Love California Box Set: Books 1-3 (Love California Series Collection) Read online

  Verena watched Lance leave the room with his employee. What an interesting man. Not a bit like Derrick.

  Lance’s quick smile reminded her of her grandfather Emile, who was so good-natured. As a child, she had loved listening to the stories her grandparents told. After the Second World War in Europe ended, Emile and Mia had moved from Switzerland to America. Emile had made their journey sound so exciting. They’d realized the fulfillment of their youthful dreams where the air was fresh, and sandy beaches sparkled under the warm sun.

  After they arrived, Emile was soon earning a steady living as a construction superintendent. Compact stucco cottages with Spanish-tiled roofs were springing up in the surrounding valleys for war veterans and their young families.

  Mia began to share her skincare formulas with her new neighbors. American women loved her pampering facial treatments and brought friends from Hollywood, Westwood, and Beverly Hills to see her. Mia converted the dining room, but their small cottage soon proved too small for Mia’s burgeoning clientele, so they bought a plot of land on North Beverly Drive in the heart of the village of Beverly Hills.

  While Emile and his friends built the new salon, Mia planned the interior, fashioning it after fine salons in Switzerland. She imprinted a grand initial “V” on everything from tea towels to tea cups. Ladies loved the European ambience, and the Valent Salon quickly became a favorite destination.

  Verena still loved hearing about the early days of the salon.

  “All the biggest stars came to the salon,” Mia often told her. She pointed out their guests in movies and on television, and she took her young granddaughter to the salon on weekends. Mia loved to reminisce as she led Verena through powder pink treatment rooms that smelled so fresh and clean.

  Mia also pointed out patron photos on the walls. “Here’s Grace Kelly. What porcelain skin she had. There’s Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood…I always told those girls to stay out of the sun. And here’s Doris Day. She was such an animal lover.” Contemporary stars and models had their photos displayed, too.

  In her private office upstairs, Mia kept a photo of Verena’s father, Joseph, when he was a towheaded little boy. But Verena’s favorite was a photo of her parents’ wedding with her mother in a voluminous white wedding dress.

  Verena adored her grandmother Mia, who some people mistook for her mother because of her pale blond hair and smooth, wrinkle-free skin. Mia would smile, tell them about her special formulas, and assure them that they, too, could have beautiful skin. Being helpful and sharing her passion was a natural part of who Mia was.

  As a teenager, Verena had observed, listened, and learned, but she’d never dreamed that she would have to shoulder the demands of the business so soon on her own.

  Lance rounded the corner. “How’s the sauce?”

  Pulling herself from her memories, she peered at the simmering pan. “Looks nicely reduced, just as you said. And it smells delicious.”

  Lance picked up a spoon, stirred the sauce, and checked the squab. Satisfied, he turned back to her. “You were telling me about your grandparents.”

  She nodded. “Before they left Switzerland, my grandmother created many of the natural products we continue to produce and sell today. Her father was a scientist, so she learned her craft in his laboratory. When I was a little girl, she taught me that any woman can be beautiful. To this day she believes that beauty begins with the way a woman treats herself. And she’s right. I can always tell if a woman is tired or has a poor diet.”

  “How?” Lance asked.

  “Everything shows on the face. Alcohol, cigarettes...anything that’s toxic will affect the skin. And the sun is extremely damaging.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Lance said, tapping his sunburned nose. His tone was teasing, but he was clearly impressed with her knowledge.

  Verena laughed. “A few minutes of sun for your skin to absorb vitamin D is actually beneficial and keeps bones strong.” Touching his cheek, she quickly assessed his skin. “Your skin looks healthy. Just don’t forget sunscreen.”

  “Can you help me find one that’s not too greasy?” As he spoke, he placed another saucepan on the burner and added a handful of tiny vegetables.

  “Of course. I’m working on a new men’s line.” For a moment, she imagined the pleasure of running her hands over his supple bronzed skin. She cleared her throat and went on. “From the time I was a little girl, my grandmother shared her skincare secrets with me. She still has some personal formulas that must be made fresh with each use, so we can’t produce them commercially yet. Some of my fondest childhood memories were of Mia and my mother teaching me about skincare treatments in Mia’s private facial room.”

  Mia always made her feel special by gently cleansing Verena’s skin and instructing her on each step and each product, explaining its benefits and how to use it for the best results.

  Verena looked up at Lance, who seemed transfixed by her story. The way he stared at her made her chest flutter. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but even then, all those years ago, Mia was training me to take over the business.”

  “Are your parents in the business, too?”

  There it was. The question she always dreaded, the question that always changed the way people treated her. By now, she could forecast the pity in their eyes. She just wanted to be treated normally. But she’d probably never see Lance again, so what did it matter what she said? She swallowed and glanced down at her fingernails, smoothing them out of nervousness. “No, not anymore.”

  She thought he looked quizzical for a moment, or perhaps she was imagining it.

  After pouring cognac into the sauce, he said, “And now for the show.” He touched it with a match, sending flames toward the ceiling.

  “I’d set off the fire alarm if I tried that,” Verena said.

  Lance stirred the sauce quickly to thicken it, and then announced, “Ready to plate.” He worked quickly to arrange the squab with sauce, petit haricots verts, and pearl onions on a plate.

  “Voilà,” he said with a flourish of his hand. He placed the dish in front of her. Silver utensils and a linen napkin followed. “Wine?”

  “Love some.”

  He pulled a bottle from a shelf. “Chef’s choice,” he said, uncorking it and pouring two glasses. “To you, Verena,” he said, giving her a glass and holding his high in a toast. “May you never go hungry again. Please, begin.”

  She took a forkful, savoring the delicate flavors.

  “And?” He leaned forward, clearly curious as to her reaction.

  “Delicious. My compliments to the chef.” Maybe it was the sauce, or the fact that she was famished—or maybe it was the way he looked at her—but Verena thought the dish was one of the best she had ever tasted.

  “Leave room for dessert,” he said.

  While she ate, they continued talking about food and skincare, laughing at little jokes, and sipping wine. Lance leaned on the counter beside her, pointing out the best morsels and explaining how the ingredients melded together for a unique flavor.

  They were laughing when the kitchen door burst open.

  “My God, Verena,” Derrick said, anger etched on his face. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The security guard said he saw you go in the back door. What are you doing here?”

  “Eating.” Verena calmly wiped a corner of her mouth. “Lance is the executive chef, and he’s prepared a meal for me. What are you doing here?”

  “You already had dinner.” He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Lance, who just grinned at him over the top of his wine glass.

  “No, I didn’t. You know I don’t eat much before I get up in front of an audience.” She took another bite, chewing slowly. The nerve of him to track me down. His possessiveness was one of the reasons she’d broken up with him.

  Derrick’s face clouded, and his dark hooded eyes flashed. “We need to talk. You’ve eaten, now let’s go.”

  She gestured to her plate, refusing to be bullied. “I’m not f
inished, and I’m not going anywhere with you tonight.” In her peripheral vision, she saw Lance step toward Derrick.

  Derrick huffed. “I’ll call you tomorrow for lunch.”

  “I have an extremely busy day tomorrow,” Verena said, keeping her voice even.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “Instead of sitting here in a kitchen, you should be worried about how you’re going to keep your company afloat without Marvin Panetta and National Western Bank.”

  “That’s enough,” Lance said. “The lady’s not interested. You need to leave my kitchen now.”

  With one last stony stare at the pair, Derrick turned and stomped out.

  Verena was appalled by Derrick’s rudeness. In her position as the head of her company, she didn’t accept bullying behavior, and she certainly wouldn’t accept it in a relationship—current or past. Not anymore.

  She swung back to Lance, who stood taking it all in. “I appreciate that. Now, how about that dessert you promised?”

  3

  VERENA GLANCED AROUND the posh Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, eager to find her friends. After she’d finished eating, Lance had walked her here to make sure she found them.

  “Johnny said they’re waiting for you,” Lance said, lightly touching her elbow. He’d changed from his chef’s jacket into a white open-collared shirt and draped his sports coat over her shoulders when she’d mentioned she was a little chilly.

  His jacket was still warm with the heat of his body and it held a citrusy, musky scent in its lightweight woolen fibers. Verena inhaled and drew it closer around her shoulders, drinking in his lingering aroma.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d felt more relaxed and comfortable with a man. Even after the shock of Marvin’s death, Greta’s bombshell news, and Derrick’s warnings, somehow Lance had made her smile.

  “There they are.” Verena spotted her friends through the crowded lounge area. Scarlett, Dahlia, and Fianna sat in a plush curved booth, positioned, Verena knew, so that everyone entering would see beautiful women. That’s what their friend Johnny Morales, the maître’d, had once told her. Her friends were attractive, but they were also much more than that. They had known each other for years and were smart, independent, and hard-working. Verena made her way through the standing crowd, and Lance followed her.

  She saw Scarlett’s eyes widen when she saw Lance. “Thanks for waiting for me,” Verena said. “I’d like to introduce you to Lance Martel, the executive chef here at the hotel. We ran into each other at the pool, and he made dinner for me. I was absolutely starving. Lance, I’d like you to meet some of my closest friends.”

  “Very nice meeting you,” Lance said. “How do you all know Verena?”

  Dahlia spoke first, her green eyes sparkling with questions Verena knew would spill out later. “Verena and I met when we were children. Our grandmothers are friends.”

  Scarlett added, “I was a salon client—still am, of course. Verena knows a lot of people through her business.”

  “And I used to help Verena with the twins when they were little,” Fianna said.

  Lance looked interested in this last comment. “You have twins?” he said to Verena, his face lit with interest.

  Verena was used to this response. “My younger sisters. I look after them.” Why elaborate? Sympathy made her uncomfortable.

  Though Lance started to say something, Verena turned back to her friends, eager to change the subject. “Lance whipped up the most amazing dinner. A squab that was absolutely delicious. And an organic tofu dark chocolate mousse that was to die for.”

  A warm smile grew on Lance’s face. “You’re a pleasure to cook for. I like women who enjoy eating. A lot of women in the city seem to exist on lettuce.”

  Fianna pushed her thick, fiery hair back and laughed. “Not us. You can cook for us anytime,”

  While Verena slid into the booth, Lance remained standing next to her.

  “Derrick was looking for you,” Dahlia said, stealing another glimpse of Lance. “Did he find you?”

  “Actually, Lance met Derrick,” Verena said, while Lance slid a slightly amused, quizzical look at her.

  “He stopped by the kitchen,” Lance said, never taking his eyes from Verena.

  Scarlett frowned. “How did he know where you were? I wouldn’t have thought to look in the kitchen. Did he follow you?”

  “Evidently one of the security guards saw me,” Verena said. Nothing slipped past Scarlett. With reluctance, she removed Lance’s jacket from her shoulders and returned it to him. She lifted her hand to shake hands with him. “Thank you for cooking for me, it meant a lot to me.”

  Instead of taking her hand, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, carefully brushing her hair aside as he did. “It was my pleasure. Good night.”

  It was a small gesture, but it made her catch her breath. “Good night, Lance,” she murmured.

  He turned to her friends. “If you dine with us again, ladies, please let me know you’re here so I can take extra good care of you.” He grinned at them, and then turned and left.

  “Wow, weren’t you the lucky one,” Fianna said, watching him walk away.

  Verena shrugged. “He was nice, that’s all.”

  “I’ll say.” Nodding, Scarlett sipped her sparkling water with lime.

  Scarlett didn’t drink; she was always the designated driver in the group. Verena valued her opinion. Scarlett’s training in law had taught her to be observant, to look beneath the surface for clues, and to look for the subtext in conversations.

  Scarlett was street smart, too. She and Johnny, the maître d’ at the Polo Lounge, had grown up together in the barrios of Los Angeles after her family had moved from Spain during a recession. She and Johnny had been as close as siblings, and her brother and Johnny had been best friends before Franco had enlisted. And just look at them now, Verena thought, pleased for her friends. Johnny had also turned out well, and he knew all the important people in town.

  Johnny caught her eye and strode to the table, adjusting his fancy red polka-dot bow-tie, his fashion trademark. “Lance called and told me where you were. He didn’t want your friends to worry.”

  Scarlett, Dahlia, and Fianna exchanged looks. Dahlia raised an eyebrow and said, “Only Verena ends the evening with a special dinner from the executive chef.”

  “And one of the hottest ones around,” Fianna added. “I mean, one of the most accomplished. I read an article about him in the Los Angeles Times.”

  Scarlett laughed. “No, you meant hottest.”

  Johnny smoothed his glossy black hair. “I can assure you, Verena was in very good hands. Lance is a good guy.”

  Verena started to ask him more about Lance, but another patron motioned to Johnny, so he excused himself. She turned to Scarlett. “How long can you stay in L.A?” After graduation, Scarlett had sat for the California and New York bar exams, two of the toughest in the country, and passed them both on the first try. Law firms had competed to hire her, and a New York City firm had won her with a generous offer. Scarlett was trying to make partner, so she worked long hours.

  “Actually, I have an open-ended ticket. One of our major clients here in L.A. has a series of licensing deals I’m working on for them, among other things. Looks like I’ll be here most of the summer working out of our local office.”

  “I’m so glad,” Verena said, hugging her. Scarlett was in demand, and she didn’t get to see her very often. If one of the top fragrance marketing houses was poised to ink a deal with a new fashion designer, or a retailer wanted to license a designer’s name, Scarlett and her team prepared and negotiated the deal, wherever the client might be.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of cocktails. “Ladies, compliments of Lance Martel, our executive chef.” He placed another sparkling water in front of Scarlett, served Bordeaux wine to Dahlia and Verena, and slid a martini across the table to Fianna.

  “Lance seems awfully thoughtful,” Dahlia said. “Think you might see him again?”
>
  Verena shrugged. “You all know how hectic my life is.” Between her sisters, her grandmother, and the business, Verena hadn’t had much time for dating. Derrick had been determined, but in the end, he’d proven too demanding. Lance was different, and if her life were different...but it wasn’t.

  “Derrick is definitely still interested,” Fianna said, wrinkling her nose.

  Verena chuckled. “You never liked him.”

  “With good reason,” Fianna shot back.

  Fianna was outspoken, and she and Derrick had clashed from the first time they’d met.

  Interrupting, Scarlett raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to Verena, our Executive Visionary of the Year.”

  “Santé,” Dahlia said. She swirled her wine in the glass, paused to sniff it with her dainty nose and consider, and finally, sipped the wine. “Très bon,” she murmured.

  Verena smiled as she watched Dahlia. Some people might think such actions pretentious, but she knew it was simply second nature to Dahlia, who came from an esteemed line of French perfumers. Her grandmother, Camille Dubois, had emigrated to the United Sates from France during World War II. Dahlia had grown up working in the House of Dubois and had recently taken charge of the company temporarily during her grandmother’s illness.

  Camille and Verena’s grandmother Mia had met when they were young women just starting their businesses, and they had been close friends ever since. They’d supported each other when their husbands had died, grappled with growing their businesses, and stood up to those who’d tried to take advantage of them. But it hadn’t been easy.

  Dahlia reminded everyone of her grandmother, not only in the way she looked—petite in stature with glossy black hair—but also in her manner. She was fiercely independent and highly intelligent, with a work ethic that scared most men away. She loved ballet and vintage fashion, and she often lamented that she’d been born a few decades too late.

  Scarlett turned to her. “Dahlia, I meant to tell you that we received the red-lined documents back from the other counsel.”