High Stakes - Barbara Dunlop

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      “That’s why they call it a budget. I’m going to build you the best restaurant I can within the financial limit you set.”

      “Nobody’s going to notice the damn wainscoting.”

      “Maybe not specifically—”

      “See?” He basted the lobster tails with his left hand, stirring the chocolate with his right. “Why waste the money on something nobody will notice?”

      She dragged her gaze away from his mesmerizing hands. “Not specifically the wainscoting, but they’ll notice the overall effect. Like the top of the wine rack. Will some customer walk in and say ‘Look, honey, the pattern of the marble on the wine rack flows into the overall scheme of the atrium’? Of course not. But, subconsciously, they’ll notice. There’s a fine line between four and five stars.”

      She folded her arms across her chest. “Stick with me, baby, and I’ll push you over the top.”

      Derek stopped stirring and basting, and he stared at her for a moment. The sensual heat in his deep blue eyes was unmistakable. “Left yourself wide-open once again,” he whispered low and husky.

      She drew back, confused.

      A slow smile crossed his face. “Much as I’d like to go ‘over the top’ with you, baby, I don’t think it’s a good idea, given our current adversarial professional relationship.”

      Her face heated. “I only meant…”

      He chuckled. “I know. But, damn, you give a guy openings that are just too good to pass up.”

      He turned his attention back to cooking. “Tell you what, in the spirit of cooperation, I’ll give on the stain if you give on the wainscoting.”

      Candice blinked. She didn’t plan to give on anything. “But, the wainscoting is—”

      “A difference of thousands of dollars.” He raised one eyebrow. “For a quarter of an inch. Can we get a negotiation going here or not?”

      Candice was silent for a moment. It wasn’t her first choice, but she supposed they could make the wainscoting work. “If you get the wainscoting, I get to choose all of the stain and paint colors,” she said.

      Derek stared at her. “You want me to give you all the stain and paint colors for a mere quarter of an inch?”

      “It’s thousands of dollars,” she countered.

      He grinned. “Done.” He lifted the spoon out of the chocolate, blowing on the liquid to cool it.

      “What do you think?” Cupping his hand several inches below the spoon, he moved it toward her mouth.

      She leaned hesitantly forward and licked the tip of the spoon. The rich, dark, sensual chocolate flavor bloomed in her mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned in appreciation.

      “Go to the head of the class,” she said.

      “Why, thank you, teacher.” Somehow he made the words sound like a caress.

      3

      “HAVE YOU CONSIDERED becoming a chef?” Across the candlelit table from Derek, Candice took another bite of her grilled lobster and her lips curved into a blissful smile.

      He couldn’t help the small surge of pride he felt at her obvious appreciation. “And give up my budding decorating career?”

      “No offense,” Candice said, lifting her glass of Chablis. “But, you should probably go with your strengths.”

      “I’m crushed.” But he couldn’t help grinning.

      It was the first time in weeks he’d had time to cook—the first time in months he didn’t have to rush off to a meeting or a conference call after dinner. And mental gymnastics with Candice did have their moments. When he was done reaming his brother out for this stunt, he’d have to thank him.

      She waved her long-stemmed glass. The lights of downtown Seattle glittered in the distance behind her, and glowing pleasure-boats cruised below on their way back to the marina. “Hey, even you over-achievers can’t be good at everything.”

      He sat back in his chair, gazing at her from beneath raised eyebrows. “From a waste of air to an over-achiever all in one night.”

      “You’re still a waste of air when it comes to decorating. Accept defeat with dignity and grace.”

      Derek picked up his own glass of wine, taking a sip. One thing about being locked up in the Lighthouse Restaurant, they sure didn’t need to rough it on the culinary front. “And get the heck away from your renovation job, right?”

      She nodded. “Exactly. Why don’t you go out and raise some venture capital or something. Leave the restaurant to me.”

      “Venture capital?”

      “I minored in economics.”

      “You’re suggesting I should go out and make money, and you’ll stay here and spend it.”

      “Now you’re catching on,” she voiced in a singsong, leaning forward. Then she smiled, and her green eyes lit up in the flickering candlelight. Her eyes were bright, her lips were soft and her cheeks were delicately flushed.

      For the hundredth time that night he was blown away by her beauty.

      “We could have a symbiotic relationship,” she said eagerly.

      A shot of desire rippled through him. “You’re handing me openings on a silver platter again.”

      “Symbiotic means mutually beneficial.” She smirked.

      “I know.” He could think of so many mutually beneficial things he’d like to do to her right now.

      His suit jacket had fallen open to reveal her purple dress. The neckline had crept down throughout the course of the evening, and it seemed to cling precariously to the curve of her breasts.

      His thoughts kept veering off in inappropriate directions, and he seemed powerless to stop them. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to pull her into his arms. He tightened his grip on the stem of the wineglass.

      “The carpet for the crown molding,” he said to distract himself. It was a giveaway on his part, but it was the first deal that came to his mind.

      “My carpet for your crown molding?” she asked, sitting up straighter, obviously surprised by the generosity of the deal. Her movement tightened her dress, and he swore he could almost see the pink of one areola.

      Derek swallowed a deep draught of wine. “Yeah.”

      “The vintage, hand-knotted Safavid?”

      “Right.”

      Candice drew a breath, tightening her dress even more. “You won’t be sorry.”

      He was already sorry. Most of his customers wouldn’t know a Safavid from a nylon Berber. The best he could hope for was an increase in his carpet-aficionado customer base. Maybe they’d order some extra drinks while dropping down on all fours to run their fingers over the imported fibers.

      This round definitely went to her. But only because she was using her breasts as a negotiating tool—even if she didn’t realize it.

      He had a sudden burning need to make a deal that was weighted on his side of the equation. “Let’s talk light fixtures,” he said.

      “You’re not touching my bronze-and-stained-glass chandelier,” she warned, eyes narrowing.

      “I gave you the carpet.”

      She shook her head. “That was a completely different deal.” Pushing back her chair, she stood up.

      Derek jumped up, too. “Where are you going?” He was still worried about her bare feet.

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