One thing was certain. Lucien hadn’t denied it when Ian assumed that Lucien had hired her as an interim chef. Clearly, Lucien hadn’t wanted the compelling billionaire to know about their past connection . . . or about what she’d overheard in Paris.
But what did Lucien’s father’s crimes have to do with Ian Noble?
She washed her hands, her anxiety mounting by the second. Irritation spiked through her when she saw that Sharon waited for her when she turned to wipe off her hands. Did she plan to escort her like a jailer to Lucien’s office?
“Thank you, I know the way,” she said, even though it was a lie. Mario had disappeared alone last night when he’d apparently gone to raid Lucien’s private store of premium cognac. She lifted her chin and breezed past the manager, noticing from the corner of her eye that Sharon followed her out of the kitchen. In the main dining room, she paused next to a busboy.
“Which way to Lucien’s office?” she muttered without moving her lips.
“All the way at the end of the rear hallway, last door on the left,” the busboy said so loudly that she grimaced and rolled her eyes.
She started down the long, empty hall, hearing the sounds of the restaurant becoming muted until she could hear only the throb of her escalated heartbeat in the thick silence. By the time she knocked on the massive carved door of Lucien’s office, she felt as if she were willingly walking to her own execution.
She started when the door whipped open suddenly. He looked dark and intimidating standing there, wearing a pair of black trousers that hung elegantly on his tall, athletic form, a dark gray shirt, a black and silver silk tie . . . and an unreadable expression. He nodded once and she entered the room, glancing around nervously at the masculine, luxurious office. The heavy door closed behind them with a loud click. She heard another snick of metal and spun around, alarmed.
“Did you just lock that door?” she asked, her already rapid heartbeat redoubling its tempo.
His nostrils flared slightly as he stared at her. “If you decide to stay, I think you’ll prefer that the door was locked.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come. Sit down,” he said, waving his hand at the chairs before his desk. She sat slowly, watching him warily as he leaned against the edge of his desk directly in front of her. He had beautiful thighs—long and powerful. She had a sudden urge to see them naked, to run her hands over the sleek, hard muscles, to absorb his strength. . . .
She blinked, shocked by the thought in this tense situation, and looked away. Feeling vulnerable, she thought the best defense might be a strong offense.
“Lucien, did you come to Chicago because of Ian Noble?”
“Of course I did,” he said. “He asked me to open the restaurant in his new tower. I did it as a personal favor to a friend.”
“How long have you two known each other?”
“I didn’t ask you back here to discuss Ian.”
“But why didn’t you deny to him that I was the interim chef?” she asked suspiciously.
“Why do you think?”
She glanced at his face skittishly.
“Because you didn’t want me to mention anything about our past association, your past identity . . . about your father?” It wasn’t precisely what she’d meant to say. She meant that conversation she’d overheard. On that night in Paris several years ago, she’d hidden in the rear entrance area of Renygat when she’d realized the mysterious German man was taking his leave, glimpsing only the back of the man as he left Lucien’s office. Then she’d approached Lucien, who was now alone in his office, and confronted him about what she’d overheard. He’d been furious at her when he realized she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation.
She didn’t want to specifically mention it presently for fear he’d send her away again.
His expression was bland. He crossed his arms below his chest and shifted his hips, bringing her attention downward to his crotch area. Her cheeks heated. Had he suggested she sit in the chair as he towered over her, his blatant masculinity right at eye level as a subtle power play? She wouldn’t put it past Lucien.
“Why should it matter to you what Ian Noble thinks?” she pushed.
“I own a business in his tower. It matters.”
“But I don’t think your father’s crimes say anything about—”
“What you think isn’t of consequence here. I had to make a decision quickly out there, given what you pulled, and I think it’d be the best—the cleanest—solution for no one here in Chicago to know about our past connection for now.”
She leaned back in the chair, considering. “No wonder you wanted me to disappear so fast last night,” she mused. What was Lucien up to? It made her uncomfortable. She didn’t like to think of Lucien getting himself into any trouble. And yet—this was powerful information that had fallen so unexpectedly into her lap. . . .
He narrowed his gaze, studying her. “Don’t even think about it, Elise.”
“Don’t even think about what?”
His gray eyes flashed. “Blackmail. Don’t give me that innocent look. You were thinking you have something to hold over my head now, something to use to control me. You were thinking that you would promise to keep quiet if I didn’t interrupt this fantasy-of-the-week of yours about becoming a chef.”
“I was thinking no such thing,” she lied hotly.
He laughed softly. “Do you think I’m a fool? I know how you operate. You learned manipulation from the cradle.”