The Rebel Heir
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Niobia Bryant
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Jillian Rossi pushed her tortoiseshell spectacles up on her nose as she looked over the rim of her cup of coffee at the spacious chef’s kitchen of the townhouse in the prominent, historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She eyed the dark wood custom cabinets against the light walls, chrome appliances and bronzed fixtures. She loved the space. Knew it well from working as the private chef to its owners for the last year.
Not that she wasn’t used to working for the wealthy and famous.
After many years of learning about cooking at the elbow of Ionie, her beloved grandmother, Jillian had gone on to culinary school with a dream of one day opening her own restaurant. Social media success garnered for posting home-cooked savory meals and delicious desserts led to her traveling the world as a personal chef for well-known athletes and celebrities—waylaying her restaurant dreams. Yacht parties. Elaborate dinners. Whirlwind events during award season. Private jets. Mansions. Penthouse apartments. Private islands. Celebrities.
“Lifestyle of the rich and famous,” Jillian sighed.
Several years later she’d left being a part of the more glamorous side of life to finally open her restaurant, assuming her days serving as a private chef were over. Unfortunately, the venture had bombed, leaving her in massive debt just a year after its opening. The sting of disappointment and embarrassment from her failure was all too familiar, and the past year had not lessened it any—nor had the return to work as a private chef.
She loved cooking. And, considering the Cress family were world-renowned chefs, they seemed to enjoy the meals she prepared without question. Jillian took that as a feather in her cap. She just considered the position a step backward in her career path.
Been there. Done that. Now I’m doing it again.
Jillian crossed the kitchen to enter the large pantry to the right. Here there were custom cabinets filled with perfectly organized essentials. The counters were marble-topped and beneath one section there was an under-the-counter commercial-size freezer. There was also a large rinse sink to handle food prep if necessary.
As she moved to the office area set up for her, she checked the laser printer to ensure the cream heavy-bond paper with its gold, raised monogram was loaded. Using the touch screen computer, Jillian printed off copies of the breakfast menu. One for each family member’s platinum-rimmed place setting.
She was used to the grand nature of it all.
Being in such luxurious surroundings by such an accomplished Cress family only furthered her desire to succeed. The former chefs now operated a multimillion-dollar culinary empire. They also owned this five-story, ten-thousand-square-foot townhouse, which was large enough to accommodate the entire brood. The parents, Phillip Senior and Nicolette. The five sons: Phillip Junior and his wife, Raquel, and their four-year-old daughter Collette, Sean, Gabriel, Lucas and—
“Morning, Jillian.”
Cole.
At the deep sound of the voice of Coleman Cress, she paused for one telling second before reaching to remove the printed menus. The pace of her heart sped up as she looked over her shoulder to see him standing in the open doorway. Filling it with ease.
Like his four brothers, Cole was a handsome man with a tall, lean, toned warrior-like physique. He had almond-shaped eyes of a grayish-blue against his medium-brown complexion. His good looks were best described as chiseled—from his high cheekbones and broad nose to his square jawline. But there was a complementary softness to his full mouth and the long lashes framing those eyes. He kept his dark brown curly hair cut low, the shadow of a beard and mustache intensifying his magnetism. His clothing preference—normally dark T-shirts, denims and leather motorcycle jackets—gave him just the right amount of edge to draw long glances.
Often, Jillian found his looks similar to that of the actor Michael Ealy.
Just pure goodness.
Her pulse raced. “Good morning, Mr. Cress,” she said as he stepped inside the pantry and closed the door behind him. She extended her arm to hand him a menu. “Omelets for breakfast. Here’s the list of the choices of ingredients.”
Cole locked eyes with her and smiled, as smooth as syrup spreading across warm pancakes. A knowing smile. A charming one with just a hint of the wile of a wolf. “Mr. Cress?” he mocked as he strolled across the pantry to stand before her, ignoring the paper. “Why so formal? Last night it was Cole.”
Cole, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.
She forced herself to break their gaze, shivering in her awareness of him, and flushed with heat at the memory. Over the last year they had shared many. Hotly. Secretly.
Cole eased his large hands beneath her monogrammed chef’s coat and settled them on her hips. She felt the heat of his touch through the black leggings she wore. “Tell me you don’t want to kiss me,” he whispered against her mouth as he lowered his head.
She closed her eyes and waited to feel his mouth with sweet anticipation.
His kisses are the absolute best.
“We can’t,” she whispered, stepping back before that glorious mouth of his could land.
Cole paused before taking a step that would close the gap she’d put between them. “I hate that you’re right,” he admitted, letting his eyes linger with apparent regret on her mouth before turning and exiting the pantry, leaving the door ajar.
Jillian released a little breath and bit her bottom lip as she watched him walk away in his bow-legged swagger. She waited for her pulse to cease racing. Cole had that effect on her. With him near her or just in her line of vision, she lost control.
He had been hard to deny since the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Last January. When she’d been hired. For the next two months, they’d shared long looks that had hinted at their mutual interest. By March, they’d been in a deep, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached fling. A year later, as a woman in touch with her sexuality and not looking for anything serious after two failed marriages in her youth, she was still enjoying her hot, passionate, secret affair with the rebel Cress son.
Still, anything serious with him was not a part of her plan.
Clearing her throat, Jillian collected the printed menus and carried the stack out of the pantry. She walked to the dining room at the rear of the house with its elaborate glass wall as Nicolette Lavoie-Cress stepped off the elevator in the corner to her right beside the staircase. “Good morning, Mrs. Cress,” she said, giving a polite nod to the middle-aged, olive-skinned French beauty with silver-streaked blond hair and bluish eyes like Cole’s. “I was just putting out the breakfast menus.”
Nicolette nodded. “Very good,” she said with her heavy French accent. “For dinner, I am expecting the entire family...except Gabe.”
Jillian was well aware that Gabriel Cress had moved out of the family home after a massive fall out with Phillip Senior. He had not been back to the townhouse, not even for the fall and winter holidays. Cole had also revealed that Gabe was still with Monica, the Cress family’s former housekeeper for the past five years.
But she made sure her face revealed none of that awareness or that the woman’s regret was clear.
“The temperature is finally starting to warm up, so let’s do some kind of pasta,” Nicolette said.
Phillip Senior, a tall, solid, dark-skinned man with broad features and a bright smile, stepped into the kitchen. He was from England and had met Nicolette when they both attended culinary school in Paris. He shared an intimate look with his wife before he gave Jillian a formal nod of greeting and continued into the dining room. He claimed his seat at the head of the long table for ten, topped with charcoal leather and surrounded by steel-blue-suede armless chairs.
“How about seafood linguine with squid, mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops and lobster?” Jillian offered, wanting to reclaim the woman’s attention.
Jillian found her to be sophisticated and composed unless communicating with her husband. Her love for Phillip Cress Senior was of no question, nor his for her. Neither tried to hide their affection for one another.
“Merveilleux,” Nicolette said, moving across the kitchen to the dining room, as well.
Jillian, pleased that she thought it wonderful, followed behind and quickly moved around the table to set a menu on each place setting. Cole, swiping through his phone, did not look up when she put one before him. She held no curiosity about what had his attention. She neither wanted nor claimed ownership to a wild, rebellious man like Coleman Cress.
That would be ludicrous.
Jillian no longer trusted her love goggles. In truth, she’d shattered them under her foot, determined not to have yet another failed relationship thanks to childhood fantasies of a romance like that of her parents, who’d been together since high school. For now, Cole Cress and his eight-pack abs were all about fun distraction and nothing more.
And what could be more fun than lovemaking made all the more daring with whipped cream, taking long motorcycle rides through Manhattan, or bathing together in hot, scented water filled with flower petals.
As the rest of the family entered the dining room, Jillian cleared her thoughts and headed to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Chef Jillian!”
She smiled down at the happy face of Collette with her dimpled cheeks, bright yellow spectacles and big toothy smile. Phillip Junior and Raquel’s four-year-old daughter was completely adorable.
“No-no,” Nicolette gently reprimanded her granddaughter from her seat at the end of the table opposite her husband.
“Oops,” Collette said, giggling as she briefly pressed her hands to her mouth. “Bonjour, Chef Jillian.”
Nicolette, Jillian knew, was teaching French to the little one.
“Bonjour, Collette,” she returned warmly before continuing into the kitchen to retrieve a crystal carafe of her fresh-squeezed citrus juice and a warming carafe of Ghanaian coffee.
She eyed Felice, the live-in housekeeper who’d replaced Monica, in the den attached to the kitchen’s east side in the spacious open floor plan. Like Jillian, the older woman focused on her daily duties. She wasn’t as pleasant as Monica, but she got her work done, which was all that mattered.
“I see that you insist on dressing like a derelict, Coleman,” Phillip Senior said in his British accent.
Jillian paused because the annoyance in the patriarch’s voice was unmistakable. All of the other sons wore suits and held a more professional demeanor. Cole’s insistence on not doing so was a constant thorn in his father’s side.
Cole shifted his eyes up from his phone to glare down the table at his father. “If you mean comfortable and of my choosing as a grown man, then yes,” he said, his tone cold.
It was like watching day transform into night in an instant. Cole was charming and friendly, a charismatic gentleman—except in his interactions with his father. He seemed to enjoy antagonizing him.
“Life is all about the choices we make,” Cole continued.
Phillip Senior’s eyes narrowed to slits and the movement of his cheeks evidenced his clenched teeth.
Nicolette looked over and saw Jillian standing there.
“Phillip, I’m sure this can wait,” Nicolette said.
Translation: not in front of the staff.
At the woman’s movement of her fingers to enter, Jillian walked into the room as Cole broke his hard stare with Phillip Senior to return his attention to his phone. The wealthy playboy was always quick with a joke or sardonic comment and seemed to relish being the rebel in his family. She doubted he took anything seriously.
And thus why, for her, their connection was all about really great, super-spontaneous, hot sex. Cole was beautiful with his muscled body and sexy as all get-out. And he knew how to please her—in fact, he seemed to thrive on it.
Damn.
Jillian fought the urge to shiver in desire. That was the Cole effect. Just the very thought of his lovemaking was enough to awaken her privates. “Okay...” she began with a lick of her lips. “We have a nice selection of ingredients for omelets along with Lyonnaise potatoes. Also, there are fresh seasonal fruit cups in a light honey and your choice of toast.”
“Just egg white with spinach and a little mozzarella for me,” Lucas said before reaching for the citrus juice to pour himself a small glass.
That wasn’t surprising. The youngest Cress brother had shed fifty pounds and seemed dedicated to keeping the weight off—and his string of pliable women on.
As she took everyone’s choice, Jillian’s eyes kept going to Cole. She could tell from the stiffness of his shoulders that he was annoyed. He’d always spoken highly of her pan-fried potatoes sautéed with caramelized onions and butter. She served them for breakfast or dinner, along with a steak.
He won’t be ready to eat, though.
“Cole, what type of omelet would you like?” she asked.
He looked up at her. His shoulders softened and he smiled. A new switch from night to day. “I’ll pass on breakfast. Just coffee is fine,” he said with a seemingly polite smile.
Jillian’s knowledge that she was right about his eating habit being affected by his mood surprised her. With a nod, she turned and walked back across the vast space to the eight-burner Viking stove to heat and oil eight omelet pans straight from the Cress, INC. line of cookware. Quickly she cracked two eggs into each of eight ceramic bowls, added salt and black pepper with heavy cream before whisking each swiftly then pouring them into the pans.
Leaving the eggs to set and cook on low-medium heat, she opened her leather case to reveal her engraved all-metal knife set...and a note card monogrammed with the Cress, INC. logo. She held the card to her nose and inhaled the subtle scent of Cole’s cologne still clinging to it. Like her sheets after he spent a night at her apartment.
She opened the card and mouthed the words as she read them to herself. “Last night before I left you, I kept the panties you were wearing. I want to enjoy the smell of you.”
The thrill she felt was addictive.
She looked over into the dining room and caught his eyes on her. He patted the pocket of the leather jacket he wore before raising his cup of coffee in a toast. She flushed with warmth. But, forcing herself to focus on flipping the omelets and adding the ingredients atop one side of each, she was unable to slow the pounding of her heart at the thought of Cole in possession of her sheer red panties.
Over the rim of his cup, Cole surreptitiously eyed Jillian as she left the dining room. She was a tall and slender bronzed beauty with her auburn curly hair pulled up into a topknot. The glasses she wore while cooking couldn’t hide the long, thick lashes that framed her round brown eyes. Her cheekbones were high, and her chin narrow, giving her face a heart shape that lent emphasis to her full pouty, perfectly kissable mouth. The back and forth movement of her buttocks in her black leggings enticed him. He smiled into the cup. It was an even more glorious sight free of clothing and gripped in his hands.
Damn.
Jillian was beautiful and curvy. Funny and feisty. Sexy. Insatiable. And not searching for her happily-ever-after.
Perfect.
He thoroughly enjoyed flirting with her before they found hot moments to relieve the sexual tension that pulsed between them. But he was not looking for love.
Been there. Done that.
When he’d met Traci Mason during his senior year at culinary school, Cole had believed he’d found a stunning, intelligent, loyal beauty with whom he could plan a future. He’d even purchased a ring and planned a huge engagement surprise via hot-air balloon. Then his brother, Gabriel let him know Traci was quite vocal with her friends that she had landed a big fish from the wealthy Cress family and planned to ride the wave to her own successful career.
Any doubts Cole had had about the veracity of the gossip were erased when Gabriel played him a video, taken without Traci’s knowledge, of her saying just that. And more. Much more.
It was clear that she’d seen Cole as a pathway to success and not as a man to truly love.
That had been his last serious relationship and he’d preferred no strings attached ever since. His sexy, secretive dalliances with the family’s beautiful chef for the past year had been his escape as his family had become unrecognizable. His father’s announcement that he was stepping down as the chief executive officer of Cress, INC., and would name one of his five sons as his successor, had put the brothers at odds with one another. Gone was the notion of loyalty. Each was in search of Phillip Cress Senior’s deeming him meritorious of the throne.
Cole couldn’t deny that it was a worthy empire.
His parents had devoted more than fifty years to build a reputation as celebrated and well-respected chefs, won Michelin stars and James Beard awards, established many successful restaurants, and written more than two dozen bestselling cookbooks and culinary guides. In a calculated move that had paid off, they’d shifted their focus to establishing Cress, INC. And, within just a few years, had successfully diversified into production of their own nationally syndicated cooking shows, cookware, online magazines, an accredited cooking school and a nonprofit foundation.
Like their parents, the five Cress brothers had become chefs—all acclaimed, as well. Four years ago, upon their parents’ earnest request, each son had left behind his career to claim a full-time role as a member of the business’s executive team. The eldest brother, Phillip Junior, ran the nonprofit, the Cress Family Foundation. Gabriel had stepped down from overseeing the restaurant division to fulfill his dreams of owning and operating his own eatery. Sean supervised the syndicated cooking shows. The youngest, Lucas, was head of the cookware line.
And Cole served as president of Cress, INC.’s digital marketing and global branding, overseeing a small team that managed publicity and marketing as well as the company’s websites and online presence. He’d taken the position at his mother’s urging to participate in something along with his beloved brothers.
In time, he had come to enjoy the work and taken pride in the company’s exponential growth in online traffic and analytics. In truth, he cared nothing about the CEO position and had only competed for it because he felt his father didn’t believe he could do it. Unlike his brothers, his desire to create and cook was too strong to ignore. Thus, his food truck purchase and operation on the weekends—another bane to his father, who found the very idea of the food truck industry beneath chefs of Cress caliber.
An outdated and judgmental notion.
And he’s the last man to hold everyone else to such damn high standards.
Cole set his cup down on the saucer as he spared his father a glance just as the man looked down the length of the table to give his wife a warm smile. The anger he felt with his father—the same ire that had spurned his rebellious nature since his teenage years—burned like fire in his gut.
Liar.
Phillip Senior was a formidable man who was very aware that he was raising men. He loved his boys, but the only softness and warmth he showed in abundance was to their mother. There had been little tolerance for whining, misbehaving, mistruths or weakness from his sons.
Cole looked to one of the two empty chairs at the table. The normal seat of his older brother, Gabe, was empty. He was proud of him for standing up to the disparaging way his father had spoken of Monica upon discovering his son had dared to date the help.
Cole felt his stomach burn at the memory...
“Is she the reason for your insanity lately?” Phillip roared, the veins of his neck seemingly strained.
“She’s the reason I’m happy,” Gabe returned calmly.
“Happy or horny?”
“Both.”
Cole chuckled, which incensed his father even more, yet his other brothers sat as if afraid to speak up. Their silence angered Cole. Gone was their alliance as brothers.
“There are women you wed and those you bed. Know the difference. And that goes for all of you,” Phillip said.
Gabe angrily strode over to his father, standing toe-to-toe to confront him. “Don’t disrespect her in that way.” His voice was cold. “I tolerate a lot from you, but I will not put up with that.”
Knowing Gabe was “The Good One,” offering no trouble and never a cross word to his parents, it had been exhilarating to watch him challenge their father. In the same manner, Cole wished he had been brave enough to do the same in the past.
As his family members’ conversation continued around the table, Cole, lost in his thoughts, took another deep sip of the brew. He barely noticed his grip on the rim of his cup had tightened. Once he did, he released it. The cup dropped down onto the saucer. He had to catch it before it tipped and spilled its hot contents.
Every eye was on him.
“Quelque chose ne va pas, Oncle Cole?”
At his niece’s question, Cole looked down at her, looking up at him through her bright spectacles from her usual seat beside him at the table. He smiled at her with warmth. “Nothing’s wrong, Collie,” he assured her.
“You seemed moodier than usual,” Nicolette observed, giving him an encouraging smile. “I know you love Jillian’s potatoes. Not feeling well?”
“Don’t spoil him, Nicolette.”
Cole tensed at his father’s terse reprimand. “Spoiled is believing you can have anything you want, when and where you want it,” he snapped, sitting back against his chair.
Phillip Senior glared at him before shaking his head and returning his attention to the print newspapers he still favored.
Cole didn’t miss his brothers Lucas and Sean share a look. Phillip Junior frowned and his wife pretended not to notice. Collette was lost to the tension.
The father-son contentious relationship was nothing new. In truth, the root of Cole’s problem with his father was more than a rebellion. It was a bitter disappointment.
As a teenager, Cole had visited the family’s restaurant and walked in on his father cheating on his mother with one of the waitresses. Visions of their half-clothed bodies rutting away flashed in his mind’s eye and he winced at the memory and forced it out.
He’d never shared the secret of his father’s affair. At times, he hated himself for that.
Cole looked at his mother. A devoted beauty whose feelings for her husband were clear. Her love. And her loyalty.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but his anger at his father for betraying her had been stewing for years.
Cole had been determined to be a better man to Traci before he’d discovered she was using him. Although he knew his reputation in the press was now that of a playboy, Cole never juggled more than one woman at a time—he just kept his relationships strings-free.
“Can I get anything for anyone before I go shopping for dinner?”
Cole glanced up at Jillian, standing in the opening of the dining room, before he looked over his shoulder at the spring sun blazing down on the thirty-two-foot length of the garden. A long concrete table set beneath an arched framework covered with bamboo leaves offered privacy and shade. At night, he liked to sit outside, smoke a cigar and sip Uncle Nearest premium whiskey as he listened to the sounds of New York and watched the illuminated water fountain at the end of the garden.
There had been many a night that memories of stolen moments with the sexy chef had dominated his thoughts. More often than not, that led to a phone call or text before he was off on his motorcycle, zipping through the streets to reach her.
And stroke deeply inside her...
“That will be all, Jillian. Thank you,” Nicolette said, breaking into his train of thought.
“We need someone to step in and take over the restaurant division in Gabe’s absence,” Phillip Senior said, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin before dropping it atop his half-eaten steak, mushroom and mozzarella omelet.
Cole glared at his father. “Good luck with that,” he drawled. “I’m not filling a spot my brother left.”
“Grow up, Cole!” Phillip Junior snapped.
Cole shot him a glare, as well. “Go to—”
“Oh no-oo,” Raquel said, rising in a beautiful sheer red shirt and matching wide-legs pants to pick up their daughter’s plate. “Come on, Collette. We’ll finish breakfast upstairs.”
“What’s wrong?” the little girl asked.
“The adults need the room...and to remember they are adults.” Raquel shot a meaningful glance at both Cole and her husband before leading the preschooler out of the room.
“This sullen brat routine is getting old, Cole,” Phillip Junior said, looking even more like the former wrestler turned movie star Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He hated it when his brothers teased him about that.
“And so is figuring out just how you manage to breathe with your face buried so deep in Dad’s behind,” Cole shot back.
Of all the brothers, Phillip Junior was the most devoted to his father—and believed that being “The Eldest” guaranteed him a natural progression to the throne.
“Enough,” Sean said sternly with a shake of his head.
Cole eyed “The Star.” Everyone had a role. Sean relished his as the star of several of Cress, INC’s most popular cooking shows. He believed his face as the brand was the winning ticket. “Enough what?” he asked.
“Enough making everything uncomfortable because it amuses you,” Lucas answered.
I find humor to avoid rage. But Cole kept his thought to himself as he eyed the youngest Cress son, “The Favorite.” All his life, Lucas had been doted on by their mother with love—and plenty of food. He’d packed the extra pounds on until recently.
Cole loved his brothers. His only anger with them was for their blind allegiance to their father, who was undeserving of it.
No one knows that but me.
“So, you all will just fill Gabe’s shoes and make him feel we don’t want or need him back?” Cole accused, eyeing each of his brothers.
“À la nourriture. À la vie. À l’amour,” Nicolette said, filling the silence with her favorite French saying. To food. To life. To love.
The maxim was painted on the wall above all of her stoves—personal and professional—and on the base of every pan in the Cress line of cookware. It was the watermark of every letter from the various editors of their culinary magazines. It was also branded throughout their online presence. And it served as the closing statement for the cooking shows produced by Cress, INC.’s television division.
“Gabriel will return,” she asserted. “His presence here and at Cress, INC. is missed. Until he decides that he wants his position back, someone must complete the work.”
“I’ll do it,” Phillip Junior asserted. “A future CEO has to set the example and step in when left in a jam by someone else.”
“Sycophant,” Cole muttered, disgusted by the lack of loyalty among brothers.
Nicolette reached to cover Cole’s hand with her own. “I miss him, too,” she assured him.
“Then fix it,” he demanded, locking his gray-blue eyes with her own.
Her gaze softened as she nodded. “I think you’re right,” she admitted.
“Nicolette!” Phillip Senior roared.
“Assez, c’est assez, mon amour,” she said, looking down the length of the table at her husband.
Like their parents, the brothers spoke both French and Spanish fluently.
Enough is enough, my love.
And though her tone was soft, there was no denying the finality of her words.
