Exposed: A British Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Jasper

T
he lift can’t go fast enough for me. It seems like eons before it lands at the ground floor and the doors open to the vast gleaming lobby of the Simons Communications Tower, all marble and crystal chandeliers, fucking over-the-top from the ground up.

I’m pretty used to that kind of thing by now, though.

What I’m
not
used to is this weird fucking hum in my chest that crops up whenever I just
think
about Suzette Quincy and her ink-stained lips. Thoughts of those lips inevitably leads to thoughts of them wrapped around my cock, my hand on the back of her head as she leaves a ring of blue ink around the base of my shaft.

I groan and rearrange my erection in my jeans like I’m a fucking horny teenager. ‘I’d prefer this be a strictly professional relationship,’ she’d said to me.

There is absolutely
nothing
professional about my thoughts of Suzette Quincy.

All I can think of is bending her over, spreading her legs apart and burying myself inside of her. How the hell did that happen?

Grab a pint, a bird, and fucking forget all about her.

I manage to escape the skyscraper building without being accosted for an autograph — or worse, a fucking
selfie
— and step onto the humid streets of Downtown Miami. For a moment, I extend my arm to hail a cab, but I quickly reconsider and think the walk could do my brain some good.

I never even wanted to do the fucking interview. Elliot seems to think it’ll be good publicity for
28
, my newest restaurant, slated to open on — you guessed it — my 28th birthday.

Since when does Jasper Wild need publicity? Walk by any newsstand and I’m bound to be in at least a couple of tabloids.

And I certainly don’t need publicity in the form of an interview from a completely green journalist looking to make a name for herself.

Not with those blue-stained lips I keep picturing wrapped around me, those wide doe-eyes looking up at me...

You fucking asshole, stop thinking about it.

Before I know how it happened, I find myself a block away from the new restaurant and decide to dip in and check on things.

I walk through the front door and take a deep breath, letting everything on the other side of that door fall away. This is my castle and I am King. There are no managers pushing me and prodding me in every direction. No quietly sexy writers hounding me for intimate details about my past. Just an army of people ready to shout ‘Yes Chef!’ and do my bidding without question.

It’s not much to look at right now: a big open industrial space, exposed ducts and copper piping, concrete still on the floor and only the very beginnings of a structure starting to form. It’s a maelstrom of activity, though. Carpenters, designers, the whole shebang, working around the clock to make my vision happen.

What more did
Suzette Quincy
need to know about me?
This
is me.

“Yo, Chef in da house!” Ricardo shouts to the back.

I wave and push my long sleeves up to my elbows as I walk through to the back of the house.

Unlike the front of house, the back is pristine, gleaming stainless everywhere, crisp white chef coats on all my cooks. I’m more than a little proud that they carry on without expecting me to pop in on them.

Ricardo follows me into the kitchen and claps a hand on my shoulder with more force than necessary, trying to make me wince like we’ve done to each other for nearly twenty years.

“Come to slum it with the reg’lars, eh?” he says in his thick Cockney accent. I don’t even notice it most days, but now that we’re back in America, the girls can’t seem to get enough of it.

I shrug, “How’re things coming? Training every one up to snuff?”

He’s been left in charge of the operations while I’m out doing other stupid fucking things like
interviews
. When I started cooking, I had no fucking clue the job would eventually be more about playing the part than actually making any fucking
food
.

I hear a powertool whir to life in the front of house and Ricardo bustles over to a simmering pot, bringing a spoon over for me to taste the sauce.

“I’ve followed your recipe a dozen times, but I can’t seem to make it taste like yours,” he says.

I pop the spoon in my mouth, roll the spicy savory sauce over my tongue and think about it for a moment. Without a word I throw a dash of salt in the pot, a splash of wine, a handful of herbs and stir, tasting again.

“Perfection,” I say while Ricardo just stares at me with disbelief.

“I don’t know how you do that,” he says and I shrug, taking a turn around the kitchen sampling everything.

Though
28
is a long way from opening, we have investors that want to taste the menu, we have preview events off-site, and I’m sure Elliot will cook up a few more press events. We need everything to be on point long before opening day. I don’t want a single garnish forgotten or a single menu question unanswered during our first service.

So we practice and practice a hundred times over until people don’t even have to think twice about what they’re doing. Until it’s as natural as wiping their own asses. That’s what I expect in my kitchen and it’s what I’ll get or there will be hell to pay.

I’m just about to pop a forkful of the pastry chef’s newest cobbler concoction in my mouth when I hear a loud squeal from the construction area and the saw screeches to a halt with a hollow thud that sends dread straight through me.

What now?

There’s a ton of shouting amongst the workers out front and I see Ricardo’s face blanch as he looks to me for direction.

“I’ll handle it,” I say and paste on my fiercest ‘someone’s going to fucking pay’ scowl as I storm out of the kitchen.

“What THE FUCK was that?” I scream over the din of workers scrambling to cover up their mistakes.

The foreman steps forward and though he’s the same height as me and probably sixty pounds heavier, the man looks
scared.

Damn straight. He should be fucking scared.

“Well?” I growl again, waiting for an answer.

“We ran into a problem,” he says.

I look down for only a moment and see water creeping across the cement floor towards me.

Shit
.

Stalking past the foreman, I push through the crowd of workers to find a pipe gushing water all over, a notch cut into it by an electric saw.

Fucking idiots.

The water keeps coming and coming and I look around at all the dumb blank gazes, just fucking
watching it
.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” I shout, “Someone go shut the bloody water off and call a plumber. Get this water cleaned up and—” they’re all still just watching me, cowering from the furious storm of my rage. I don’t blame them.

My phone rings, because I really
really
needed
one more
fucking thing going on right now. I glare at the screen when I see Elliot’s name and answer with a snappish, “Not now,” before turning back to the bewildered construction guys, “Oh
for fuck’s sake
someone turn off the fucking water. Fucking hell, it doesn’t take a brain surgeon.”

“Is everything alright over there?” Elliot asks as I’m trying to stem the gushing water long enough for some slack-jawed imbecile to finally figure out how to turn a fucking lever.

“Not. Fucking. Now,” I grumble.

Mercifully, the water slows to a trickle and then dies off completely. Then I hear the shouts of protest from the kitchen and a have to force down a growl of impatience.

“Jasper, you really need to let this interview happen. Your public image is not exactly…
flattering
,” he says.

A nice way of saying I’m constantly called ‘impossible to work with’, ‘a tyrant in the kitchen’ and whatever other insipid little insults the tabloids come up with after I won’t give them a
real
story.

“Like I give one figgy fuck about my
public image
,” I sneer. “I’m up to my elbows in water here, El. We’ll sort it out later,” I add, a bit softer this time. Elliot is just doing his job — keeping my name out there, keeping people interested, making
Jasper Wild
a name that rich fuckers want to invest with.

And he’s done a marvelous job, so I can’t fault him too harshly for his bad timing now.

Elliot grouses something on the other end of the call, but I’m too distracted to hear it — or care, if I’m being honest.

“...best behavior,” I hear him say and I mumble back.

“Yeah yeah, I got it.”

“I mean it, Jasper,” Elliot says and I hang up the phone without another response.

By the time I’ve got the front of house under control with an emergency plumber on the way, I walk into the kitchen and find it in fucking chaos. Dishes piled high, stations a complete mess and half the stoves abandoned.

There are only a few people left in the kitchen and they won’t make eye contact with me. I storm through the back door and find them all grouped together out back, passing around a joint and laughing.

The moment they see me, everyone stiffens, eyes wide, like they know there’s about to be hell to pay.

I eye the joint and nod to Tory, the recent hire gripping it between two fingers, “Mind if I join?” I ask.

His eyes go even wider, but he hands it over before breaking into a fit of coughs, smoke escaping his lungs like he’d been trying to hold it until I left.

“Must be nice to come out here and relax in the middle of a shift,” I say and see the girl on my left shuffle nervously.

“I bet it’s great to not have any fucking responsibilities, huh?”

Tory is the only one stupid enough to grin and nod, waiting anxiously for me to take a hit off the joint.

I rip it in half and flick it in the gutter with a dark scowl, “Everyone inside. Now.”

They follow me like ducklings headed for the gallows, knowing they’re about to get shit on.

Ricardo’s nowhere to be found and I make a mental note to rip him a new one later.

“What’s going on here?” I ask, grabbing a dirty pot from the top of a teetering tower. I send it crashing across the floor with a series of loud clangs and a few of the stoners wince at the noise.

“The water was shut off so…” Tory started.

Really not the brightest chap, is he?

“So you decided to just beg off of work, is that it?” I shove the whole stack of dirty pots and pans to the floor, sauces and remnants of food flying across the kitchen.

No one has the guts to say anything now and somehow it only makes me more pissed.

“This,” I grab an abandoned saucepan from the stove, it’s contents charred and black inside and dump the whole thing in the trash, “is
GARBAGE
.”

I can’t stop myself now. I’m in full temper tantrum mode. After being unsettled by that journalist, having part of my fucking restaurant
explode
and now
this.
I expect military precision, not fucking ameteur hour.

And I tell them so. In the most colorful language I can muster, making a complete and utter fucking mess of everything as I hurl shit all over.

The nervous girl from before breaks into sobs and runs out. Tory watches her and I can see him thinking about going after her. They’re probably fucking, but he’s at least got enough of a brain to know not to dig his own grave any deeper.

“If any of you bastards want a job come tomorrow morning, this place had better be fucking
spotless
. Am I understood?”

“Chef, yes Chef!” is the resounding answer and I relax just a hair.

“Uh… Chef?” Tory asks and I see that the rest of the crew have stepped back to make him the sacrificial lamb.

“
What?
” I hiss, ready to commit fucking murder if one more person questions me today.

“How are we supposed to clean without any water?”

They all shift restlessly behind him and I manage to give him my most patronizing smile.

“Well, that seems like something you had better fucking figure out, doesn’t it?”

And before I can destroy anything else, I have to get the fuck out of there. Get that pint I promised myself.

Who am I kidding? After a day like today, I’m gonna need a bloody dozen pints.

CHAPTER THREE

Susie

A
fter a long night of wallowing in my own self-pity for drawing the short straw with this assignment and a bottle of wine in front of my computer, I pep-talked myself into wrangling this impossible man.

Jasper Wild is a human being, even if he is cocky and insufferable. Every human has their weaknesses. I just have to find his and make them work for me.

Last night, after the disastrous meeting in Ivan’s office, Elliot emailed me an abbreviated itinerary of Jasper’s engagements. I doubt the
Chef
will appreciate my presence following him like a shadow, but the thought of causing him even a small bit of annoyance makes me smile.

It’s only seven in the morning and the sun has barely begun to break through the grey haze blanketing the city as I head down to the street to visit my favorite local cuban coffee shop.

With two drinks in hand, I hail a cab to take me the half dozen blocks to Jasper’s hotel. Maybe Elliot expects me to show up to one of the more public events, include those in my bio for some good publicity, but I have other things in mind.

The world wants to know who Jasper Wild
really
is and I have the opportunity to give it to them. To make Suzette Quincy a name so much bigger than
Global Week News
ever could otherwise. If I manage to nail this story, I know I’ll be well on my way out of the land of baby bumps and speculative romances.

I take the gleaming polished elevator up to the ninth floor, bouncing on my heels impatiently as the buttons light up one by one with the ascent. For just a second, I’m more nervous in this elevator ride than the one I took yesterday.

Jasper Wild is an arrogant tool, but even I can’t deny that he’s sexy as sin. And that accent… well, I’m going to have to forget all about the accent if I want to actually
hear
anything he says.

“921… 923… 925,” I mumble, wrangling both coffees into one hand to knock on his door.

No answer.

I knock a little harder and hear an angry muffled response from inside the room. Okay, so now
I’m
the asshole taking pleasure in someone else being uncomfortable.

I’m okay with that. I get the impression that Jasper could do to suffer through some of his own medicine.

I pound my fist against the door again.

“For fuck’s sake, what part of ‘go away’ can you not get through your thick fucking skull?” I hear him grumbling on the other side of the door before I hear the
snick
of a deadbolt turning and then the door opens just a crack.

He opens the door and I’m just standing on the other side of it, beaming my most winning smile — ink free this time — and holding up the two coffees.

Jasper looks a little worse for wear; his dark hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles, the sandpaper stubble that graced his jaw yesterday has grown into a thick dusting of facial hair and his eyes — those fathomless navy eyes — are glossy and bloodshot.

“Looks like you had a rough night,” I say, pushing through the door before he can think to react, taking advantage of his half-asleep sluggishness.

“Jaysus uncle-fucking Christ, what are
you
doing here?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes like he doesn’t quite believe what’s happening.

It’s only then that I finally manage to rake my eyes down the rest of his body and realize that he’s only wearing a pair of boxers, leaving all of his deliciously tattooed muscled form open for my eyes to drink in.

I probably stare a second longer than I should have. Or thirty seconds longer. A minute tops. He’s too tired and irritated to notice — or at least he doesn’t comment.

“I thought that was pretty obvious. I brought coffee so we can get started on this interview.”

Jasper chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, turning his head from side to side with sharp pops of his joints.

“That’s funny. Elliot sent you here, did he? I told you sweetheart, you’re wasting your time.”

I roll my eyes and set the coffees down on the counter between the living room and kitchen areas in this big suite. He certainly knows how to live in style while he’s in town.

Well, in
style
, not in
cleanliness.

Glancing around the room, I see piles of dirty laundry, discarded bottles of beer and liquor, empty take-out boxes and… ew, is that a used condom hanging from the trash can?

“Ugh, this place is disgusting. Don’t they have housekeeping here?”

Jasper shrugs, “I don’t make a habit of inviting people to stay. It suits me just fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m hungover and not at all in the mood for this.”

I pick up one of the cardboard cups and wave it towards him, wafting the aroma under his nose, “Coffee would help.”

He makes a face, but I can see him considering it before he snatches the drink from my grasp and takes a long swallow.

“Mmm, Cuban?” he says and I nod, pleased that he appreciates my taste in coffee.

He takes another drink of the coffee before crossing back to the door to open it.

“Well, thanks for the room service, luv. I believe you’ve outstayed your welcome.”

My arms cross in front of my chest and I purse my lips, trying to ignore the swirling lines of ink covering his scrumptious body.

“I’m not going to give up, you know. You can huff and puff and rant and rave all you like, but I
will
get an interview with you.”

He closes the door and takes a step toward me, suddenly reminding me of his sheer size. He’s nearly a foot taller than me and twice as broad, all those tightly coiled muscles just waiting to spring.

I swallow, having to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes.

“Is that so,” he says in a husky whisper that dances across my lips.

“It is. I don’t scare easily and I
don’t
give up,” I lick my lips without meaning to and follow his eyes as they watch me.

His bare chest is so close to me. Every breath he takes nearly presses us together and my head grows fuzzy with the nearness of him.

“Do you ever take a fucking hint? Because I said
no.
” His face turns hard, but he’s still pressing into my personal space, trying to unnerve me, trying to get me to crack.

“No,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes, playing the sweet innocent part without deliberately meaning to. Then I wrinkle my nose and take a step back from him, “Do you ever bathe?”

“Is that an offer to join me?” He counters quickly, closing the distance between us again. I retreat another step and feel myself bump against the back of the couch, my exit route cut off.

Like a complete idiot, I look down and see the tent of flimsy cotton material of his boxers and I feel my face flush with heat as I drag my eyes back up to his and find them sparkling with knowing amusement.

Asshole.

“In your dreams,” I manage, thrusting two fingers at his shoulder to push him away from me.

He gives me that fucking smirk that makes me want to punch the stupid expression right off of his smug face, “Don’t flatter yourself, luv. My dreams have an All-Star cast.”

I throw up my hands in frustration and groan loudly with exasperation, “Is it really necessary for you to be
this much
of a dick?”

Jasper grins and presses his hips into me, sending liquid heat pouring through me like lava, “Well, it’s not
necessary.
But is is amusing. You’re kind of sexy when you’re all flustered.”

I hate the way my body responds to hearing that accent call me sexy with those lips and that twinkling playfulness in his eyes. I hate how good his naked body feels pressed up against me and how desperate I am to trace each and every tattoo of his over that gorgeous muscled flesh.

For a moment, I’m dazed by him, but I quickly regain my composure and level — what I hope is — a stern gaze at him.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be difficult. You have better uses for your time I’m sure,” I say, waving my hands a little too wildly, coffee sloshing around in my cup as I try to ignore the feel of his breath hitting my neck.

“I certainly have better uses for
my
time,” I say, hearing my voice drift off as his fingers trail down the outside of my arm, bringing goosebumps to my flesh.

“Do you now?” he purrs and I have to hold in a little sigh.

My mouth feels like a desert and I know if I don’t choke out some kind of response he’s going to feel that he’s won.

I can’t let that happen.

“Yes,” I hear myself say, “I do. I have a thousand things that are better uses of my time than chasing you around town begging you to answer my questions.”

“Oh? Is that what you were going to beg me for?” he husks, pressing me into the back of the couch again. I feel his thick bulge press against my thigh and it takes everything in my power to not squirm away and let him win. He wants to make me uncomfortable, well, I’m not going to give in that easily.

“Actually, I think you’ll find I won’t be
begging
you for anything. I will, however, be getting my story. Whether you’re painted in a particularly flattering light or not is entirely up to you,
Chef
.”