Chase Me (Paris Nights Book 2) Page 3

  His ass, on the other hand, was a tight, fine ass. Not big at all. But it still managed to keep dominating her attention as she followed close on his heels to make sure he didn’t mess with anything in her kitchens.

  “Put that glass down! You’re getting fingerprints on it!”

  “You won’t even let me have a little taste?” he asked wistfully. “That caramel looks good. I’d let you taste anything you want.” He pursed his lips near the edge of the glass in a very…tastable position.

  She grabbed the glass and replaced it on the shelves. “Don’t touch anything! Don’t breathe on anything! If you sneeze, I’m killing you.”

  “I’d better take care of the kids when they get sick,” he decided and moved to the walk-in. “Poor little tykes. You’re going to scare them into pneumonia with that attitude.”

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone always told me. Twenty-eight, just stepping into my first starred kitchen, would be a perfect time to get pregnant and start a family.”

  He eyed her a moment and then nodded decisively. “You’re right. We’d better wait on the kids. I’ll warn my grandma so she doesn’t harass you.”

  She sighed very heavily.

  “She’s not, like, obsessed or anything,” he hastened to reassure her. “She’s got plenty of great-grandchildren. It’s more my mother you have to worry about.”

  “Did any of your commanding officers ever try to beat you over the head with a sledgehammer?”

  He smiled and opened the walk-in. “Brr. I don’t suppose you’d consider coming closer to keep me warm?”

  “I thought your hot body temperature was supposed to be one of your few attributes.”

  “I think it’s like having a fever. I’m so hot that the slightest chill in the air makes me shiver.”

  “The sledgehammer probably bounced off,” she decided grimly. She braced herself at the walk-in door and folded her arms. “I don’t care how obnoxious you are, you are not getting me to stalk off and leave you a chance to do something in my kitchens I can’t see.”

  “Obnoxious,” Chase said in a very sad, small voice. He gazed woefully at the crates of cream as if about to ask them for sympathy, and then his gaze changed, and for a second that narrow, dangerous look was back on his face. “This where he cornered you?”

  That bastard Quentin. Vi smiled. “He regretted it.”

  “I’ll just double-check to make sure he got enough bruises,” Chase said in a soothing, reassuring tone. “Sometimes it’s good to have a second opinion on these things. Is that gluten?” He pointed randomly.

  “You’re probably more likely to find gluten where we keep the flours. As opposed to where we keep the fruits, vegetables, butters, and creams.”

  “Is that safe?” He pointed at some slabs of butter.

  “What do you mean, ‘safe’?” Vi asked warily. “It tastes good. Please, dear God, don’t tell me that your president is on some weird diet plan where he can’t eat butter.”

  “He’s vegetarian.” Chase sighed and shook his head. “Hard to believe people voted for that guy.”

  “Vegetarian?” Vi recoiled, grabbing the edge of the door for support. Then her eyes narrowed. “No, he damn well isn’t. The embassy would have said something when they called!”

  Chase grinned at her.

  “Okay, you know what? You can get out of my kitchens now.”

  “Nobody could get sick from it, right?” he said. “The butter?”

  Vi stared at him. “What, you mean like food poisoning?” she finally realized, outraged. “No one is going to get food poisoning from my kitchens!”

  Chase held up a hand. “Just doing my job, honey. Just doing my job.”

  She glowered at him and tapped her foot. His gaze drifted down her body all the way to her tapping toe, and he closed his eyes tight and gave himself a hard shake.

  Then he bit back a tiny, wicked smile and bent from the waist. “What about here?”

  Vi stared as his black pants pulled tight, tight, tight as he slowly bent, and then snapped her gaze away. “Of course not!”

  “Anything up here?” He straightened to lift one of the heavy crates completely off an overhead shelf, holding it above his head at an angle that showed off biceps so sculpted and so perfect that they looked hot even through his shirt.

  “Did you ever do any modeling?” she asked him dryly. “Or do you just practice that pose in front of the mirror?”

  “It was for charity. They harassed me into it. And can I just say that I am entirely ready for this male calendar charity craze to be over? What’s up with that? Why can’t you women pose naked if you think it’s such a good idea for charity?”

  Violette’s lips parted. “Like…are you nude in a calendar?” Her eyes tracked over that big body, most of it hidden far too thoroughly by clothing and body armor. But he had those biceps. And those buns of steel. Kind of suggested that once the vest was taken away, there wasn’t going to be much of a bulge to his belly.

  “My private parts are discreetly covered in it,” he said loftily. And then winked. “With dog tags.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  He stopped still. “Plus my hands,” he said outraged. “And the angle of my thigh! That—I—” For once words failed him in his indignation.

  Vi gave him a sweet smile. “Just checking.” Because it was much better to have in her head an image of a man whose private parts could be covered by dog tags rather than an image of one whose private parts couldn’t, where the dog tags and chain artfully draped and entirely failed to hide the…she coughed.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Then he slowly set the very heavy crate back on its high shelf, biceps flexing, and reached even farther so that his shirt and vest drew up from his waist, showing a line of tan skin. He gave her a second with that view before he wobbled, toppled, and grabbed her shoulder for support.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, as he pulled her in snug for just one second and then let go. “I lost my balance.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that. It’s amazing how many guys lose their balance around me when we’re by ourselves in the walk-in.”

  He blinked. “Oh.” He let go of her and stepped back. “I never actually thought of it that way,” he said after a moment.

  “I know. Maybe it’s some kind of testosterone thing. The men who fall on a woman in a walk-in are always convinced they’re special.”

  He frowned, then shifted to make sure there was a good meter of distance between him and her. Violette followed immediately of course. She wasn’t going to let him get away with a thing.

  “What happened to the rest of the photos from the shoot?”

  “Destroyed,” Chase said firmly. “Are you sure your fingers didn’t brush my ass? Because I could have sworn…”

  “Destroyed?” She didn’t mean to let her voice squeak, but darn…that seemed like a sinful waste.

  “Except for one copy, of course.” Chase slid her a glance and then diligently examined the shelves—linking his fingers through the wire shelving above his head so that he was very clearly not touching her…and then lifting himself just slightly so that his butt tightened and his shoulder muscles flexed. “Which I have. It would be incredibly hard to convince me to share it. I’m not sure what someone would have to do.”

  Oh, boy, did Vi have some ideas. She could handcuff those strong wrists of his back against her bed and probably get him to do anything she wanted. Oh, yes. She had ideas.

  He’d strain against the ties at his wrists, all those muscles in his arms bulging, his back arching as she…

  “—Ms. Lenoir.”

  “Hmm?” She blinked up at the face bent toward hers.

  His hair was streaked brown and gold, his eyes blue. Lines at the corners of them suggested that he had squinted into a lot of sun and wind and dust for his age. A broad forehead and strong cheekbones and straight dark brown eyebrows. A relaxed, amused mouth that, just occasionally, briefly, firmed until it seemed to belong to someone
else entirely.

  Only it didn’t. Both those looks belonged to him.

  And if she got him tied up to her bed, she’d not only get those photos out of him but she’d crack through that teasing manner, just shred it off him, until he was…

  “Ma’am? Ms. Lenoir? Honey?”

  She blinked slowly at him. He inclined that handsome chin toward the right.

  Toward her hand curled over his biceps. Which he was quite politely keeping taut and bulging just for her. With a tiny smug smile on his mouth that he was trying valiantly to suppress.

  She jerked back so fast she teetered. Nearly ran into the shelves behind her, jerked away before she could ruin anything for tomorrow, and—he caught her by both elbows before she could fall straight against him.

  Just this firm, easy, confident catch, strong and sure. He righted her and released her, stepping back with his hands spread wide to prove their innocence.

  “You really do have a scar,” she said, startled. A hair thin, barely visible line that ran from just below his eye down to his jaw. If he hadn’t mentioned it and his face hadn’t been so close, and if she herself wasn’t used to paying attention to hair-fine details in her quest for a third star, she never would have noticed it.

  “Disfigured for life,” he said dejectedly. “My chances are ruined. Only a woman with a good heart would look past me now to the man I am inside.” He gave her the kind of piteous look the kitten had probably given him from that tree as he reached to save it.

  She snorted with laughter before she could stop herself.

  “Which you clearly don’t have,” he said severely. “Mocking my pain.”

  “Sorry.” She tried to control herself. She really should not let someone as impossibly cocksure get to her. “It’s just—your chances are—” Laughter exploded and she clutched her stomach. “What do you have to do to pick up women when you walk into a bar, snap your fingers at the door and then sort through the masses that throw themselves at you until you pick the one you want?”

  He looked thrilled with himself. “Damn. You think I’m hot.”

  Merde, she needed to be more careful. He was definitely the type of guy who would jump on the slightest encouragement like a duck on a breadcrumb. “Are you sure that scratch wasn’t from a woman trying to gouge your eyes out?”

  “You don’t think I’d save a kitten?” He looked offended.

  “Oh, probably.” Flexing muscles the whole way. She sighed.

  “I get no end of crap about it.” Sad look. “All the other guys, they get scars from knife fights and bullet wounds. Mine—a kitten.”

  “You do know that this scar can barely be detected without a microscope?”

  “You want to look closer?” He proffered his cheek.

  Maybe she should invest in some kind of foam pot. It seemed like it might come in handy with him. Something she could use to beat him over the head regularly, without actually ending up in jail for battery.

  Wait. Now why would she need to make any long-term investments into ways to handle him?

  “Or I could help you with the knife scar problem?” she offered dryly.

  “I don’t mean to suggest the guys are sexist or anything, sugar—”

  Yeah, right. If she ever met a guy who wasn’t sexist, now that would be something.

  “—but I’m pretty sure they would give me even more crap if I got beat up by a woman.”

  “It’s better to lose to a kitten than a woman?” Vi demanded, so furious he was seriously lucky she didn’t have a pot to hand.

  “I didn’t say I thought so. I’d definitely rather lose to you.” He looked hopeful. “Want to see if you can floor me?”

  She growled.

  “Physically, I mean. You’ve already floored me in all the figurative ways.” He gave her a bewitchingly cute smile.

  “You do realize that the only thing keeping you alive right now is how badly it would ruin my chances of having your president visit if I was in jail for homicide?”

  “Well…there might be one other little thing keeping me alive,” he mentioned, with this lurking amusement. As far as she could tell, amusement pretty much always lurked somewhere in him. That man had not taken her seriously once.

  She gave him a blank look.

  “I might be able to defend myself a teeny bit?” he suggested meekly, hunching his shoulders to try to look small and vulnerable. He completely failed to manage to shrink that tough, big body with that gesture.

  She frowned at him.

  “Except against pink peekaboo panties. I’d definitely lose to those.”

  Yeah, see. She’d had exactly the same thought about how fast she could get him on his knees with the right panties. Damn it. Why was he doing this to her?

  Fine.

  Fine.

  She knew exactly why.

  He was hot. He was cocky, in that way she utterly loved, as if his confidence was very well-founded. He kept making her laugh. And if she didn’t manage to control that utterly enticing cocksureness of his—

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus, I had a thought,” he said with stunned relief.

  She blinked. “Ah…I take it that’s rare for you?”

  “Well, I was beginning to think you had permanently fried my brain.” He put his fingers to his head and gave it a slight, adjusting shake. “Look at that,” he said with delight. “There are two entire brain cells there that managed to survive. Maybe there’s hope.”

  “Why don’t I share your optimism?”

  He grinned at her. “Because you’re French. And it rains and it’s forty degrees in your country in freaking July. You’re going to like Texas so much better, honey. In July, we hit 114! Plus, there are stars.”

  “Not Michelin ones, there aren’t.” Might as well go open a restaurant in the Antarctic, as far as Michelin was concerned. “That thought you had?”

  “Oh, you’re going to like this one, honey. I thought it on your behalf, in case your brain was fried, too.” A hopeful look.

  She rolled her eyes.

  He grinned. “Listen to this brilliance: failing to control me doesn’t mean you’ve failed to control your kitchens, lost hard-earned respect, exposed yourself to sexual gossip from your staff, and ruined your career. Isn’t that beautiful?” Just like that she was against a wall, and he had his hands braced on either side of her head, laughing but with a heat in his eyes that curled all through her. “Like right now. If you fail to get a handle on me, your entire career doesn’t suffer for it.” He smiled down at her. Down, even though she was a tall woman and wearing heels. “Pretty fun, right?”

  Well…yeah. It was almost irresistible fun. Because if she could get him out of her actual kitchens, it was true. She could tangle with his cockiness all she wanted, flex her strength against his and maybe, for once, not win, and the next day, she could stride into her kitchen and still be in charge of it. Nobody would be gossiping about her. Nobody would be thinking that since she let him roll her under him in a bed, she was under him now in her kitchens, too. She could have just, like, fun.

  With that hot body, and that irrepressible cockiness, and that sense of humor. That refusal to take her seriously, that ability to turn every single damn thing she said into a joke, could have devastating effects on her authority in the kitchens. She’d dealt with enough men who tried not to take her seriously, thank you.

  But here…she could just let him drive her crazy and enjoy it. Drive him crazy, too.

  Hein. For only two functioning brain cells, he’d managed to come up with a halfway decent thought there.

  It almost suggested that a man who could manage to turn every single thing she said back on her, and nearly get a laugh out of her every time, might be far smarter than he was currently playing.

  A wisp of caution ghosted through her.

  Those blue eyes laughed and challenged. Those big biceps were just a few centimeters from her head. “I’m all done here,” he murmured. “I guess you pass muster.”

 
“I…what?”

  He made a little moue and held up a cautious hand. “You run a fairly tight ship.”

  “I run a—fairly—” She should never have put down her knives.

  “I guess my client will be okay in your hands,” he said. “Your food probably won’t kill him.”

  She gasped. Rage turned her brain red.

  “It must be fun being a woman sometimes,” Chase said.

  “I—what?”

  “Well, I have an almost irresistible, maddening urge to just grab you up and kiss you. And I have to control that. But if you gave in to your irresistible, maddening urge to hit me, I’d probably just enjoy it.”

  He probably would, too. It made her sizzle with fury. Like nothing she could do could get through the arrogance of certain males.

  “Don’t be so sure,” she said. “I fight dirty.”

  He bit into his lower lip to control his grin, but it smirked out at the corners. “Me, too,” he allowed, in a deep voice that made the thought of fighting dirty just run over her whole body and heat it up.

  “You’re so lucky I haven’t killed you yet,” she said, staring up into those blue eyes and that laughter and arrogance.

  He fought to control the twitch of his lips. “If my luck fails, I’ll try to defend myself.”

  Annoying jerk. He could probably control her just by shifting his body five centimeters and grabbing her hands. She could feel it all through him, the power, the size, the training, all held off her by his own arms. “I take it you don’t think that would be too hard?”

  “Nope.” And just as she started to glare, he said with naïve pride: “I took karate when I was a kid.”

  She blinked. He pushed himself off her, giving her space. “I got to blue belt,” he bragged.

  She choked. And then just thumped her head back against the wall as she started to laugh.

  “Damn, it’s hard not to kiss you,” he said. “Jesus, you are driving me crazy.”

  And he strode out of the walk-in and to the end of one of the lines, as if she actually was. And he considered it his full responsibility to control any urges she created in him, too.