by Natasha Tate
Whether his response to her was rational or not hadn’t mattered. He’d liked that she wasn’t one of those obsequious employees who kowtowed to his every whim and was too afraid of him to speak their mind. She’d intrigued him.
Colette had refused his request for an evening out, of course, even after he’d told her who he was.
“Why not?” he’d asked, flashing the trademark grin that always softened women into compliance. “Rumor has it I’m a pretty decent date, I can converse with the best of them, and I kiss like the very devil himself.”
Her stern mouth had twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “So I’ve heard.”
“Because you were asking about me?” he’d teased, feigning shock. “Oh, sweet, you could have come directly to the source. I’d have answered all your questions firsthand.”
Her smile had bloomed, transforming her face and taking his breath away. “Not a chance,” she’d answered. “I’ve been warned about you.”
“Me?”
“You’re a player,” she’d said without hesitation. “And I’m to avoid you at all costs.”
“You don’t strike me as the type who avoids anything simply because of its reputed risk.”
She’d gestured toward her deflated desserts. “Those soufflés are like the women foolish enough to succumb to your charm. They ride high on the thrill for a while, but they always end up falling. I suspect, with you, the fall comes sooner than later. So, no, thank you. I’m flattered, but no.” And with that she’d turned back to her work as if he hadn’t even been there.
It had taken him another three weeks to catch her in a moment’s weakness and change her mind. After their first dinner together it had taken another month of wooing before he’d been allowed his first glimpse behind the walls she’d built between herself and the world. But he’d persevered.
After what had felt like decades of concerted effort, he’d finally slipped beneath her bristly resolve and unearthed her buried layers of humor and softness. He’d coaxed her into relaxing, into loosening all that lovely blond hair and laying down that arsenal of emotional weapons she’d spent a lifetime collecting.
Imagining her long, sleek body wrapped around his had fueled his patience for months. And when she’d finally, finally surrendered her virginity to him, it had been as if all his wildest fantasies had come to fruition.
The final two months of their affair had been an explosive coming together that made all his previous experiences with women pale by comparison. When she hadn’t been busy crafting magic in his hotel’s kitchen they’d spent every minute together, exploring each others’ bodies, steeping themselves in erotic pleasure, gorging on her culinary creations and hiding away in various Whitfield properties across Europe.
And then he’d returned from Paris, determined to convince her to stay, only to find her gone. Vanished. He’d spent four days trying to contact her, leaving messages on her phone and in her email inbox. After she’d disconnected her number, he’d discovered that she’d paid her month’s rent in full, packed up and left with no forwarding address.
He had never been rejected before, and her unexpected departure had stunned the hell out of him. He’d told her to wait until he came home from Paris, to give them a chance to work things out. And yet she’d left anyway.
He hadn’t been prepared for the pain of it, for the searing, inescapable truth of her rejection. His family had never made any secret of their hatred for him, but he’d been able to discount their opinion. They could rot in hell for all he cared. He didn’t need them. But somehow, without even realizing it, he’d come to depend on Colette and the way she made him feel.
Finding her gone and knowing he wasn’t good enough for her had hurt like hell. But a couple of days later his pain had transformed to anger. Who did she think she was?
She was the one who’d made a mistake, rejecting him. He didn’t need her. He’d just been momentarily blinded. He didn’t need feelings that derailed him from the things that were important. Feelings that made him lose focus. So he’d moved on. He’d thrown himself back into work and the singles’ scene without looking back.
With a different woman on his arm every weekend, he’d had no time to even think about Colette. No time to nurse his wounded pride. But lately it had felt like he was merely going through the motions. Putting on a show and keeping up appearances. Catching any woman he wanted had become too predictable. Too boring. Even the thrill of the chase had begun to pall.
Until now.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed his impulsive reaction to Colette’s unexpected reappearance in his life. Had he learned nothing?
He told himself he must be some sort of masochist to pursue her again. Why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? Why couldn’t he maintain the professional distance he’d claimed to want?
He tried to tell himself it was about unfinished business, about proving to her that it was he who held the upper hand. She was simply a loose end, a question whose answer had eluded him for far too long. Once he figured her out, determined what made her tick, he’d be able to fit her into the neat little box he’d fashioned for her and never look back again.
Yes. That was it. She was a loose end that simply needed tying up. He was satisfying his curiosity and putting the past to rest. That was all.
Confident that he’d made sense of his own reactions, he strode back toward the stage to collect his briefcase.
He’d made it only halfway when the door slammed open, startling him and drawing his attention back to the entrance of the conference room.
Colette entered on a gust of outrage and flung the door shut behind her, her freckled skin flushed a distressed apricot hue and her hazel eyes snapping with autumn fire. She stalked toward him, her fury a living, breathing entity between them, and he instinctively braced for her attack.
She stopped short of slapping him, though her fists were knotted at her thighs and her glare could have melted glass. “Don’t you ever kiss me like that again,” she ground out, her nostrils flaring with the edict. “I’m over you. Done. Finished. And I don’t appreciate you acting like there’s something between us when there’s not.”
It had been so long since she’d scolded him, it made him want to storm her defenses just to remind her that her weapons wouldn’t work against him. Had she forgotten he always won? That they both always won? It had been too long since he’d gone head to head with Colette, too long since he’d blurred the battle lines with kisses and touches and soft murmured words.
Looking at her now, he felt the same rush of arousal he’d always felt, the same fevered need to draw her out of her shell. But he concealed his reaction with a careless shrug and a half-smile. “I’m not going to apologize for something we both wanted.”
“I didn’t want you to kiss me,” she said in a sharp voice. “I don’t want anything from you beyond employment. I thought I made that very clear.”
He dragged his eyes away from her heaving breasts, those magnificent breasts that made him want to compose sonnets and slay dragons when he should be focused on keeping his distance. “Then why did you kiss me back?” he asked in his most reasonable tone of voice. And why did he have to fight the irrational, inconvenient urge to haul her into his arms and kiss her into soft, willing compliance again?
Her lies compressed into a firm white line as she grappled with the truth of his statement. “You caught me off guard,” she finally said.
Maybe it was her wide bronze eyes, wounded and vulnerable despite her outward fire, or maybe it was the hint of worry that notched lines between her golden brows. Maybe it was the determined seam of her lush mouth, a mouth that should have been lax and curved with sensual pleasure. Whatever it was, it fired a fierce compulsion to take her to his bed and have his wicked way with her. “Maybe you caught me off guard, too.”
Colette opened and then closed her mouth. It was the first time he’d seen her speechless, and it was surprisingly satisfying.
“
You have to admit you were just as curious as I,” he said, crossing his arms beneath his ribs and leaning back against one of the meeting chairs. “With the way we left things, it’s only natural to wonder.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” she claimed as her gaze slid away from his.
He felt the smile dent his cheek. “You always were a terrible liar.”
“Fine,” she admitted with an irritated flare of nostril. “We were curious and now we know. But it can’t happen again. Ever. Understood?”
“Perfectly,” he agreed easily.
She glared at him, her expression telegraphing an intoxicating combination of reluctant arousal and suspicion. “I don’t want to speak with you about our past, I don’t want to kiss you, and I certainly don’t want to sleep with you again,” she said, her eyes flashing with fierce heat. “Are we clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you agree to minimize the time we spend together?”
He held her gaze for a silent beat, and then dipped his attention to her mouth and breasts for the faintest flicker of time before returning. “Don’t fret, sweet. I have no plans to join you in your bed.”
Color seeped into her cheeks. “Good.”
Unless, of course, you beg to join me in mine.
Three short days later, after a frenzy of meetings and discussions about renovations and new directions, Colette approached Doux Rêves to find Stephen alone, awaiting her arrival. Dressed in another sleek business suit, this time in an espresso silk almost as dark as his hair, he’d foregone his typical tie. The hint of informality lent him a dangerous edge of sex appeal and made him look incongruously male against the whimsical backdrop of a French bakery.
Her steps slowed reflexively, but she firmed her resolve and forced her feet back to their initial pace. He’s just your employer now. Nothing more. “I thought I was meeting the contractor today,” she said as soon as she reached him, a frisson of nervousness making her voice come out less steady than she’d intended.
“We had an electrical emergency on the eighth floor,” he said. “But I have an interior decorator I’d like you to meet instead.”
Colette scanned the dark interior of the bakery and its visible slice of kitchen, finding only shadowed booths, display cases and stacks of dishes. “Where?”
He tossed her a carnal glance that made her skin bloom with heat. “My office.” “What about Henri?”
“I sent him to meet with some new dry goods suppliers to see if he could negotiate better prices.”
Knowing full well that Henri would fight every design idea they generated in his absence, she said, “He won’t like being left out of the discussion.”
“I know. Masters told me as much. But he also told me that once you’re on board you’re very good at convincing him to come around. I thought we could discuss the changes I envision before Henri has a chance to argue against my suggestions.”
An alliance with Stephen, no matter how innocuous it might appear on the surface, did not feel at all safe. “I’m not comfortable with the mediator role,” she told him, squaring her shoulders and meeting his eyes with a confidence she didn’t feel. “Not with everything else changing as much as it is.”
A cocked brow challenged her concerns. “You mediated for Masters.”
“Yes. But you’re not Bill,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” Stephen said in a silky voice, ushering her forward with a gentle press of his palm against her lower spine. “Come. It won’t take long at all, and then you’ll be free for the remainder of the day.”
She lurched forward, away from the burning heat of his touch.
“You can handle a meeting in my office, can’t you?” he asked, his mouth crooked with the challenge.
“Of course,” she said, feeling foolish for her reaction even as her pulse quickened against her throat. She strode toward the administrators’ elevator with a brisk, professional clip. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying on a simple business conversation with you.”
He matched her pace and she felt his heated gaze slide over her profile. “It’s not the conversation I’m worried about. It’s the location,” he said with a knowing smile. “You remember, don’t you, how we used to make love in my London office nearly every workday afternoon?”
“No,” she snapped. “I don’t.” Even as she feigned immunity to his presence, her body betrayed her lie. Her skin still tingled from his innocuous touch upon her back and her breath felt perilously shallow. Not that she couldn’t fake calmness with the best of them.
They continued in silence while her pulse picked up speed. Drawing in a deep breath, she braced herself for the onslaught of memories that were sure to come.
Stephen swiped his key and the wood-paneled doors of the elevator slid open silently. “After you,” he said, extending his right arm.
Being careful not to touch him, she stepped into the elevator and immediately turned to face the panel of buttons. How many times had he summoned her to his office under the pretext of some business concern, only to devour her mouth and body the moment the elevator doors closed? And how many times had she welcomed him, launching herself into his arms, winding her legs about his waist, while he pleasured her against the elevator wall? Heat coursed through her at the thought, and she forced herself to remain utterly still as his hot regard against the side of her face sent awareness winnowing through her veins.
You can do this. Just don’t look at him. Don’t breathe.
The elevator’s chime signaled their arrival and her breath escaped in a rush. Before he could say a word, or touch her, she bolted out into the new office space that he’d claimed as his own. She heard his small huff of laughter behind her before he stopped at his secretary’s desk.
“Has Ms. Turner arrived yet?” he asked the older woman, who’d dressed in serviceable tweed despite the early summer heat.
“No. She called to say she was running a few minutes late,” she answered. “Shall I try to reschedule?”
“No. There’s no rush,” he said as he strode into the spacious office that overlooked Central Park and shut the door.
“It looks like we have a few minutes to ourselves before Ms. Turner arrives,” he told her. He joined her at the window. “Can I get you something to drink while we wait?”
Colette swallowed unsteadily. The room was suddenly hot despite its subtle current of air conditioning. “No, thank you.
I’m fine.”
His posture tugged his taupe shirt taut against the muscled plane of his chest and it reminded her of how much taller and broader he was than she. Of how much warmer his skin had always been. “You seem a little tense,” he observed.
“I’m not.” Standing so close, she could smell him, and she fought the urge to simply close her eyes and inhale large draughts until her lungs filled. His scent put any delicacy she’d ever made to shame: spicy, warm, and tinged with just a hint of salt and musk, it made her want to lick him. To taste him and steep herself in all the lovely flavors of his skin. And, even as she told herself not to notice, she was excruciatingly aware of the tanned wedge of flesh at his exposed throat. How many times had she nuzzled that transition from chest to neck, tracing his beautiful, scented musculature with her lips and tongue?
“Are you sure?” he asked. His gaze crinkled with subtle amusement as he surveyed her hot face. “Because your face is a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she blurted, trying to disguise her reaction to his nearness. “I just hate wasting time.”
“Because you have so many other things to do now that our kitchens are temporarily closed?” he said dryly.
She remained mutinously silent at that.
“After we meet with Ms. Turner, I’d like you to visit a few of our competitors’ bakeries with me this afternoon.” “What? Why?”
His smile seemed oddly parental. “I need to determine what works and what doesn’t here in New York. Since my frame of reference is European, the feedback of a local like yo
u would prove invaluable.” He pointed several blocks down to a neighboring hotel, and then shifted his gaze to hers. “I’ve heard Antoine’s is particularly good, and I thought we’d start there first.”
She bit her lip, her focus flitting from Antoine’s to his expectant face and then back again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” he insisted. “Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of our competition is the best way to build a strategy for success.”
“Yes. But …”
“But?”
She lifted her gaze to find his brow arched in amusement, and felt her cheeks heat anew. “But we agreed to minimize the time we spend together. Remember?”
His mouth crooked in a smile that managed to both scold and tease. “Are you telling me you can’t separate your role as my head pastry chef from your former role in my bed while we conduct a bit of hotel business?”
Chastened, she felt her blush burn even hotter. “No.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll start with Antoine’s just as soon as we’re finished here.”
A knock against the door kept her from protesting further.
They turned to find Stephen’s secretary at the door, holding it wide while a stunning brunette in a maroon suit and four-inch heels minced her way into the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her eyes sweeping over Stephen with a hungry gleam. Petite to the point of being delicate, the woman carried a large box filled with fabric swatches, paint wheels, wallpaper samples, and curling carpet squares. “You know how traffic is.”
“Of course.” Stephen strode forward to relieve the gorgeous designer of her unwieldy burden, and offered her a smile that made Colette’s heart twist.
“Thank you,” the woman gushed, moving to squeeze Stephen’s bulging biceps. “You’re always such a gentleman, Mr. Whitfield.”
“Ms. Turner, I’d like you to meet Ms. Huntington, one of Doux Rêves’s managers.”
Jealousy she had no right to feel roared within Colette’s chest, but she donned a welcoming smile and moved to offer her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “And, please, call me Colette.”
