Prologue II

PROLOGUE II

FIVE YEARS LATER

Xavier

E verything is better pickled.

All right, maybe not everything. But everything is better with something pickled, or at least something fermented.

Salty. Sweet. Savory. Bitter. Sour.

No meal is complete without all five components. It was one of the main principles of washoku, which I’d picked up during the summers I’d spent in Japan with my grandfather. The Sato family had worked at the oldest miso factory in Japan for nearly eight hundred years, through three shogunates and into the twenty-first century. They still made miso the old way, in huge cedar vats of mashed soybeans, koji, and salt, pressed with pyramids of hundred-pound river rocks for three years. The result was a dark brown fermented paste that could turn even a cup of hot water into something that stuck to your belly and satisfied even better than a plate of fish and chips. Umami gold.

More than that, it was exactly what I had needed to earn my first Michelin star. Ten years later, I owned an empire of fusion restaurants that spanned Western Europe. Not too shabby for the bastard son of an Englishman and a Japanese cook. Once, I looked forward to the day when my father would turn up in one of my restaurants. Then, after he died, I wondered if anyone else on his side of the family would take his place. My uncle, maybe. The grandmother I never knew. Maybe an odd cousin or two.

Not that I had any intention of recognizing their reservations either.

In my experience, it was the sour that ended up in European cuisine the least. Definitely here in England. Sure, you had gherkins, or maybe a bit of onion crisps or beetroot. And yeah, there was the national tendency to toss a little vinegar on a plate of chips.

The sour is supposed to add brightness to a dish. And famous English food, while comforting on a cold rainy day (for some, anyway), is anything but that.

I stood up from the pot of creamy parsnip soup and shook my head. “Why are you making me a traditional French soup in a fusion restaurant, chef?”

The broad, slippery mouth of Jean Le Ver, head chef of my newest restaurant, Chez Miso, fell open.

“It’s classic,” he argued immediately, vowels dripping with French disdain. “I have used variations of this soup on two other menus in London alone. It is my trademark.”

I rolled my eyes. These arseholes were all the same. Had Le Ver come from another Michelin-starred restaurant in London? Yes. And had he single-handedly reinvented French cuisine on this side of the Channel? Absolutely. I understood that. It was why I poached him in the first place.

But like every other award-winning chef new to my payroll, he still had to learn one thing: there was only one boss. And that was me.

“Classic is boring,” I informed him. “And you might have put it on two other menus, chef, but I’ve opened twelve other restaurants. This is lucky number thirteen. And I don’t do knockoffs.”

“But—but—” he sputtered.

“Try it with the hacho miso and mirin at the base instead of the Bordeaux,” I said. “Finish it with a few of the tsukemono and some sesame oil.” I nodded at the mason jar I’d brought from home. “Those’ll do it.”

Le Ver’s face screwed up like he’d just sucked on a lemon, and I wanted to laugh. Sour. Yeah.

“Mr. Parker,” he started?—

“Xavier,” I cut in with a cheeky grin at the sous-chef behind him. She flushed and ducked away, but not without glancing at me once more over her shoulder. “Sato, if you prefer. I only make people call me Mr. Parker when they owe me money.”

I didn’t like the name, to be honest, having spent most of my life as Sato, my mum’s name. But it was the one thing he left me, and when the world found out I was Rupert Parker’s son…well, let’s just say Parker opens up a hell of a lot more English bankers’ doors than Sato. I was happy to accept their money to start new businesses. Still was.

Le Ver’s voice only scrunched up that much more. “Monsieur. Parker. Please let me remind you. It is no more my custom to call my restaurant owners by their first names than it is to accept their advice on my menus.”

I dropped the spoon with a clang in the stainless-steel sink. The entire kitchen was suddenly silent.

Slowly, I dragged my gaze down over Le Ver’s body, and then back up, as if to emphasize the difference in our relative sizes. I eyed the chef’s scrawny physique while he, no doubt, noticed the hard work at the gym my three-thousand-pound suits barely concealed. At six feet, five inches, I wasn’t really the sort of bloke you could ignore.

“Mr. Le Ver,” I said softly, in the voice I reserved for exactly moments like these. “Let me remind you of something. You may be head chef, but it’s my taste that has made every restaurant in the Parker Group a raging success. Paris. London. Prague. Amsterdam. Oslo. Shall I keep going?”

I did anyway.

“Eighteen Michelin stars. Two top ten in San Pellegrino. Three James Beard winners. Call me Alexander the Great, because I’ve conquered them all.”

“ Oui , but?—”

“Do you want that second star, chef? Then take my advice. Otherwise, there’s the door.”

Le Ver’s bug eyes bounced between me and the swinging kitchen door at least four times before he tossed his spatula into a nearby sink, stripped off his white apron, and threw it at my feet.

“Good luck finding my replacement!” he hissed before swearing considerably in French on his way out the door.

I smirked. I didn’t advertise that I was fluent in the language after a stint at the Cordon Bleu. Considering I employed a reasonably large number of French chefs, the ability to eavesdrop on their mutterings was an asset. The French are a vulgar people. But as my dad used to say, “The only thing the French can do is surrender." It was only a matter of time with Le Ver.

“He left again?” asked Ben, one of the sous-chefs. “Did you tell him his soup was bad?”

“No, he left because I made it better.”

Ben snorted and turned back to where he was sautéing shallots. “He’ll be back.”

I nodded. “I give him thirty seconds.”

Right on time, the door swung open, and Le Ver reentered the kitchen. The rest of the staff busied themselves as if nothing had occurred.

“ Fine ,” he hissed at me. “I will try your abomination of a recipe. But I will not take credit for it. And when it fails, you cannot blame me.”

“It won’t,” I said knowingly.

Just like I knew Le Ver would be more than happy to take credit when the restaurant got its first rave review. And gladly accept those Michelin stars. After which I’d just as gladly take the soup, the rest of the menu, and the three-year non-compete contract he had signed, and kick his arse to the curb for insubordination.

This was business. Nothing more.

I turned to where Elsie, one of my four assistants, stood in the corner chuckling next to Jagger Harrington, my COO and best friend, who was only shaking his head at her. I don’t know why the old girl got so excited whenever she watched me tell off my chefs, but she wouldn’t miss an upstaging.

“Can you stay on this?” I asked the two of them. “Make sure the menu turns out the way it’s supposed to while I’m in New York?”

Glee spread across her wrinkled face. “Of course, sir. On it like a car bonnet.”

Jagger just nodded. “No problem, so long as the French one behaves.”

I slapped my hands together and rubbed them with delight. I’d tried to capture New York once before, not quite five years ago. Had toured a couple of decent locations before meeting a cute young student by the name of Francesca.

At first, I’d written it off to a few too many glasses of Barolo. The thrill of turning a good girl bad.

But then I’d gotten lost in those sweet curves. Had become consumed by the taste of those strawberry lips, the ripe softness of her perfect arse, the complete and utter perfection of that butter-smooth skin.

And so for a month, there had been no restaurants. No burgeoning Parker Group. Not even a Lucy, the girl I was supposed to marry. I might not have remembered I was in New York at all if it hadn’t been for the Bronx accent that emerged whenever Francesca was close to coming. Good God, that husky shout of hers still woke me in my sleep from time to time. With my cock the size of a cricket bat too.

I’d considered getting back in touch over the years. Francesca was studying English Literature, after all. One well-placed phone call, I could have gotten her into Oxford or Cambridge. I could have gotten her anything she wanted.

But all good things come to an end.

I’d broken enough hearts, after all. I couldn’t break another. Not Francesca’s. Not Lucy’s. Certainly not my own.

Though I was beginning to think I didn’t have one at all.

I shook my head. It was better this way, the best sex of my life or not. Maybe, once, I’d been the sort of man who could give a girl like Francesca what she wanted, but that man was gone, along with my heart.

There would be no Francesca Zola this time around. This time I was the hottest entrepreneur under forty this side of the Atlantic, not a fledgling chef desperate to impress his daddy. My entire name was riding on this expansion. I wanted New York. I wanted it bad.

Women I could find anywhere.

But the perfect restaurant? The perfect meal?

That was the holy grail.

“Good,” I said sharply. “Do I have time for the gym before my flight?”

Elsie shook her head. “No, but your trainer is on his way to your flat. He said he can fit in a quick spar before your car takes you to Heathrow.”

I’d have to give Elsie another raise. No one was better at anticipating my needs. Not even me.

I turned to where Le Ver was scowling over the stockpot, looking a bit like a worm, as his last name indicated.

“I’ll be back for the grand reopening in June,” I said. “Elsie’s my eyes and ears here. And Le Ver?”

My chef turned, trying, and failing, to wipe the sour look from his face. “ Mais, oui , Monsieur Parker?”

I offered a smile. The signature one that I knew was more steely than sweet. The one that never failed to make any of my employees quake in their boots.

“You’ve got four days. If that soup isn’t exactly as I imagine it, it’s back to France for you. Because you’ll be finished in London for good.”