening,” Rebecca gritted from the side of her mouth.
Trey was spared from trying to counter this by the arrival of her brothers.
“Look at you!” she cried, hands flying to her lips. “All dressed up in your suits.”
Pete wrapped her in a bear hug and then stepped aside for Charlie. Next to him was a little redhead with horn-rimmed glasses. Rebecca saw at once how a girl like this might drive Charlie to anxiety attacks, fictional or otherwise. She was the precisely the sort of nerdalicious siren smart boys dreamed about. Ordering herself to act like a sister ought, Rebecca fought not to recall Charlie’s story about snogging in the library stacks.
“This is Caroline,” he said, pride mixing with nervousness. “My friend from school.”
“So nice to meet you,” Rebecca said, taking the girl’s hand. “Charlie’s mentioned you.”
“Sorry I couldn’t make it to your Sunday dinner,” the girl responded politely. She looked down as if surprised. Too late, Rebecca remembered she shouldn’t have touched her. “Wow, your hands are like ice!”
Pete laughed. “Our big sis is a perfectionist. Leaving her crew to cook a new menu by themselves is her idea of a trip to the guillotine.”
“Pete!” Rebecca chided, though what he said was true.
“You know Raoul can handle it,” he returned.
He squeezed her arm as the busy hostess came back to lead them to their table. Wistful, Rebecca craned around to watch them go. Her brothers were so tall now, handsome in their gangly way. Suddenly, she could see why the Bad Boys editor had chosen them for the cover. They had a presence most young men didn’t, a lively . . . interestingness. Other diners glanced at them as they passed—including at shy Charlie.
“Well, well, well,” said a voice she wished she didn’t recognize. “Enjoying your fifteen seconds in the spotlight?”
Reluctantly, Rebecca turned back toward the street door. Neil Montana stood before her, backed up by a circle of his cronies. He wasn’t quite six feet tall. His build was skinny but soft, his pasty face not improved by his trying-too-hard-to-be-fashionable beard scruff. She’d worked for him all of six days before quitting—which was six days more than any chef with standards should have had to take.
Had Trey invited this idiot? Or maybe Neil had bought one of the tickets whose proceeds were going to charity. God, it didn’t matter. Rebecca forced her shoulders straighter and her jangled brain together.
