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Forbidden To Taste
JC Harroway
The sweetest pleasures… …are the most dangerous! Drake Faulkner would have given anything to marry Kenzie Porter, but his Army buddy best friend Sam got there first. Drake’s avoided Kenzie in the years since Sam was killed in action—he doesn’t trust himself around her. But when she turns up begging for a job at his hotel, Drake struggles to resist temptation. Their powerful chemistry feels risky, but that only makes it harder to stay away…
From bestselling author JC Harroway comes the second book in the Billionaire Bachelors series! Drake Faulkner knows that Kenzie Porter, his best friend’s widow, is off-limits—but that just makes him want her more...
At one time she was the woman Drake Faulkner wanted more than anything but couldn’t have—and now she’s the last person he needs in his life. But when Kenzie Porter, the widow of his former best friend and army comrade Sam, turns up asking for a job at his luxury London hotel chain, the memories return.
Drake is eager to help her, but he knows that doing so will only lead him toward temptation. He doesn’t want to sully the memory of his best friend by falling for Kenzie all over again. There’s a reason he’s been avoiding her for three years: a dark secret about the day she and Sam got together—and about the day Sam died on the battlefield.
But from the moment the pair lock eyes, the sexual connection between them is electrifying. They both know that acting on their forbidden desire for each other would cross a line, but how far can they push the boundaries before someone gets hurt?
Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com (http://jcharroway.com), Facebook.com/jcharroway (https://Facebook.com/jcharroway), Instagram.com/jcharroway (https://Instagram.com/jcharroway) and Twitter.com/jcharroway (https://Twitter.com/jcharroway).
Also by JC Harroway (#uea6855ef-5fe6-5e78-93a9-f95c23e69af4)
A Week to be Wild
Her Dirty Little Secret
One Night Only
Billionaire Bachelors
Forbidden to Want
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Forbidden to Taste
JC Harroway
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08693-6
FORBIDDEN TO TASTE
© 2019 JC Harroway
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my wonderful editorial team,
specially Sareeta and Charlotte.
Thank you for all your help, support
and general awesomeness.
Contents
Cover (#ub20ff1fc-e65c-5421-b31e-971cd12e670b)
Back Cover Text (#u78dfc47a-bfd3-5a5c-b820-5d9e9a9bdf5b)
About the Author (#u937433b0-6e79-5aa7-bb93-180ab68b0758)
Booklist (#uab9c409b-b922-5ba3-95e4-e1540d4f0044)
Title Page (#u38cae335-6388-5e0f-811c-e34fa74cdaae)
Copyright (#u0a484120-7153-517d-b455-707dd7b2cac8)
Dedication (#uf67923ca-f7dc-5c0e-9610-94c8ecb31f0e)
CHAPTER ONE (#u73671049-5372-5378-b68f-ba75f0073c01)
CHAPTER TWO (#u6d4e6e0f-e058-5ba0-af33-f469489ad6f7)
CHAPTER THREE (#ue5762a9e-1d29-5bc0-8347-7f3b5d68a95f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uea6855ef-5fe6-5e78-93a9-f95c23e69af4)
Kenzie
I HOVER IN an alcove just outside the kitchen, unstable on the modest heels I’m wearing as part of my impromptu waitress uniform. I take a second to drag in a bolstering lungful of air. Now I’m here, my plan seems crazy. Audacious. But I need to capture his attention somehow.
I spent the whole day perfecting the desserts precariously balanced on my arms in the tiny, ill-equipped kitchenette of my one-bedroom flat. I even carried them here in a catering box on the Tube. Seeing them splattered on the plush carpets of the Faulkner’s fine-dining restaurant because I’m having scaredy-cat second thoughts... Not an option.
The mental slap works. I straighten my shoulders, poised on the brink of my opportunity. I watch the waiter leave the table of interest, a rage of nervous energy jolting me into action—chin up, strides bold, and an air of I totally belong in one of London’s most upmarket eateries withfour dessert plates balanced on my arms.
My teenaged waitressing experience keeps my jittery body upright, my serene facial expression in place and my thumb out of the salted-caramel cheesecake as each step brings me closer to the man with the power. But the short walk, which had seemed like a marathon, is over in seconds, and I arrive at his table breathless and adrenaline-depleted.
The sight of Drake up close rattles my bones so hard I have to clamp my jaw to prevent my smile becoming a grimace full of chattering teeth. Not that the four diners would notice—they’re deep in conversation, each handsome brother focussed on his date.
And I’ve always been invisible to Drake, hence tonight’s subterfuge.
I slide a surreptitious glance his way, using the seconds before I’m spotted to assess the ways he’s changed in the three years since the funeral—his face a little more angular, a sprinkle of telltale grey disrupting the inky blackness at his temples, perhaps a few more laughter lines—his appearance familiar but reminding me that we’re strangers.
He’d been a soldier three years ago, every forbidden inch of him lean and buff and rigidly disciplined. Not that I’d looked too closely. But photos Sam had sent from wherever they were posted always featured the handsome duo—my husband and his best friend.
I shudder at the exposed memories and the unexpected surge of heat. I’m only human, and Drake Faulkner is eye candy personified for any woman.
The woman with him now, presumably his date, laughs, her possessive hand on his forearm and her smile wide and captivating.
I swallow the sour taste in my mouth—Drake and I have never had that kind of relationship. We’ve never even been friends. Not really. Yes, he’s sent financial assistance in the regular cheques over the years, but our relationship was cordial at best, a fact that gives me a moment’s hesitation as to what I think I’m doing, about to interrupt what is obviously a double date.
I lift my chin, remembering I only want one thing from Drake Faulkner and it’s not his charity or his seduction. It’s the only reason I’d seek out anyone’s help: Tilly. My sister needs me close by in London—not as much as she used to need me, admittedly—and I need this job opportunity to get my life back on track.
I hold my breath and pray Drake’s past friendship with Sam will grant me that chance as I place my offering in front of Drake’s date. Her attention is firmly fixed on him, earning me a few more seconds of anonymity to deposit another two desserts in front of the other couple at the table, who are similarly oblivious to my presence. I recognise Drake’s brother, Kit. Last I’d heard, he, like the other two Faulkner brothers, was single, but this woman is clearly more than a date. Heads close, non-verbal communication in the form of heated looks, fingers toying with each other’s on his thigh and a cloud of barely repressed lust permeating the air—I flush, a voyeur to their intimacy.
I look away, eyes burning with envy, and place the last plate before Drake. And wait. My blood roars through my head at my barefaced effrontery. At this point a real waitress would leave, but I hover at Drake’s elbow, my own stomach so knotted I doubt I’ll ever eat again.
Without turning to look at me, Drake eyes my dessert and says, ‘Miss, this isn’t what we ordered.’ His voice is older, too. Or perhaps it always carried that rich baritone timbre, which slides over me like bittersweet chocolate sauce...
Drake’s companion flicks a look of barely concealed contempt my way, probably at my interruption of her dream date with one of London’s most eligible bachelors. But the thing foremost in Horny Helen here’s mind is the last thing I’d want from Drake of all people.
I smooth my damp palms down my black skirt. ‘Compliments of the chef, sir.’
Horny Helen sweeps her gaze over my waitress-style outfit, a derisive curl to her lip. Has she noticed that my plain white blouse doesn’t bear the Faulkner monogram of the other waiting staff uniforms? I don’t work here. Yet. And I’m not here for a waitressing job.
The other two occupants of the table join the staring contest Drake’s date has instigated. Kit’s brow furrows, presumably as he tries to place me. But we’ve only met a handful of times. I hope his amnesia will last long enough for Drake to taste my dessert.
Taste it. Give me a chance.
Horny Helen pushes her plate away. ‘Could I please have what I ordered? Es-press-o.’
She enunciates every syllable slowly, as if she assumes English isn’t my first, or even my second, language. Condescending cow.
My eyes dart to the back of Drake’s head, snagging on the golden skin between his shorn hairline and the top of his collar, while my head swims at the spicy masculine scent of him—so close, but permanently out of bounds.
Tense seconds stretch, and an ominous silence crawls over my skin.
I mentally rehash my bold, perhaps foolhardy plan and reach the same conclusion—I’m desperate. If I want to be close to my sister and chase my own dreams of one day taking charge of my own kitchen, I’m all out of options.
Drake turns his head.
‘Kenzie...?’ His shocked eyes latch on to mine from underneath his frown. Then surprise clears, replaced with the inscrutable distance of every look that has ever passed between us since the day we met.
Cool, distant, polite.
‘Hi, Drake.’ My voice is breathier than I’d like. I tell myself it’s the high-stakes gamble of my mission. ‘Good to see you. Please try the dessert.’
Drake blinks, as if I’ve asked him to solve world hunger in the next thirty seconds. He doesn’t even look at the exquisite creation on his plate, which took me most of the day to prepare—the curls of dark Belgian chocolate, the flecks of gold leaf, the shiny smear of decadent salted-caramel sauce against the crisp white china... I might as well have served up school dinner’s congealed semolina pudding with a blob of jam.
The curious looks of the rest of the party burn the exposed parts of me like the heat of the industrial stoves in the kitchen. I lift my chin, likely seconds away from an escort from the premises by Security.
Drake pushes his chair back and stands, swiftly followed by Kit, who has either finally placed me as the widow of Drake’s best friend, or shares his older brother’s innate good manners.
‘What are you doing here?’ He frowns, his hands hanging at his sides. Touching, even the polite social pleasantry of a peck on the cheek, wasn’t our norm. While Sam was alive, and considering the amount of time the two spent together, on and off duty, I fought hard not to resent his cool indifference.
And then Sam died, and with the exception of a few stilted words at his funeral we’ve had no contact beyond those uncashed cheques.
Until now—my botched plan.
‘Are you here to see me?’ He looks around, still trying to explain my unorthodox presence.
‘No...yes.’ Colour rages up my neck. The small white lie I told his PA informed me of his dining plans. But I’m supposed to be seizing the day, making my own luck, not bungling my best chance at my dream job. I tell myself my muteness is simply fatigue—days spent job-hunting in this unfamiliar city, an inbox full of rejection emails, lonely evenings waiting for my break—and nothing to do with seeing him again.
‘I see.’ His frown cuts into me, making my feet shuffle, about to run for the kitchens. But giving up on my fresh start, my dream, my future, is not an option.
‘Do you...do you work here?’ says Drake.
My throat constricts, making my swallow almost painful. I hadn’t considered a public interrogation. ‘No... I... Not yet. I just... I’d really love for you to try my dessert.’
The proof really is in the pudding. Outside of credentials, there’s no better way to show him I have the skills required to work at the Faulkner.
I take a deep breath, preparing to explain myself, even in front of an audience, when the real waiter returns carrying a bemused expression, Horny Helen’s espresso and three affogato. He stares between Drake and me, his professional smile slipping to one of confusion.
