Forbidden To Taste

From bestselling author JC Harroway comes the second book in the Billionaire Bachelors series! Drake Faulkner knows that Kenzie Porter, his best friend’s widow, is off-limits—but that just makes him want her more...

At one time she was the woman Drake Faulkner wanted more than anything but couldn’t have—and now she’s the last person he needs in his life. But when Kenzie Porter, the widow of his former best friend and army comrade Sam, turns up asking for a job at his luxury London hotel chain, the memories return.

Drake is eager to help her, but he knows that doing so will only lead him toward temptation. He doesn’t want to sully the memory of his best friend by falling for Kenzie all over again. There’s a reason he’s been avoiding her for three years: a dark secret about the day she and Sam got together—and about the day Sam died on the battlefield.

But from the moment the pair lock eyes, the sexual connection between them is electrifying. They both know that acting on their forbidden desire for each other would cross a line, but how far can they push the boundaries before someone gets hurt?

Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.

Also by JC Harroway

A Week to be Wild

Her Dirty Little Secret

One Night Only

Billionaire Bachelors

Forbidden to Want

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Forbidden to Taste

JC Harroway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08693-6

FORBIDDEN TO TASTE

© 2019 JC Harroway

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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To my wonderful editorial team,

specially Sareeta and Charlotte.

Thank you for all your help, support

and general awesomeness.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Kenzie

I HOVER IN an alcove just outside the kitchen, unstable on the modest heels I’m wearing as part of my impromptu waitress uniform. I take a second to drag in a bolstering lungful of air. Now I’m here, my plan seems crazy. Audacious. But I need to capture his attention somehow.

I spent the whole day perfecting the desserts precariously balanced on my arms in the tiny, ill-equipped kitchenette of my one-bedroom flat. I even carried them here in a catering box on the Tube. Seeing them splattered on the plush carpets of the Faulkner’s fine-dining restaurant because I’m having scaredy-cat second thoughts... Not an option.

The mental slap works. I straighten my shoulders, poised on the brink of my opportunity. I watch the waiter leave the table of interest, a rage of nervous energy jolting me into action—chin up, strides bold, and an air of I totally belong in one of London’s most upmarket eateries with four dessert plates balanced on my arms.

My teenaged waitressing experience keeps my jittery body upright, my serene facial expression in place and my thumb out of the salted-caramel cheesecake as each step brings me closer to the man with the power. But the short walk, which had seemed like a marathon, is over in seconds, and I arrive at his table breathless and adrenaline-depleted.

The sight of Drake up close rattles my bones so hard I have to clamp my jaw to prevent my smile becoming a grimace full of chattering teeth. Not that the four diners would notice—they’re deep in conversation, each handsome brother focussed on his date.

And I’ve always been invisible to Drake, hence tonight’s subterfuge.

I slide a surreptitious glance his way, using the seconds before I’m spotted to assess the ways he’s changed in the three years since the funeral—his face a little more angular, a sprinkle of telltale grey disrupting the inky blackness at his temples, perhaps a few more laughter lines—his appearance familiar but reminding me that we’re strangers.

He’d been a soldier three years ago, every forbidden inch of him lean and buff and rigidly disciplined. Not that I’d looked too closely. But photos Sam had sent from wherever they were posted always featured the handsome duo—my husband and his best friend.

I shudder at the exposed memories and the unexpected surge of heat. I’m only human, and Drake Faulkner is eye candy personified for any woman.

The woman with him now, presumably his date, laughs, her possessive hand on his forearm and her smile wide and captivating.

I swallow the sour taste in my mouth—Drake and I have never had that kind of relationship. We’ve never even been friends. Not really. Yes, he’s sent financial assistance in the regular cheques over the years, but our relationship was cordial at best, a fact that gives me a moment’s hesitation as to what I think I’m doing, about to interrupt what is obviously a double date.

I lift my chin, remembering I only want one thing from Drake Faulkner and it’s not his charity or his seduction. It’s the only reason I’d seek out anyone’s help: Tilly. My sister needs me close by in London—not as much as she used to need me, admittedly—and I need this job opportunity to get my life back on track.

I hold my breath and pray Drake’s past friendship with Sam will grant me that chance as I place my offering in front of Drake’s date. Her attention is firmly fixed on him, earning me a few more seconds of anonymity to deposit another two desserts in front of the other couple at the table, who are similarly oblivious to my presence. I recognise Drake’s brother, Kit. Last I’d heard, he, like the other two Faulkner brothers, was single, but this woman is clearly more than a date. Heads close, non-verbal communication in the form of heated looks, fingers toying with each other’s on his thigh and a cloud of barely repressed lust permeating the air—I flush, a voyeur to their intimacy.

I look away, eyes burning with envy, and place the last plate before Drake. And wait. My blood roars through my head at my barefaced effrontery. At this point a real waitress would leave, but I hover at Drake’s elbow, my own stomach so knotted I doubt I’ll ever eat again.

Without turning to look at me, Drake eyes my dessert and says, ‘Miss, this isn’t what we ordered.’ His voice is older, too. Or perhaps it always carried that rich baritone timbre, which slides over me like bittersweet chocolate sauce...

Drake’s companion flicks a look of barely concealed contempt my way, probably at my interruption of her dream date with one of London’s most eligible bachelors. But the thing foremost in Horny Helen here’s mind is the last thing I’d want from Drake of all people.

I smooth my damp palms down my black skirt. ‘Compliments of the chef, sir.’

Horny Helen sweeps her gaze over my waitress-style outfit, a derisive curl to her lip. Has she noticed that my plain white blouse doesn’t bear the Faulkner monogram of the other waiting staff uniforms? I don’t work here. Yet. And I’m not here for a waitressing job.

The other two occupants of the table join the staring contest Drake’s date has instigated. Kit’s brow furrows, presumably as he tries to place me. But we’ve only met a handful of times. I hope his amnesia will last long enough for Drake to taste my dessert.

Taste it. Give me a chance.

Horny Helen pushes her plate away. ‘Could I please have what I ordered? Es-press-o.’

She enunciates every syllable slowly, as if she assumes English isn’t my first, or even my second, language. Condescending cow.

My eyes dart to the back of Drake’s head, snagging on the golden skin between his shorn hairline and the top of his collar, while my head swims at the spicy masculine scent of him—so close, but permanently out of bounds.

Tense seconds stretch, and an ominous silence crawls over my skin.

I mentally rehash my bold, perhaps foolhardy plan and reach the same conclusion—I’m desperate. If I want to be close to my sister and chase my own dreams of one day taking charge of my own kitchen, I’m all out of options.

Drake turns his head.

‘Kenzie...?’ His shocked eyes latch on to mine from underneath his frown. Then surprise clears, replaced with the inscrutable distance of every look that has ever passed between us since the day we met.

Cool, distant, polite.

‘Hi, Drake.’ My voice is breathier than I’d like. I tell myself it’s the high-stakes gamble of my mission. ‘Good to see you. Please try the dessert.’

Drake blinks, as if I’ve asked him to solve world hunger in the next thirty seconds. He doesn’t even look at the exquisite creation on his plate, which took me most of the day to prepare—the curls of dark Belgian chocolate, the flecks of gold leaf, the shiny smear of decadent salted-caramel sauce against the crisp white china... I might as well have served up school dinner’s congealed semolina pudding with a blob of jam.

The curious looks of the rest of the party burn the exposed parts of me like the heat of the industrial stoves in the kitchen. I lift my chin, likely seconds away from an escort from the premises by Security.

Drake pushes his chair back and stands, swiftly followed by Kit, who has either finally placed me as the widow of Drake’s best friend, or shares his older brother’s innate good manners.

‘What are you doing here?’ He frowns, his hands hanging at his sides. Touching, even the polite social pleasantry of a peck on the cheek, wasn’t our norm. While Sam was alive, and considering the amount of time the two spent together, on and off duty, I fought hard not to resent his cool indifference.

And then Sam died, and with the exception of a few stilted words at his funeral we’ve had no contact beyond those uncashed cheques.

Until now—my botched plan.

‘Are you here to see me?’ He looks around, still trying to explain my unorthodox presence.

‘No...yes.’ Colour rages up my neck. The small white lie I told his PA informed me of his dining plans. But I’m supposed to be seizing the day, making my own luck, not bungling my best chance at my dream job. I tell myself my muteness is simply fatigue—days spent job-hunting in this unfamiliar city, an inbox full of rejection emails, lonely evenings waiting for my break—and nothing to do with seeing him again.

‘I see.’ His frown cuts into me, making my feet shuffle, about to run for the kitchens. But giving up on my fresh start, my dream, my future, is not an option.

‘Do you...do you work here?’ says Drake.

My throat constricts, making my swallow almost painful. I hadn’t considered a public interrogation. ‘No... I... Not yet. I just... I’d really love for you to try my dessert.’

The proof really is in the pudding. Outside of credentials, there’s no better way to show him I have the skills required to work at the Faulkner.

I take a deep breath, preparing to explain myself, even in front of an audience, when the real waiter returns carrying a bemused expression, Horny Helen’s espresso and three affogato. He stares between Drake and me, his professional smile slipping to one of confusion.

I look away from Drake as the flames reach my face. What was I thinking? Worst plan ever born of carpe-diem-style desperation.

‘May I have my espresso, please?’ Horny Helen says to the waiter, who places his offerings on the now crowded table.

‘Should I bring an extra chair, Mr Faulkner?’ He addresses Drake, looking slightly nervous for his job no doubt, although he wasn’t the waiter on a ciggie break out the back that I managed to con earlier. Dressing the part, faking lateness and a cocky smile earned me access to the staff entrance past the security lock even without the monogrammed uniform.

Drake lifts one brow. ‘Would you like to join us?’

My face must be singed by now. Certainly my stomach is on strike and trying to flee my body. Lonely, desperate gooseberry, Kenzie. I shake my head and squeak out a no.

Drake, his confusion raking me in a way that makes me want to check my blouse buttons haven’t popped open, takes control of the bizarre situation I’ve created. ‘Kit, you remember Kenzie Porter.’

Kit smiles, kisses my cheek and introduces me to his girlfriend, Mia.

‘And this is Ashley Morris,’ says Drake, his stare cool but persistent on me. Ashley offers a sickly-sweet smile and sips her espresso, her attention returning to Drake as if staking her claim.

She needn’t worry. He’s obviously just shocked to see me. From the very first time I met him and Sam in that bar all those years ago, Drake’s never looked at me in that way.

I look away from the woman, who is exactly Drake’s type. Although I’m only here for a job, my ribs pinch as if I’ve run a marathon on a full stomach, the second-best feeling confirming I shouldn’t have come to once more have my face rubbed in you’re not good enough.

I struggle to swallow the surge of bitterness. What was I thinking? Drake is no friendlier than when Sam was alive. Less so, in fact. The idea he might help me would be laughable if my eyes weren’t already hot with humiliation.

A familiar helpless panic closes its fingers around my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek, chasing away the stray emotion. I haven’t cried for three years and I have no intention of breaking my dry spell. Forcing the brightest smile possible, I scan the group, latching on to Mia’s open, friendly face.

‘Well, it was lovely seeing you again and great to meet you, Mia, Ashley.’ I need to get out of here before the burn in my eyes becomes liquid, before I’m forced to relive the rejection to my application for the Faulkner’s sous-chef position in person and with Drake’s date for an audience.

‘Sorry for interrupting.’ I back away. In the light of my and Drake’s less than cosy reunion, my long shot now seems ludicrous. I spin on my heel, ignoring Drake’s ‘Wait!’, my strides weaving between the elegant tables as fast as the tightness of my skirt will allow.

I push through the kitchen doors, duck past several actual waiting staff collecting their orders and grab the denim jacket I’d stuffed behind a stack of empty produce crates next to the walk-in freezer.

By the time I hit the alleyway behind the hotel and suck the freezing air into my gasping lungs, my whole body trembles with the spent adrenaline of futility.

What an idiot. Why did I think my reception from Drake Faulkner of all people would be any warmer, any more personal, than the two-line rejection email?

We’re looking for someone with more experience...wishing you luck in your career...

I bite the inside of my cheek, staving off the well of emotion, unsure which rejection has my stupid eyes scalding—that of Drake’s head chef, or that of the man himself.

I scuff the toe of my shoe at a blob of welded-on chewing gum on the road, the shame directed inwards. Drake had greeted me with all the warmth of the strangers we are. Just because I thought I could convince him to take a chance on me with my dessert stunt doesn’t mean he’d be anything but consistently distant and frosty.

With my chest tight and my jumpy muscles cooling in the bitter November chill, I shrug into my jacket and drag my feet in the direction of the Underground.

The slam of the door bouncing off the brick wall behind startles me. I spin, clutching my chest. Drake, his face slashed with a scowl, heads my way with singular purpose and an intent expression, his suit jacket billowing out from his trim torso.

My previously defeated heart picks up the pace. Not only did my deflated soufflé of a plan fail, I’ve also ticked off the man with power to grant me a shot at my dream. When I fled, trailing my dignity, I was counting on him making some excuse for my unexpected appearance and continuing with his date. Now he’ll want an explanation, and, with the humiliation pounding through my bloodstream and facing a wall of his imposing but unfriendly manliness, I’m in no position to present my best argument.

I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, attack being the best form of defence. ‘What are you doing? Aren’t you on a date?’

He ignores me and strides closer, his long, muscular legs filling his dress trousers to perfection, each ominous footfall a clip from his tan leather brogues. My belly takes a nosedive—I’ve always loved brogues.

When he comes to rest in front of me I inhale a gulp of the damp air, wishing it were a shot of Dutch courage.

His thick brows dip over incredulous eyes. ‘What am I doing here...?’ His harsh expression could back me up a couple of paces but I stand still for the face-off. ‘That’s my question for you.’

I gape wordlessly. His chest seems twice as broad as he slings his hands in his trouser pockets, the fabric stretching across his hips. I lift my stare from his crotch, swallowing the heat in my throat. Hopefully it’s too dark for him to see my blush, and I can always blame the sub-zero temperatures.

‘What was that all about? The dessert?’ He nods at my outfit. ‘You pretending to be a waitress?’ His nostrils flare, his mouth tight with annoyance.

My shoulders sag. I’ve disrupted his date with the delightful Ashley, his bollocks are probably starting to freeze and my pathetic dream for a fresh start lies in tatters.

The adrift feeling, which has plagued me these past few months, returns with stinging force that makes me want to run or hide or fight. But which is the best tactic to convince Drake?

‘I...I hoped to get your attention.’ Hoped he’d see me, not just Sam’s widow or Tilly’s sister—but a woman with her own skills, aspirations, ambition. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I see it was a mistake.’ Drake’s undivided focus, him looking at me in this new, disconcerting way, is potent—like standing too close to a bonfire.

‘Forget it. Go back inside. She doesn’t look the type who’ll wait for ever.’ The damp air has turned into a mist of freezing drizzle—the kind that seeps into your bones. I belatedly fasten the buttons of my jacket, although the front of my blouse has already become transparent.

‘Well, you have my attention.’ His eyes narrow, as if he finds my bullshit decidedly suspect. ‘And what type does she look like?’

Why would he care what I think of his date? Or perhaps she’s his girlfriend. It would be a first for him, but then what do I know? This man is a virtual stranger—despite all the years we’ve known each other. And would he leave a girlfriend to chase after a woman he barely tolerates and hasn’t seen for years?

‘She looks like your type, Drake. Sorry for the interruption. Goodnight.’ My tight smile sticks on my frozen face as I spin away. But then I’m brought to a halt by the touch of his hand on my arm.

‘For fuck’s sake—you can’t just leave like this.’ He peers down at me, his irritation lessened but still brooking no argument. ‘Not until you explain what’s going on.’ He drops my arm, pinning me in place with the force of his intense stare alone.

I tilt my chin, my humiliation already complete. ‘It was a stupid long shot. I should have remembered that you owe me nothing.’ Absence, it seems, doesn’t make this man’s heart fonder. I cross my arms and grip my elbows in an attempt to conserve some heat and hold myself together.

‘Explain. What was a long shot? And why did you run out?’ He waits, his jaw tight and his breath whitening the air as his order echoes in the alleyway.

I press my lips together. I’ve nothing left to lose. I came here determined to seize the day but, now I’m face to face with this somehow different but equally stand-offish Drake, I’m not sure I want to expose myself or justify my fragile fledging dreams to his cool indifference. If he’d treated me to one whiff of welcome, a hint of pleasure at my appearance, perhaps I’d find the extra courage.

When my teeth rattle he sighs as if abandoning his search for answers, shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it around my juddering shoulders.

‘Thank you.’ I look down, too cold to protest, and tug the lapels across my chest. And then I’m hit with his scent, a waft from the fabric, a heady cloud of deliciousness that’s foreign and yet vaguely familiar.