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    what was about to hit him.
    “You sure you want to tour the restaurant now?” she asked.
    He nodded. “Seeing your setup will allow me to plan stations, feel the
    flow of the food. Tomorrow I need to meet your staff. I‟ve spoken on the
    phone with your sous and pastry chefs, as well as your assistant manager.
    They‟ve all completed the training I sent along. We have the week‟s menu
    set. You said someone purchased the quantities of supplies I requested?”
    Alyssa nodded and cast him a saucy glance. “You have expensive
    taste, Mr. Traverson.”
    “You‟ll make your money back, Ms. Devereaux.”
    Of course he‟d make that promise. He wanted to be sure he didn‟t owe
    her a damn thing when he walked out that door. And she was dead
    determined otherwise. At the end of a week, Alyssa swore she‟d own him,
    body, heart, and soul.
    In separate cars, they drove the few blocks to her new endeavor. She
    refused to look at the fact that he‟d declined to ride with her as a setback.
    Once they arrived, Alyssa took the keys from her purse and unlocked
    the door. Just inside, she walked around the corner and flipped on the
    lowlights overhead. There was a brighter set . . . but why kill the mood?
    Alyssa looked out over her creation. Simple elegance. A wall of floorto-ceiling windows. Dark wood accented by walls of taupe and earthy gold,
    splashed with accents of burgundy and chocolate. The open space held an
    expectant air, as if waiting for guests. Chairs and crisply draped tables
    abounded, a few outfitted with china, linen napkins, and crystal so she
    could see the effect. The understated lettering on the foyer wall read
    BONHEUR, and the sight filled her with anxious pride every time she came
    here.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she cast a glance Luc‟s way. Arms
    crossed over his chest, he scanned the restaurant, his gaze assessing. Her
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    Shayla Black
    heart beat faster as she waited for his response. It made no sense, wanting
    his approval so badly . . . but that didn‟t stop her anxiety.
    “Well?” she breathed.
    “Bonheur,” he murmured. “That‟s French for „happiness.‟ ”
    “I thought it was fitting. Patrons should be happy here.” And I pray
    owning makes me happy, too .
    “I like it. Fine dining for large parties? Couples?”
    “Either. Both.”
    He glanced out across the tables again. “If you‟re hoping to be a hot
    spot for romantic dining, you have too many tables for parties of four to
    eight, particularly in your cozy corners. The partition between the bar and
    the dining room . . .” He pointed halfway across the room to the half wall
    that separated the eating patrons from the merely drinking ones. “It‟s too
    short and too close to the bar. It will be hard to get any ambiance if people
    laughing, smoking, and drinking a lot are visible from the dining room.
    Raise that to the ceiling. Do you have vents to push the smoke back to the
    bar?”
    She‟d debated that, hating to close off the room. But he was right.
    “There‟s no smoking at all.”
    He hesitated. “Even in the bar? That will cost you money.”
    “It‟s worth it. I want to make my money from the bar because people
    are ordering drinks with their food or while waiting for their table, not
    because they‟re skipping dinner and loitering over a scotch, hoping to find a
    date for the night. I‟ve got one bar; I don‟t need another.”
    Luc nodded, but didn‟t react otherwise. She made a mental note to
    drag more of the smaller tables out of storage and call her contractor to fix
    the wall in the morning.
    “Where‟s the kitchen?” he asked.
    Biting her lip, she led the way around a corner, flipping on more lights.
    Teasing and seduction, she understood. The restaurant business . . . That
    was his area of expertise, and now he was all button-down assurance.
    Alyssa was grateful for it. She‟d tried hard to make Bonheur‟s kitchen
    optimal, a place a chef of Luc‟s caliber would be proud to cook