The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(43)
Author: Emma Holly

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.

“I am enjoying myself,” she confirmed. “Though of course I prefer working in the kitchen to all this attention.”

Neil let out a skeptical snort. Attention was what he lived and breathed for.

Thankfully, the hostess appeared to lead him and his gang away. “Enjoy your meal,” she called after them before hissing, “Did you invite him?” to Trey.

“I believe he’s Gordon Hewitt’s guest. I sent him a handful of tickets.”

Gordon Hewitt was the editor of Boston Eats and a well-known food critic. Her head whipped around to confirm he was with Neil. Sadly, he was, his short form dashing in a rumpled jacket and bow tie.

“Crap. I didn’t see him. Hewitt must think I’m completely stupid. Why did he bring Montana? He can’t possibly like his food.”

Noting her horrified stare, the dapper food critic smiled and lifted two fingers. Weakly, Rebecca returned the greeting.

“Crap,” she repeated, jerking forward again.

“It’s okay,” Trey soothed. “Hewitt has a reputation for being puckish. He probably invited Montana in the hopes of inciting a drama.”

“Just kill me now,” Rebecca moaned.

Trey laughed underneath his breath. She was glad he was taking this in stride, though—strictly speaking—she should have followed his example. God, she wished she were in the kitchen. Her nervous energy would have served a purpose there.

She was so overwrought she didn’t immediately identify the striking woman who swung legs first out of a limo that had pulled to the curb. A chauffeur handed her out, a service the woman seemed used to. Her dress was Marilyn-esque: white, pleated, its flowy skirt poised to lift at any convenient draft. Though her hair was dark, its waves were styled to resemble the iconic movie star’s. Her pouty red lips glistened with reflections from the Lounge’s decorative outdoor lights. Strings of the twinkly bulbs spiraled around the entrance.

“Mystique,” Trey said when she reached them. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Oh you know.” She waved a hand whose glossy manicure matched her lips. “Spur of the moment thing.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He accepted her air kiss. “It’s always nice to see you.”

The tilt of the model’s head struck Rebecca as dubious. Did she think Trey wasn’t glad to see her, and if so, why not? Rebecca realized she hoped Trey disliked her. Bad enough Zane and she were cozy.

She probably had a weird expression on her face when Mystique shifted her gaze to her. “You must be the chef. Congratulations on the big night.”

She showed no awareness that she knew who Rebecca was—not that she was worth mentioning by Zane.

“Thank you,” she said, her spine inescapably poker stiff. “I hope you enjoy the meal.”

Sensing her tension, Trey laid his hand in the small of her back.

“I’m sure I will,” Mystique said pleasantly.

She continued in, stirring murmurs even among the ritzy crowd. Zane hadn’t appeared behind her, so perhaps the couple was meeting here. Hardly steady to begin with, Rebecca’s pulse began skittering. She knew he’d probably attend tonight, but she been trying her hardest to compartmentalize that knowledge. Could she bear seeing Zane in person with his beautiful arm candy? Did she have the nerve to face him with Trey no more than six inches from her side? For that matter, could this situation get any more uncomfortable?