Prologue
Fontaine Saint-Michel, Paris, France
American photographer Lucy Vale adjusted her camera case on her shoulder, annoyed to find herself alone in front of the Fontaine Saint-Michel. She glanced at her watch. Four in the morning, as instructed. If her client weren’t an eccentric billionaire who’d prepaid in cash for this shoot, she’d never have taken this job. But when a man offers you four times your regular rate plus a free trip to Paris for a super-secretive one-hour gig, it’s hard to say no.
Still, it annoyed her—the hour, the lateness, the entitlement.
She groaned when she finally spotted him walking toward her under the streetlights, the only thing moving aside from the occasional car zipping along the boulevard. The plaza was oddly silent, although she didn’t frequent Paris enough to know if that was common at this hour.
As he strode closer, she recognized him from his picture.Picturesactually. And videos. That was the thing about running a global empire, she supposed. He’d spent his share of time under the microscope of journalists everywhere.
But then she glimpsed his outfit. Shook her head. Not what they’d agreed to by a long shot. “Have you brought a change? Your dark clothing will get lost in this light. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“I know what you are, Lucy.” A jagged blade appeared in his hand, lighting up and casting an otherworldly blue glow between them.
“What do you have there?” Lucy glanced between the sculpture of the archangel Michael vanquishing the devil that formed the pinnacle of the Fontaine and the prop in his hand. So that was it then. This was to be a nerdy fantasy-world thing. “Oh, like the statue! Well, we can try it, but at this hour I can’t guarantee I can achieve the results you’re looking for.”
He reached her, his lips drawing back off his teeth in a chill-inducing smile. A smile that made Lucy’s skin tighten and her deepest instincts compel her to run. But it was too late for that.
His gloved hand closed around her throat, cutting off her scream.
“Oh Lucy, I guarantee you will provide exactly the results I’m looking for.”
Chapter One
CONNOR
“Jessie, if you burn that sauce, I swear on my father’s grave you’ll be on tomorrow’s menu.” My new saucier came highly recommended, but as the owner and head chef of Diabolique gastropub, I have high standards. I run my kitchen like a war room. My staff are my soldiers. Every evening, I wage a battle to serve as many hungry people as possible the most absolutely showstopping meals this kitchen can pump out.
Doesn’t hurt that I’m also a dragon and can smell the sauce starting to curdle from six feet away.
Jessie lifts the pan off the burner and stirs vigorously. “Got it, Chef!”
I love nights like this. The bustle. The verve. The spark. Most of the humans working in my kitchen don’t realize they’re feeding off my dragon energy, growing as culinary artists thanks to a celestial gift the creator sent them thousands of years ago. Dragons like me coexist insecret with humans in order to inspire them, to help evolve their species to its ultimate potential. Diabolique has the reputation of being a proving ground for up-and-coming talent. The magazines and influencers think it’s because I’m some great mentor, and I’m no slouch in that department, but it has far more to do with being a dragon. The magic in my skin is working on my staff every day they’re here.
In a year, I predict Jessie will be running his own kitchen, and that’s all right by me.
The door to the front of house swings open, and a four-foot-eleven-inch fireball of a woman with curly gray hair and a neck tattoo appears in front of me. Carmen is my manager, an Army veteran and grandmother of four whom I keep around because nothing fazes her. Nothing. There could be a shootout on the floor and she’d find a way to calmly usher the customers into the alley to finish their mealLady and the Tramp–style. She’s also one of the few humans who knows what I really am.
Tonight her fists are on her hips, her spine rigid enough to add two inches to her height, and her lip is curled the way it does when she’s seriously annoyed.
“What happened?” I plate the fish I’ve been poaching and give her my full attention.
“Table seven wants to speak with the chef.”
Everyone stops. For a heartbeat, her words hang in the air. Even the burners on the stoves seem to pause, their flames bending in her direction like they can’t believe their ears. The saucier stops whisking. My sous-chef stops dicing. My entire kitchen staff seems to hold their collective breath.
Long ago, I gave up being offended by this reaction. My temper is renowned to the humans in this kitchen. And while none of them but Carmen knows I’m a dragon, they all know I’m an Aries. What you see is what you get and I never back down from a confrontation.
“Table seven.” It’s the end of the night, but I pride myself on every dish that leaves this kitchen. And I remember every order. “What’s wrong with the steak?”
“He says it’s overcooked.” Carmen tosses her hands as if the notion is preposterous, and it is. There’s a reason I hired her despite her advanced age. She isn’t afraid of anything, including me, and she doesn’t suffer fools.
Tossing my apron onto the counter, I pass her, mumbling that I’ll take care of it, and march to table seven. I’m big. Around six foot five and ripped thanks to my dragon genetics plus warrior training regimen. The humans I meet often joke I’d make a good linebacker with my general width, which Carmen says is like two average guys standing side by side. I don’t know about that, but I make no effort to diminish my otherworldly attributes as I approach this customer. No. I plan to intimidate this asshole until he’s near wetting himself.
The man’s gaze locks on to my crossed arms first, then traces up and up and up to meet my eyes.Yeah, way the hell up here, buddymy expression conveys.You ready to tango? Because I was born knowing the steps.It’s then that I notice his date. Interesting. This guy is a four at best, but his girl is a strong eight. Her gaze travels north along my torso in the same way, but her eyes hold more than a little heat when our gazes connect. I flash her a lopsided smile. Her browslift.
“You asked to see the chef?” I mumble, forcing my attention back toward the man.
