The Billionaire's Email-Order Bride Page 2

  John shrugged. “I guess that’s true.”

  “So, you’re fine with seeing them after all this time, after what they did to you?”

  John nodded. “I’m fine with it.”

  Chris finished chewing and swallowed, then steepled his hands over his plate. “I know that’s not true. I saw you fall apart when she left you for him. It wasn’t pretty, and I don’t think you’ve ever dealt with it, not really. If you go back there now and see them…it might unravel you.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really think I’m so fragile?”

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. You won’t talk about it. You’re wound so tight these days.”

  “Here we go again.” Anger pulsed through John’s gut. What was it with everyone in his life telling him he needed to relax and loosen up? Not everyone was like that. He wasn’t like that.

  “Relax.” Chris raised both hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just that I’ve known you your whole life, and you seem to me as though you’re on the verge of…well, I don’t know what. On the verge of something. I know you’re strong enough to handle everything you’ve got going on, but maybe if one more thing happened, it might tip you over the edge until you become a complete workaholic with no personal life whatsoever. I just don’t want to see that happen to you, man. I love you, I want you to be happy, to have a life outside of work.”

  John sighed. “What’s so wrong with being dedicated to my work? Everyone’s so against it, but actually, it’s pretty fulfilling to achieve, to succeed. I love it. I thrive on it.”

  The words rang hollow even as they fell from his mouth, but he was sick of everyone judging him for working hard. The last he’d heard, dedication was supposed to be a virtue, but everyone in his life acted as though it was a flaw. Something he should overcome.

  “There’s a difference between being committed to your work and living for your work.” Chris’s voice softened, and he pushed salad around on his plate as he spoke.

  “I know that.” John sighed. “Anyway, I’m trying to put the past behind me. That’s why I’m going to the reunion. To move on. Start over. I’m ready to let go of everything that happened. And anyway, I might not be going to the reunion at all…there’s still one thing I have to work out first.”

  “What is it?” asked Chris around a mouthful of steak.

  “I need a date.”

  “That’s easy enough to arrange. You’ve always got a flock of girls following you around vying for your attention.” Chris laughed, his eyes twinkling.

  “Not true.”

  “Oh yes, it is.”

  John shook his head. “Even if that were true, I don’t want to take just anyone. I think the only way I can really face Shonda and Tony is if they believe I’m in a serious relationship, engaged, married, something like that. Otherwise, they’ll give me that look. You know the look—the one that says, ‘Oh, you poor thing, you’ll find our kind of happiness someday, bless your heart.’”

  Chris laughed. “Well, I can’t imagine Shonda saying, ‘bless your heart.’ She is from New York after all. Still, I get what you’re saying. You want to take a date who can pull off the idea that you’re in a long-term relationship. That you’re happy, on your way to wedded bliss. That kind of thing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe you should hire a professional.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like an escort?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, thank you,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Can you imagine if anyone found that out? I’d be the laughing stock of the whole reunion. Besides, I’d actually like to find someone…I don’t know.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “You want to find a real date?” Chris cocked his head to one side.

  “Yeah. I guess. I suppose that’s impossible at such late notice. It’s just, lately, I’ve been feeling lonely. You know?”

  Chris nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. All the late nights working at the office, the travel. Sometimes you get home, finally, and it’s so quiet.”

  “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need the complication of a relationship in my life. I’ve stayed away from romance for just that reason, after everything that happened with Shonda,” John said. “But still, it would be nice to have someone to come home to.”

  “You know, I saw this thing online the other day. An article about this new email-order date service. I mean, I think they do weddings and everything as well, it was called Email-Order Dates. It looked legit.”

  “Weddings, are you serious?” He arched an eyebrow. Surely his brother was teasing him.

  “You know, like in the Old West, they had mail-order brides for the pioneers? There were no women out on the frontier, so they sent East for brides to join them.”

  John pushed his plate away, his appetite gone as his stomach churned. “They still do that kind of thing?”

  “I guess so.” Chris grinned, biting down on a piece of tomato.

  “An email-order bride…So, we’d actually be married, but it’d be like a business arrangement?”

  “Yeah, you’d have a companion, a date for the reunion, someone to come home to at night, but you could probably set it up to be however you want it. If you don’t want romance, just say that up front. I was thinking of doing it myself.”

  John mulled over their conversation throughout the rest of the meal and again as he wandered out to where a long, black limousine waited to take him home. Could he really do something like that? It certainly appealed to him, the idea of finding someone to spend his free time with, but in a way that suited his needs and without the romantic entanglements and drama that went along with a typical relationship. But what kind of woman would agree to an arrangement like that?

  Chapter 2

  Eve Partridge tightened the scarf around her neck and blew warm air into her gloved hands cupped in front of her mouth. She shivered, glancing up at the timber sign dangling overhead. It swayed slightly with the chill wind. She swallowed and pushed through the front door.

  The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but staff milled about the space, setting tables with silverware, folding napkins, and laughing quietly together. They waved to her or nodded as she made her way to the kitchen, her heart thundering in her chest.

  Today was the day.

  She’d been offered the job of executive chef at Sanbury's, and she’d accepted their offer the week before. Now all she had to do was give Damon her notice. He wouldn’t be happy about it. Not happy at all, and if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t either. She’d loved her time at El Salvatore’s. The Spanish fusion cuisine had helped shape her as a chef and working for Damon Salvatore—executive chef and owner—had been a dream come true.

  Now it was time for her to move on. To become the head chef in her own kitchen. She was ready. At twenty-six years of age, she’d heard the murmured comments about how she was too young to head up a kitchen. Even as Damon’s sous chef, she’d felt the looks of disbelief, jealousy, and rivalry leveled at her back over the years. But she knew why she’d gotten the job, even if no one else did. It was because she was good. She had a natural talent for bringing elements together on a plate in a way that made them stand out from the crowd.

  Damon saw that. And instead of being threatened by her talent, her drive, and her ambition, he’d taken her under his wing. He’d nurtured her and ignored the criticism from the other staff vying for the job. Instead, he’d been a mentor and friend to her for three years, at a time when she’d needed both desperately.

  And now, she was about to disappoint him. He knew she wanted to be an executive chef, and he couldn’t give that to her. Surely, he’d understand that she had to move on, even as part of her fought the change. The easy thing would be to stay with Damon, where she was comfortable, confident, and happy. It was a risk going out on her own to a new restaurant with an owner she didn’t know. But it was a risk she had to take, otherw
ise, she’d never achieve the very thing she’d set out from Australia to do three years earlier—run her own kitchen. From there, it wasn’t such a leap to open her own restaurant which was the end goal; the dream of her heart.

  The kitchen door stuck a little, so she leaned her shoulder against it and pushed harder, stumbling across the threshold.

  Most of the kitchen staff were there already, preparing for the evening meal. They scurried about the kitchen, dressed in black and white, fetching, carrying, sautéing, and chattering loudly over the noise. Damon stood in the center of it all, pointing, giving out orders, tasting and slicing. When he saw her, he grinned and held a ladle in her direction.

  “Taste!” he commanded, his Spanish accent softening the word.

  She smiled. How could she leave this place? It felt like home to her, especially with an entire ocean between her and the country of her birth. Her gut clenched into a tight fist. She had to get through this.

  Just say it. Get it over with. He’ll understand.

  As she sipped the sauce from the ladle her eyes widened. “Wow, that’s really good. Did you add cinnamon?”

  He chuckled. “And that’s why I hired you. Yes, cinnamon. It’s good, no?”

  She nodded. “Very. Look, Damon, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “After service, okay?”

  Eve inhaled slowly, steeling her resolve. “Actually, I’d prefer to do it now. If you have the time.”

  His brow furrowed, and he wiped both hands on the neatly tied apron around his trim waist. “Let’s go to my office.”

  She followed him down the short hallway and into a small, cramped space with an untidy desk, a printer, and a telephone. He slid into the chair behind the desk and it squeaked in protest as he leaned back on it, lacing his hands together behind his chef’s hat.

  “What is it, Eve? You seem upset.”

  She sighed and lowered herself into the chipped, white-timber chair opposite him. “I’ve been offered another job.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

  “Executive chef over at Sanbury's.”

  He inhaled sharply and ran both hands over his face before pressing them to the desk in front of him. His eyes sparked. “And?”

  She bit down on her lip. “And I accepted their offer.”

  He swore, stood, and paced the short distance across the office, then back again. “I thought you would stay. At least a little longer. I was hoping to open a second restaurant…and now you are leaving me.”

  “I’m sorry, Damon. You know how much I appreciate you and everything you’ve done for me. But you also know I couldn’t stay here forever. I’d love to, trust me, but it’s just not something I can commit to if I want to have my own place one day. You’re the one who told me that was possible, that I should go for it. Do you remember?”

  He huffed. “I remember. Of course I remember.”

  “Please be happy for me.”

  His face softened. “I am happy for you. You will do a wonderful job. I will miss you, we all will. Maria most of all.” His wife was her biggest fan and had welcomed her so warmly into the El Salvatore family when Eve first moved to New York City that she dreaded the thought of breaking the news to Maria even more than facing Damon.

  “It’s okay. I will tell her.” He smiled, reading her thoughts.

  She sighed. “Thank you.”

  “When do you leave?’

  “I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice.”

  “No need for that. You can go tomorrow if they want you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to leave you in the lurch.”

  He waved a hand. “I already have someone who has been asking me for a chance. Now he will get his chance.”

  Eve chewed the inside of her cheek. “Great. That’s perfect then.” She’d hoped Damon would be able to find someone to replace her, she just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.

  “You go now and get ready for service. We have a lot to do.”

  She nodded and stood to her feet. “Thank you, Damon. I’ll never forget how kind you and Maria have been to me.”

  He patted her on the shoulder, his gray hair peeking out from beneath the sides of his hat, and his brown eyes dark with emotion. “You are part of our family. Don’t become a stranger to us, okay?”

  As she made her way back to the kitchen, the knot in her gut loosened and a smile crept across her face. That hadn’t been as difficult as she’d imagined it would be, and now she was on her way. Tomorrow she’d start her new adventure. Head chef at a stellar New York restaurant. Her smile widened as she tied an apron around her waist, then twisted her long, blonde hair into a bun. Her dreams were about to come true.

  Eve tapped the elevator button again. No luck. She sighed and peered at the doorway leading to the staircase that would take her up the eight flights to her apartment. The elevator was always breaking down. When she was head chef, she’d find a new apartment, one with better heating, a working elevator, and maybe even a doorman.

  The thought bolstered her resolve, and she pushed through the doorway beside the elevator, skipping up the stairs two at a time. Nothing could bring her down today. She was so excited about the prospect of a new job, a new opportunity, and the thought that one day in the not too distant future she could open her own restaurant. She daydreamed about opening up the New York Times to find her restaurant featured in the food section with a five-star review and a picture of her, arms crossed, wearing a glamorous dress and a smug smile.

  She slowed her pace, puffing with the effort of the climb. At least with the exercise she wouldn’t feel the cold so badly when she finally made it to her apartment. The furnace had been unreliable all winter long, and the super, Mr. Hancock, was so old he could barely make the climb to her floor to repair it.

  The key turned easily in the lock, and she opened the door, stepping through into her small living room. It might be cold and cramped, but she still loved the fact that she could afford to have her own place in a city where real estate space was at a premium. When she’d first moved to the city, she’d had to room with four other girls. At least now she had somewhere to go, a place where she could relax, put her feet up after a long night at work, and regenerate.

  She threw her purse on the floor and set the stack of mail she’d collected from the box downstairs on the coffee table. After getting herself a glass of milk and making a banana and peanut butter sandwich, she sat in her favorite Lazy Boy chair, lifted the foot rest, and reached for the mail. She took a bite of sandwich and stared at the first envelope—insurance bill.

  She tossed it back onto the coffee table and reached for the next envelope. This one looked official. When she read the return address, her heart skipped a beat.

  US Citizenship and Immigration Services

  She frowned, set her sandwich down on the small plate in her lap, and opened the envelope with one finger. What would the USCIS be writing to her about? She was living in the United States on a temporary work visa but had applied for permanent residency. Perhaps this was a request for more information? They couldn’t have made their decision yet since she’d only sent in the application a few months ago and she’d interacted with the government department enough times to know the process would take a lot longer than that.

  The letter fell open and she scanned its contents, her heart rate increasing with each word she read. They were cancelling her visa? How could they do that? Something about a change of status. She hadn’t changed her status. She was still working in the city as a chef, nothing about that had changed.

  She set the letter in her lap and reached for her cell. Perhaps if she spoke to someone, they could explain what was happening. Two minutes later she realized that it was the middle of the night and no one would be working. She sighed and hung up the phone, the recorded message still ringing in her ears.

  This couldn’t be right. There must be some kind of mistake. She had a visa. And she had
the job of her dreams, finally. They couldn’t change things on her now. She’d walked away from her home, her family, and everything she cared about to travel half a world away in search of her dreams, and now she was here, about to taste the sweetness of that dream. And it might all be over before it had really begun.

  Chapter 3

  Eve clutched the briefcase to her chest, along with her overcoat, and her fingers drummed against the leather. The chair beneath her was soft, with a hard back, and she leaned forward, one leg crossed over the other. The row of chairs beside her all had matching cream cushions. To her right, the hostess leaned on a black stand, caught her gaze, and offered her a sympathetic smile.

  “Sorry,” Eve waved her fingers, “I’m a little bit nervous.”

  “It’s okay,” replied the hostess. “You’re going to be our new executive chef, right?”

  Eve stood and walked toward the woman, holding out a hand. The woman took it and shook it gently. “That’s right. I’m Eve Partridge.”

  “I’m Sonja Gaston. Pleased to meet you.”

  “You too. The restaurant is beautiful.” Eve gazed around, taking in the stylish but understated décor—expensive chandeliers, silverware, crystal, and plush carpets.

  “Thanks.” The hostess offered a cursory look then returned her attention to the papers in front of her. “We’re fully booked tonight, so it’ll be fun and games trying to manage everyone.”

  “I’ll bet.” Eve smiled.

  Just then, a short man in a white button-down shirt and black slacks approached them with a grin. His black hair was greased back against a protruding forehead.

  “Hi, Eve, so glad you could come in today.” He spoke with a lisp, pushing his hand out toward her.

  She took it and shook firmly. “Thanks, Frank. I’m really glad to be here.”

  “Let’s go to my office where we can talk.” He ushered her through the restaurant and down a short corridor toward the kitchen then turned left into a small, square space crowded with filing cabinets, a rectangular, mahogany desk, and a pedestal fan.