She nodded, feeling a little relieved that she’d have some time to build up her cash supply. “Are you okay with me making payments for the repairs?”

“Talk to Dansant.”

“I can put down about a hundred—”

He shook his head. “He’ll pay me. You pay him.”

Rowan let it go. “Okay. The only other thing is working out the bathroom arrangements.” She gestured at the door between their apartments. “Is there any specific time you need it to shower, shave, whatever?” He didn’t reply. “I’d like to use it after my shift, around two a.m., and whenever I get up in the morning, probably around ten or eleven. That okay with you?”

He kept silent, kept watching her.

Patience had never been one of her virtues. “It’s a yes or no question, Meriden. A simple head movement should cover it.”

“I don’t care what the fuck you do, Cupcake.” He bent his head so she could see directly into his eyes. Now they were diamond hard and demon black, as if he were an icy volcano ready to blow. “Just stay out of my way.”

“My pleasure.” The sting of Cupcake made her add an insulting amount of wattage to her smile. “Soon as you get the hell out of mine, Farm Boy.”

Meriden took a step to the side, creating just enough space for her to edge past him without causing physical contact. Rowan ignored the heat of his huge body, and how it warmed the suddenly oversensitive skin of her cheek and throat, but the smell of him, as cool and dark as a midnight tide, filled her head. She refused to fiddle with the bathroom door or glance back at him. She wasn’t some kid for him to scare into scurrying away.

Cupcake my ass.

She managed a casual “See you around” before she stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind her. Which was a good thing, because somehow in spite of her fury her knees were liquefying and she was trembling all over.

Rowan listened, but she didn’t pick up his steps moving away or hitting the stairs. He was still standing there on the other side, waiting for something. Her heart bounced in her throat as she groped behind her for the locking latch, and twisted it.

After a long moment, heavy footsteps moved across the landing and down the stairs. A few seconds later the back kitchen door opened and slammed shut.

He was gone, and she was sliding down the door until she sat on the floor in a muddled, jittery mess. Rowan hugged her legs with her arms and pressed her forehead to her knees, willing herself to calm down. So Meriden was an oversized, bad-tempered jackass; at least she knew that up front. He worked days; she would be working nights. All she needed to do was learn his schedule and avoid him whenever he was coming or going.

Then she’d work on figuring out why it wasn’t terror that was making her shake like this.

Chapter 5

Dansant came to open the restaurant after sunset, but instead of posting the menu for the night he went directly to the back stairs to see if Rowan had come down yet. She was already in the kitchen, walking around and inspecting everything.

For a moment he watched her, unsure if he would have the same unsettling reaction as last night.

He had intended only to see to her wounds and assure himself that she did not need to be taken to the hospital. That much he would swear to. But as soon as he had closed the door, the scent of her enfolded him, sinking into him and going straight to his head.

Dansant had controlled himself until she had uttered those words: All right, Dansant. Do whatever you want.

Rowan remembered nothing of what had happened next, of course. Later, after he had regained his control, he had taken the memories from her as easily as he had brought her under his influence.

Rowan. Look at me. Look.

Your eyes—something . . . wrong . . .

Her own had widened as she resisted him for a moment, and then her lashes drifted down, framing the faint reflection of shining turquoise from his own.

Now the same longing and hunger besieged him as soon as he breathed in her scent, but while it was as intense as before, he seemed to have a better grip on his self-control now.

Dansant also felt a terrible weight lift from his heart, as if some part of him had been convinced she would be gone before he came here, before he could touch her again. But she had stayed. She must have slept well, too, for her color was better and her eyes brighter, although she still moved with some residual stiffness. Her head turned as she became aware of his presence and she smiled, although that seemed carefully measured as well; just so much of a welcome and no more.

She must feel the same as I, he thought. But if she does, she does not wish me to know it any more than I want her to remember what I did to her. “Bonsoir, Rowan.”

“Hey, boss.” She had dressed simply in jeans and a T-shirt, and had tied a blue bandanna around her dark curls.

She appeared younger tonight, barely more than an adolescent, which helped steady him. Compared to him she was a child, one who needed a friend more than a lover. He would keep reminding himself of that. “You look as if you slept well.”

“I did,” she agreed.

Last night he had not wasted time with polite inquiries or any sort of finesse. As soon as Rowan’s defenses had fallen he had stood and placed his hands on either side of her face. She smiled blindly up at him, her lips parted, her soft skin warm against his palms.

He had watched her eyes as he slid his fingers into her hair, angling her face so that the overhead lights bathed every inch of her. She was a midnight jewel, this girl, alabaster moon-skinned and onyx star-eyed.

Her mouth, soft and gentle and unguarded, had drawn him down. As their lips met, her breath whispered out of her, a silent sigh that he covered and drank in.

“Ready to put me to work?”

Her voice brought him back to the present. Glad to have something to do other than remember what he had done to her, Dansant took a white bib apron from the stacks shelved above the sink and gave it to her.

“I will show you the setup of the kitchen, the stations, and how we do things before the others arrive,” he told her. “We begin preparations at seven and seat at nine.”

“What’s the seventy-seven for?” she asked as she tied on the apron, looking down at the small embroidered patch on the left side of the bib.

“It is the restaurant’s logo,” he told her. “The street number for our building is seventy-seven.”

“To remind people where you are. Smart. You could have called the restaurant 77, too. Everyone remembers digi-named places, like 17 Murray, or 2 West at the Ritz-Carlton.”

He thought of the true meaning of the number. “I prefer D’Anges.”

“For a French restaurant, that doesn’t hurt, either.” She smoothed down the tapered pockets below the waist ties.

He watched her hands as he recalled the taste of her. Her mouth had been especially luscious, rich and sweet, like brandied pears. His first taste of her had led to a second, and a third, and then to an endless, mindless kiss that tore into him, deep and savage as a jagged blade.

“Dansant?” When he looked at her, she asked, “Why do you seat so late?”

Late? Last night he had lifted her from the crate and held her against him, all his to do with as he pleased. Now he had to chat with her as if none of it had happened. “We seat late to, ah, discourage the before-timers.”

“Sorry?”

He’d been so wrapped up in his recollections that he’d forgotten the term in English. “It is like capons. No, not them.” Just when he thought he could speak her language well enough, he stumbled over something like this. “Older people who arrive at opening and expect special pricing.”

Her smile flashed. “Early birds.”

“Oui.” He turned his head so he wouldn’t stare at her mouth.

Last night he had been intent on that, hers and his. In the thrall of pleasure he had forgotten that he had brought her inside to care for her, but it had never been like that for him. He had come to this country and lived this life not of his choosing because there had been nothing left of him or for him. That he woke every night and found he was still alive, still able to live, seemed a miracle each time he opened his eyes.

After learning what had happened to him in France, he had never dared dream of more.

Now this woman had crashed into his life, and she was looking at him with no knowledge or understanding of what he was, or what he would never again be.

“No early birds,” she said. “Check.”

He had to move away from her, so strong was the compulsion to touch her. He had to get on with it, this charade of employing her.

“The work begins here,” Dansant told her as he led her out to the back entry door. “Everything we do in the kitchen is by design—la marche en avant.”

Rowan frowned. “We’re moving backward out of the kitchen, not forward.”

She had managed to surprise him again. “You understand French?”

“I can read it, not speak it.” She sounded defensive now.

“I’ve . . . worked in a couple restaurants, and picked up some stuff from books, mostly kitchen and cooking terms. It sure doesn’t sound the same as it looks on paper.”

“But you have a natural ear for it, I think.” Dansant decided to test her. “I will say the French for each place in the kitchen, and you will tell me what it is in English and what you know of it.” He gestured at the door. “Entrée, réception des matières.”

“Entrance and receiving,” she translated. “Where everything comes through and is delivered.”

He nodded and moved to the right into the main storage room. “Stockage à sec.”

“Dry storage, where you put the dry goods.” She made a face. “I cheated. I looked at the shelves and guessed.”

From there he introduced her to the three chambres froids used to store meat, frozen goods, and fruits and vegetables; the légumerie where the vegetables were washed; and the plonge sinks and equipment on the opposite side of the section for cleaning pots and dishes. She correctly identified each one and even began echoing the words he said in French under her breath.