Sweet Talker Read online

  Sweet Talker

  An American Royalty Romance

  Robin Bielman

  Sweet Talker

  Copyright © 2019 Robin Bielman

  EPUB Edition

  The Tule Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Publication by Tule Publishing 2019

  Cover design by Lee Hyat at www.LeeHyat.com

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-950510-56-6

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Please Leave a Review

  The American Royalty series

  Excerpt from Hot Shot

  More Books by Robin Bielman

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Huge thanks to the Tule team: Meghan, Jenny, Cyndi, Nikki, Jane, Lee, Marlene, my awesome editor, Sinclair, and my amazing copy editor, Helena. I’m so grateful for everything you gals do! xoxo

  Big hugs and thanks to all of you wonderful readers, bloggers, and Instagrammers for taking the time to read my stories and review or mention them. Your support and kind words are appreciated more than I can say.

  Thank you Dani, for your incredible help over the years. I’d be lost without you!

  And to my family, thank you so much for being on this journey with me. I love you!

  Chapter One

  We Meet Again

  Ethan

  “Who is the brunette?” I say to my brother, voicing my curiosity instead of waiting for an official introduction.

  “Where?” Drew asks. It’s a legit question considering there are over a dozen brunettes in the restaurant, tonight’s private goodbye party for my manager filled with friends, family, and staff.

  “At the bar.” I lift my chin in her direction. Hair piled on top of her head in classy disarray. Long, slim neck. Off-the-shoulder black top revealing smooth tanned skin. For some inexplicable reason, my eyes keep landing on her.

  “The one talking to Charlotte?”

  “Yes.”

  “How should I know? Her back is to us.” He places his palm between my shoulder blades. “There is this thing called introducing yourself, you know.”

  I snicker. I own this restaurant and everyone in this room knows who I am. People come to me when I’m inside these four walls. I’ve worked hard to earn the reputation as the hottest restaurateur on the West Coast. A slew of publications rank me at the top of their Most Influential lists. All the exposure makes it easy to connect with any woman I want, usually at the snap of my fingers. Not that I’d make a rude gesture like that. I flash my killer dimples instead. The point is, we’re an hour into this party and I’ve yet to make eye contact with the brunette at the bar.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Drew says. “Everyone who walks in the door of Royal already knows you.”

  “Hey, Ethan,” a pretty twenty-something woman says, proving my unsaid point.

  “Hey, Ethan,” her attractive friend mimics as they walk by, only this woman tilts her head and adds a sway to her hips that says, I’m all yours later, if you want. The only reason she doesn’t give the same hello to my younger brother is because he’s already been with her. A few months back. Humane Society charity event at my family’s downtown hotel.

  I give a small smile to be polite, nothing more. She doesn’t seriously think she has a chance with me after being with my brother, does she? Drew and I share a lot, but women are not on that list.

  Besides—my gaze falls back on the sexy curve of the brunette’s neck—I’m tired as hell, having just flown back to LA from a week-long trip to Vegas where I’m opening another restaurant. When I wasn’t working, I was playing. In the casinos, in the clubs, in private dining rooms. After-hours fun took the place of sleep. When I get home later, I may fall into bed in my clothes. That’s not true. I pull at the collar of my light blue classic-fit shirt. I don’t wrinkle my Armani, and I like to be naked when I slip between my Italian bed sheets. Alone or otherwise, and lately it’s been the former.

  Which must explain my fascination with the brunette.

  “The place isn’t going to be the same without Charlotte,” Drew says, reining in my wayward thoughts.

  “No.” Charlotte’s been my manager since we opened three years ago and I’m sorry to see her go. “Damn boyfriend and his taking her to Vancouver with him.”

  “Yeah, sucks to be him. New job. Hot girlfriend.”

  “Whatever,” I say because I’m exhausted and okay, slightly pissed she’s leaving. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for her—them—but I’m pretty sure my new manager won’t come even close to matching Charlotte’s level of competency and affability. I say “pretty sure” because I haven’t met her yet. Charlotte hired her while I was gone this past week.

  “Your new manager starts tomorrow.” Statement, not a question. Leave it to Drew to know my schedule.

  “Yeah.”

  “Word of advice?” He pats my back again. My baby brother likes to think he knows it all. “Sound at least somewhat happy she’s here.”

  “How do you know it’s a she?”

  A split-second expression of panic crosses his face before it disappears and I wonder if my tired eyes are playing a trick on me. “Charlotte mentioned it earlier.”

  “Charlotte mentioned what earlier?” the woman herself asks, coming to a stop in front of us.

  “Your replacement is female,” Drew says.

  “And amazing,” Charlotte adds. “Are you free to meet her now, Ethan?”

  “Sure.”

  A sudden crash sounds from the kitchen. “Actually, give me a minute,” I tell Charlotte as I step around her.

  “Want me to—”

  I raise my hand to cut her off. “I’ve got this. Enjoy your party.” Thankfully, no one else seems to have heard the noise, or if they did, they’ve chosen to ignore it. I pass the brunette—a light scent of vanilla and raspberries hitting my nose—walk around the bar, and step through the swinging door into the kitchen. What I see sends dread through me. It seems my stalker has struck again.

  Not a stalker. Someone who wants to mess with me, is all. But my family thinks differently and their concern is reaching irritating proportions.
I get that I come from a prominent family, which makes me a bigger target than someone less “famous,” but these childish antics are nothing more than that. Juvenile attempts to get my attention.

  And I refuse to give them merit.

  This time, a box of wine has hit the floor, red liquid splattered across the clear-stained concrete. More pressing is the broken glass. I don’t want anyone to step on it.

  And then there’s the snake.

  Yes, I said snake. Slithering slowly away from the kitchen staff huddled in the corner. I know I’m tired, but I swear the reptile is purposely darting his tongue out to lap up the Napa Valley wine on his way to an escape.

  “Is everyone okay?” I ask.

  A round of “yes” rings out, followed by: “I’m sorry. When I opened the box, the snake was right there and I freaked out.”

  “Understandable.” Thankfully, the snake isn’t rattling, and if I remember my days of exploring nature with my brothers when we were young correctly, this is simply a harmless garter snake.

  To be on the safe side, I grab a pair of tongs off the stainless-steel worktable and give our unwelcome friend a lift toward the exit. He casually wriggles in the air while one or two of my staff squeaks. I open the door to the alley, unsure what to do, when I see an empty crate near the dumpster. Perfect. I secure the snake inside the container—tongs included—then return to the kitchen where cleanup has already begun. “Will someone please give animal control a call to let them know the snake is inside a crate outside?”

  “On it,” my sous chef says, wiping his hands down his apron and pulling his phone from his back pocket.

  “Thanks.” I check over the platters of food about to be carried out, grateful they weren’t contaminated. The dropped wine doesn’t bother me. Some person who’s targeted me for a reason I can’t figure out doesn’t bother me either. What troubles me is keeping the people in my employ—people I care about—out of harm’s way. I want a safe environment in which my employees can work and my guests can dine.

  I don’t want anyone at Royal worried about their safety.

  “You guys good?” I ask. My chef, Louis, is already head down, back to business. The rest of my staff nods and waves me off.

  My mind eased, I take backward steps to leave the kitchen. And bump right into someone as I turn around in the hallway. Someone soft. Warm. Smells like vanilla and raspberries.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  I’m momentarily stunned, eyes the color of Castelvetrano olives, but with a dirtier green ring around her pupils, finally meeting mine.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m the one who wasn’t watching where he was going.”

  “True.” Full pink lips turn up at the corners.

  Wow, this woman is even more attractive face-to-face than I imagined. A dainty nose slightly sloped at the tip, high cheekbones, delicate chin, all framed by loose tendrils of hair more copper than brown under the ceiling lights.

  Did I say attractive? She’s stunning.

  There’s also something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. Looking at her gives me the feeling of balmy breezes in Hawaii, sand between my toes and the ocean splashing my feet. She’s staring at me like the same awareness is running through her head.

  “I was, uh, just on my way to the ladies’ room.” She glances over my shoulder.

  I step out of her way. She moves on and I lean against the wall to wait for her return. Our conversation isn’t over, not by a long shot. I cross one ankle over the other. Put a hand in the pocket of my slacks.

  Talk and laughter fill the main room, and normally I’d be back in the middle of it, exuding my usual charm, but I can’t get my feet to move from the confines of the partially hidden hallway. A minute ago, it was the snake thing digging under my skin.

  Now it’s the woman I’m anxious to learn more about.

  She exits the restroom a minute later and falters when our eyes meet. “You waited for me?” she asks.

  “I thought we should talk.”

  “About what?” She leans a hip against the wall, close, but not too close. She’s tall, standing only a couple of inches below my six foot one. I do a quick perusal down her body. The blouse is paired with painted-on jeans and knee-high black boots with a flat heel.

  “Your name for starters.”

  “You…you want to know my name?” she stutters, confusing me. The stammer implies she’s nervous, but her tone suggests she’s annoyed.

  “Shit. I should know it, shouldn’t I?”

  She shakes off whatever unpleasantness my ignorance caused by drawing in a quick breath and giving a slight shake of her head. “‘Should’ is one of those words that can get someone in a lot of trouble.”

  “True. But there’s different kinds of trouble.”

  “What kind are you?”

  “The good kind.” I lift away from the wall and turn to give her the up-close, full-frontal effect that is Ethan Auprince. Of course, it’s more powerful without clothes on, but one swipe of my hand through my thick brown hair has been known to make a woman weak in the knees.

  She nods. “Of course, you would think that.” Then, “Oh my God, are you trying to impress me with that move?”

  I drop my arm so fast, my shoulder nearly pops out of its socket. What is this woman doing to me?

  Laughing. That’s what she’s doing. It’s a lively sound that takes hold of her face and body and fuck me if it doesn’t make her sexier. Or maybe it’s the fact I have zero impact on this woman that makes her so appealing.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, covering her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” Two rings adorn her middle finger, both silver with writing etched in them.

  “No worries. I need to get back to the party.” Before she sees the hit to my ego.

  “Ethan.” She puts her hand on my arm to stay me.

  Two things buzz through me. She knows my name. No real surprise there, but my ego rebounds nonetheless. What does shock me, however, is the sound of it on her lips. The way she says Ethan sends a weird sensation to my chest.

  I look at her, once again puzzled by some unnamed connection. I’m about to do something foolish, like ask her to get out of here with me, when Charlotte bounds over with a satisfied grin on her face. Charlotte doesn’t normally bounce, so she’s definitely enjoying the libations this evening.

  “Finally, you two meet,” she says.

  I clear my throat. “Actually, we haven’t been properly introduced.”

  “Properly,” Charlotte repeats, as if she doesn’t understand what I mean. “Oh! Right. You just bumped into each other on the way to the loo, then.”

  My former manager has most definitely downed a few drinks. She’s from San Diego, not across the pond.

  “Ethan, meet your new manager,” Charlotte says.

  Is that why she’s so familiar? Charlotte sang her praises to me over the telephone and I must have conjured up an accurate likeness. I’m relieved to put an end to the mystery.

  “Hi,” my new manager says.

  “Hi,” I respond, tucking away any impure thoughts toward her.

  “She’s not officially on the clock until tomorrow, so come on, Pascale, there’s one more person I want to introduce you to.”

  Pascale?

  I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but I’m here to prove them wrong.

  Pascale. My Pascale.

  Is back in my life.

  All of a sudden, my heart doesn’t know what to do with itself. Speed up. Slow down. Slug its way out of my chest so she can see I still have one. I’ve thought about her so many times over the years, but never imagined she’d be in my restaurant.

  Our eyes lock before Charlotte tugs her away, a good thing because I no longer know what to say to her.

  I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was her. To my credit, ten years ago her hair was blond instead of brown. She wore it curly, rather than
straight. She was curvier. Less polished. She smelled like coconut oil not vanilla and raspberries. Her nose was different, too, like completely different. That’s what really threw me. Her face has changed, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  Why didn’t she tell me who she was?

  And why in the world did she take this job? With me.

  I watch her across the crowded room. She carries herself with ease. Is quick to smile. To gesture while she talks. The group of people surrounding her is captivated. Which is part of the reason Charlotte hired her. “She’s enchanting,” Charlotte had said.

  When I met Pascale, she was barely an adult at nineteen. I was a new college grad at twenty-two. We ran into each other—literally—on the beach in Hawaii and spent an incredible summer together. For the first time in my life, I was in love. Pascale Nichols was everything to me.

  Including the only woman to break my heart.

  Chapter Two

  Everything About You

  Pascale

  I screwed up, plays over and over again in my head.

  I screwed up thinking I wouldn’t be affected by seeing Ethan again. Not that he had any real impact on me. Unless you count feeling like you’ve been struck by starlight or some other such nonsense. Which I wasn’t. It was just weird for me not to say, “Hi, Ethan, it’s me Pascale, and I’m your new manager.”

  Because you’re not honestly his manager.

  “Keep your focus,” my sadistic trainer orders, reminding me I need to concentrate on our workout. “Left jab, right cross, back roundhouse kick. Left jab, right cross, back roundhouse…” he continues. I repeatedly punch and kick the thick pads on his forearms, trying hard to get him to sway at least a little. My hands are sweaty inside my boxing gloves. My T-shirt is damp.

  “Right jab, left cross, back leg knee lift,” he instructs next. There’s a delighted cadence to his delivery, like he thinks Monday mornings at nine o’clock are happy hour.