father is the one who wanted to purchase it. I hope that I can convince him to sell.” Once they’d brought La Petite Bouchée back up to its former glory and could demand a higher price than they’d paid. Maybe even to her. He tilted his head. “If you want the restaurant, why didn’t you buy it from Jean-Paul?”
A small wrinkling of her nose. “I tried, but we couldn’t come to an agreement.”
Probably because her investors had recognized that the price was too high. A fact that his father had stubbornly ignored no matter how many times Donovan had brought it to his attention. He shoved the disloyal thought aside. His father was a good man, perhaps a little sentimental, but he wasn’t an idiot. And if he believed La Petite Bouchée could be a success, then it was up to Donovan and his sister, Mal, to prove him right.
He nudged the contract back toward her, which earned him a sharp look. “We’re going to have to have some sort of contract.”
“Not this one.”
“Maybe not. You don’t have to sign now. Take it home. Have your lawyer look it over.”
She laughed, a light, bright sound. “You think I have a lawyer?”
He eyed her steadily. “You should. I recommend one to anyone signing a contract.”
She glanced down at the pages, then carefully closed the folder. “Well, you’re either shockingly honest or this is your attempt at reverse psychology.”
He didn’t see the need to argue. He simply wanted to get the job done and was looking for the shortest and easiest path. “I’d like to get this settled as soon as possible.”
“I would, too.” She clutched the folder to her chest.
“A week?”
“A week.” She smiled and Donovan felt something warm bloom in his chest.
No, that was a lie. It was a bullet of heat that shot straight to his groin. And despite his best attempts to shake it loose, including a ten-minute drive back to the office, it remained with him.
Or she did.
Donovan parked on the street in front of the three-level building in the heart of Yaletown, which not only housed the Ford Group’s offices but also their first and most popular bar, Elephants, which served wine from around the world and paired food to suit it. The bar took up the first two floors and even now was filled with people. Primarily office workers who’d popped in for a tasty lunch.
They’d debated opening for lunch since it wasn’t a particularly profitable time, but they’d discovered that customers often came back after work and stayed through the evening. And it looked good to anyone wandering by. Here was a place that was busy and vibrant, a place they should consider patronizing. And often, they did.
Donovan chose the stairs over the elevator to reach the third-floor offices. He greeted Bailey, their young receptionist, briefly as he headed down the hall to his office.
He had the second-largest space on the floor. His father’s currently dark office was larger, but Donovan thought his own was actually nicer. His father had a stunning view of the mountains, but Donovan had that and a peek of the ocean. More important, he could keep an eye on the sidewalk in front of the bar. See who was entering and exiting.
He hung his coat on the rack in the corner of his distinguished office. The space was decorated in high-gloss whites and ivories. Glass-topped desks and Lucite chairs. Everything open and transparent with elegant accents of silver and gold. It was a wealthy look and one that fit the jet-set lifestyle their company tried to sell.
La Petite Bouchée looked like a poor country cousin. But that would be simple to change. He made a note to call his designer this week and start discussing the renovation. Something simple and quick. Donovan saw no reason to dump a whack of money into a project when it wasn’t necessary.
The restaurant needed updating, but there was nothing wrong with the space that some freshening up wouldn’t fix. The room was open, there was a bar that could be easily extended to add visual interest and more seating, and a wall of windows that looked out onto False Creek, the inlet that separated downtown from the rest of the city.
He moved to his heavy glass desk and checked his email. He really did have plenty to keep him busy today and tonight and tomorrow. But his mind kept wandering back to Julia. Her sleepy eyes and slow smile. A man could lose his head to a smile like that.
“How did it go?” Mal, his younger sister—his only sister—stuck her head in, interrupting his thoughts. She was wearing the wireless earpiece that kept her in constant contact with her cell phone and meant she was liable to spin away midsentence to start a new conversation. But right now she simply watched him with knowing brown eyes. “Oh, my God.” She plopped down in one of the low-slung visitor’s chairs, kicking up her needle-thin heels. “Are you smiling? After that fit you threw when Dad insisted on going through with the purchase?”
He brought out his best older-brother I’m-in-charge-here expression. “It wasn’t a fit.” It had been a well-reasoned, logical attempt to change Gus’s mind. Donovan hadn’t even stomped his foot. “We had a discussion.”
“Right.” He never had managed much success in pulling anything over on his younger sister, but that didn’t stop him from trying. “So what happened?”
Donovan shook off thoughts of rosebud lips and sexy curves. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Not what I asked.” Mal raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. I’m here now. I can help.”
“I’m not doing everything myself.” He wasn’t. Hell, he didn’t even have a signed contract. “I’m just letting you know that I have everything under control.” Including his libido. Good thing he was seeing Tatiana tonight. The tall platinum blonde would be the perfect antidote to the discomforting feelings coursing through him.
Mal rolled her eyes in the same way she’d been doing since she was ten. “Whatever, Donovan.”
“I’m not trying to keep you out of the loop.” Or he was learning not to. Over the past couple of years, he’d gotten used to being the only Ford child heavily involved in the family business and the one their father relied on. Owen had never shown any interest beyond doing enough to collect a paycheck and, until their father’s heart attack, Mal had been living in Aruba with her fiancé, Travis, running a beach bistro. But Mal had flown home immediately after getting the call and had stayed, taking on the role of marketing and media-relations director for the company. And there had been plenty of times since then that Donovan had been grateful for her support. Not only was she a whiz at the job, but she was also someone he could count on to make good business decisions. “I’ll ask if I need help.”
“No, you won’t. You always think you need to do everything yourself.” Mal pulled out her smartphone, tapping something on the screen. An email pinged on Donovan’s computer in response. “The projections for Dad’s little restaurant and my media plan when we’re ready to relaunch.”
He and Mal had discussed the plan in depth last night. Her plan was three step. First, the announcement of the sale. Followed by a short article highlighting the new look and extolling the exciting new path La Petite Bouchée was on. Finished with a personalized interview showcasing their chef. Donovan felt another flicker of attraction as Julia’s face flashed through his mind.
“When will we be ready to go?”
Donovan shoved Julia’s dark eyes out of his mind. They wouldn’t be ready to go until they had said chef’s signature on a contract. “I’ll let you know.”
But rather than nodding and accepting his information as gospel, Mal frowned. “No, I’m going to need more than that. Dates, decisions.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “We can’t hold off indefinitely. No one is going to write about the purchase two months after the fact.”
He knew she