Читать книгу The Sweetest Temptation - Rochelle Alers - Страница 11

Savanna Raymond’s fiancé touched her arm to get her attention as the dessert cart was rolled into the dining room. She covered her mouth with her hand when the large heart-shaped chocolate-and-red-currant torte was placed in front of her. Platters of candies with exotic fillings, butter cookies, truffles, chocolate-covered fruit and petit fours were set on the tables, much to everyone’s delight.

Savanna, a very pretty, full-figured, twenty-five-year-old elementary schoolteacher with a flawless café-au-lait complexion and glossy black chemically straightened shoulder-length hair, stared numbly at the profusion of chocolate confectionery, her eyes welling with tears.

Her fiancé shook his head in amazement. Tall, studious-looking geneticist Dr. Roland Benson threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Baby, you’re going to OD on all this chocolate.”

Linda Raymond smiled at her future son-in-law. “Don’t worry about Savanna overdosing, because she’s going to have plenty of help.” Linda and Savanna looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, while Billy was a younger version of his father. There came a chorus of “amen” and “you ain’t lying” from several of the invited guests.

Faith leaned over and handed Roland a sharp knife. She’d covered the handle with a napkin. “Why don’t you and your fiancée get in some practice making the first cut? Then, I’ll take it from there.” She’d made the torte large enough to serve at least forty. Savanna placed her hand atop Roland’s and the moist blade of the knife sliced cleanly through the layers of ganache, frozen raspberry and white cream filling and sponge cake.

Faith took the knife from them. “I have gift bags you can give to your guests before they leave. They’re chocolates in edible packaging wrapped in cellophane.” It’d taken countless hours and skill to make the rectangular pieces of chocolate, then assemble them, using tempered couverture in a pastry bag to glue them together. All the tops were striped with either dark or white chocolate.

“I also made one for you and your fiancé to share with your parents,” she continued in a hushed tone. The smaller rectangular boxes each contained eight pieces of candy made with walnut caramel, while the larger round box held sixty in various shapes that were filled with mocha and nutty creams.

Pushing back her chair, Savanna stood up and hugged Faith tightly. “Thanks so much, Miss Whitfield. I can’t tell you how special you’ve made this day for me.”

“This is only the dress rehearsal for your big day.”

Savanna fanned her face with her hand. “I just hope I make it.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll make it,” Faith reassured Savanna as she picked up the torte, turned and walked in the direction of the kitchen.

Leaning against one of the massive columns separating the living room from the dining room, Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and watched Faith with Savanna. Everything about her radiated confidence—of herself and her place in the world. She claimed she preferred baking to cooking, yet her fish entrée was extraordinary.

He’d found her utterly feminine, something that was missing in the women with whom he’d become involved since his divorce. And although Faith Whitfield looked nothing like his ex-wife, there was something about her that reminded him of Justine. What bothered him was that his attraction to both had been instantaneous.

He occasionally dated women who tried too hard to impress him, while the ones with the pretty faces and gorgeous bodies were usually too insipid to keep his attention for more than a few hours.

Waiting until Faith left the room, Ethan made his way over to William Raymond. “I need to talk to you,” he said in a low, quiet voice.

William patted the empty chair his wife had just vacated. “Sit down, Mac.” Ethan complied. Vertical lines appeared between the deep-set dark eyes of the man who’d amassed a small fortune because of his innate gift for recognizing musical talent. “You’ve heard something about…?” His words trailed off.

William had spent most of his life avoiding trouble, but at fifty-four trouble had come knocking at his door in the form of a rival who’d threatened his son. It wouldn’t have unnerved William if the threat had been directed at him. He’d grown up on New York City’s mean streets, learning how to survive well enough to avoid becoming a statistic. But someone had gotten to him, struck his Achilles’ heel when they put his son’s life—heir to his music empire—in jeopardy.

“What’s up, Mac?”

“What do you think of sending Billy to Cresson to stay with my folks? He could transfer his credits from Bethune-Cookman to Mount Aloysius and get his degree there.” Billy had just completed the first semester of his sophomore year. A look of uncertainty crossed William’s face as he and Ethan regarded each other.

“Aloysius isn’t a historically black college,” Ethan continued, “and west-central Pennsylvania isn’t Florida, but I don’t think anyone would think of looking for him in the Allegheny Mountains.” He’d made the suggestion because his parents were professors at the college.

William’s face brightened as he ran his fingers over his mustache and goatee. Nodding, he crooned, “It could be you’re on to something.”

“It’s only a suggestion.”

“I like your suggestion, Mac. Now, all I have to do is convince my son that sending him to live with his great-aunt and -uncle would be in his best interest.”

Ethan patted his cousin’s hard, muscled shoulder under a custom-made silk and wool blend suit jacket. “I believe it would go better if I talk to him.” He knew Billy resented his father too much to listen to anything he had to say right now, even if it meant protecting his life. He leaned closer. “There’s something else you should know.”

The music mogul listened to his younger cousin, then nodded in agreement. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll take care of it.”

Ethan felt a measure of satisfaction. He’d come up with a plan for his godson, but if Billy rejected his suggestion, then he would have to come up with an alternative solution. And he knew if WJ hadn’t been so focused on seeing his daughter married, he would’ve come down hard on Billy for his behavior.

Ethan hadn’t come to stay at the West End Avenue penthouse to protect his godson from what was potentially a real threat, but rather from his father’s explosive temper. Growing up, he’d witnessed the hurt WJ had inflicted on anyone who’d dared to cross him.

Faith slipped into her coat and gathered her handbag. She was ready to go home. She managed to slip out without encountering Kurt or Ethan, taking the elevator to the lobby. Someone was exiting a taxi as she walked out of the building. The doorman’s whistle stopped the driver from pulling away from the curb.

She got in, gave the bearded man her address, closed her eyes, then settled back against the seat for the short ride to the Village. The cabbie drove as if he was training for the NASCAR circuit, and Faith didn’t draw a normal breath until she found herself on terra firma outside her building.

The harrowing experience came close to making her swear off riding in New York City taxis for a very long time.

The ride, the lingering smell of the food clinging to her body and the image of Ethan McMillan’s sensual smile were forgotten when she brushed her teeth, showered and crawled into bed.

Other than an early-morning jog, attending mass and sharing brunch with Peter Demetrious, Faith planned to take advantage of the rest of her Sunday to do absolutely nothing!

Sunday dawned with an overcast sky and below-freezing temperatures. Dressed in a pair of sweats, a baseball cap, short jacket and running shoes, Faith inserted earbuds in her ears and began walking north, increasing her pace each time she crossed another street until she was jogging at a pace that didn’t leave her feeling winded. Although she preferred reading a book to listening to them, she made the exception when jogging.

As the narrator read a fairly explicit love scene, it reminded Faith why she’d stopped reading romance novels. What she didn’t want was to be reminded of her resolution not to date, because if she kissed one more frog she would swear off men altogether. The reason she’d downloaded the audio book to her iPod was because it was advertised as a mystery. But, damn! she mused, did the author have to be so descriptive when the female detective, having denied having feelings for her partner, finally went to bed with him? By the time Faith reached the next block the erotic scene was over.

She jogged to Chelsea, stopped at a Starbucks to sit and enjoy a latte before retracing her route. Every time she jogged she varied her route. Most times she stopped in Soho, Tribeca, Chinatown, Little Italy, the East Village or the Lower East Side.

When the heat and humidity became too oppressive to jog, she set off on leisurely walks. For someone who’d grown up in the suburbs, the bright lights, large crowds, noise and pulsing energy of New York City enraptured her in a magical world that she never wanted to leave.

Even if she’d wanted to move out of the city she couldn’t because she’d invested too much money in Let Them Eat Cake, and the small patisserie, conveniently located three blocks from her apartment building, was now showing a profit. She also had to consider her employees—two full-time clerks, part-time baker and now her assistant. Six months ago she’d expanded the shop’s hours of operation from four to five days a week. However, she did make an exception for weeks during Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine’s Day. The only time she opened on Sunday was for Mother’s Day.

Faith returned home in time to shower and make it to the twelve o’clock mass. She’d attended an all-girl private Catholic school from grades one through twelve, and going to mass was a ritual that had become as natural to her as breathing.

Sleet had begun falling when she left the church to hail a taxi to take her to the Ambassador Grill, a restaurant in the United Nations Plaza Hotel, touted to serve an extraordinary Sunday lobster-and-champagne brunch buffet. The restaurant was a favorite of Peter Demetrious. He was waiting for her when she arrived, and within minutes they were shown to a table.

He was shorter in person than he appeared in photographs, his full head of hair a shocking white, and the minute lines crisscrossing his weather-beaten face reminded her of a map. Faith had researched his background on the Internet and learned that the celebrated photographer, the only child of a Greek father and Italian mother, was born in San Francisco, and currently made his home in Southern California. In several articles written about him he admitted his obsession with photography began when an uncle gave him a Brownie camera for his eighth birthday; half a century later his passion hadn’t waned.

Over flutes of mimosas and fluffy omelets, Faith outlined the concept for the coffee-table book as Peter Demetrious studied her face as if she were a photographic subject, his sharp, penetrating black eyes missing nothing.

“When’s your deadline?” he asked.

“June thirtieth,” Faith replied.

Peter removed a small leather-bound diary from his jacket pocket, flipping pages. The creases in his forehead deepened. “How many cakes do you want me to photograph?”

Faith touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth. “I’m not certain. What I’d like to do is separate the book into themes—birthdays, holidays, weddings and special occasions like sweet sixteen, engagement, new baby and anniversaries. Then there are the religious themes—christening, communion, bar and bat mitzvah.”

“Give me a number, Faith.”

“I estimate between eighty and one hundred. The publisher has projected a 240-page book, and that includes text, recipes and credits.”

Peter stared at the pastry chef as if she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses. “You’re going to bake one hundred cakes before the end of June?”

She nodded, smiling. “It’s not impossible. If I bake five or six a week, then there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be able to make my deadline.” Faith knew it wasn’t impossible now that she had an assistant. “Do you have a date for the shoot?”

Peter stared at a page in his diary. “I’m going to be back in New York for several weeks in late April.” He flipped a few more pages. “And I also have a full week in mid-June.”

Pulling her cell phone from her handbag, Faith turned it on. She’d missed a call because she always turned it off before entering church. Activating the calendar feature, she scrolled through the months. The end of April meant that she had at least sixteen weeks to bake and decorate the cakes. A smile softened her mouth. Peter had given her plenty of time.

“I’ll have them ready for you,” she confidently.

“Will they keep?” the photographer asked.

Faith nodded. “Yes. They’ll be frozen solid and definitely not fit for human consumption, but I’ll spray them with a waxy substance before you photograph them to give them a fresh look.”

“Where are you going to store them?”

“Some I’ll store in the freezer in my shop, and the others in the freezer of a friend’s restaurant.”

She’d called a friend who owned and operated a restaurant before she signed the book contract to ask if she could rent space in one of her walk-in freezers to store the cakes.

Peter’s dark eyebrows lifted with this revelation. “It looks as if you’ve done your homework.”

“Would you have agreed to collaborate with me if I hadn’t done my research?”

“No, Faith. I’m too busy, and to be honest I don’t need the money. I agreed to collaborate with you because I’ve never done anything like this, and I owe your cousin Tessa for contracting me to photograph the Fyles-Cooper wedding, which by the way will be in the next InStyle Wedding book.”

If Peter owed Tessa, then Faith owed Tessa—big-time—for getting him to agree to photograph her cake designs. Tessa and Simone Whitfield were the sisters she’d never had, but somehow she got along better with Tessa than Simone.

“Where are you going to photograph them?”

Resting his elbows on the table, Peter leaned closer and lifted his bushy eyebrows. “I’ll make arrangements to shoot them in a photography studio in Tribeca.”

“Do want to take any outdoor shots?”

“No. The studio is filled with stock art and set decorations that we can use for interior and exterior shots.”

Raising her flute, Faith touched it to Peter’s. “Cheers!”

He raised his glass, grinning broadly. “Il saluto!” he countered in Italian.

They lingered at the restaurant for another half an hour, then Peter settled the bill and suggested they share a taxi. He got out in Tribeca while Faith continued on to the West Village.

It was exactly four when Faith walked into her apartment, ideas as to what cake designs she wanted Peter to photograph crowding her mind. She’d tried imagining what the book would look like on bookstore shelves or on coffee tables, and until she decorated the first cake the notions remained that—just a notion.

She’d grown up a dreamer—a weaver of fairy tales. Her parents thought she was going to be a writer because of the number of notebooks she’d filled up with childlish stories. The day she celebrated her sixteenth birthday she wrote down three wishes in her diary: become a chef, write a cookbook and marry a prince before she turned twenty-five. Long ago she’d accepted the truth that not all dreams come true as scheduled, but she was satisfied knowing that two of the three had manifested.

Faith changed out of her pantsuit and into a pair of well-washed faded jeans, a long-sleeved tee and a pair of thick cotton socks. She checked her home phone for messages. Nothing. Then she remembered the missed call on her cell phone. Retrieving it, she tapped in her password and folded her body down onto the cushioned window seat.

She listened to the recorded message: “Faith, this is WJ. I was told that you helped Kurt in the kitchen last night. I wanted to speak to you but you were gone. I’m sending someone over to your place this afternoon to deliver a little something to show my gratitude for all you’ve done to make my daughter’s engagement party so spectacular. The person should be at your place at four-thirty. If this is not a good time for you, then call me…”

The sound of the doorbell eclipsed the voice coming through the earpiece. Faith took a quick glance at the clock radio. It was 4:33. Whoever WJ was talking about was standing on the other side of her door.

She crossed the room and peered through the security eye. William Raymond’s someone was no other than Ethan McMillan.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Ethan McMillan.”

Faith unlocked the door, coming face-to-face with the man with the sexy smile and seductive voice. He was dressed down in a pair of faded jeans, pullover sweater, lined bomber jacket and brown suede oxfords. Her pulse quickened. The man should’ve been arrested for exuding that much masculinity.

Her smile was slow in coming. “Hello, Ethan.”

Ethan returned her smile, dimples winking at her. “Hello, Faith. Did WJ tell you I was coming?”

“No. He said someone was coming.”

Ethan angled his head. “Well, I’m that someone.”

“Do tell,” she teased.

“I would’ve rung your intercom to let you know I was downstairs, but one of your neighbors let me in.”

Faith opened the door wider. “Please come in.”

Wiping his feet on the straw mat outside the door, he walked into warmth. Ethan glanced around the apartment. “This is really nice.”

Closing and locking the door, she turned to stare at Ethan surveying her apartment. “Thank you. It’s a little small, but I like it.” Why, she chided herself, was she apologizing to him about the size of her studio?

Ethan shook his head. “It really isn’t that small. There are plenty of New York City studio apartments half this size.”

He turned to stare at Faith. It was if he were truly seeing her—all of her for the first time. Her jeans hugged her body like a second skin, outlining the sensual curves of her hips. She was slender, but not a raw-boned slender. With her height, face and body she probably was mistaken for a model.

Faith met Ethan’s stare with one of her own. There was something about him that intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him: his age, what he did for a living, other than being related to William Raymond, what was his association with the record mogul?

She blinked as if coming out of a trance. “You lied to me, Ethan McMillan.”

His expression mirrored confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Folding her arms under her breasts, Faith gave him a saucy smile. “You told me you were hired help when in reality you’re WJ’s cousin.”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Ethan’s mouth. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you and WJ were related?”

“You didn’t ask,” he countered.

Faith refused to relent. “And if I had asked would you have told me?”

“Why not? I may deny a few things, but never family.”

“Lie or deny?”

“Deny, Faith.” A slight frown distorted his handsome face. “It seems as if we’re back to the topic of you not trusting men.”

“This is not about me, Ethan,” she retorted.

“Then exactly who is it about? It certainly can’t be about me,” Ethan said, answering his own question. “I was raised to tell the truth, and rather than lie I just won’t say anything.” He gestured to her. “Come on, Faith, ask me something.”

“What do you do for WJ?”

“I’m his driver.” He angled his head. “Now, may I ask you to do something for me?”

Something told her not to ask, but she did anyway. “That all depends what it is.”

Ethan pointed to the coffeemaker on the kitchen’s countertop. “Would you mind brewing me a cup of coffee? I’ve been on the road for the past twelve hours and I need a double shot of caffeine to keep my eyes open before I drive to New Jersey.” He’d been awake for thirty hours, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that sleep deprived.

He’d talked to Billy about attending college in Pennsylvania, and much to the elder Raymond’s shock, he’d agreed. It was only after Savanna’s guests retreated to the rooftop solarium that Ethan and an armed bodyguard escorted Billy down the stairwell to the underground garage and into the Town Car.

Ethan had called his parents en route to let them know that their grandnephew would be staying with them until he completed his education or whoever had threatened his life was apprehended. He made it to Cresson, Pennsylvania, in record time, stayed long enough to see Billy settled in, then got back into the car for the return drive to New York.

He’d returned to his cousin’s penthouse, shaved, showered and packed his clothes. Once he informed WJ that he was returning to his Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, town house condo, his cousin asked that he deliver a letter to Faith Whitfield.

Faith saw a trace of fatigue etched on his face for the first time. His eyelids were drooping and his speech was slower. “Of course I don’t mind. Let me hang up your jacket.” He shrugged out of the leather jacket, handing it to her. He swayed before righting himself. Instinctively she reached out to steady him, but drew her hand back. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed before you end up on the floor, and there’s no way I’ll be able to lift you.”

A tired smile pulled one corner of Ethan’s mouth upward. “Thanks.”

He headed for the large bed in the alcove covered with a white comforter, shams, throw pillows and dust ruffle trimmed in lace. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve turned his nose up at the frilly bed linens, but now it was like an oasis to a thirsty traveler.

He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, then lay on the unabashedly feminine bed and exhaled a sigh of relief. Englewood Cliffs was right across the river from New York but as he lay staring up at an eave above the bed he doubted whether he would’ve been able to make the drive without being a danger to himself or other motorists.

Ethan closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. “Would your boyfriend mind if I took you dancing?”

Faith was barely able to control her gasp of shock. She stopped pouring coffee beans into the grinder. Within seconds she recovered enough to say, “No.”

“No, what? You don’t have a boyfriend, or you don’t want to go out with me?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off.

Her cheeks warmed with heat. “No to both.”

Her answer pleased Ethan. He was more interested in knowing if Faith Whitfield had a boyfriend than taking her out, because if she was involved with someone, then that meant he’d have to retreat honorably.

“Thank you.” The two words came out slurred.

Shifting, Faith stared at the tall man reclining on her bed. To say he was an enigma was putting it mildly. He’d asked her to go dancing with him, then acted as if she’d given him a reprieve when she turned him down.

“Thank you for what?”

“For your honesty and…”

“And what, Ethan?” There was no answer. “Ethan?” She called his name again and was greeted by soft snores.

Resting her hands on her hips, she glared at the figure lying sprawled across her bed, unable to believe he’d come to her apartment to sleep. If he was that tired, then she would’ve given him the address to several hotels in the area. He could’ve checked into the Washington Square Hotel for about one-fifty a night, or if he wanted luxury then there was the Marriott Financial Center at three to four hundred a night.

Faith smothered a curse under her breath as she pressed a button on the grinder. The tantalizing smell of fresh coffee filled the air. She’d come home to relax, but that was thwarted because Ethan McMillan had commandeered her bed. She programmed the coffeemaker to begin brewing in three hours. That was all the time she was going to give the man sleeping in her bed before she’d wake him to send him on his way.