Jennifer McKenzie - Tempting Donovan Ford

Julia didn’t even bother to read the salary and bonus structure, which he knew were better than fair. “I’m sure your terms are perfectly adequate in your eyes. I’m still not signing. I want shares.”

Donovan clicked the pen closed with a forceful snap of his thumb. Great. Just great. He could already feel a tension headache starting behind his left eye. “Shares are not on the table.”

“Then neither is my signature.”

He pondered that. And her. She stared back, chin lifted, a crackle of heat in her eyes. “And if we can’t agree?” His voice was soft. “Then what?”

“I guess that depends what you offer.” She leaned forward. “What else do you have?”

Donovan knew he needed to keep the upper hand during negotiations. He studied her, looking for a crack. Instead, he found his gaze running over those lush curves again.

He was used to beautiful women and had dated plenty of them. And yet, there was a spark here, a flame that could easily be fanned into fire with the lightest breath. He put the pen down on the table. “Since you’re the one making all the demands, I think you should fire the first salvo. Aside from ownership.”

Julia tapped a finger to her lips, drawing his attention to how soft they looked. Soft and warm, as though they could eat a man up. He dragged his eyes away. He was supposed to be negotiating, not picturing those lips pressed against him.

“Can I be honest?”

He looked back at her. At least she was no longer tapping. “I hope you will.”

“And you won’t fire me?”

“Ms. Laurent, let me assure you that firing you is the last thing I plan for this restaurant.”

She stared at him for another few seconds. Assessing. Donovan could see the moment she decided to trust him, the loosening of her jawline, the relaxing of her shoulders. “It’s Julia.”

Donovan ignored the warm surge of pleasure. It was only her name, not an invitation to her bed.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you. I want to own this restaurant.”

Her candor surprised him, as did the information. “I’ll be honest with you.” He decided to lay it out on the table. Sharing confidences with her should go a long way toward moving forward as a team. “I don’t want to own this restaurant.”

He’d surprised her. Her eyes widened and her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t say anything.

“My father is the one who wanted to purchase it. I hope that I can convince him to sell.” Once they’d brought La Petite Bouchée back up to its former glory and could demand a higher price than they’d paid. Maybe even to her. He tilted his head. “If you want the restaurant, why didn’t you buy it from Jean-Paul?”

A small wrinkling of her nose. “I tried, but we couldn’t come to an agreement.”

Probably because her investors had recognized that the price was too high. A fact that his father had stubbornly ignored no matter how many times Donovan had brought it to his attention. He shoved the disloyal thought aside. His father was a good man, perhaps a little sentimental, but he wasn’t an idiot. And if he believed La Petite Bouchée could be a success, then it was up to Donovan and his sister, Mal, to prove him right.

He nudged the contract back toward her, which earned him a sharp look. “We’re going to have to have some sort of contract.”

“Not this one.”

“Maybe not. You don’t have to sign now. Take it home. Have your lawyer look it over.”

She laughed, a light, bright sound. “You think I have a lawyer?”

He eyed her steadily. “You should. I recommend one to anyone signing a contract.”

She glanced down at the pages, then carefully closed the folder. “Well, you’re either shockingly honest or this is your attempt at reverse psychology.”

He didn’t see the need to argue. He simply wanted to get the job done and was looking for the shortest and easiest path. “I’d like to get this settled as soon as possible.”

“I would, too.” She clutched the folder to her chest.

“A week?”

“A week.” She smiled and Donovan felt something warm bloom in his chest.

No, that was a lie. It was a bullet of heat that shot straight to his groin. And despite his best attempts to shake it loose, including a ten-minute drive back to the office, it remained with him.

Or she did.

Donovan parked on the street in front of the three-level building in the heart of Yaletown, which not only housed the Ford Group’s offices but also their first and most popular bar, Elephants, which served wine from around the world and paired food to suit it. The bar took up the first two floors and even now was filled with people. Primarily office workers who’d popped in for a tasty lunch.

They’d debated opening for lunch since it wasn’t a particularly profitable time, but they’d discovered that customers often came back after work and stayed through the evening. And it looked good to anyone wandering by. Here was a place that was busy and vibrant, a place they should consider patronizing. And often, they did.

Donovan chose the stairs over the elevator to reach the third-floor offices. He greeted Bailey, their young receptionist, briefly as he headed down the hall to his office.

He had the second-largest space on the floor. His father’s currently dark office was larger, but Donovan thought his own was actually nicer. His father had a stunning view of the mountains, but Donovan had that and a peek of the ocean. More important, he could keep an eye on the sidewalk in front of the bar. See who was entering and exiting.

He hung his coat on the rack in the corner of his distinguished office. The space was decorated in high-gloss whites and ivories. Glass-topped desks and Lucite chairs. Everything open and transparent with elegant accents of silver and gold. It was a wealthy look and one that fit the jet-set lifestyle their company tried to sell.

La Petite Bouchée looked like a poor country cousin. But that would be simple to change. He made a note to call his designer this week and start discussing the renovation. Something simple and quick. Donovan saw no reason to dump a whack of money into a project when it wasn’t necessary.

The restaurant needed updating, but there was nothing wrong with the space that some freshening up wouldn’t fix. The room was open, there was a bar that could be easily extended to add visual interest and more seating, and a wall of windows that looked out onto False Creek, the inlet that separated downtown from the rest of the city.

He moved to his heavy glass desk and checked his email. He really did have plenty to keep him busy today and tonight and tomorrow. But his mind kept wandering back to Julia. Her sleepy eyes and slow smile. A man could lose his head to a smile like that.

“How did it go?” Mal, his younger sister—his only sister—stuck her head in, interrupting his thoughts. She was wearing the wireless earpiece that kept her in constant contact with her cell phone and meant she was liable to spin away midsentence to start a new conversation. But right now she simply watched him with knowing brown eyes. “Oh, my God.” She plopped down in one of the low-slung visitor’s chairs, kicking up her needle-thin heels. “Are you smiling? After that fit you threw when Dad insisted on going through with the purchase?”

He brought out his best older-brother I’m-in-charge-here expression. “It wasn’t a fit.” It had been a well-reasoned, logical attempt to change Gus’s mind. Donovan hadn’t even stomped his foot. “We had a discussion.”

“Right.” He never had managed much success in pulling anything over on his younger sister, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “So what happened?”

Donovan shook off thoughts of rosebud lips and sexy curves. “Nothing I can’t handle.”