Naughty But Nice

by Donna Kauffman

  The ache tightened further inside his chest as he watched Melody begin to work on her cake. His thoughts were inextricably twined, past and present. What he wanted, standing in front of him . . . and what he’d left behind. A year ago, he’d gotten life-altering news. About the diary. About his real heritage. All the pain, the hurt ... and the rage, that he’d felt were so far behind him had come roaring back. All those years, his grandmother had listened to the mocking and the sneers. From inside the family and out. From his own father, who hadn’t even been her natural-born son, but whom she’d loved, perhaps to an unhealthy degree for the fear of losing him.

  They’d all taunted him mercilessly, about how he looked so different from the rest. And how ridiculous he was with all his fancy ideas of what they could make of themselves if they’d only listen to him. They’d thought he had no pride in his family, that his ideas were meant to denigrate their achievements. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.

  His grandmother had watched it all, and never told him. Never saved him by giving him the one thing he needed: a real family who understood and loved him for who he truly was.

  Griffin had her diary, knew she’d been unable to conceive, and that having a child had been the cornerstone of her every desire. When she’d heard about the babe being given up, she and his grandfather had stepped forward, then fled back to Ireland, due to her irrational fear the Havershams would take the baby back. She’d never told a soul, claiming the baby as her natural-born son, for fear he’d be shunned by the family if they knew. Griffin’s father had enough of the Gallagher look about him to get by, and no one had ever learned who his parents had truly been. But apparently Griffin had the look of Trudy’s family, fairer of hair and lighter of eye. He’d borne the brunt of being the outcast, not only because of his different looks but because of his different demeanor and way of thinking. If he had only known ... it would have explained so much. Saved him from so much.

  But what was done was done. Whatever his last name was, or what blood coursed through his veins ... didn’t matter. He knew who he was and what he wanted. If Lionel Hamilton could get him one step closer to fulfilling his dreams, then he’d take that as the first stroke of honest-to-God luck he’d ever had, and build on it. It was the kind of foundation he understood. He knew how to grow that, nurture it.

  Looking at Melody Duncastle he was filled with ... want. Want of all those things he’d shut himself off from. Want of things that scared the ever-loving hell out of him. He looked at her, and he wanted what those dreamy, content, confident eyes could bring to his life. He wanted her to look at him and feel all those same things. He wanted her to look at him . . . and glow.

  Bloody Christ, I never should have come in here this morning.

  “I’m a very lucky woman,” she said, as she continued the task at hand, bending down to begin a cluster of amazingly intricate roses. “To have literally stumbled into something that has been such a good fit for me. I do know that.”

  A lucky woman, he thought. No. Of the two of them, he was the lucky one. To have met her, been beguiled by her, compelled to open up to her. In the span of a single day, she’d turned his head completely around, and his thoughts to things he’d never contemplated before. If that had been the first day, what would a lifetime of days with her be like?

  Not that he’d ever know. He was no prize, that was for certain. She might have had the luck of the Irish in finding her true life’s calling. But she’d never consider him a lucky catch.

  What did he have to offer? Money? Yes, he had a pile of it, but she’d likely made plenty of that on her own as a lawyer. She’d walked away from that success to live over a shop where she put in far more hours than at any law firm, and all to live in a town that didn’t even boast a single traffic light. Clearly, the one thing he had was the last thing that would impress her.

  There was chemistry. Explosive levels of it. That, and not his fortune, could possibly get him laid—if he was very lucky—but nothing more.

  “So, no . . . I don’t want the big dream,” she went on, turning the cake around, and starting another cluster at the top corner, oblivious to the blade she was sinking, so smoothly, deep into his chest. “I don’t want to take my business global. I don’t want”—she looked up from what she was doing, to him—“I’m sorry. I’m not meaning this as an insult, you understand that now, don’t you? But I don’t want what you’re selling. I imagine most of the folks here will. But not me.”

  “So, what will you do?” he asked, trying not to care, to start building a wall of indifference, right then and there. She was no longer a thorn in his side. That’s the only way he should be looking at her. She might be leaving Hamilton altogether from the sounds of things. He wouldn’t have to risk bumping into the one thing he wanted that he couldn’t have. He could focus, instead, on what he should be doing, which was launching the project. It was all good news.

  So why did he feel as if the best thing that had ever happened to him was slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to figure out how to hold on to it?

  “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “It’s a lot to think about. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “You left Dublin to come here and take this challenge on. I know there is a lot of personal meaning in this for you, but, ultimately, is it just another job for you? I mean, are you uprooting your whole life in Ireland to come stake out a permanent home here? What about the business you left behind?”

  “Who says I left it behind?”

  “So you’re . . . just temporarily here then?”

  “I didn’t say that. But with global marketing and technology, I don’t have to be physically in Dublin to continue forward. In fact, I was rarely there.”

  “So you have jobs going on right now that you’re overseeing?”

  “I play a very specific role in setting up these kinds of paths for people to take.”

  “But you don’t necessarily stay and watch them grow to fruition.”

  “That’s not my job.”

  He watched her face, saw the edges of disappointment, and felt whatever wall he’d been building crumble to dust. He couldn’t afford to allow hope to elbow its way in. She was pointing out the very reason why, even if he lost every bit of rational sense he’d ever had and decided to pursue her, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

  He didn’t stay. It wasn’t in his job description.

  “What I do is see the path for others; I establish the best way to get them there, set them up for success. Then I step back and let them walk that path to their own future.” He lifted a shoulder. “I leave and go on to do it again for someone else.”

  “But this isn’t a job you’re doing for someone else. This time ... I mean, isn’t this going to be yours? Isn’t the success of Hamilton Industries a personal success for you? One that doesn’t end with the planning stages?”

  “If you’re asking me if I plan to stay here and run Lionel’s empire, the answer is no. That was never the plan.”

  Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut—pretty much describing what it felt like his heart had done in that same moment. Was it possible? Beyond all reason, she was acting like someone who was thinking the same kinds of things he was, about possibilities and taking chances. Why else would she be looking so disappointed in hearing that it couldn’t possibly happen, even if she wanted it to?

  Why in hell did that make him feel so bloody fantastic? It was anything but. They were lost to each other before they could even decide to begin.

  It made no sense. She couldn’t possibly truly want him. Griffin. More likely, she merely wanted to fan the sparks of the electricity crackling between them. He was merely mistaking that for the possibility of her wanting something more.

  Maybe desire was all he was feeling, too. Perhaps they needed to give in to the heat. Take what was really being offered. It was the best way, maybe the only way, to distinguish what was from what could never be.

 
“So . . . you’re not staying in Hamilton long term?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then . . . what is Lionel—I mean, who’s going to run the company after—”

  “The company—controlling interest in it, anyway—will go to me.” He had less than no business telling her that. But what the hell. Nothing about that day or that night with her was following any predetermined path. So he chucked the path. It was all new territory, and he was following his gut—into the unknown.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  He suspected he knew what he was thinking with.

  It brought him back to his earlier solution, a plan that would wind up with both of them naked. Afterward, he’d bet his future empire on the fact that it would all become perfectly clear to them both—it was about heat. Not about heart.

  He had a hunger that he was damned well determined to feed. To hell with the rest. The rest would sort itself out.

  It always did.

  To that end, he started lugging the remaining cartons containing the quick-pour fondant back to the coolers and sealed the rolled fondant in their tubs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do those finished cupcakes need to get stored in something to stay fresh until morning?”

  “Do—what? Yes, but—why are you putting those back?”

  “Go ahead and put them where they need to be.”

  “I have to finish this cake.”

  “Is that one for delivery to someone tomorrow?”

  “No, it’s just for the front of—would you stop that?” She watched in disbelief as he rolled another cart to the cooler.

  He paused long enough to look at her. For once, he let the walls drop completely away, let her see everything he was feeling, everything he was needing. “No,” was all he said.

  “Griffin—”

  “We’re going to stop playing baker for the time being.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He slid the last carton in the cooler, then strode across the room, absolutely intent, knowing without a single doubt, exactly what he was going to do. His path, at least for the next few hours, was very, very clearly defined.

  “The cakes can wait,” he told her. Then he yanked her into his arms and slid the pins from her hair. “This, on the other hand, canno’.”

  8

  He crushed his mouth to hers, and it only took the breadth of a single heartbeat for her to respond. She grabbed him right back . . . and took him on fully, willingly, and completely.

  One of them growled. She didn’t know which end was up, or down, and in that moment, didn’t much care.

  Far too many things had happened that day. The very last thing she needed to do was complicate an already seriously complicated situation by having anything more to do with him. Certainly that particular kind of anything.

  Yet, it was the only thing she felt certain of. She wanted him. She might not be able to keep him, but with everything else she held dear up in the air . . . what she knew was that she wanted Griffin Gallagher. At that moment there wasn’t anything she could do about her shop, her future, or the choices that were to be made.

  But there was most definitely something she could do about Griffin Gallagher. And, more to the point, with Griffin Gallagher.

  He wasn’t the enemy any longer. He wasn’t her savior, either. She knew that. He was merely the harbinger of change. None of that mattered.

  Melody couldn’t have described in any accurate detail how it was they managed to store cupcakes and cakes and get up the back stairs to her place over the shop.

  She fully acknowledged the pure insanity of the moment. And simply didn’t care. Her whole life was on the brink of massive change. Again. Even if she decided to do nothing, her world was going to change. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do, what she wanted to do.

  And there was Griffin. The man who was both refined class and raw energy, who was presently all but carrying her up the stairs over his shoulder, caveman style.

  She stopped thinking about tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that, and grinned when he slid her down the front of his body in front of the door leading to her personal rooms. “I’ll warn you,” she said a bit breathlessly, “I keep my kitchens and store immaculate, but my personal space, not so much.”

  He was kissing the side of her neck, nibbling her earlobe, making her gasp. “I’m no’ findin’ the least bit of anything wrong with your personal space,” he murmured as he continued his delicious journey along the sensitive skin beneath her ear, trailing kisses and nips down the side of her neck, pushing the heavy, starched collar of her chef’s coat off her shoulders so he could continue his quest.

  Melody fumbled with the door handle behind her. She always locked the door at the bottom of the stairs, so this one was usually left open. The door swung in rather abruptly beneath their weight, and the two of them stumbled inside.

  Normally she’d have been a bit mortified for someone she was interested in to see her place in its current condition. But Griffin wasn’t someone she would be seeing again, so what did it matter?

  He certainly didn’t seem to be noticing. “Bedroom?”

  She grunted and nodded her head in the general direction, as he stripped off the light blue, long-sleeved Henley she wore under her white jacket. She was trying to do much the same with his pale green button-down shirt.

  “Small space,” he managed, as they tripped past the orange suede ottoman that sat in front of her stuffed, chenille-covered chair, then banged shins and calves on the small, wrought-iron base of her glass-top coffee table. They managed to squeeze by the couch without further damage, leaving clothing behind on the lush, floral-print arm at one end.

  “I’m not up here much. I don’t need much room,” she panted.

  Griffin lifted his head long enough to shoot her the most wicked grin. “Oh, but I do, luv.” Then he pushed her backward through her bedroom door, and all the way to her brass four-poster.

  “Stepping stool,” she cautioned. The antique bed frame held her deep pillow-top mattress high up off the floor.

  “Right,” he said, then merely tossed her gently into the middle of it as if she was lighter than a feather.

  She let out a surprised laugh, which ended on a indrawn breath of anticipation as Griffin stepped onto the stool, and loomed over her.

  “You’re a beautiful, beautiful woman, Melody Duncastle,” he said, simply standing there, taking in his fill of her.

  Rather than make her feel uncomfortable or selfconscious, his words had her all but quivering with the need for him to get off the damn stool and put his hands on her.

  She was wearing nothing more than a bra, hot pink drawstring surgical pants, which were her preference when putting in long hours in the kitchen, and whatever panties she’d pulled out of the drawer in the dark that morning. She didn’t even bother to look down to find out. She didn’t care.

  He raked his gaze over her like a man starved for days who’d just been shown the buffet table. She was hoping he viewed it as an all-you-can-eat arrangement—she was feeling rather carnivorous herself.

  “Are you going to stand there, or—”

  “Or,” he said quite definitively. Rather than jump her, which she’d have been quite happy with—and expected, given their rather animalistic approach to things so far—he knelt down on the edge of the bed, and gently, slowly, tugged her loose pink pants down her legs, pushing her knees up so he could slide her pants and ankle socks off completely. He tossed those over his shoulder, the twinkling glint in his clear eyes making her shiver, though she didn’t feel the slightest bit of a chill. Quite the opposite. She felt like she was burning up from the inside out.

  “Your turn,” she said, her voice quavering with need.

  He shook his head, and lifted her foot up so it rested on his shoulder. His dress shirt hung open, and the white T-shirt he wore underneath clung to a frame that belied his career as a businessman and looked far more
like that of the street tough she’d earlier imagined him to be. Had it only been that morning?

  Her mouth watered, imagining what the smooth, taut muscles of his chest and shoulders would feel like—taste like—once she got him naked.

  But he had other ideas. He turned his head just enough to kiss the sensitive skin of her ankle. Then he gently bit her instep before moving his mouth back along her ankle and up over her calf. She was shuddering in pleasure, quivering with each, individual, hot kiss, her hips already quaking.

  Her skin felt like a mass of live wire endings, feeling his every touch like a tingling series of shock waves, every one of which pulsated straight to her core. As he worked his way closer to the inside of her knee, he shifted his weight more onto the bed, sliding her other calf over his thigh, as he continued to kneel between her legs.

  His gaze found hers as he began to slowly lick and kiss his way up the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her hands were splayed beside her head, her nipples two exquisitely sensitized nubs rubbing at the fabric of her bra as he made her back arch again and again with his devilish assault.

  He pushed her back up the bed, so he could stretch more fully between her thighs. He slid one hand up over her stomach, cupping one breast, catching and rolling the nipple between two of his fingers.

  “Griffin,” she gasped, and would have arched violently against him, but the weight of his arm, and his shoulder pinning down her other thigh, kept her body right where he wanted it as he toyed with the elastic band of her panties.

  “Are you ready for me, Melody?” he murmured against her thigh, not so much as taking a breath away from his steady decimation of her entire defense system.

  “Do you . . . have ... ?” She’d had some thought in her head about protection, but that concern slipped away like mist, replaced only with thoughts of how the tip of his tongue, sliding along under the edge of her panties, was so close ... and yet, so damn far away from—“Oh!” she gasped, then another, longer, almost groaning “oh” followed as his tongue slowly, torturously, found its mark.