by Lori Foster
ERIC WAS STUFFED FROM the ten courses of so-called small-bite plates he’d been served at the tasting dinner, but he made himself finish the salted caramel torte that had been set in front him. One, because it was only polite, and two, because it was the most delicious damn thing he’d ever tasted. The only thing missing from the meal had been a good lager, but wine had been a nice change. Not that he’d ever admit that to the person who’d invited him.
“Thank you, Andrés,” he said, standing to shake his friend’s hand. “Amazing. But next time, don’t forget the beer.”
“Beer is for peasants,” Andrés replied with a wide smile. Eric might have taken offense if he hadn’t raised so many pints with him.
“I’ll remind you of that next time you stop by the tasting room.”
Andrés handed him a little box wrapped with a gold bow. “A torte for your brother. I know how much he enjoys sweets.”
“Thanks. Stop by the brewery in a week. We’ve got an apricot hefeweizen that’s almost ready.”
“That’s a deal, my friend.”
Andrés moved on to the next table, and Eric took a last look around. He’d already schmoozed with everyone at the dinner, and he still had a younger brother to yell at, not to mention invoices to review back at his office. So he said his goodbyes and escaped to the quiet of the hallway. He was scrolling through his BlackBerry when he walked around the corner, sparing a glance down the hallway as he did. This part of the hotel was packed with meeting rooms and suites, and the hall was a jumble of corners and alcoves. The hallway jagged to the right about twenty feet ahead, and beyond the corner of the wall, Eric caught a glimpse of one green high-heeled shoe.
The tip of the dark green shoe tapped the floor in a languid rhythm. He watched it closely. His pace slowed.
As he drew closer, Eric saw a delicate ankle, then the curve of a smooth calf. And then he caught sight of the brown skirt.
It was her.
Despite his certainty, he was still surprised when he passed the corner and saw her profile. Her hair was down now, a sexy fall of sable brown that shone beneath the floodlight above her.
She leaned against a glass railing, staring down into the hotel atrium. Her arms rested on the railing, and one knee was bent, the foot still tapping out a secret rhythm against the floor.
Christ, those heels.
She turned her head then, and her gaze met his. For a moment, she looked just as shocked as he felt. Her lips parted. Her brown eyes went wide.
Eric’s focus fell to her red lipstick as she recovered herself and smiled.
“Hi,” she said, her voice just slightly husky at the edges. “You’re Jamie Donovan, right?”
“I—” His fingers twitched as he started to reach out to her. “Actually—”
“I’m Beth,” she continued. “Beth Cantrell.” Her hand slid into his, distracting him from correcting her.
“Nice to meet you, Beth.”
She laughed a little, and his stomach tightened at the sound. “In case you’re wondering if I’m a stalker, I saw the sign on your table. That’s how I know your name. And you’re a little notorious.”
“I am?”
She raised one shoulder in a shrug, and her fingers tightened for just a second before she drew her hand away. “Just a little,” she answered, her eyes twinkling.
She thought he was Jamie, which was kind of a surprise. He would’ve expected Jamie to be well-known at a place like The White Orchid. Still, she’d heard about his brother, and her grin was for Jamie, not Eric.
He meant to correct her. He really did. But he hesitated. Eric wouldn’t flirt with a woman who worked at a sex shop. He was responsible, careful and risk-averse. But Jamie? Jamie would do way more than flirt with her.
A door opened behind him, and she darted a nervous glance past his shoulder. He followed her gaze, but the man who stepped out of the room moved on down the hallway.
A peek at her ring finger revealed bare skin. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Oh, no. I just finished a marketing session. I need to waste a few minutes before the next presentation. It’s on tax prep. Are you going?”
“No, I was at a dinner.” He gestured down the hallway.
“The Andrés Villanueva dinner? Wow, you are lucky.”
“Are you a fan?”
“Who isn’t?”
Eric rubbed a thumb over the box in his hand, considering. It was meant for Jamie, but Jamie sure as hell didn’t deserve it. If he’d been at the expo as he was supposed to have been, he would’ve had his damn torte. “You’re not one of those women who doesn’t eat, are you?”
“No, I am definitely not one of those women.”
Offering a wolfish smile, Eric held up the box. “Want a little taste?”
Her dark brown eyes went wide. “What is that?” she demanded.
“It’s manna from heaven, also known as salted caramel torte.”
“Shut up,” she gasped.
He gave the box a little wiggle. “Want it?”
“Yes!”
The lustful anticipation on her face shot heat into Eric’s veins. She stared at the box as if it held something naughty. What were the chances that he’d be presenting her with a naughty gift?
“Wait here for one second,” he said before rushing back the way he’d come. He snuck into the room and snatched a clean fork and a napkin from a wheeled tray.
Still, he hesitated before stepping back into the hallway. He could just hand her the box and the fork and be on his way. Or he could watch her eat it.
Yeah, he was totally going to watch her eat it.
When he walked around the corner, she grinned in delight.
Eric held the fork just past her reach. “I noticed a seating area just past the elevators when I was lost earlier. You’ve got a few minutes?”
“I do. And if the dessert is everything you say it is, I might even chance being late to the tax seminar.”
“A risk taker.”
A laugh bubbled from her throat and she pressed a hand to her lips to stifle it. “Not really.”
He found that seriously hard to believe. “No?”
“Well…” Her gaze slid toward him and she gave him a quick once-over as they walked. “Maybe tonight I am.”
At that moment, Eric decided he was fully committed to taking this just as far as Jamie would. He deserved some fun just as much as the next Donovan Brother, didn’t he?
NERVOUS EXCITEMENT SHIMMERED along Beth’s skin as she followed the man around a corner and found herself in a small alcove with a coffee table and four chairs. Despite her anxiety, she took a moment to appreciate the picture he presented. He’d changed into dark slacks and a crisp blue button-down shirt. The pants fit him perfectly, showing off his narrow hips and tight ass. Nice.
She had yet to see his infamous kilt, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she’d much rather ogle his business attire.
He waved her into a chair before taking the one beside it. Then he handed over the prize.
“I should’ve grabbed you a glass of wine, too,” he said as she tugged at the elaborate gold ribbon.
“Oh, no. Wine before a tax seminar? I’d wake up two hours from now, sprawled across a whole row of chairs.”
The ribbon finally sprang free, and Beth made an effort not to tear the cardboard as she yanked it open. Buttery sweetness drifted upward and she sighed. “Oh, man.”
“Taste it,” he urged.
She crossed her legs, aware that a few inches of her thighs were exposed as the skirt snuck up. She didn’t bother easing it back down. Instead, she took the fork he offered and dug in.
“Oh, my God,” she moaned as the first bite of salty sweetness hit her tongue.
“Told you.”
She swallowed, fighting the urge to moan like a woman being pleasured. But she was being pleasured. By caramel and buttery crust and sea salt and chocolate.
“Oh, good Lord.”
She might sleep with this man jus
t to reward him for the torte.
His eyes watched her mouth. She licked a crumb from her lip and watched his own lips part in response. For a brief moment, she was that woman. The woman she pretended to be for her coworkers and customers alike. The woman who knew all, because she’d lived all.
Maybe Jamie Donovan’s gift was making a woman feel like a sensual goddess. She didn’t even mind if this was his standard act, as long as she could push her way onto the stage.
She cleared her throat and looked down at her plate, still afraid to turn the flirtation into something else. Instead, she concentrated on cutting off a perfect bite of torte and savoring every second of flavor as she chewed.
“So,” he said slowly, “I passed your booth.”
“Oh?” She wished she’d asked for wine now. She’d had a vague hope that he hadn’t checked out her booth. That he’d talked her into dessert without any of the complications that came along with a man’s awareness of her work.
“Your job must be pretty interesting.” He was staying neutral. That was a good sign. People had varied reactions to The White Orchid, but oftentimes men fell into the sly and smarmy camp.
And her job was interesting.
Beth let herself smile. “There’s never a dull moment.”
“I bet. How did you end up working there? Or do you own the shop?”
“No. I interned there almost ten years ago, working for the owner, Annabelle Mendez. Somehow I never left.”
He coughed, choking on incredulity, it seemed. “You interned there? Like, as a kid?”
“As a college student. I was all grown up and legal, I promise.”
“But…what did you major in?”
“At first, anthropology, but I just happened upon a class in Cultural Sexuality, and it was fascinating. Then I took a higher-level course in Women’s Sexuality Through Western History, and…”
“And what?”
“And…suddenly, I found myself transferring to women’s studies with a minor in anthropology. I interned at The White Orchid as part of a course, and…here I am. It’s my passion.”
His eyebrows rose. “I had no idea that kind of passion could be so…scholarly.”
“Oh, yeah? How did you think I fell into this?”
“I don’t…” An honest-to-goodness blush crept over his cheeks.
Beth couldn’t quite believe it. Oh, she saw plenty of blushing customers at the store, but men never blushed because of her.
Something like liquid electricity zinged down her spine. Beth studied his face. He had a square jaw and a strong, straight nose. His eyes were smoky blue, almost gray, and his eyebrows were dark slashes above them.
As for his mouth…she could spend hours imagining the feel of those sculpted lips against hers.
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” he finally offered, his smile both chagrined and charming.
He looked as if he would smell good. Like starch and shampoo. She decided to let him off the hook. “I’ll drop it.”
“Okay, great.” Relief chased across his face.
Beth ate her dessert and weighed her options. He was cute. Hot. Sexy. And well-known for flirtation, though he didn’t seem particularly forward. If she was brave enough to indulge her fetish for preppy guys, he might just be the perfect candidate for the job. He wouldn’t want anything more from her than she wanted from him. And how would her friends ever find out?
She took another bite to buy herself some time. His eyes watched as she raised the fork to her mouth. As soon as she swallowed, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. Have a bite.”
“No way. It’s all yours. I’m just enjoying watching.”
“Oh, yeah?” She couldn’t help but grin. “Interesting.”
His head dropped as he laughed.
Lust spun through her like a vicious flock of butterflies. She wanted this man. She wanted to touch him. Taste him. Feel his skin beneath her hands.
“Jamie—”
“Um, listen. Beth…”
“Yes?”
His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he shook his head before saying a word. Was he nervous, or was this part of his shtick? If it was, it was totally working for her.
He cleared his throat. “I’d still like to get you a glass of wine. Can I buy you a drink?”
Uh-oh. This was do-or-die time. She’d flirted with him. She was interested in more. But that “more” had nothing to do with being seen in public with him. “You mean at the bar?”
“Actually, there’s a wine bar across the street. It’s a little less hectic.”
Her hands tightened around the box until the ends bowed. “I don’t think I can. I’ve got the seminar. But thank you.” Even as the words left her mouth, she felt a surge of disappointment. In herself.
She stood up so quickly that she swayed on her heels. He stood too and reached out to steady her with a respectful hand under her arm. God, he was so cute that it hurt.
“Right,” he said. “The seminar. Afterward then?”
“I…”
His mouth looked serious now. He was waiting for her to say no. She was waiting for it too. But that wasn’t the word that escaped her lips.
“Okay,” she said so softly that he leaned forward.
“Sorry?”
She cleared the fear from her throat. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
“I could walk you—”
“No. I’ll be fine. It’s just across the street, right? Next to the bridge?”
“That’s it. So around nine-thirty? Does that work?”
Beth’s muscles were tightening up as her heart began to pound, as if flirting with this man was sending her into fight-or-flight mode. “Sure. Nine-thirty. That sounds great.”
The elevator dinged and a crowd of voices suddenly filled the hallway.
Crap. What if someone saw her here, cozied up in this small space with Jamie Donovan and chocolate? It would look just as sinful as it was. Beth’s heart beat so hard, she wondered if he could hear it. Certainly his smile was slipping. Probably because she was just standing there, staring wide-eyed at him.
“I’ve got to go,” she finally stammered. “I don’t want to be late.”
“Of course—” he started, but she cut him off.
“Thank you for the torte. It was so good.” She thrust the box into his hands, mourning the last few bites she hadn’t eaten.
“So—”
“I’ll see you in a little while,” she interrupted then whispered, “Nine-thirty,” as she backed away from him.
He looked more than a little confused as she turned and rushed for the corridor. She wanted to reassure him, but she was panicking. Just a little. She told herself there was no reason. They’d arranged to have a glass of wine, not a make-out session. But she was shaking as she rushed past the crowd at the elevators.
She’d done it. Maybe. Certainly, there now existed the possibility of sex with Jamie Donovan.
Wow.
The tax seminar was in the same room her earlier session had been in, so Beth had no trouble finding it, even in her ridiculous state. She burst in, startling the four people who’d already taken their seats.
And when Beth found a seat for herself, she clenched her hands in her lap and looked down to see that she was still holding the fork in one white-knuckled fist. There was no pretending to be the smooth, cool sex-store manager now. He’d gotten a glimpse of the real Beth. He might not even show up for that glass of wine.
Right, she told herself. No need to get too excited. He might not show. And if he did, that didn’t mean they were going to have sex. And even if they did have sex, there was no guarantee it would be great. Probably it would be just like the other disastrous times she’d tried to expand her sexual horizons.
Beth took a deep breath, filling every single cell of her lungs. Then she let it slowly out, willing all the anxiety from her muscles. Annabelle always said that a woman determined the course of her life with her expectations. If Beth expected d
isastrous sex, she’d get it in spades. So tonight, she’d expect good things. Great things. Lovely, sexy-bartender things.
She raised the fork to her mouth and licked the last of the sticky caramel from the tines. And Beth thought she just might be tasting heaven.
CHAPTER THREE
THE LINE OF FERMENTATION tanks gleamed behind the glass wall like works of art. Despite his nervousness, Eric spared the vats an affectionate glance as he walked through the utilitarian kitchen. Given a choice, he’d rather be the brewmaster than the business manager, but somebody had to take care of the business.
His sister, Tessa, was great at the accounting side of things and the paperwork involved with human resources. Jamie took care of the front room and most of the duties that called for time with the public. That left Eric with supervising…everything else.
At least he’d resisted the countless suggestions that they turn the brewery into a restaurant and take on all the extra work that would entail. He wanted nothing to do with that side of the business. Donovan Brothers was a true artisan brewery, focused solely on their product. They brewed in small batches and then bottled and kegged for distribution to restaurants, grocery stores, bars and liquor stores. The front was a tasting room, and the only food they served was pretzels and peanuts. Still, they needed a kitchen to prep for catered parties.
Eric dropped off a box of glasses next to the dishwashing station and headed for the front. He didn’t bother pausing to take a deep breath before he pushed open the swinging door. He’d learned from long experience that it would do nothing to temper his irritation with Jamie.
Unsurprisingly, Jamie was delivering a round of beers to a table of attractive women. Also unsurprisingly, the women were laughing and chatting him up while they checked out his legs. Jamie usually wore a kilt while working, claiming that it honored their Scots-Irish heritage. But more likely than not, it was solely about the attention it drew.
Eric shook his head and checked the sales on the register. They were good even for a Friday night. It was spring break at the university, but the exodus had little effect on sales at the brewery. They’d designed the tasting room as an alternative to the other bars in town. It was quiet and comfortable. Celtic rock played over the speakers, and they hosted the occasional band. But the tasting room closed at eight, nine on the weekends, so they didn’t draw much of a party crowd. Their customers were grown-ups who just wanted to grab a beer with friends or play a round of pool before heading home.
