Room Service. Jill Shalvis

know your potential, Em. It’s why I’m doing this. But listen to me. You’re going to have to…”

      “What?”

      He sighed. “Harden that ridiculously soft heart of yours. Toughen up.”

      “I’m plenty tough.”

      “Not in the way I’m talking. It’d help if you learned to conform to the way we do things around here.”

      “You mean like lie and cheat?”

      He offered her a smile, his first. “Exactly. If that chef won’t come willingly? Hire someone to find a hair on their plate at Amuse Bouche. In a place like that, he’d be ruined instantly. He’ll be begging to do the show.”

      She stared at him. “That’s despicable.”

      He shrugged. “That’s life.”

      “I would never do something like that.”

      “Yeah.” His smile faded and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Here comes number four.”

      “I am not failing a fourth time.”

      He didn’t look convinced, but to his credit, he didn’t say so. “You’ve got yourself one month to get this show off the ground. Go break a leg.”

      She moved to the door when he opened it for her, feeling a little stunned, a little overwhelmed, a little excited and a lot sick.

      “Good luck,” Nathan said wryly.

      No doubt, she was going to need it.

      1

      New York

      THREE DAYS LATER EM stood in the gorgeous lobby of Hotel Hush, looking around in marvel. The carpet beneath her feet was a pattern of blacks, greens, grays and pinks, and felt so thick it was like walking on air. The grand furniture and artwork on the vast walls brought to mind the great old salons of the roaring twenties.

      She knew from Hush’s Web site that the place catered to the young, wealthy and daring. It was eighty guest rooms of fun, flirty sophistication and excitement, with additional offerings such as designer penthouse suites complete with personal butlers, an “it” bar named Erotique that attracted the glitterati of New York, a luxurious spa, a rooftop swimming pool…

      And every available amenity was geared toward Hush’s hook: erotic fun. Guests could use their room’s private video camera complete with blank tapes, or any of the “toys” in each armoire. And downstairs in the basement was a discreet entertainment parlor where couples could engage in semiprivate exhibition fantasies, and more.

      “More” being sensual pleasures that only those with an extremely open, worldly point of view would dare experience. According to the info Em had gotten online, anything could be obtained here, tried here, seen here. Anything at all.

      Em couldn’t even imagine the half of it. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t here for the pleasures. She was here to see Amuse Bouche, and its chef. Nathan had chosen well. It was rumored that Chef Jacob Hill was unparalleled in the kitchen, any kitchen, and that he was a virtual modern-day god.

      And wildly, fabulously sexy to boot.

      People said that his food was out of this world, that once you ate something he cooked, you fell for him hook, line and sinker. They said that his waitstaff had to guard the doors to the kitchen, beating women off with a stick every night.

      She hoped that translated to great TV.

      She’d tried to learn more about him, but interestingly enough there wasn’t much to learn. She’d found several lists of impressive credentials, but with an odd omission—anything prior to five years ago was a complete blank.

      Which meant either Chef Jacob Hill was relatively new to his field, or he had a past he didn’t care to advertise.

      An enigma.

      And the last piece to the puzzle of Em’s success.

      Hopefully he had one element common with the rest of the human race, that he could be coaxed, by either the promise of money or fame, all the way across the country to L.A.

      “Look at this place,” Liza said in awe. Liza was Em’s oldest friend and newest assistant. That she looked like Barbara Eden circa I Dream of Jeannie had turned out to be invaluable in the industry as far as getting things done her way. Which was good, as Liza, never a warm, fuzzy sort, never one to back off from a good fight, liked to get her way. This made her an extremely efficient assistant, if a rather fierce one.

      “They sure take the art deco theme seriously, don’t they?” She looked all around them. “This stuff is all museum quality.”

      “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why the male guests come here.” This from Eric, Em’s second-closest friend, and new location director. He was looking at a bold, bright painting of a very beautiful and very nude woman stretched out on a luxurious daybed for all to see—and he was enjoying the view greatly, if the smile on his face was anything to judge by. “The quality.”

      Liza rolled her eyes. “We’re here for the restaurant.”

      “Yeah, and trust me, as a chef, good restaurants hold a special place in my heart, but we’re really here to save Em’s ass—Oomph.” Rubbing the ribs Liza had just elbowed, he glared at her. “What? It’s true.”

      Liza shook her head in disgust. “It’s not true, and you’re not a chef.”

      “Am so.”

      “Are not.”

      Em sighed. The two of them possessed a unique talent for getting a reaction out of each other, be it annoyance—or sexual tension.

      Eric went back to ogling the nudes.

      “You’re a dog,” Liza said to him. “Men are dogs.”

      “Woof, woof,” Eric said.

      If Eric was a dog, he was a good-looking one—tall and very Californian in his casual chinos, untucked polo shirt, tennis shoes and sunglasses shoved to the top of his blond mop. He had eyes the color of an azure sky, and could stop traffic with a single smile.

      Also handy when it came to getting his way.

      Em couldn’t do this without either of them.

      “I’m going to check in,” Liza said. “I’m getting a room as far from yours—” she pointed at Eric “—as possible.”

      “Works for me.” Eric gave a careless shrug. “Last chance, Em. Save yourself all the trouble and use me as your chef. You know I’m good.”

      He was good, but not formally trained, and such a goofball that no one ever took him seriously. She was afraid that would be apparent on the TV screen. “Eric—” Emma said.

      “Yeah, yeah. I’m going to the bar.”

      “Works for me,” Liza snapped, and with a mutual growl, both of them were gone, leaving Em standing in the lobby alone. “Well,” she said to herself. “This is going to be fun.”

      The three of them together had always been fun before. They’d made their way through college, existing on fun.

      That is, until last year. That had been when Eric had been stupid enough to tell Liza he loved her, then given her a diamond ring and married her.

      The marriage—based on fun and lust—had lasted for two wild, sexually charged months before they’d had an explosive fight. And because neither of them had ever had a real relationship, neither of them had known what to do with real love. Now, with all that emotion still pent up inside them, with no way to deal with it, they snarled and growled and bickered.

      Em loved both of them, but if they didn’t realize that they just needed to trust themselves—and get back in the sack—then she was going to lock them together in the