Stepping into the deep supply closet kept her from hearing Mr. Bentley’s response, only the muffled sound of his deep voice. The voice of a confident, rich, successful, powerful man. Despite her vow, she couldn’t argue with the fact that her hands shook and her heart raced at the thought of spending the next few days with Ian Bentley, ring or no ring. Which simply demonstrated how desperate she was, she realized with disgust, trying valiantly to concentrate on the task at hand.
Tall shelves crammed with nonperishable ingredients towered over her—white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, white flour, bread flour, wheat flour, baking soda, salt, dark cocoa, white cocoa butter, peanut butter, assorted nuts, marshmallow creme, fudge sauce, caramel sauce, strawberry sauce, raspberry sauce and an exhaustive list of other goodies. The fragrance alone tickled every taste bud in her mouth, and simply inhaling was worth a good fifty calories or so.
She gathered a handful of spices and flavorings and tossed them into a sturdy metal cart, which doubled as a step stool, along with five pounds of flour and five pounds each of white and brown sugar. She had several ideas, but she knew her banana-cream pudding would knock Mr. Bentley’s socks off.
Her train of thought led her to imagine other articles of his clothing being knocked off, but she immediately put on the brakes and reviewed necessary ingredients in her head. So absorbed was she with her mental shopping list that when she heard his voice behind her, she froze.
“My, my, there are all kinds of tempting things in here.”
Piper squashed down erotic thoughts, steeled herself and turned. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his broad chest. She managed a shaky smile. “Pick something you like and I’ll add it to the cart.”
His smile was slow and pulse-pounding. “Well, Ms. Shepherd, I wouldn’t stop you from climbing on.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Once you find a marriageable man, don’t wink, tease, flirt or otherwise let him know you’re interested.
PIPER SQUEEZED a plastic bottle of banana syrup so hard, the top blew off and ricocheted between the metal shelving twice before rolling to a stop by the toe of her shoe. She replayed Ian Bentley’s words in her mind. “Excuse me?” she asked, buying time. After all, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself—either way—if she hadn’t heard him correctly.
Mr. Bentley straightened, cleared his throat and pointed to her injured foot. “If you need to take the weight off your ankle, feel free to take a seat on your cart. I’m in no hurry.”
His gray eyes were innocent, and Piper felt weak with relief. The mild painkiller was playing tricks on her. “Oh.” She bent to retrieve the wayward lid. “No, I’m fine,” she lied. Fingers of pain probed her ankle even as she loitered in the closet, lusting after an unavailable man. Determined to focus on her bonus, Piper stood erect and replaced the lid on the bottle. The provocative shape of the hand-friendly, tapered container made her nervous, so she deposited it abruptly into the cart. “I—I hope you like the recipe I have in mind for your new dessert, Mr. Bentley.”
He shrugged and glanced around the room. “You’re the expert. And I’ll eat just about anything sweet…unless it contains bananas.”
Piper stopped and stared. “Bananas?”
He nodded. “I like them, but unfortunately, I’m allergic.”
“Allergic,” she parroted. “Imagine that.”
His wide shoulders rose in a shrug. “And I have to admit—anything chocolate is bound to get my attention.”
“Chocolate,” she repeated, already picturing the hives, the swollen eyes and the thick tongue she’d develop from all the tasting. “That’s…great. Nobody does chocolate like I do chocolate.” Reluctantly.
He grinned, looking boyish and outrageously appealing. “Terrific. Of course, if you feel compelled to make something with bananas, go ahead.”
“But you just said—”
“I don’t believe in depriving the buying public simply because I can’t indulge. I try my best to ignore cravings for things I shouldn’t have.”
Piper gazed into his eyes and swallowed. Was he referring to this, this…attraction between them and his status as a married man? Or was she reading too much into his words because of her own sudden awareness? “I wouldn’t want you to, um, suffer.”
His eyes darkened and he leaned toward her almost imperceptibly. “Some things are worth the consequences, no matter how dire.”
Just as her knees weakened, the fluorescent light caught the glint of his wedding ring, sobering Piper. Even if the man wasn’t taken, he emanated too much sexual energy for her comfort level. But under no circumstances would she become involved with a married man. A flush of embarrassment climbed her neck—she was so naive when it came to men that she couldn’t even be sure if he was baiting her for an affair or simply informing her he’d break out in a rash if he ate bananas.
Thankfully, Mr. Bentley saved her from responding. He glanced away and drew himself up, breaking the moment—if indeed there’d been one. “I’m more interested in the aesthetic appeal of your recipes, the marketability and—” he smiled tightly “—the cost, of course.”
Feeling like a ninny, Piper grabbed a canister of white and dark cocoa and added them to the pile. Then she gripped the cart handle with sweaty hands and headed toward the door. Her best hope to diffuse the sexual tension was to minimize their time together—she’d get rid of him as soon as possible and work overtime until the project’s completion. He’d be on his way back to Chicago in no time, after he’d signed a contract for the most decadent chocolate dessert she could concoct, of course. “We can discuss the recipe in the lab,” she suggested, frantic to get some distance from the man.
“Let me take that,” he offered, reaching for the handle of the cart.
She glanced down to maneuver around Bentley’s expensive-looking shoes. “That’s all right—”
His fingers brushed hers, nudging her hand aside. For some reason, the touch seemed more intimate than either time he’d lifted her into his arms. She pulled away so quickly, she nearly threw herself off balance. Then she sidled past him as gracefully as she could with her clubby ankle, and indicated her favorite work counter, where he parked the cart.
Keenly aware of him following her, Piper crossed the checkerboard black-and-white tile floor to the coffeemaker. She poured herself a cup of black decaf coffee and refreshed his cup as well. Striving for nonchalance, she conjured up a smile. “Do you know how intimidating it is to serve coffee to a man who owns some of the most successful coffeehouses in the country?”
“I’m a simple man—I like my coffee black and strong.” Bentley lifted his cup and took a deep swallow. “This is actually quite good.”
Calmer now, Piper pointed toward the corner of the lab where a white rectangular table sat surrounded by six sterile-looking chairs. Her foot was beginning to throb and she needed to rest before pulling out the mixing bowls. “Let’s sit and discuss the finished product.”
Piper approached a set of tall file cabinets, opened a drawer, walked her fingers across tabs, then withdrew the thick folder she’d compiled on the Bentley Group. Slowly she made her way over to the table and stood awkwardly, shifting good foot to injured foot and back, waiting for Mr. Bentley to sit so she could situate herself as far away from him as politely possible. But he pulled out a chair for her on one side and she felt obliged to take it. Alarm struck her when he tugged on the chair directly next to her, but he simply smiled and indicated the seat with a nod.
“For your foot.”
Feeling silly for thinking he meant otherwise, Piper lifted her foot onto the chair. Mr. Bentley set his cup of coffee on the table and captured the seat across from hers. She withdrew a pad of paper and a pen from a drawer in the table, and opened the manila file. “Now then, will the coffeehouses be franchised under the current name?”
He sipped and nodded. “Talk of the Town Coffeehouse.”
“And do you have a name in mi
nd for the dessert?”
Mr. Bentley shook his head and splayed his hands. “I’d like to hear your ideas—you look like a contemporary consumer.”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “As much as one can be in Mudville, Mississippi, I suppose.” Piper waited, hesitant to discuss her elementary-sounding ideas with a master food marketer. “Well…”
“Go on,” he urged.
She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I visualize a large dessert, one that can be shared.” When he didn’t laugh, she continued. “A subtle, rich flavor that lends itself to an accompanying drink, but doesn’t compete with exotic coffees.” When he still didn’t laugh, she continued. “Presented in a unique dish that will attract attention when it’s served.”
He brought his coffee to his mouth for another sip. His clear eyes were unreadable, but one eyebrow twitched as he mulled over her ideas. He had a slight cleft in his square chin that she hadn’t noticed before, but it appeared when he pressed his lips together. Other details jumped out at her, details she’d been too self-conscious to notice when they’d been practically nose to nose. A small concentration of gray compromised his thick dark hair front and center—probably premature since he didn’t look to be much past thirty-five. A tiny pale scar on his lower lip left her wondering about the injury.
To cover her blatant perusal, she blurted, “What do you think?”
His mouth quirked, then curved into a smile as he leaned forward. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Her lips parted and humiliation washed over her. Was she forever destined to make a fool of herself in this man’s presence? “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
His eyes danced. “Ms. Shepherd, I think I know why your other recipes have been so successful in my restaurants—you put a lot of thought behind them.”
Relieved with the change of subject and ridiculously pleased at his praise, she sorted through the file folder until she found a menu for the coffeehouse and ran a shaky finger down the dessert section. “You offer various cookies, muffins, sliced pie, sweet breads and Danishes—all are prepackaged, sold in individual servings and relatively inexpensive.”
“And simple to store and serve,” he said. “I don’t want something too complicated to prepare in volume.”
On firm business footing at last, she nodded. “Agreed. I foresee Blythe providing the base element, prepackaged in bulk, with the last-minute toppings—sauces, whipped cream, etcetera—being added at the coffeehouses.”
“So far, so good.”
Piper reached down to scratch her ankle through the bandage with the end of her pen. “What retail price point are you looking for?”
“To serve two?”
“A serving for two to three.”
“Probably no more than five ninety-five, which means I need the prepackaged product and toppings for less than three.”
Ms. Shepherd chewed on her lip, and Ian watched carefully. He was amazed he’d been able to concentrate on anything she’d said to this point, even though she had exhibited remarkable insight into what he was seeking. Gone was the opinion that this woman was ditzy—clumsy, intriguing and engaging, perhaps, but not ditzy.
Earlier this morning he couldn’t wait to escape her company. Then he’d fretted about her ever since he’d left. He’d been so fidgety and distracted that Edmund and Ms. Shepherd’s assistant probably thought he suffered from attention deficit disorder.
He’d simply been concerned for her well-being, he’d told himself. But he had to admit, he’d been more preoccupied with the way she looked in those loose-fitting jeans when she removed her jacket in the lab than with the bandage around her ankle or the scraped skin beneath her wispy dark bangs.
Ian sniffed danger. No matter how much he told himself he did not need the entanglement of a brief affair—and certainly not with a valuable vendor connection—he couldn’t keep himself from eyeing every flat surface in the lab and gauging its sex-worthiness.
“We can do it,” Ms. Shepherd announced.
He inhaled sharply into his cup, sucking hot coffee down his windpipe. Lapsing into a coughing seizure, he barked like a hoarse seal. Ms. Shepherd half rose from her chair, but he waved her down as reality sank in. While his mind had wandered off into Lustville, she was actually trying to resolve business issues. Ian cleared his throat and carefully swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “I’m sure you can do it,” he croaked. “I’m sure Blythe can do it, I mean.”
“Of course our production manager will have to have the final say,” she said in a cautious tone, “but at least now that I know what cost range you’re shooting for, I can begin working on the recipe specs. Mr. Blythe informed me we’re not the only plant in the running for your business. If you don’t mind me asking, what am I up against?”
Absurdly, Meredith flashed in his mind. Then he fast-forwarded through the delicacies he’d sampled at the Peoria plant. “Right now, a white chocolate mousse is the dessert to beat.”
Her lips curved into a sly smile. “We’ll see about that.” She squinted and looked at the ceiling. “If all goes well, I should have a few samples by tomorrow.”
Panic rose in his throat. “Tomorrow?” He’d counted on at least a week before going back to Chicago, back to Meredith—and two weeks sounded better all the time.
She steepled her small hands and looked adorably apologetic. “Sorry. Typically I’d work much faster, but I’m afraid my little accident is going to slow me down. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back home, so I’ll do the best I can.”
“Take your time!” When she drew back in surprise at his vehemence, he added, “I wouldn’t want you to push yourself, and I could use a few days of rest and relaxation anyway.”
She laughed, a rich, sweet-sounding noise. “You certainly came to the right place for R and R, Mr. Bentley. You won’t have any trouble finding absolutely nothing to do in Mudville.”
She took his breath away. It scared and thrilled him at the same time. “Ian.”
Her smile wavered. “Pardon me?”
“Call me Ian.”
Her gaze darted away, then back. “Okay…Ian. C-call me Piper.” She swung her foot to the ground and rose awkwardly, then extended her hand. “I’ll meet you back here tomorrow afternoon…Ian. We’ll have more to discuss at that time.”
A clear dismissal…exactly what he needed. But the disappointment he felt shook him. The ring on his left hand scraped against the table as he pushed himself to his feet, squeezing his finger painfully. With his good hand, he reached across and shook hers, resisting the urge to pull her toward him. “Don’t put in any overtime on my account, Piper.”
Her pointed chin came up. For a second, he thought he’d hit a nerve, then she smiled. “Blythe wants your business, sir, and so do I.”
IAN STOPPED by Edmund’s office to thank him for the tour, then exited the building and exhaled noisily. What a morning…and what a woman. He felt strangely drained and exhilarated at the same time—he couldn’t remember a similar experience. It must be the altitude or the humidity or something environmental, he decided. Indeed, the rain had moved on, taking the clouds, but leaving a blanket of the most cloying humidity Ian had ever endured—and it was barely midmorning.
He loosened his tie, snagging the expensive silk with the increasingly irritating ring. Biting back a curse, he yanked the tie out of his shirt collar and stuffed it in a pocket, then slung his jacket over his shoulder. He fingered the heavy gold band and removed fuzz and fibers from the prongs of the setting, which had accumulated from getting caught on every fabric surface he came in contact with.
Frustrated anew at the way it weighed down his hand, he tried to twist the ring into a more comfortable position, but he could barely move it. Damn, it was tight! How on earth did one get used to wearing such an encumbrance? A frown pulled at his mouth. Of course, getting used to the ring was undoubtedly a negligible exercise compared to getting used to having a woman around permanently. Day in, and day out. N
ight after night, year after year, decade after decade…
Ian shivered in the Southern heat and shook off the disturbing line of thought. He had the rest of the day free, and intended to relax. Chicago, Meredith and his decision to accept or reject her proposal were far, far away.
Retracing his steps through the parking lot, he chuckled, remembering the morning’s events. Piper Shepherd had turned out to be the most entertaining person he’d met in a long time, although he felt relatively sure she wouldn’t take that as a compliment. Thoughts of her gamin good looks and slim figure taunted him, but this had happened to him once before. Ten years ago a woman he’d been dating had suddenly pressed him for a commitment. In his immaturity, he’d panicked and picked up the next attractive woman who had crossed his path, effectively ruining a perfectly good relationship. No, this time he was determined to make up his mind about his future without the distraction of a comely stranger.
He climbed into his rental sports car and headed toward the little motel where he’d registered last night. Funny how one’s attitude affected their perception of day-to-day events. Last week, being cooped up in a tiny room without cable news or an extra phone jack for his laptop computer would have driven him nuts, but now…now he hadn’t the slightest urge to retrieve messages which had undoubtedly piled up in his absence.
But old habits were hard to break, and he was waiting for word from a fellow restaurateur, Benjamin Warner. Together they were purchasing an antebellum house in Savannah, Georgia, and turning it into a Southern diner. Their offer had been accepted, and Ian had overnighted his friend the signed papers for the closing. He called his message service and sat poised by the phone with a pad of paper, dialing his way through two dozen messages.
The next to last message was from his partner, Ben, explaining the Savannah deal had fallen through because of site-restoration restrictions—they’d have to wait another eighteen months before appearing before the preservation board. Extremely disappointed, Ian phoned Ben and told him they’d keep their eyes open for another opportunity. He also checked in with his assistant, dictated a quick memo and returned three e-mail messages.
Manhunting in Mississippi Page 5
