The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(60)

“Well, well, well,” said a voice she wished she didn’t recognize. “Enjoying your fifteen seconds in the spotlight?”

Reluctantly, Rebecca turned back toward the street door. Neil Montana stood before her, backed up by a circle of his cronies. He wasn’t quite six feet tall. His build was skinny but soft, his pasty face not improved by his trying-too-hard-to-be-fashionable beard scruff. She’d worked for him all of six days before quitting—which was six days more than any chef with standards should have had to take.

Had Trey invited this idiot? Or maybe Neil had bought one of the tickets whose proceeds were going to charity. God, it didn’t matter. Rebecca forced her shoulders straighter and her jangled brain together.#p#分页标题#e#

“I am enjoying myself,” she confirmed. “Though of course I prefer working in the kitchen to all this attention.”

Neil let out a skeptical snort. Attention was what he lived and breathed for.

Thankfully, the hostess appeared to lead him and his gang away. “Enjoy your meal,” she called after them before hissing, “Did you invite him?” to Trey.

“I believe he’s Gordon Hewitt’s guest. I sent him a handful of tickets.”

Gordon Hewitt was the editor of Boston Eats and a well-known food critic. Her head whipped around to confirm he was with Neil. Sadly, he was, his short form dashing in a rumpled jacket and bow tie.

“Crap. I didn’t see him. Hewitt must think I’m completely stupid. Why did he bring Montana? He can’t possibly like his food.”

Noting her horrified stare, the dapper food critic smiled and lifted two fingers. Weakly, Rebecca returned the greeting.

“Crap,” she repeated, jerking forward again.

“It’s okay,” Trey soothed. “Hewitt has a reputation for being puckish. He probably invited Montana in the hopes of inciting a drama.”

“Just kill me now,” Rebecca moaned.

Trey laughed underneath his breath. She was glad he was taking this in stride, though—strictly speaking—she should have followed his example. God, she wished she were in the kitchen. Her nervous energy would have served a purpose there.

She was so overwrought she didn’t immediately identify the striking woman who swung legs first out of a limo that had pulled to the curb. A chauffeur handed her out, a service the woman seemed used to. Her dress was Marilyn-esque: white, pleated, its flowy skirt poised to lift at any convenient draft. Though her hair was dark, its waves were styled to resemble the iconic movie star’s. Her pouty red lips glistened with reflections from the Lounge’s decorative outdoor lights. Strings of the twinkly bulbs spiraled around the entrance.

“Mystique,” Trey said when she reached them. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Oh you know.” She waved a hand whose glossy manicure matched her lips. “Spur of the moment thing.”

“Well, I’m glad.” He accepted her air kiss. “It’s always nice to see you.”

The tilt of the model’s head struck Rebecca as dubious. Did she think Trey wasn’t glad to see her, and if so, why not? Rebecca realized she hoped Trey disliked her. Bad enough Zane and she were cozy.

She probably had a weird expression on her face when Mystique shifted her gaze to her. “You must be the chef. Congratulations on the big night.”

She showed no awareness that she knew who Rebecca was—not that she was worth mentioning by Zane.

“Thank you,” she said, her spine inescapably poker stiff. “I hope you enjoy the meal.”

Sensing her tension, Trey laid his hand in the small of her back.

“I’m sure I will,” Mystique said pleasantly.

She continued in, stirring murmurs even among the ritzy crowd. Zane hadn’t appeared behind her, so perhaps the couple was meeting here. Hardly steady to begin with, Rebecca’s pulse began skittering. She knew he’d probably attend tonight, but she been trying her hardest to compartmentalize that knowledge. Could she bear seeing Zane in person with his beautiful arm candy? Did she have the nerve to face him with Trey no more than six inches from her side? For that matter, could this situation get any more uncomfortable?

“Jesus,” Trey murmured, looking at her. “You’ve broken into a sweat.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I just really want to oversee the kitchen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Oversee. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

Rebecca hurried off as if she were escaping a guillotine.

A server stopped her in the back hall. “Chef,” she said, a smile on her face. “Your clam chowder is a hit. Folks are scraping their bowls!”