“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.
CHAPTER 4
Faith opened the window shutters, sat down on the window seat and stretched her legs along its length. The width of the seat was one of many reasons why she’d decided to rent the apartment. It provided additional seating, and the windows overlooked an alley wide enough to park at least half a dozen cars. During the warmer weather she opened them and sat out on the fire escape. It wasn’t a traditional balcony or terrace, but served the same function.
Resting her back against an overstuffed pillow, she closed her eyes. What was it with the men who came to the homes of Whitfield women for the first time and ended up sharing their bed? She opened her eyes, staring at the falling snow piling up on the fire escape. Ethan was in her bed, even if she wasn’t sharing it with him.
Tessa admitted that she’d shared her bed with Micah Sanborn the night he’d come to her home because of a blackout, and within a week knew that the Brooklyn A.D.A. was her prince.
Reaching for a book, Faith opened it to the last page she’d read. She chanced a quick glance at Ethan McMillan and shook her head. He wasn’t a prince, but then he wasn’t exactly a frog, either. He was more like a bad penny that kept turning up when she least expected. Focusing on the book, she forgot about the man in her bed and lost herself in the lives of the novel’s characters.
* * *
The smell of brewing coffee wafted in Ethan’s nostrils as he opened his eyes to semidarkness. The only light in the room came from a floor lamp near the windows. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his gaze widening when he saw Faith on the window seat with her head at an odd angle.
His feet were silent on the floor as he neared her. A book lay open in her lap. It was apparent she’d fallen asleep while reading. Guilt assailed him when he realized he’d put her out of her bed. Checking his watch, he realized it was almost eight o’clock. When he’d asked Faith if he could lie down to wait for coffee, he hadn’t thought he would end up sleeping for hours.
Ethan stood over Faith, staring openly at her and seeing up close what he hadn’t noticed the day before. Her hands were delicately formed, the fingers long with tapered nails. There was a tiny beauty mark on her temple near her left eye. The yellow glow from the lamp highlighted the gold undertones in her flawless dark skin, which reminded him of minute particles of gold dust mixed with smooth dark milk chocolate.
His gaze moved lower to the rise and fall of her breasts under the T-shirt, and within seconds he felt like a pervert spying on an unsuspecting woman. The sound of the coffee brewing was unusually loud in the quietness of the apartment. A gurgling noise indicated the brewing cycle had ended. Turning away from Faith, Ethan made his way to the kitchen to fortify himself with a cup of the brew that was certain to keep him alert long enough to make it home.
He found a large mug in an overhead cabinet, filling it to the brim. Resting a hip against the countertop, he sipped the steaming-hot coffee, the heat burning his throat and settling in his chest and belly like a soothing blanket.
Ethan hadn’t lied to Faith when he’d told her that he liked her apartment. The pale colors and her choice of furnishings gave the space a lived-in look, unlike his that had been decorated by an interior-design firm. Once he’d closed on the luxury two-bedroom condominium, he hadn’t had the time nor the patience to visit stores or shops looking for tables, lamps, beds or the other accessories that determined a room’s personality. He told the decorator what he didn’t like, and she
took it from there. There were times when he felt as if he were walking into a furniture showroom, but for all of the time he spent there it was more than adequate.
He felt rather than saw Faith move, and he straightened from his lounging position. Smiling, he watched her come awake with the grace of a cat. He knew he’d frightened her when a small cry escaped her parted lips.
Blinking, Faith stared at the man standing in the shadows. “You woke up.”
“So did you.” Ethan gestured to the coffee in the carafe. “Would you like a cup?”
Faith couldn’t believe his audacity. He was offering her her coffee in her own home! “You’re really ballsy, aren’t you?” When Ethan glanced down at the front of his jeans she wanted to disappear on the spot. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Ethan didn’t move. “How do you want me to interpret ballsy?”
“What I meant is cheeky, audacious and—”
“I get your meaning, Faith,” he said, putting up a hand and cutting her off. “Now what have I done for you to get your back up?”
Swinging her legs off the window seat, Faith walked over and stood less than a foot from Ethan. His warmth and the lingering scent of his cologne had become an aphrodisiac, pulling her to him when the opposite was what she wanted. She wanted Ethan McMillan out of her home because everything about him was a sensual assault.
“I do the serving in my home.”
“Now, that’s a very selfish approach, Faith,” he chastised in a soft tone. “If you were in my home I’d permit you to do whatever you wanted.”
“That’s where we’re different, Ethan.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Wrong, Faith. We’re more alike than dissimilar.”
“Why would you say that? You don’t know anything about me, or vice versa.”
The Sweetest Temptation Page 4
