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He waited for her to explain how she had ended up in New York cooking for the One Percent instead of opening her own restaurant, but she must have thought she had come to the end of her story, because she didn’t say anything else. For Hogan, though, her conclusion only jump-started a bunch of new questions in his brain. “So you wanted to open your own place, but you’ve been cooking for one person at a time for...how long?”
She met his gaze levelly. “For five years,” she said.
He wondered if that was why she charged so much for her services and insisted on living on-site. Because she was saving up to open her own restaurant.
“Why no restaurant of your own by now?” he asked.
She hesitated for a short, but telling, moment. “I changed my mind.” She stood and picked up his plate. “I need to see to your dessert.”
He wanted to ask her more about herself, but her posture made clear she was finished sharing. So instead, he asked, “What am I having?”
“Glissade.”
“Which is? To me?” he added before she could.
“Chocolate pudding.”
And then she was gone. He turned in his chair to watch her leave and saw her crossing the gallery to the kitchen, her red plastic shoes whispering over the marble floor. He waited to see if she would look back, or even to one side. But she kept her gaze trained on the kitchen door, her step never slowing or faltering.
She was a focused one, Chloe Merlin. He wondered why. And he found himself wondering, too, if there was anything else—or anyone else—in her life besides cooking.
Two (#ulink_696967e7-4480-556a-bd7f-e4ccd3d46b96)
The day after she began working for Hogan Dempsey, Chloe returned from her early-afternoon grocery shopping to find him in the gallery between the kitchen and dining room. He was dressed in a different pair of battered jeans from the day before, and a different sweater, this one the color of a ripe avocado. He must not have heard her as she topped the last stair because he was gazing intently at one photograph in particular. It was possible that if she continued to not make a sound, he wouldn’t see her as she slipped into the kitchen. Because she’d really appreciate it if Hogan didn’t see her as she slipped into the kitchen.
In fact, she’d really appreciate it if Hogan never noticed her again.
She still didn’t know what had possessed her to reveal so much about herself last night. She never told anyone about being raised by a grandmother instead of by parents, and she certainly never talked about the desire she’d once had to open a restaurant. That was a dream she abandoned a long time ago, and she would never revisit it again. Never. Yet within hours of meeting Hogan, she was telling him those things and more. It was completely unprofessional, and Chloe was, if nothing else, utterly devoted to her profession.
She gripped the tote bags in her hands more fiercely and stole a few more steps toward the kitchen. She was confident she didn’t make a sound, but Hogan must have sensed her presence anyway and called out to her. Maybe she could pretend she didn’t hear him. It couldn’t be more than five or six more steps to the kitchen door. She might be able to make it.
“Chloe?” he said again.
Damn. Missed it by that much.
She turned to face him. “Yes, Mr. Dempsey?”
“Hogan,” he told her again. “I don’t like being called ‘Mr. Dempsey.’ It makes me uncomfortable. It’s Hogan, okay?”
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “What is it you need?”
When he’d called out to her, he’d sounded like he genuinely had something to ask her. Now, though, he only gazed at her in silence, looking much the way he had yesterday when he’d seemed so lost. And just as she had yesterday, Chloe had to battle the urge to go to him, to touch him, and to tell him not to worry, that everything would be all right. Not that she would ever tell him that. There were some things that could never be all right again. No one knew that better than Chloe did.
Thankfully, he quickly regrouped, pointing at the photo he’d been studying. “It’s my mother,” he said. “My biological mother,” he quickly added. “I think I resemble her a little. What do you think?”
What Chloe thought was that she needed to start cooking. Immediately. Instead, she set her bags on the floor and made her way across the gallery toward him and the photo.
His mother didn’t resemble him a little, she saw. His mother resembled him a lot. In fact, looking at her was like looking at a female Hogan Dempsey.
“Her name was Susan Amherst,” he said. “She was barely sixteen when she had me.”
Even though Chloe truly didn’t engage in gossip, she hadn’t been able to avoid hearing the story of Susan Amherst over the last several weeks. It was all the Park Avenue crowd had talked about since the particulars of Philip Amherst’s estate were made public, from the tearooms where society matriarchs congregated to the kitchens where their staff toiled. How Susan Amherst, a prominent young society deb in the early ’80s, suddenly decided not to attend Wellesley after her graduation from high school a year early, and instead took a year off to “volunteer overseas.” There had been talk at the time that she was pregnant and that her ultra-conservative, extremely image-conscious parents wanted to hide her condition. Rumors swirled that they sent her to live with relatives upstate and had the baby adopted immediately after its birth. But the talk about young Susan died down as soon as another scandal came along, and life went on. Even for the Amhersts. Susan returned to her rightful place in her parents’ home the following spring and started college the next year. For all anyone knew, she really had spent months “volunteering overseas.”
Until Hogan showed up three decades later and stirred up the talk again.
“You and she resemble each other very much,” Chloe said. And because Susan’s parents were in the photograph, as well, she added, “You resemble your grandfather, too.” She stopped herself before adding that Philip Amherst had been a very handsome man.
“My grandfather’s attorney gave me a letter my grandfather wrote when he changed his will to leave his estate to me.” Hogan’s voice revealed nothing of what he might be feeling, even though there must be a tsunami of feeling in a statement like that. “The adoption was a private one at a time when sealed records stayed sealed, so he couldn’t find me before he died.
“Not that I got the impression from his letter that he actually wanted to find me before he died,” he hastened to add. Oh, yes. Definitely a tsunami of feeling. “It took a bunch of legal proceedings to get the records opened so the estate could pass to me. Anyway, in his letter, he said Susan didn’t want to put me up for adoption. That she wanted to raise me herself. She even named me. Travis. Travis Amherst.” He chuckled, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in the sound. “I mean, can you see me as a Travis Amherst?”
Actually, Chloe could. Hogan Dempsey struck her as a man who could take any form and name he wanted. Travis Amherst of the Upper East Side would have been every bit as dynamic and compelling as Hogan Dempsey of Queens. He just would have been doing it in a different arena.
“Not that it matters,” he continued. “My grandparents talked Susan out of keeping me because she was so young—she was only fifteen when she got pregnant. They convinced her it was what was best for her and me both.”
He looked at the photo again. In it, Susan Amherst looked to be in her thirties. She was wearing a black cocktail dress and was flanked by her parents on one side and a former, famously colorful, mayor of New York on the other. In the background were scores of people on a dance floor and, behind them, an orchestra. Whatever the event was, it seemed to be festive. Susan, however, wasn’t smiling. She obviously didn’t feel very festive.
“My mother never told anyone who my father was,” Hogan continued. “But my grandfather said he thought he was one of the servants’ kids that Susan used to sneak out with. From some of the other stuff he said, I think he was more worried about that than he was my mother’s age.” He paused. “Not that that matters now, either.”
Chloe felt his gaze fall on her again. When she looked at him, his eyes were dark with a melancholy sort of longing.
“Of course it matters,” she said softly. “Your entire life would have been different if you had grown up Travis Amherst instead of Hogan Dempsey.” And because she couldn’t quite stop herself, she added, “It’s...difficult...when life throws something at you that you never could have seen coming. Especially when you realize it’s going to change everything. Whatever you’re feeling, Hogan, they’re legitimate feelings, and they deserve to be acknowledged. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t matter. It matters,” she repeated adamantly. “It matters a lot.”
Too late, she realized she had called him Hogan. Too late, she realized she had spilled something out of herself onto him again and made an even bigger mess than she had last night. Too late, she realized she couldn’t take any of it back.
But Hogan didn’t seem to think she’d made a mess. He seemed to be grateful for what she’d said. “Thanks,” he told her.
And because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, she replied automatically, “You’re welcome.”
She was about to return to the kitchen—she really, really, really did need to get cooking—but he started talking again, his voice wistful, his expression sober.
“I can’t imagine what my life would have been like growing up as Travis Amherst. I would have had to go to some private school where I probably would have played soccer and lacrosse instead of football and hockey. I would have gone to college. I probably would have majored in business or finance and done one of those study-abroads in Europe. By now Travis Amherst would be saddled with some office job, wearing pinstripes by a designer whose name Hogan Dempsey wouldn’t even recognize.” He shook his head, clearly baffled by what might have been. “The thought of having to work at a job like that instead of working at the garage is...” He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly. “It’s just... A job like that would suffocate me. But Travis Amherst probably would have loved it.”
“Possibly,” Chloe said. “But maybe not. Travis might have liked working with his hands, too. It’s impossible to know for sure.”
“And pointless to play ‘what if,’ I know,” Hogan agreed. “What’s done is done. And the idea that I would have never known my mom and dad or have the friends I’ve had all my life... The thought of all the memories that live in my head being completely different...”
Chloe winced inwardly at the irony of their situation. They both grieved for the unknown. But with him, it was a past that hadn’t happened, and for her, it was a future that would never be.
“I need to cook,” she told him. She pushed her glasses into place with the back of her hand and took a step backward. “I’m sorry, but...” She took another step back. “I need to cook. If you’ll excuse me...”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem.” He didn’t sound like there wasn’t a problem, though. He sounded really confused.
That made two of them.
When Chloe turned to head back to the kitchen, she saw Mrs. Hennessey topping the last stair. Hogan’s housekeeper reminded her of her grandmother in a lot of ways. She wore the same boxy house dresses in the same muted colors and always kept her fine white hair twisted into a flawless chignon at her nape. She was no-nonsense and professional, the way Chloe was. At least, the way Chloe was before she came to work for Hogan. The way she knew she had to be again if she wanted to keep working here.
And she did want to keep working here. For some reason. A reason she wasn’t ready to explore. It was sure to be good, whatever it was.
Mrs. Hennessey announced to the room at large, “There’s an Anabel Carlisle downstairs to see you. I showed her to the salon.”
That seemed to snap Hogan out of his preoccupation with what might have been and pull him firmly into the here and now. “Anabel is here? Tell her I’ll be right down.”
“No, Mr. Dempsey, she’s here to see Ms. Merlin.”
Hogan’s jaw dropped a little at that. But all he said was, “Hogan, Mrs. Hennessey. Please call me Hogan.” Then he looked at Chloe. “Guess she refigured her budget and wants to hire you back.”
Chloe should have been delighted by the idea. Not only did it mean more money coming in, but it also meant she would be free of Hogan Dempsey and his damnable heartache-filled eyes. She should be flying down the stairs to tell Anabel that she’d love to come back to work for her and would pack her bags this instant. Instead, for some reason, she couldn’t move. “Tell Anabel we’ll be right down,” Hogan told Mrs. Hennessey.
The housekeeper nodded and went back down the stairs. Chloe stood still. Hogan gazed at her curiously.
“Don’t you want to hear what she has to say?”
Chloe nodded. She did. She did want to hear what Anabel had to say. But she really needed to cook. Cooking was something she could control. Cooking filled her head with flavors and fragrances, with methods and measurements. Cooking restored balance to the universe. And Chloe could really use some balance right now.
“Well then, let’s go find out,” Hogan said.
Chloe looked at him again. And was immediately sorry. Because now he looked happy and eager and excited. And a happy Hogan was far more overwhelming, and far more troubling, than a conflicted one. A happy Hogan reminded her of times and places—and people—that had made her happy, too. And those thoughts, more than anything, were the very reason she needed to cook.
* * *
Hogan couldn’t understand why Chloe looked so unhappy at the thought of seeing Anabel. Then again, Chloe hadn’t really looked happy about anything since he met her. He’d never encountered anyone so serious. Even cooking, which she constantly said she wanted to do, didn’t really seem to bring her any joy.
Then he remembered she’d never actually said she wanted to cook. She always said she needed to. For most people, that was probably a minor distinction. He was beginning to suspect that, for Chloe, there was nothing minor about it at all.
“C’mon,” he told her. “Let’s go see what Anabel wants.” And then, because she was standing close enough for him to do it, he leaned over and nudged her shoulder gently with his.
He might as well have jabbed her with a red-hot poker, the way she lurched away from him at the contact. She even let out a soft cry of protest and lifted a hand to her shoulder, as if he’d struck her there.
“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized, even though he had no idea what he needed to apologize for. “I didn’t mean to...”
What? Touch her? Of course he meant to touch her. The same way he would have touched any one of his friends, male or female, in an effort to coax them out of their funk. People always nudged each other’s shoulders. Most people wouldn’t have even noticed the gesture. Chloe looked as if she’d been shot.
“It’s okay,” she said, still rubbing her shoulder, not looking like it was okay at all.
Not knowing what else he could say, he extended his arm toward the stairs to indicate she should precede him down. With one last, distressed look at him, she did. He kept his distance as he followed her because she seemed to need it, but also because it gave him a few more seconds to prepare for Anabel. He’d known he would run into her at some point—hell, he’d planned on it—but he’d figured it would be at some social function where there would be a lot of people around, and he’d have plenty of time to plan. He hadn’t thought she would come to his house, even if it was to see someone other than him.
What Mrs. Hennessey called a “salon,” Hogan thought of as a big-ass living room. The walls were paneled in maple, and a massive Oriental rug covered most of the green marble floor. A fireplace on one wall had a mantel that was dotted with wooden model ships, and it was flanked by brown leather chairs—a matching sofa was pushed against the wall opposite.
Three floor-to-ceiling arched windows looked out onto a courtyard in back of the house, and it was through one of those that Anabel Carlisle stood looking, with her back to them. Either she hadn’t heard them come in, or she, too, was giving herself a few extra seconds to prepare. All Hogan could tell was that the black hair that used to hang in straight shafts to the middle of her back was short now, cut nearly to her chin.
And her wardrobe choices were a lot different, too. He remembered her trying to look like a secondhand gypsy, even though she’d probably spent hundreds of dollars in Fifth Avenue boutiques on everything she wore. Today’s outfit had likely set her back even more, despite merely consisting of sedate gray pants and sweater. But both showcased lush curves she hadn’t had as a teenager, so maybe they were worth the extra expense.
As if he’d spoken his appraisal out loud, Anabel suddenly spun around. Although she looked first at Chloe, she didn’t seem to be surprised by Hogan’s presence. But whether the smile on her face was for him or his chef, he couldn’t have said. “Hogan,” she said in the same throaty voice he remembered. God, he’d always loved her voice. “Good to see you.”
“You, too, Anabel. How have you been?”
She began to walk toward where he and Chloe stood in the doorway. She still moved the way she used to, all grace and elegance and style. He’d always loved watching her move. She was just as gorgeous now as she’d been when they were kids. Even more, really, because she’d ditched the heavy eye makeup and dark lipstick she used to wear, so her natural beauty shone through. Strangely, the lack of makeup only made her blue eyes seem even bluer than he remembered them and her mouth even fuller and lusher.
He waited for the splash of heat that had always rocked his midsection whenever he saw her, and for the hitch of breath that had always gotten caught in his chest. But neither materialized. He guessed he’d outgrown reactions like that.
“I imagine you’ve already heard most of the highlights about how I’ve been,” she said as she drew nearer. “My divorce was the talk of the town until you showed up.” She smiled again, but there was only good humor and maybe a little nostalgia in the gesture. “I should actually probably thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling back.
It really was good to see her. She really did look great. So what if his heart wasn’t pumping like the V-8 in a Challenger Hellcat, the way he would have thought it would be. People grew up. Hormones settled down.
With one last look at Hogan she turned her attention to Chloe.
“I want you to come back to work for me,” she said, straight to the point. “I can pay you three percent more than Hogan offered you.”
Hogan looked at Chloe. She still seemed shell-shocked from whatever the hell had happened between them in the gallery. She glanced at Hogan, then back at Anabel, but said nothing.
Cagey, he thought. She was probably thinking if Anabel was offering three percent, she could get more from Hogan. Fine. Whatever it took to keep Chloe on, Hogan would pay it. Especially if it meant Anabel might come around again.
“I’ll raise your salary five percent,” he told her.
Anabel looked at him, her lips parted in surprise. Or something. Then she looked back at Chloe. “I can go six percent,” she said coolly. “And you can have the entire month of August off, with pay.”
Again, Chloe looked at Hogan, then back at Anabel. Again, she remained silent.
“Eight percent,” Hogan countered.
Now Anabel narrowed her eyes at him in a way he remembered well. It was her I’ll-get-what-I-want-or-else look. She always wore it right before he agreed to spring for tickets for whatever band happened to be her favorite at the time, or whatever restaurant was her favorite, or whatever whatever was her favorite. Then again, she’d always thanked him with hours and hours of hot I-love-you-so-much sex. Well, okay, maybe not hours and hours. He hadn’t been the most controlled lover back in the day. But it had for sure been hot.
Anabel didn’t up her salary offer this time, but she told Chloe, “And I’ll give you the suite of rooms that face the park.”
Chloe opened her mouth to reply, but Hogan stopped her with another counteroffer. “I’ll raise your pay ten percent,” he said. He didn’t add anything about a better room or more time off. Not just because she already had a damned suitable room and more time off than the average person could ever hope to have, but because something told him money was way more important to Chloe than anything else.
What she needed the money for, Hogan couldn’t imagine. But it was her salary that had been the most important part of her contract, her salary that lured her from one employer to another. Chloe Merlin wanted money. Lots of it.
For a third time she looked at Hogan, then at Anabel. “I’m sorry, Anabel,” she said. “Unless you can offer to pay me more than Mr....” She threw another glance Hogan’s way, this one looking even more edgy than the others. Then she turned so that her entire body was facing Anabel. “Unless you can offer me more than...that...I’m afraid I’ll have to remain here.”
There was a brief expectant pause, and when Anabel only shook her head, Chloe made her way to the doorway. “I’ll draw up a rider for my contract and have it for you this evening,” she said to Hogan as she started back up the stairs.
And then she was gone, without saying goodbye to either of them.
“She is such an odd duck,” Anabel said when Chloe was safely out of earshot.
There was nothing derogatory in her tone, just a matter-of-factness that had been there even when they were teenagers. She wasn’t condemning Chloe, just stating the truth. His chef was pretty unique.
“But worth every penny,” she added with a sigh. She smiled again. “More pennies than I can afford to pay her. Obviously, she’s working for someone who’s out of my league.”
Hogan shook his head. “Other way around, Anabel. You were always out of my league. You said so yourself. More than once, if I remember.”
She winced at the comment, even though he hadn’t meant it maliciously. He’d learned to be matter-of-fact from her. “I was a dumb kid when we dated, Hogan,” she told him. “I was so full of myself back then. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”
“Nah,” he told her. “You never said anything I wasn’t thinking myself. You were right. We came from two different worlds.”
