Читать книгу The Sweetest Temptation - Rochelle Alers - Страница 10

Faith walked out of her building and came to an abrupt stop when she recognized the man leaning against the bumper of a late-model Lincoln Town Car. Her eyes widened as he straightened and came over to meet her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Ethan.

He flashed his sensual, dimpled smile and reached out to take her arm. “I’ve come to drive you uptown.”

“Did WJ tell you to pick me up?”

Ethan steered her over to the car and opened the rear door. Waiting until Faith was seated comfortably on the leather seat, he closed the door and came around to sit behind the wheel. It wasn’t until he left the narrow street and pulled out into traffic that he spoke again.

“Yes, he did.”

She stared at the back of his head. “I could’ve just as easily taken a cab.” Faith wondered if Ethan had told WJ about his son’s attempt to kiss her.

“What happened to ‘thank you’?”

“Say what?”

“Isn’t door-to-door car service in Manhattan better than trying to hail a cab at night in the middle of winter?”

The heat from her blush intensified. Ethan McMillan had just verbally spanked her. “Thank you, Ethan.”

Ethan schooled his features to stop the grin parting his lips. “You’re welcome, Faith.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Your face looks very nice.”

She couldn’t stop the blush heating her cheeks. “A little makeup can work miracles.”

He shook his head. “A miracle cannot improve perfection. I’m sure men have told you that you’re very beautiful.”

Faith stared out the side window. “Men have told me a lot of things.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you believe them?” Ethan asked, slowing down and stopping at a red light.

“Because it’s easier for them to lie than admit the truth.”

“So, you have trust issues with men?”

If she’d taken a taxi uptown she wouldn’t be having this conversation with her driver. She didn’t know Ethan McMillan, and she had no intention of spilling her guts to a complete stranger.

“I’d rather not answer that question.”

“You don’t have to, Faith. The fact that you don’t want to answer it tells me that you do.” He drove several blocks in silence then asked, “Why did you decide to become a pastry chef?”

Faith smiled. The conversation had segued to a topic less personal in nature. “After graduating culinary school I worked in a restaurant for two years.”

“Did you like it?”

She shook her head. “Even though I liked cooking what I hated was the frenetic pace of cooking for hundreds every night. There was always chaos when a dish didn’t turn out right or when the head chef got in our faces because we weren’t working fast enough. One night I decided I’d had enough. I handed in my resignation and went back to school to specialize in cake decorating. Now I work at my own pace and if I ruin something I can usually salvage it.”

“If the icing doesn’t come out right, don’t you throw the cake away?”

“No. I usually remove it and start over.”

“How long does it take to decorate a wedding cake?”

“It depends on the size of the cake, the decorations and accessories. However, making bows, flowers and ribbons are the most time-consuming.”

Ethan concentrated on driving as he detected a thawing in Faith’s tone. It was no longer guarded, but soft and seductive as she talked about cakes with specific themes. The ride ended much too soon as he maneuvered into the building’s underground garage.

Once inside the elevator, he inserted a key into the slot for the penthouse. Leaning against a wall, he stared openly at Faith’s enchanting profile, finding everything about her breathtakingly stunning. Her short curly black hair hugged her head like a soft cap, and the light dusting of makeup served to enhance the rich, dark hues of her satiny mahogany skin. Mascara, flatteringly applied eye shadow and a glossy wine-colored lipstick on her sexy, lush lips held him hypnotized.

She’d replaced her jeans, boots and wrap coat with a bottle-green, three-quarter shearling coat, a navy-blue pencil skirt, ending at her knees, matching sheer hose and suede pumps that added another three inches to her dramatic height.

The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and he moved forward as the door opened. Ethan looped an arm around her waist as if he’d performed the gesture countless times and led her past the small crowd waiting to get into the penthouse. The Raymonds had mailed out specialized invitations with bar codes that were scanned upon arrival.

“This is why WJ wanted me to pick you up,” he whispered close to Faith’s ear.

Smiling up at him over her shoulder, she mouthed a thank-you.

He escorted her past the kitchen to the hallway where she could hang up her coat. The distinctive, soulful voice of a new artist who’d signed with WJ’s record company floated from speakers concealed throughout the penthouse. The Raymonds had planned for a sit-down dinner, followed by Savanna opening her gifts, then dancing under the stars in the enclosed solarium.

“Will you save me a dance?”

With wide eyes, Faith halted unbuttoning her coat. “No!”

Ethan leaned closer, his warm breath sweeping over her ear. “Why not?”

She shrugged out of her coat. “Have you forgotten that I’m not a guest but hired help?”

“Then that makes two of us, Faith Whitfield. Hired help need fun, too.” He ignored her soft gasp. “All I want is one little itty-bitty dance.”

“No. Not here, Ethan.”

“Where, Faith?”

Why, she thought, was Ethan pressuring her to dance with him? “I’ll let you know.” She saw a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes at the same time a smile softened his generous masculine mouth.

He winked at her. “Okay.”

Faith smiled up at him through her lashes. “Now, get out of here so I can get some work done.” William and Linda Raymond had paid her quite well to prepare the desserts for their daughter’s party.

Ethan gave her a sharp salute, took a step backward and spun around on his heels like a soldier at a dress parade, leaving Faith smiling at his retreating ramrod-straight back.

Wearing a white tunic over her white silk blouse, Faith walked into the kitchen but quickly backpedaled to avoid being knocked over by a waiter hoisting a tray on his shoulder. Other waiters followed with trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Another carried a crate filled with bottles of wine and fruit juice.

A young woman tapped her arm. “Are you Faith Whitfield?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

“Mr. Payton asked that you see him as soon as you arrived.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

She entered the kitchen to find Kurt with a towel slung over one shoulder, peering at the meat thermometer inserted into a generous cut of prime rib. “You wanted to see me?”

The chef let out an audible sigh. “Thank goodness you’re here. I need you to fill in as my sous chef tonight. Please, Faith,” he said quickly when he saw her stunned expression. “The person I’d hired to assist me called about half an hour ago to tell me he has the flu.” He grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. “I wouldn’t ask you if I weren’t desperate. I’ll pay you—whatever you want, just please help me out here.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve—”

“It’s like riding a bike or having sex,” he interrupted. He kissed her hand again. “You never forget.”

Faith rolled her eyes at him. “Let go of my hand, Kurt. I need to cover my head.”

“Bless you, my child.”

“The hand, Kurt,” she warned softly.

Kurt was right. After removing her desserts from the refrigerator and placing them on a cart that would be rolled into the dining room later that evening, Faith found herself at the industrial stove braising, sautéing and stirring as if it were something she did every day. She saw another side of Kurt’s easygoing personality. The chef ran his kitchen like a drill sergeant, barking orders to the waitstaff. However, his tone softened whenever he asked her to prepare something for him.

She’d finished filling gravy boats when a waitress rushed in, wringing her hands. “We don’t have any fish plates.”

Kurt mumbled a savage expletive under his breath. He’d been so busy serving meat and chicken that he’d totally forgotten about those who’d requested fish. “Faith, can you get the tray of fish from the refrigerator and prepare a sole meunière?”

“Are they marinated?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

The fact that the fillets were seasoned would save time in preparing the fish dish served with a butter and lemon sauce. She took the tray from the refrigerator, heated a pan with unsalted butter, then placed them skin side up and fried each side until they were golden brown; she placed them on a heated plate. All of Faith’s culinary training returned when she drained off the butter for frying, wiped out the pan with a towel before returning it to the heat. Chilled cubed butter was cooked until golden and frothy. She removed the pan from the heat, adding the juice of fresh lemons. While the mixture still bubbled, she spooned it over the fish. A quick garnish with parsley and lemon wedges and the dish was ready to be served.

“How many want fish entrées?” she asked the waitress who’d stood off to the side waiting for her to finish.

“Six.”

Reaching for six plates, she quickly spooned slices of fish onto them, adding lemon wedges and a garnish of parsley to each.

Then she lost track of time as she assisted Kurt slicing prime rib, halving Cornish hens, adding a medley of steamed vegetables and seasoned roasted potatoes to plates as the waiters loaded their trays with the entrées. And it wasn’t until all the guests sitting in the formal dining room were served that she found a stool in a corner, sat down and dabbed her damp face with a cloth napkin. The smell of brewing coffee overpowered the scents left from the beef, fish and chicken.

Kurt was right about her not forgetting her former training, but it was the noise and chaos that went along with working in a restaurant that reminded Faith why she’d elected to become a pastry chef.

The chef handed her a bottle of chilled water. “You’re fantastic, Faith Whitfield. I told you we would work well together. How would you like to be my on-call assistant?”

Faith took a long swallow of water, the cool liquid bathing her throat. She gave Kurt a withering look. “No.”

“No?”

“Which part of the word don’t you understand?” she asked.

He moved closer. “It would be no more than twice a year. WJ usually hosts an open house for the Super Bowl and a pre- or postcelebration Grammy Award get-together.”

“No, no and no. I run a bake shop, I have personal clients and I’m involved with my cousin’s wedding business. I couldn’t assist even if I wanted to.”

Kurt winked at Faith. “You can’t blame a bloke for trying.” He patted her back. “I’m going to fix us something to eat while there’s a lull. What can I get for you?”

“Chicken and veggies.”

Faith was still sitting in the kitchen when Ethan walked in. He’d removed his tie and suit jacket. And, despite the lateness of the hour, his shirt was completely wrinkle-free. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the way his trousers fit his slim waist and hips as if he’d had them tailored expressly for his lean physique.

“Have you eaten?” she asked softly.

Ethan forced himself not to stare at Faith’s long legs. She sat on the high stool, legs crossed at the knees and her skirt riding up her thighs. The heat in the kitchen was stifling, yet the sheen on her face made her skin appear dewy, satiny.

“I was just coming to get a plate.”

“What do you want, Mac?” Kurt asked as he reached for a clean plate for Faith.

“What do you have?”

“Prime rib, chicken and fish.”

“I’ll have the fish.”

Kurt turned on an exhaust fan and prepared plates for Faith, Ethan and himself. The three moved over to a serving table and sat down.

Ethan bit into a tender piece of fish. He nodded to Kurt. “The fish is delicious.”

“I can’t take credit for the fish. You have to thank Faith.”

Ethan looked at her as if she were a stranger. “You cooked?”

The slight frown that’d formed between his eyes deepened as Kurt explained his dilemma. “Savanna’s guests would still be waiting to eat if Faith hadn’t stepped up to the plate to help me.”

Ethan lowered his head, his gaze fixed on his plate. “WJ hired her to bake, not cook.” There was a silken thread of censure in his statement.

“I’ll pay her for her time,” Kurt countered angrily.

Ethan waved his hand. “Don’t bother. WJ will take care of it.”

Faith listened intently to the interchange between the two men. They were discussing her as if she were invisible. “I didn’t help out because I expected to be paid.”

Ethan glared at Faith. He’d just left Billy’s room after reading him the riot act as to how he could’ve been charged with sexual harassment. His young cousin had refused to leave his room, saying that his sister “had enough people grinning up in her face,” and because his parents hadn’t wanted to have a family row and spoil Savanna’s engagement party they’d left him sulking in his room.

When WJ informed him that Billy wouldn’t be joining the family, Ethan told WJ that he would talk to his younger cousin. At first Billy refused to unlock the door, but when Ethan told him that if he had to kick open the door, then William Raymond III would be forced to prove his manhood. Within seconds of his threat Billy opened the door.

At thirty-eight, Ethan was twice Billy’s age, and even though he hadn’t fathered any children, in that instant he’d become a surrogate father, listening to his teenage cousin blame his namesake for screwing up his life.

Ethan didn’t say anything until Billy finished spewing his venom, then promised him that he would talk to his father in an attempt to come up with a strategy that would prove amenable to both William Raymonds. So far, he hadn’t thought of anything because his thoughts were occupied with the image of Faith Whitfield—her face, voice and body.

He turned his attention to Faith. “Whether you expected to be paid is irrelevant. You will be paid for cooking.” He finished eating, rose to his feet, looked at Kurt, then Faith. “Thank you for dinner.”

“I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this,” Kurt said, apologizing to Faith once they were alone.

She leaned closer. “Why is Ethan blowing this up when it’s not even necessary?”

“Maybe because he’s family.”

Her curving eyebrows lifted. “Family?”

Kurt almost laughed when he saw Faith’s expression. “You didn’t know that Mac and WJ were related?”

A rush of heat stung her face. “But…but he told me that he’s hired help.”

This time Kurt did laugh. “You, me, the housekeepers and the guys you see standing around packing heat are hired help. Ethan McMillan and William Raymond, Jr., are first cousins.”

Faith recovered enough to ask, “What’s with Ethan playing chauffeur?”

Kurt shook his head. “I know nothing about that arrangement. Mac showed up the day after the news got out that someone was out to whack Billy Junior.”

She wanted to question Kurt further about Ethan McMillan but held her tongue now that she was aware that Ethan was related to her client. He’d told her that he was hired help, yet something should’ve alerted her when he came up behind Billy and defused what could’ve become an embarrassing scenario. Billy hadn’t challenged Ethan when he probably would’ve defied one of his father’s employees.

She wanted to know more about the mysterious man with the X-rated dimpled smile who’d asked that she dance with him. She didn’t know whether he was married or single, a father or a baby’s daddy, but that wasn’t important, because after tonight she probably would never see Ethan McMillan again.

Faith never saw a bride on her wedding day, or interacted with her family members. Most times she scheduled a delivery for the wedding cake hours before the reception. Many of her cakes, baked in tiers, were packaged separately and then painstakingly put together with the assistance of one, and sometime two, of her employees.

She’d scheduled a time with the banquet manager at Tavern on the Green to set up Savanna Raymond’s three-tiered cake at noon for a two o’clock reception. Later that afternoon she would deliver another cake to a Long Island country club for a wedding ceremony scheduled for six in the evening. No, she mused, the world wasn’t going to stop spinning on its axis if Faith Whitfield didn’t give Ethan McMillan his “one little itty-bitty dance.”

All too soon the calm ended when the waiters returned to the kitchen. Dinner was over.