An Offer from Mr. Wrong
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Niobia Bryant
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HarlequinOne
Over the rim of her flute of champagne, Bobbie Barnett eyed the couple across the restaurant sharing intimate kisses in their booth seating. The champagne chilling in ice, lit candles and strawberry-with-cream dessert were romantic. A Midtown Manhattan restaurant of such quality would offer nothing less.
“Aww so sweet,” Bobbie drawled as she used black-framed camera glasses to secretly record them. “Too bad it’s not his wife.”
When the man’s hand dipped beneath the table, Bobbie looked away, sparing herself and his wife from viewing the scandalous spectacle. She was being paid a hefty fee to prove what women’s intuition—and probably many late nights spent alone in bed—had already alerted his wife to regarding his infidelity.
The gut never lies.
As a private investigator, Bobbie relied on hers.
She was called upon by wealthy and influential people to solve mysteries, investigate crimes and prove betrayals. She loved it—almost as much as her father, Bobby. She’d inherited the business from the PI and former police detective upon his retirement. After being raised from childhood to be observant and inquisitive she became a detective and passed her private investigator test at twenty-five. With twelve years in the game, she was one of the best.
Bzzzzzz.
She flipped her phone over on the table. A text from her client Mrs. Ferguson. “‘Any updates?’” Bobbie mouthed, before biting off a bit of her caramel-tinted lip gloss.
She understood the desperation and stress of suspecting a spouse of cheating all too well. Long gone was the anger of discovering her husband, Henny Santana, in bed with another woman. Now hurt remained. It clung to her like a second skin.
For the lost years of her life.
For broken trust.
For feeling foolish in ever believing in him.
With a slight shake of her head that caused the loose waves of her wild hair to bounce, she tapped her glossy almond-shaped nails against the stem of the crystal flute. Pushing aside feelings she fought hard to forget, she raised the glass and took a deep sip of the vintage champagne.
Rehashing my marriage to Henny is a waste of time.
“Speaking of my time,” Bobbie muttered, checking her phone.
8:28 p.m.
She was killing two birds with one stone. Surveillance for one client and an appointment with a potential new one.
That morning she had closed a case on a missing A-list celebrity whose manager was panicking at unreturned phone calls. Some old-school sleuthing aided by modern-day technology and she learned the actor was tucked away at a luxury hotel recovering from secret plastic surgery to “revitalize” his face. Without revealing the actor’s truth, she assured the manager his client was alive and well.
It was a long day and she was ready for a relaxing lengthy bath, meditation and then—hopefully—deep sleep in the middle of her big comfy bed with her crisp sheets pressed against her naked—
“You’re B. Barnett?”
Bobbie stiffened.
Rarely was she surprised, but the sound of the male voice did just that. She recognized the deep timbre and the British accent.
Lincoln Cress.
She raised her head to look up at the tall and broad-shouldered man with rugged features. Square jaw and chin. Broad nose. Deep-set eyes beneath slashing brows. High cheekbones. Trimmed goatee framing his soft mouth currently diminished by a frown.
A handsome man with an ugly countenance who was no happier to see her than she was to see him.
No matter how fine.
On the edge of her aggravation were awareness and excitement.
Bobbie cleared her throat and offered him the seat across from her as she crossed her legs. “Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” she said as he remained standing.
“Meet me?” he snapped, his face the epitome of annoyance. “You invaded my life for weeks!”
She understood his annoyance.
Last fall, she was hired to investigate Phillip Cress Sr., acclaimed chef and giant in the culinary empire, by two of his five sons, Coleman and Gabriel. She was thorough, even going back to Phillip’s days growing up in the small seaside town of St. Ives in Cornwall, England. A perfunctory background check revealed his name on the birth certificate of Lincoln Cress, his illegitimate son born before he met and wed his wife, Nicolette Lavoie.
When the Cress brothers then hired her for an extensive background check of their newly discovered half brother, Bobbie traveled to St. Ives pretending to be a biographer of local England chefs. She found Lincoln to be rude, stiff and intolerant of her attempts to learn more about him for her feigned work. She lost count of just how many times he had escorted her out of his Michelin-starred restaurant.
Foolishly, she’d thought she’d never come face-to-face with the wickedly handsome grouch again.
“If you’d like to have a conversation, I’d prefer you weren’t scowling and looking down above me, Mr. Cress,” she said, glancing past him to see Mr. Ferguson was busy enjoying his date with his mistress.
Lincoln jerked back the chair and finally folded his towering frame to sit.
A uniformed waiter instantly appeared. “Would you like to start with a drink?” he asked.
“Trust me—what he needs, Kevin, you do not serve,” she drawled, picking up her flute.
An enema would change his attitude because he was full of—
“First intrusion and now insults,” Lincoln said, his dark eyes locked on her face.
Her curiosity of what he thought of her looks was the second surprise of the night.
Lincoln Cress annoyed her but his presence gave her an undeniable thrill.
“I’ll give you some more time,” Kevin said before quickly backing away.
“I was hired to do a job,” she began, ready to send him and his negative energy on his way. “And since you’re here in New York and aware of my involvement I assume you have connected with your long-lost father and half brothers—who are all extremely wealthy. So...you’re welcome.”
“Is that how you sleep at night? Without conscience or integrity?” he asked.
“And how do you rest on that high horse?” she countered.
“I knew you were up to no good when I first spotted you in my restaurant,” Lincoln said.
“Oh,” Bobbie said, drawing it out. “O-kay then. So, you want to take it there?”
Lincoln shook his head and released a sardonic chuckle. “We were there ever since you invaded my life to spy on me.”
“Life is about perspective, Mr. Cress,” she began, tracing the rim of the glass with her fingertip. “You could see my role in your life as a negative and intrusive thing...or...be thankful that my actions led to you being reconnected with the father you’ve never known.”
Lincoln’s jaw clenched. “I don’t need his money,” he said, with coldness.
Bobbie held up her hands and nodded. “I know,” she said with confidence.
Renewed anger brought a spark to his dark eyes.
“Listen, it was nothing personal for me. It was a job,” she explained. “Just like I’m trying my best not to hold a grudge for you being an intolerable butthole toward me.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he drawled, leaning forward to rest his elbows atop the table.
“And you are the epitome of a miserable soul,” she snapped, leaning forward to do the same.
Just inches separated them. The scent of the small bouquet on the center of the table wafted up between them as his eyes pierced hers with an intensity that made Bobbie fight not to lick the sudden dryness from her lips. She fought and failed, giving her bottom lip a tiny bite as she leaned back from being so near to him.
When his eyes dropped to her mouth to take in the innocent gesture, her heart pounded.
Fast and hard.
She had felt the same awareness when she first laid eyes on the brute...
Bobbie entered the beautifully rustic seaside restaurant and was drawn in by the charm of the wood interior, teal decor, wild floral arrangements at each table and the scent of fresh seafood cooked in butter, garlic and other flavors. In the center of the intimate space was an open kitchen. Her eyes had sought and found Lincoln Cress where he was busy giving out sharp orders to his staff.
Her heart skipped a beat and then pounded.
The photo of him from his website did him no justice. It lacked the intensity lining his face as he shifted a pan atop a fiery burner back and forth and then flipped the contents inside it with impressive skill.
And it was surprisingly arousing.
“Welcome to SHORES. I’m Shirly. Can I start you off with a drink or appetizer?”
With reluctance, Bobbie shifted her eyes away from the chef and up at the waitress offering her a welcoming smile as she clutched a small tablet to enter orders. “Actually, I’m Kimberly Madison, a biographer researching local chefs,” she lied with ease.
“Oh. The American that’s been callin’,” the waitress said with a British accent heavy with Cornish dialect.
Bobbie didn’t miss that the woman cast a nervous glance back at the kitchen in Lincoln’s direction. “I thought reaching out in person to see if he was interested in participating in the project would get me a little further,” she said, as she looked down at the paper menu atop the place setting. “And I would love to try the squid.”
Shirly gave her a nod and smile before moving away.
Bobbie looked on as the waitress made her way behind the bar to the opening of the kitchen. They shared words before Lincoln leaned his head over to look directly at her. She gave him a warm smile and wave of her fingers.
He glared back in return.
She looked on as he finished something he was cooking and plated it before barking a few orders to the rest of the cooking staff. Her heart pounded as he left the kitchen and moved with long strides toward her. His black chef’s coat against his shortbread complexion and slashing brows was eye-catching.
Lincoln Cress was eye candy ready to be devoured—in the best way.
As he neared her, Bobbie’s brows raised with each step. The look of annoyance on his face became clearer. She rose to her feet and extended her hand as he came to a stop near her table.
“I already told you I wasn’t interested and would appreciate not being harassed,” Lincoln said, ignoring her hand as he folded his arms across his chest. “You’re annoying.”
Bobbie fought the urge to fold her hand into a fist and gut-punch him. “And you’re rude,” she countered, losing patience with his insolence.
He nodded sharply. “When annoyed? Yes,” he agreed.
“When breathing is more like it,” she shot back.
“Goodbye,” he stressed, widening his eyes with incredulity before lightly touching her elbow and steering her toward the glass front door.
“No. You. Are. Not,” she snapped as he gave her a wave before closing the door in her face, leaving her with her mouth still open in shock.
Bobbie frowned at the memory. She couldn’t stand the man.
“What do you want from me? I already apologized,” she said, thinking of the bath and other relaxation activities she had planned.
“For you to find another occupation where you’re not paid to lie, pretend and exploit people who did not choose to have you in their lives,” Lincoln said, his eyes raising to lock with hers.
And just like their first meeting, as her heart pounded and her pulse raced, he opened his mouth and threw cold water on the heat building inside her.
Lincoln Cress was an honest man. He prided himself on that. And the undeniable truth was Bobbie Barnett was a beautiful woman. From her wild mane of loose waves that reached beyond her shoulders in length and breadth, to her brown complexion, and the most glorious full lips covered in a sheer brown gloss. Her look was a throwback to the 1970s’ Donna Summer vibe and it was hard to deny the allure.
Her allure.
He tapped his index finger atop the restaurant’s table as he sat back in his chair and continued to eye her. He recognized her at first sight, but now knew she had lied about who she was when they first met. “Kimberly,” he said with snark.
“Bobbie—with an IE, not a Y,” she countered.
It fit. It was a perfect match for her.
“Again, I apologize,” she added.
Kevin the waiter reappeared.
“Nothing for me,” Lincoln said, his thoughts full.
There had been a lot of changes and discoveries in his life in the last week. The sudden phone call from the man he’d always been told was his father had been shocking enough. His proclaiming to never have known of his existence until a report by a private investigator revealed it to him had truly shaken Lincoln. He had gone through a wide range of emotions before settling on curiosity.
About the father he knew only by name.
About the truth. Every day of his forty-four years his mother declared his father knew about him.
About his siblings after being an only child all his life.
About so much more.
Lincoln got the call and the next day he was on a private jet to New York to meet the world-renowned Phillip Cress and take two DNA tests—an at-home test and then a court-admissible one for confirmation. The next day after that he met Nicolette Lavoie-Cress, Phillip’s wife, and his five half brothers.
Five.
Phillip Junior, Sean, Gabriel, Cole, and Lucas.
All younger than him.
And that meeting had been wild.
Lincoln didn’t know who was angrier at him: his mother for him agreeing to connect with his father or Phillip Junior for his very existence uprooting him as their father’s eldest son.
Bzzzzzz.
He eyed Bobbie as she picked her phone up from the table. She bit her bottom lip and furrowed her arched brows as she began typing with her thumbs. As she stared at the screen awaiting a response, she trailed the tips of her nails across the brown skin exposed by the deep vee of the cream satin tank she wore beneath an olive motorcycle jacket. A soft smile touched her glossy lips as she continued to text. He was reminded of the moment in his restaurant when he looked over at her and she gave him that same smile and a wave.
Her hair had been slicked back into a bun and her face free of makeup. More subdued. An attempt to be inconspicuous.
She had failed.
A woman like Bobbie Barnett fading into the background?
Impossible.
“You’re rude,” Lincoln said, feeling a need to point out a bad trait.
She looked up from her phone. “No, I’m busy,” she countered setting the phone down and looking over his shoulder as she adjusted her spectacles.
Cha-ching.
When she ignored the newest notification and leaned to the right of him, he looked back over his shoulder and then back at her coolly. “Are you watching that couple?” he asked, his voice cold and judging.
“Mind your business?” Bobbie snapped with a wave of her hand like swatting away a fly.
“Hell, you mind yours,” he shot back.
She picked up her phone and turned it to face him to show a transfer of fifteen thousand dollars. “Business pays,” she said, signaling for the waiter.
“Anything for money, huh?” Lincoln drawled with derision.
Her face tightened with anger. “Anything to help clients find resolution,” she said, her coldness matching his as her eyes lit with the fire of anger. “To help people being lied to and cheated on. To help people scammed in their businesses. To help solve crimes. To protect people. And to help families connect with lost family members.”
Kevin came to a stop at their table.
“I’m ready for my check,” Bobbie said, tucking her hair behind her ear and exposing more of her large and thin gold hoop earrings.
“I’ll be right back with it, Ms. Barnett,” Kevin said before leaving them once again.
They stared at one another in stony silence until he returned.
Bobbie stood up and removed a money clip from the side pocket of her cargo pants. She placed cash inside the billfold before handing it to the waiter.
Lincoln rose to his feet as well. He was just over six feet but in her strappy bronze sandals, her eyes were level with his lips. She tilted her head back to look at him, causing the soft waves of her hair to fall back from her face.
She is intoxicating.
They eyed one another. Studied each other.
The loud splash of water echoed followed by horrified gasps.
Lincoln and Bobbie turned their heads in the direction of the melee.
A woman in an elegant strapless dress stood next to the table of the couple Bobbie had been spying on. The gentleman’s face and front of his shirt were wet.
Lincoln frowned at the public display. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, before looking down at Bobbie—who no longer wore her spectacles.
Her deep brown eyes were bright with just the hint of hazel.
“Your handiwork?” he asked. “Proud of yourself?”
She looked up at him. “For helping a stressed-out wife being gaslit by her cheating husband to believe she’s crazy when the whole time she’s right about him cheating...on the night of their fifteenth anniversary,” Bobbie said, her words clipped with her anger.
“Bitter much?” Lincoln snarked.
Bobbie tilted her head to the side and gave him an assessing look. “A chakra cleanse. New outlook on life. Great sex,” she said, ticking each off on her fingers.
“Excuse me?”
“The three things you need in your life,” she said, giving him a slow and thorough once-over. “ASAP.”
Lincoln grated his teeth to keep from telling her just how great his sex was. “Stay the hell out of my life, B. Barnett,” he said instead, before reclaiming his seat.
Her hand landed on his shoulder.
Lincoln was startled by her touch.
“Careful, you might need my services one day, Mr. Cress,” she said.
The soft and warm scent of her perfume clung to her inner wrist. It was intriguing.
Lincoln jerked his head back. “Never,” he promised.
“So long forever then,” she said.
“Good riddance,” he retorted.
And she walked away.
Don’t look. Do. Not. Look.
Lincoln did indeed look back. He was rewarded with the sultry back and forth sway of Bobbie’s hips in the low-slung cargo pants she wore with heels. He forced his eyes away.
Having snooped into his life, Bobbie Barnett rubbed him the wrong way—sex appeal or not.
“Excuse me. Mr. Cress?”
Lincoln looked up at the waiter with his brows furrowed.
“Ms. Barnett paid one hundred and fifty dollars toward dinner and drinks for you,” Kevin said as he handed Lincoln a folded note and leather-bound menu.
He read it but, in his mind, he heard her sultry voice. “‘Maybe a meal and drinks will change your mood for the better. Find your inner peace. B,’” he mouthed before tossing the note atop the table.
Lincoln glanced back over his shoulder again. Bobbie was gone and the angry wife was now sitting across from her philandering husband in the booth, effectively blocking the mistress from exiting their heated exchange. Their voices weren’t raised but the intensity was clear.
And so was the fear and shock of the mistress.
Cheating was not worth the hassle.
It had never been in his character to lie to one woman while wooing another one. He was always clear to anyone he invited in his life just where he stood. Whether only dating or a no-strings fling. Thus, the recent end of his latest entanglement. After a few months with Raven, her desire for strings had led to far too many heated arguments and chilly moments.
“Mr. Cress?” Kevin nudged.
Lincoln quickly perused the menu of high-end American cuisine. “The brioche shrimp toast to start. Roasted chicken with arugula next and then cheesecake to finish,” he said, before snapping the menu closed.
“And your drink?” he asked, tucking the menu under his arm.
“Scotch. Neat,” Lincoln said as he withdrew his phone from the inside pocket of his tailored blazer. His shoulders tensed at the series of twelve missed texts from his mother. Poppy Bridges was upset with him. Pissed, really. He stopped answering the endless calls to berate him for being a traitor and then the texts began. He had put his phone on Silent to avoid the constant vibrating.
Lincoln adored his mother—even if she was a handful.
Poppy loved good music, a good laugh and a good time. As a barmaid, she had enjoyed all three nearly nightly, leaving Lincoln to feel more like the parent than the child. They lived in the small flat above the pub and it had been routine for him to get himself off to school every morning as she slept after her shift ended when the bar closed at one in the morning. There had been little structure, barely any rules and lots of tirades about Phil Cress knocking her up and running away to Paris without a care for his kid.
Growing up, as a boy longing for a father, he had held out hope that it wasn’t true. Adulthood had added lots of skepticism and a load of resentment.
As soon as his drink was set before him, Lincoln indulged in a deep sip. He had a lot to chew on besides Poppy’s irrational fears of him abandoning her and his life in England to be with his father.
Phillip Cress Senior.
It was a desire to feel connected to his father—and a love of cooking—that led to Lincoln becoming a chef. He took pride in the achievement of his restaurant receiving a Michelin star awarded by the world-renowned travel guide in publication since the 1900s. His success was not by association with the successful culinary family.
Phillip Cress Senior and his wife, Nicolette Lavoie-Cress, had turned their over-five-decades careers as acclaimed and well-respected chefs into Cress, INC., a culinary empire with restaurants, nationally syndicated cooking shows, cookware, online magazines, an accredited cooking school and a nonprofit foundation. Each of their five sons, also successful chefs, worked for the empire they would one day inherit.
And now, at forty-four, with his own life firmly established, Lincoln was thrust into their lives and feeling like the outsider he was.
The bastard child.
DNA tests confirmed he was indeed Phillip’s bastard son and Lincoln’s inclusion in his will made him an illegitimate heir.
Not exactly the move of a man who would shirk his duties as a father.
Lincoln set aside his phone and thoughts on the Cress family—his family—as he enjoyed his meal. He longed for a bit more garlic on the roasted potatoes but enjoyed them along with the well-seasoned meat.
“I hate to see a gorgeous man eat alone.”
With his fork paused before his open mouth, Lincoln cut his eyes up to find a tall, svelte redhead in a formfitting white dress and a seductive smile that was an invitation for more. A bit too forward for his taste. He frowned with annoyance. Deeply.
“And I hate that you assumed I would want to change that,” he said tersely before sliding his fork into his mouth.
“Ooh. How rude,” the woman said, clearly insulted.
“And interrupting my dinner wasn’t?” he balked.
Lincoln was glad when she retreated and returned to her table where three other women awaited her. Within moments of her obviously filling them in on their exchange, all four women shot him glares that he ignored.
He was in America to gauge if he wanted or needed a relationship with his father. Finding love—or a sexy one-night stand—was not a part of the plan.
Tired of the continued scowls and done with his meal, Lincoln signaled for the waiter to bring the bill. Once it was in his hand, he snarked at Bobbie’s hundred-fifty-dollar contribution. To counter it he left the waiter a hundred-dollar tip. “Also, Kevin, send the ladies at that table a bottle of champagne with my apologies,” he said as he rose, acknowledging his abruptness and short patience was off-putting.
He was stern and no-nonsense. For many that was formidable. He just never had time for frivolities.
Once in the back of one of the Cress family’s vehicles that had been assigned to him, Lincoln looked out the rear of the tinted window at the bright lights and fast movement of Midtown Manhattan. It was such a contrast from his hometown of St. Ives. There were sandy beaches and not towering high-rises of glass and metal. A slower pace. Small community. Familiarity and warmth.
Lincoln had only left St. Ives once before to attend culinary school in Switzerland. Upon its completion, he headed back home to work his way up in restaurants from prep cook to executive chef. And after more than a decade he struck out on his own, purchasing the pub where his mother had worked to convert it to his restaurant, SHORES.
This was his first trip to the states—to the hustle and bustle of New York City of all places.
He was adjusting.
The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the Cress family’s five-story townhouse in the prominent and historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The Victorian architecture of the ten-thousand-square-foot home was impressive. And the interior was just as daunting with staff quarters, wine cellar, chef’s kitchen, elevator and movie room with six-bedroom suites and the entire third floor dedicated as the owner’s quarters.
Lincoln stood on the sidewalk of the pristine neighborhood. He was a man of means, but nothing near that of his father and stepmother. With their wealth, he wondered just how much his presence was truly welcomed.
In the words of Lauryn Hill: “It’s funny how money change a situation.”
And do they think it’s my motivation, because it’s not.
Lincoln opened the gate of the wrought iron fence lining the front of the property. He jogged up the stairs but paused in using the key he was given. A surprising move when he was a stranger to them.
Not a total stranger after Bobbie Barnett searched my life with the accuracy of a colonoscopy scope.
He frowned.
Glad to see the last of her.
The wrought iron door opened and Lincoln gave a nod of greeting to Felice, the middle-aged housekeeper in a gray uniform. “Good evening, Mr. Cress,” she said stepping back to allow him to move past her into the marble vestibule. “Did you lose your key?”
“No.”
This is not my home.
Felice gave him a hesitant smile before moving past him in the entry to open the door leading directly into the home. The high tray ceilings with brocade design were reminiscent of the home’s original Victorian era. Modern furnishings of gray and steel blue throughout the entire townhouse were luxurious and stylish. It was almost like it was staged for a spread in a glossy architectural magazine.
“Everyone is in the dining room,” Felice said.
“I’ve already eaten so I’ll just go up to my room,” he said, already edging past her to the wrought iron staircase running along the north side of the home. “If you’ll make my apologies.”
“Yes. I will. You have a good night.”
He paused on the steps to look back at her and was surprised by the compassion in her eyes. Or was it pity? With a stiff nod, Lincoln turned and continued up the stairs.
