Read Online The Billionaire Bad Boys Club by Emma Holly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Holly
Tags: Romance
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unfairly deep dimples.
Squirming already, Rebecca experienced the oddest shiver of deja vu.
“I’m Rebecca Eilert,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite steady. Annoyed with herself, she offered him a hand that damn well was. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you what I can do.”
The panty-wetter took her hand in both of his, holding rather than shaking it. Again, Rebecca quivered with arousal—an inconvenience she could have done without. Hayworth’s palm was unexpectedly callused, possibly from rowing. Her college-age little brothers were on a crew and had similar rough spots. For a second, Hayworth seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Whatever it was, Rebecca didn’t know how to supply it.
“Would you like to begin?” she asked politely.
His mouth was well-shaped but not full. At her question, it slanted to one side—as if he were enjoying a private and slightly rueful joke.
“I’d be honored,” he concurred.
Dominic took his cue with a smoothness that would have done his father proud, pulling out the single chair for Hayworth. Hayworth took it, then let the young man spread his napkin and pour his water. That done, he looked expectantly at her.
Rattled but not—she promised herself—shaken, she set the first plate in front of him.
Hayworth’s ah of pleasure as she removed the lid was exactly what she’d hoped for.
Two fluffy golden potato blinis sat on a clean white plate, one picture-perfect little pancake tipped rakishly atop the other. This base was surmounted by a glistening scoop of tomato confit, which she’d seasoned lightly with roe of cod. Rebecca explained the dish’s contents, stepped back, and allowed him to dig in.
Hayworth did so, then swallowed his mouthful. “Oh my God,” he moaned gratifyingly, spooning into the dish again. “That is amazing.”
His appreciation was just beginning. He adored her creamy Maine lobster bisque, and pronounced her lamb chops with cassoulet wicked. Her palate-cleansing cucumber fraiche was praised, and her squab with foie gras and figs. By the time she was ready to serve dessert, her newly anointed sous-chef was grinning from ear to ear. Dominic knew he’d helped her prepare a hit.
Rebecca gave thanks the teenager’s heels remained on the floor.
For the final ‘taste’ she’d made upside-down apple tart with dollops of homemade cinnamon ice cream. This was a signature dish for her. Served in a small ramekin, the dessert mingled sweet and spicy, playing off the textures of creamy and toothsome. The tart and tender apples complemented the crispy puff pastry as if God had invented them for this pairing. Buckwheat pancakes with apple syrup it was not. All the same, for her, the tastes and scents brought back that first success. Unbeknownst to her guests, each time she served it, she shared her heart with them.
Hayworth scraped the ramekin with his spoon, then sat back in his chair and sighed. Though the amounts she’d served were too modest to have stuffed a big man like him, he wove both hands together over his flat stomach. His eyes were shining, his smile as satisfied as any guest she’d seen.
“That was killer,” he declared.
His tone was husky, causing her to speculate how he'd sound in bed. Mesmerized, she noticed a small Celtic knot tattooed on his neck. She’d seen these sometimes on Harvard students—book boys trying to act badass. Hayworth wore his differently, his toughness maybe not put on. The possibility added a whiff of mystery to his buffed stylishness, reminding her people got inked for other reasons than showing off.
Maybe Trey Hayworth was more than a spoiled tycoon.
“So Rebecca gets the job?” Dominic broke in, the sixteen-year-old no longer able to restrain himself. “You’ll hire her to be in charge of your restaurant?”
Dominic was too excited to notice the repressive look she shot him. Thankfully, Hayworth was amused. “I believe your chef and I need to discuss
Squirming already, Rebecca experienced the oddest shiver of deja vu.
“I’m Rebecca Eilert,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite steady. Annoyed with herself, she offered him a hand that damn well was. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you what I can do.”
The panty-wetter took her hand in both of his, holding rather than shaking it. Again, Rebecca quivered with arousal—an inconvenience she could have done without. Hayworth’s palm was unexpectedly callused, possibly from rowing. Her college-age little brothers were on a crew and had similar rough spots. For a second, Hayworth seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Whatever it was, Rebecca didn’t know how to supply it.
“Would you like to begin?” she asked politely.
His mouth was well-shaped but not full. At her question, it slanted to one side—as if he were enjoying a private and slightly rueful joke.
“I’d be honored,” he concurred.
Dominic took his cue with a smoothness that would have done his father proud, pulling out the single chair for Hayworth. Hayworth took it, then let the young man spread his napkin and pour his water. That done, he looked expectantly at her.
Rattled but not—she promised herself—shaken, she set the first plate in front of him.
Hayworth’s ah of pleasure as she removed the lid was exactly what she’d hoped for.
Two fluffy golden potato blinis sat on a clean white plate, one picture-perfect little pancake tipped rakishly atop the other. This base was surmounted by a glistening scoop of tomato confit, which she’d seasoned lightly with roe of cod. Rebecca explained the dish’s contents, stepped back, and allowed him to dig in.
Hayworth did so, then swallowed his mouthful. “Oh my God,” he moaned gratifyingly, spooning into the dish again. “That is amazing.”
His appreciation was just beginning. He adored her creamy Maine lobster bisque, and pronounced her lamb chops with cassoulet wicked. Her palate-cleansing cucumber fraiche was praised, and her squab with foie gras and figs. By the time she was ready to serve dessert, her newly anointed sous-chef was grinning from ear to ear. Dominic knew he’d helped her prepare a hit.
Rebecca gave thanks the teenager’s heels remained on the floor.
For the final ‘taste’ she’d made upside-down apple tart with dollops of homemade cinnamon ice cream. This was a signature dish for her. Served in a small ramekin, the dessert mingled sweet and spicy, playing off the textures of creamy and toothsome. The tart and tender apples complemented the crispy puff pastry as if God had invented them for this pairing. Buckwheat pancakes with apple syrup it was not. All the same, for her, the tastes and scents brought back that first success. Unbeknownst to her guests, each time she served it, she shared her heart with them.
Hayworth scraped the ramekin with his spoon, then sat back in his chair and sighed. Though the amounts she’d served were too modest to have stuffed a big man like him, he wove both hands together over his flat stomach. His eyes were shining, his smile as satisfied as any guest she’d seen.
“That was killer,” he declared.
His tone was husky, causing her to speculate how he'd sound in bed. Mesmerized, she noticed a small Celtic knot tattooed on his neck. She’d seen these sometimes on Harvard students—book boys trying to act badass. Hayworth wore his differently, his toughness maybe not put on. The possibility added a whiff of mystery to his buffed stylishness, reminding her people got inked for other reasons than showing off.
Maybe Trey Hayworth was more than a spoiled tycoon.
“So Rebecca gets the job?” Dominic broke in, the sixteen-year-old no longer able to restrain himself. “You’ll hire her to be in charge of your restaurant?”
Dominic was too excited to notice the repressive look she shot him. Thankfully, Hayworth was amused. “I believe your chef and I need to discuss
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