The Sweetest Temptation

by Rochelle Alers

  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.

  CHAPTER 3

  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 loca
ted 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.”