Bad Boys of Red Hook [2] You're the One Read online

  Great. He could see this going viral in less than ten minutes, knowing Patrice—the woman was better connected than John Gotti’s successor. Logan was so fucked, and Rocki knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. When he got the garter over her knee, he stilled.

  Rocki grabbed his arm and played to the camera. “Oh, come on, big boy, give the crowd a show. Slide it all the way up.”

  “Shit.” The drumroll picked up speed and the crowd egged him on. His hands disappeared beneath her emerald dress and slid the garter to the top of her thigh-high silk stockings and released it with a stinging snap. He took great pleasure in Rocki’s wince—served her right. He held her mile-high heel out to her, partially so she could slide her small foot into it, and partially to protect his manhood. When Cinderella donned her heels, he offered her a hand, and pulled her up.

  The chair she’d sat on in the middle of the dance floor disappeared and the band struck the first chords of the song they were to dance to. Of course Rocki had chosen a song about sex. “Insatiable” was a great song if you were looking to get lucky—unfortunately Logan was feeling anything but. He tugged Rocki into his arms praying she wouldn’t make a scene.

  “So, handsome, how come your fiancée isn’t here with you?”

  “She’s home planning the wedding.”

  “When’s the big day?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  “Going for the tax break, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you marry before January first, you can file your taxes jointly. It’ll save you a chunk of change. Isn’t that why you’re doing it?”

  “No, Payton thought it would be romantic, and it’s a good time for me to be away from the vineyard for the honeymoon.” He didn’t mention the fact that his future in-laws wanted to have the mother of all New Year’s Eve bashes to get plenty of free publicity. What started out as a small family wedding at the vineyard had quickly turned into something better held under a big top.

  “Sounds about as romantic as getting hitched to save on your taxes.”

  He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t very chivalrous to agree.

  “Do you love her, Logan?”

  He didn’t publicize his love life or lack thereof. Especially not to Rocki. The first thing she’d do would be to tell Patrice—fewer people would hear about it if he took out a full-page ad in the Post. The skin on the back of his neck felt as if it were being used as a pincushion.

  “Hey.” Rocki pushed away from him. “I’m not coming on to you, but if you don’t know if you love your fiancée—the woman you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with—then, I’m sorry to say, the answer is no. So why, pray tell, are you marrying her?”

  “Payton is nice, beautiful, she’s well connected, we get along well, and we’re good together. It’s a smart decision.”

  “Sounds like a match made in hell. Sorry.” She patted his chest. “But without love, you got nothin’. Just ask Storm and Bree—they’ve got the real deal.”

  He was used to nothin’. He was comfortable with nothin’. He’d never known anything but. “Love doesn’t happen to people like me.”

  Rocki looked as if she was fighting tears.

  “What did I say?”

  She blinked her blue eyes and sniffed. “Just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “It’s not sad—it’s just the way it is. Some people are not meant to love or be loved. I’m one of them.”

  “Love happens to everyone if you let it. Pete loves you. Storm and Slater do too. And Bree, hell, Bree loves everyone. But the kind of love we’re talking about, the kind that grabs you by the balls and won’t let go, that doesn’t happen if you go around marrying people you don’t love because it’s a good business decision. I never thought I’d say this, but I feel sorry for you.”

  Rocki dropped his hand, turned, and left him standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, staring after her.

  “You made Rocki sad.”

  He blinked and cursed his luck. “Nicki, I thought you’d gone to bed. Aren’t ten-year-olds supposed to be asleep by now?” He looked at his watch and wondered if Bree had recorded Nicki’s bedtime in the annals of her handwritten encyclopedia of child rearing. “What’s your bedtime?”

  Nicki planted her hands on what would someday be her hips and dug her foot into the wood floor. “I don’t have one. I’m not a baby.”

  That was a lie. “In Bree’s book, everyone has a bedtime.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “Fine, it’s nine, but I don’t want to go to bed until after Storm and Bree leave. Please, Logan, let me stay up. I want to say good-bye. They’re going away for, like, forever.”

  “Only if you don’t tell Bree I let you. If she finds out I’m screwing up already, she might never leave. On second thought, maybe she’ll rethink this whole honeymoon thing.”

  “Yeah, nice try. Believe me, it’s not gonna work. I’ve done everything I can to make them want to stay. I even got into trouble at school.”

  “You did?”

  Nicki shrugged. “Bree didn’t fall for it. She saw right through me. She always does.”

  “Is the thought of staying with me and Pop that much of a nightmare?” Damn, he’d done it again. Nicki had that same sad look on her face Rocki did moments before, and she blinked too frequently for it to be anything but something in her eye or the onset of tears. He patted her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.” He lied through his teeth. “I’m not so bad. You’ll see.” Logan scanned the restaurant searching for Bree’s telltale white dress. A little girl’s tears were enough to unman him. He didn’t know how to handle them. What the hell was Bree thinking leaving him in charge of Nicki and Pop?

  Nicki rested her cheek against the back of his hand and slid her arm around his waist. “That’s what Bree said. That and she’ll only be gone a month. We even made a calendar to cross off the days. She said she’d send me postcards and everything.”

  Something trickled against his hand. Damn, either Nicki was crying or she spit on him. He’d been hoping for the latter but no such luck—the angle was all wrong. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  “Logan?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “Who’s gonna tuck me in after Storm and Bree leave?”

  “I guess I will. But you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  “Do you give kisses too?”

  “Is it part of the whole bedtime routine?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then I guess I’d better start, huh?” He turned her to face him and crouched down low. She was definitely losing a battle with tears. He took out his handkerchief and wiped her face. “I don’t know a damn thing about kids, Nicki, but I’ll learn. I promise. Just don’t cry any more, okay?”

  Nicki sniffed and a few more tears fell. “I’m not crying.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now, come on, let’s go and say good-bye to Storm and Bree and you can tell me all about this bedtime thing.” He took her hand in his and was floored by how small the kid was. He couldn’t remember ever being that small. His neck felt like a pincushion again—but this time, the pins were on fire.

  When he’d shown up a few weeks earlier to help take care of his dad and the bar, he’d not only met Nicki for the first time; he’d found out that there was a darn good chance that Nicki might be his daughter. It was a shock to say the least, and he hadn’t a clue what to do with her. All he knew was he’d give away everything he’d ever owned, even his ’56 Jag, never to see her cry again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Skye Maxwell sat in the main dining room of the country club, looked at the presents scattered around the large table amid the crumbs of what was once a decadent chocolate fudge birthday cake, and tried not to let her disappointment show. Sure, she had known her family wouldn’t be handing her the keys to the new Maxwell’s restaurant’s kitchen that she would run, but she’d expected at least p
reliminary architectural drawings. After all, that’s what each of her four brothers received on his thirtieth birthday. And as with their gifts, she had expected to see hers encased in a cardboard tube and wrapped like a big Tootsie Roll. Not one of the gifts on the table was in the shape of a tube; none of her gifts were wrapped like a Tootsie Roll. They were square or round, and in no way looked as though any would be large enough to contain blueprints.

  Her mother, Mary Margaret Maxwell, patted her dark brown, almost black shoulder-length hair, which had to be dyed. A woman of her age must have at least a few gray hairs after raising four rambunctious boys and Skye, who was no shrinking violet herself. Mary Margaret gave her an assessing look and must have kicked Skye’s father, Jack, under the table. Either that or she’d goosed him, because he jumped and shot her mother a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you glare. “Is everything okay, Skye?” her mother asked.

  Skye could hardly hear beyond the noise in her head—it was as if she went swimming in a pool-sized bowl of Rice Krispies. She reminded herself to breathe and gave the question some real thought. Was everything okay?

  Seriously?

  Not only no, but hell no! Things were so far from okay, they weren’t even in the same hemisphere, but if her own family couldn’t figure that out, she wasn’t about to tell them. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You look a little down.”

  Just a little? Damn—she deserved an Academy Award for her performance. “Not at all. I’m just stuffed—I can’t believe we’ve completely destroyed that whole cake.”

  Patrick, her eldest brother, clapped his hands. “Okay, start opening your presents. I need to get back to the restaurant.”

  Of course he did—Paddy was the first to get his restaurant and he was married to the darn place. The only time he let Skye in his kitchen was when he wanted her to come up with the monthly specials for their upscale family-run line of restaurants. Other than that, he loved to stick her back in the business office to handle the books, the human resources, and insurances—something she dreaded. She might be good at it, but it wasn’t where she wanted to be. She wanted her own kitchen, and from the looks of the presents, she wasn’t going to get it.

  She opened each package—all thoughtful gifts she would normally love, but not after working her butt off for years to earn her own kitchen. She thanked her parents and each of her brothers in turn.

  Patrick had saved his gift for last. He held out a long, flat box. “I had this made specially for you. I hope you like it.”

  She eyed it like she would a snake. He held it out to her and she had no choice but to take it. She ripped off the paper, opened the box, and found an engraved nameplate with her name on it above the words MAXWELL’S BUSINESS MANAGER.

  He took his glass of wine and held it up to toast. “Here’s to you, Skye, and your new partnership position. Congratulations. You’re finally a full-fledged owner.”

  Kier, Colin, Reilly, and her parents raised their glasses, and her heart sank. She’d worked to earn her own kitchen, and now she was made the business manager? She swallowed hard. “Don’t you think you should have asked how I felt about this before promoting me to business manager?”

  Paddy smirked his I’m-the-oldest-bad-boy-in-the-family smirk. “I didn’t think we needed to. We all know you like to play chef, but let’s face it, Skye. You’re going to want to marry, have kids—all us guys are married to our restaurants. We don’t want that for you. This way you get to play in our kitchens, you can do the monthly specials, and still have a partnership role. It’s the perfect compromise.”

  Not for her it wasn’t. But then if she blew off her head of steam here, she’d just come off looking like a brat. She’d be damned if she’d give Paddy the satisfaction of calling her one. No, she’d get through her damn birthday dinner; then she’d figure out where to go from here. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in the business office for the rest of her life and coming up with amazing specials for her father’s and brothers’ restaurants—and watch them take full credit for all her hard work. No, she was going to do something—she just wouldn’t do it in a fit of rage. She was a thirty-year-old woman, not some snotty teenager.

  Skye looked from one family member to the next, stopping at her mother, who appeared to be fighting a smile. When she stared into her mother’s eyes, she was surprised to see a look that could only be called encouragement. She seemed to be waiting to see Skye’s reaction. She’d have a while to wait. Skye had a lot to think about. Hell, she owned one-seventh of the company—it wasn’t something she could just shrug off. No, whatever she did, she had to protect the investment she’d made. Well, that was if she didn’t let her temper get the best of her. She figured the chances of that happening were about fifty-fifty. Not great, and the odds would only get worse if she didn’t make a hasty escape. She hated pulling the sentimental, gushy woman card. It was so not her, but even the hint of happy tears would have the men in her family scattering like roaches at the flick of a kitchen light.

  “Well played, dear,” her mother whispered when she hugged her good-bye. “You are a formidable Maxwell.”

  Skye wasn’t sure where her mother was coming from, but chose to abandon any further conversation with the final bite of chocolate cake on her plate. Strong enough to leave the last bite but knowing she would regret it later. She gathered her gifts and made like a mixer and beat it.

  * * *

  “Patrick Maxwell, you’re the world’s biggest asshole.” Skye had held on to her temper through payroll and end-of-the-month financials, but this was the final straw. She pulled a knife through the dish towel and then stuffed it in the sheath. “I quit.” Her brother wore a chef’s hat, probably to make himself look taller, the jerk. As if his six-foot-two frame didn’t tower over her enough.

  “You’re not an employee—you’re an owner and you’re family. You can’t quit.”

  “Wanna bet? Watch me.” She rolled up the carrying case where she stored her prized knives, and ripped the apron from around her waist before throwing it at his face.

  Of course Paddy caught it.

  “Have a nice life.”

  “I’m calling Dad.”

  “Wow, that’s real mature. Go ahead—cry to Daddy. And after you’re finished with your whine fest, tell him I quit. I’ve had enough of you and the rest of the testosterone-charged idiots I’m related to, and Dad’s the ringleader.”

  “Stop behaving like a brat. You’re just mad because Dad didn’t give you a restaurant for your thirtieth birthday like he did the rest of us. Someone in the family has to run the business side of the restaurants, and while you like to play in the kitchens, you’re better suited to working in the office—we discussed this. There’s more to being an executive chef than just dreaming up specials.”

  “Because you don’t know a balance sheet from a supply list, I’m relegated to the back office? I don’t think so.” Skye shoved the Incredible Hulk impersonator she called a brother as hard as she could.

  He didn’t move. The man even had the nerve to laugh.

  “Never laugh at a woman carrying knives, Paddy. Now get out of my way before I take one out and practice my carving technique.”

  “Fine, go. You’ll just come crawling back after you get over your snit.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” She turned and then smiled. “You know, on second thought, do.” She imagined him passing out due to lack of oxygen. A minor bump on the head would do the trick. Maybe he’d hit something on the way down that would leave him looking like he lost a fight with George Foreman before he started hawking electric grills. That would be sweet. She pictured him with birdies flying in cartoon formation around his head and a huge rainbow-striped goose egg popping out of his thinning hair. She’d noticed him checking it out the other day in his reflection in the stainless steel. Skye made a mental note to send him a bottle of Rogaine for his next birthday. She was thirty years old and what did she have to show for all her hard
work? Not a damn thing and the only reason was that she was born without a penis.

  Paddy’s laughter followed her through the doors and into the alley, spurring her anger. She was finished. She was going home to pack a bag and then catch the first plane out. She’d show them all. She was going to do what none of her brothers ever did—make it in the food world on her own. She didn’t need her father to give her a restaurant to become a success. She didn’t need to use the Maxwell family name. She already had everything she’d ever need, her talent, her taste buds, and her experience. She’d show them and everyone else interested that she was good for a lot more than managing the business part-time and then spending the rest of her life planning a benefit, a wedding, or whatever the hell they expected her to do at the country club while her nonexistent husband took over her birthright and added another link to their chain of restaurants. “When hell starts taking reservations.”

  “Did you say something, Skye?”

  She jumped when the dishwasher stepped out of the shadows, reeking of smoke. “No, Bobby. I’m just talking to myself.” And not paying attention to her surroundings, which was stupid. San Francisco wasn’t the safest place in the world—especially the alley behind the restaurant.

  “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine.” After all, she was armed and dangerous—not to mention pissed.

  * * *

  Skye’s mad-on lasted until she dragged herself out of bed on her first morning in New York. She sat in her Times Square hotel room eating bad room service oatmeal while she went over the want ads. She smacked her forehead and dialed her best friend.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is? Did someone die?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Kelly. I forgot about the time change. I’ve been up all night.”

  “Time change? What are you talking about? And for your information, it’s still the middle of the night.”

  “Not in New York, it’s not.”

  “Did you say New York? What does the time in New York have to do with the price of tea in Chinatown?”