by Maggie Wells
“It’s not a porn bakery,” Mike insisted, a defensive note creeping into his tone. “She sells erotic baked goods.”
James’s easy smile morphed into a lecherous grin as he pushed away from the doorjamb. “Erotic baked goods, huh? Sounds like someone got a little turned on. Tell me, how hot was the heat in Ms. Walters’s kitchen?”
“I dropped off the proposal. I didn’t even see the kitchen.” He sounded snappish even to his own ears.
The tiny lift in James’s eyebrows said he’d noticed the bite in his tone, too. “Everything okay?”
Trying for nonchalance, Mike let one shoulder rise and fall. “I assume so. She hasn’t called to ask anything or schedule an install. If we don’t hear from her by the end of the week, I’ll follow up.”
James nodded. “Hey, can you keep the twins for me Friday night? I have a hot date and possibly an even hotter prospective client.”
Mike wasn’t surprised by the request to babysit. They were all single fathers with limited support networks. If Colm had been around, he would have collected Mike’s kids since they went to the same daycare he used for his son, Aiden. But Colm wasn’t there. And while James’s mother was willing to watch the twins during the workday, she refused to do overtime.
No one blamed her.
Mrs. Harper was getting on in years, and James had managed to sire a couple of redheaded hellions. Mike tried extra hard not to dwell on the fact that his very own sister, Megan, was their mother. The whole situation was a mess. His sister was so flaky, she made their own codependent alcoholic mother look steady as a brick.
Unable to fend off two bouts of familial guilt, he agreed to five hours of being quadruple-teamed by the under-four-foot set. “Sure. What’s going on?”
“This girl I’ve been talking to asked me if I want to go to some fundraiser thing with her. For Gerry Carson, the guy they’re saying is gonna be the next mayor.”
Mike gave a low whistle. “Aren’t you the fancy one?”
James brushed the commentary away with a wave. “She’s his cousin. Her dad and his brother were the sons of the guy who owned the stores.”
Mike nodded. Carson’s Clothiers had once been a terrifically successful chain of men’s clothing stores. Mere months after the patriarch’s death, the sons had cashed in by selling the brand to one of the national department stores and pursuing their own dreams. One became a philanthropist and staple on the local social scene. The other used his money to buy entry into city politics, where he’d reigned as mayor of their fair city for nearly two decades before being he wore out his political welcome.
Mike searched his mental database of who was who in town. “She’s Clark Carson’s daughter?”
James nodded. “Said something about Gerry getting ready to take a run at his daddy’s old job, but how he was worried about some of the more unsavory aspects of running a campaign.”
Mike huffed a sharp laugh. “As he should be.”
Gerald Carson Sr. was still a major influence in party politics. He hadn’t become one by winning friends. In fact, he’d made some rather ugly enemies over the years, and not all of them were as obvious as the drug lords and political action committees he’d challenged in his tenure. Still, he couldn’t be worse than old Fred Palmer.
Mike pulled a legal pad close and made a note. “Is Junior looking at personal or business security?”
“Both. I hope.”
Bobbing his head as he mulled the possibilities, Mike tapped the trackpad to wake his computer screen. “He might need both with all the enemies his father made.” This could be a big account for them—both in terms of money and prestige. “Sure, I’ll take the boys.” He swallowed hard at the prospect of chasing four kids for hours on end. “But you’d better land us something good, or I’m charging double the usual rate.”
James smirked. “The check is in the mail,” he called over his shoulder.
“No one uses checks anymore. Or mail,” Mike shouted as he heard the office door open and close.
The going rate was a million dollars cash. Per kid. And each one of them kept a running tab for the others. Mike happened to keep his on a spreadsheet. After adding the date and agreed fee under James’s column, he closed the spreadsheet and opened his search engine. Both branches of the Carson family were fixtures on the Chicago scene, but he didn’t feel up to speed on who all the players were. Nothing gave Mike as much peace of mind as a good dose of thorough research.
When he heard the door open again a minute later, he assumed James had forgotten something. “I do accept all forms of wireless money transfers, and you’re already in the hole about ten mill.”
“Ten mill?” a female voice answered. “Wow, I seem to remember the number on the last page of that proposal being a lot lower.”
Mike jumped to his feet so fast his chair shot back and he slammed his knee against the partially opened drawer. Torn between the urge to cuss and the desire to look cool, he failed at achieving either.
Georgianna Walters stood in his office doorway, looking like a cross between a WWII-era poster girl and a pixie. Her hair was a dark, rich brown now, with only the very ends tipped in bright blue. The loop through her eyebrow looked the same, but the tiny gemstone in her nostril sparkled aquamarine.
“Oh, uh…hi.”
Mike tried to straighten his leg, but his knee throbbed. If he didn’t stop staring, his knee wouldn’t be the only part below his waist demanding attention. The dress she wore was incredibly sexy. Pale blue, short, and flouncy. Cut almost like a little girl’s dress, but in a much slinkier fabric. He couldn’t help but wonder if Ms. Walters’s dress came with matching bloomers like the dresses he bought for Chrissie.
Dismissing the unquestionably perverted thought with a brisk shake of his head, Mike forced himself to pull his shit together. “Can I help you?” Realizing he sounded like a clerk in a store, he huffed off the question and hobbled out from behind his desk. “I mean, do you have questions about the proposal?”
She smiled and his step faltered. Lord, she had a gorgeous smile. Full lips curled and stretched, sleek and sinuous as a cat. She flashed sparkling white teeth so perfect they had to be the work of very expensive orthodontics. Mike ran his tongue over his own slightly inverted incisors, jammed his hands into his pants pockets, and stood rooted to the spot.
“I have a couple of quick questions before I sign.” She raised the pink bakery box clutched between her hands. “I also have cake.”
Mike fixated on the cake box because looking at her nearly made him drool. But what if she opened the box to reveal the Piece-a-ass cake? There was no way he could eat cake shaped like someone’s butt.
“Cake?” he repeated dumbly, gesturing for her to come into his office.
She passed in a swirl of swishy blue fabric. The delectable scent of bakery clung to her. He wondered if she smelled like vanilla all over. Or if the sugar-white skin below her earlobe would melt on his tongue.
Then she tripped. Not hard, but enough for his reflexes to prove their worth. He caught her arms and held firm, making sure she was steady again before releasing his grip on her soft, cool skin. Breathtaking heat raced through him.
Confused by his reaction to this somewhat strange stranger, he dropped his gaze to the floor. Big mistake. If he hadn’t looked down, he might not have noticed the shoes. Midnight blue patent leather with a strap circling her slender ankle. And heels high enough to give a man ideas. Very, very bad ideas. The kind of ideas involving the corner of his desk and checking to see if the sexy dress did in fact come with matching undies.
“I’m okay.”
Her quiet statement jerked him straight out of fantasyland.
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He dropped his hands. “Steady there, Speed Racer.”
The second the words of caution were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself. He said stuff like that to the
kids when they were running headlong into plate-glass windows. Not exactly a line a guy should use on a woman he entertained lurid thoughts about.
She amped her brilliant smile up a notch. “First day with the new feet.”
He chanced another glance at the feet in question. “Those are some shoes.”
“They’re new, too.”
Rubbing a hand across his chin, he tried to produce a suitably neutral compliment. “They’re…nice.”
She tilted her head to the side and eyed him speculatively. “They’re beautiful devices of torture, but as you can probably tell, I’m a very vain woman.”
“Are you?”
“It’s forty degrees out, and I’m not wearing a coat,” she explained.
Mike frowned as he added the tidbit of information to the tempting expanse of bare skin and came up blank-brained. Softly rounded arms with tantalizing hints of well-honed muscle. Shapely legs. The open toes on her skyscraper heels. Either she was indeed very vain, or she was a woman with a plan.
The thought had barely registered when she thrust the cake box into his chest. “Shall we?”
A thousand possibilities flittered through his brain at the simple prompt, but the answer to every one of them was a resounding Yes, so Mike didn’t see much point in dwelling on the details. He took the box from her hands, then gestured to a guest chair.
“We don’t usually see many clients here. Mostly we go out to people.” He set the box on the corner of the desk, floundering as he tried to think of all the things Rosie would say or do on those rare occasions. But watching Georgianna Walters cross one bare leg over the other made concentration nearly impossible.
“Coffee!” he blurted. When she gave a startled laugh, he gestured to the outer office. “Would you like some coffee?”
She shook her head, her smile subsiding into a faint curve of her lips. “No. Thank you.”
Mike stared down at her. How could he not? She was coatless and her skin glowed. Not with suntan, either real or fake, but something different. This was more of a sheen. Like she’d sprinkled herself with sugar or something. He wanted to run his fingers along the sharp line of her shinbone to see if she had. Or better, his tongue.
“You, um…” He hurried around to his side of the desk, hoping the barrier would allow him to recover at least a few of his wits. “You have questions?”
“Don’t you want to look at your cake?”
Mike froze. So not the question he expected. Or wanted. Casting a wary look at the box, he watched her with obvious trepidation. “I don’t know. Do I?”
Her laugh was husky and rich and wrapped around him like a velvet rope. “I promise you’re safe.”
Somewhat reassured, he slid one finger under the tape and released the lid. Inside was a small layer cake frosted in creamy white and decorated with clusters of tiny blue flowers. The cake was beautiful. A work of art. And had obviously taken quite a bit of time and effort.
“You made this for me?”
“Do you like it?”
Blinking away his surprise, he opened the sides of the box and carefully lifted the creation from its confines. Turning the cake from side to side, he admired the unexpected combination of artistry and precision. “This is beautiful. Incredible.”
“I was feeling fall-ish, so the sponge is a spice cake with walnuts.” She waited until he met her gaze before pushing on. “I hope you aren’t allergic.”
“No,” he replied, too stunned by the evening’s about-face to conjure much more than the bare facts. “Not allergic.”
“The erotic concoctions may be what set Getta Piece apart from a thousand other bakeries in the city, but, you see, Mr. Simmons, I’m not a one-trick pony.”
He set the cake on the center of his blotter, feeling chastened for his earlier wariness. “No. Clearly not.”
“I graduated second in my class at the culinary institute.”
Startled by her need to show off her bona fides, he dropped into his chair, but she carried on before he could stop her.
“I think the guy who edged me out was sleeping with the instructor, but I can’t prove anything.” The accusation shook a laugh from him. “After, I worked as pâtissière for Chefs Broussard and Gerrine here. I also spent a year in Paris working with Master Boulanger, Phillippe Duchamp.”
He didn’t recognize any of the names she dropped, but the confidence with which she listed her qualifications made it clear each step in her career should be considered a great accomplishment. “Wow.”
She smirked. “I know, you’ve never heard of any of them, but, trust me, they are some of the best.”
“I believe you.” He eyed the cake again. “This is beautiful. Almost too pretty to eat.”
“Its beauty is, this was made not only to be eaten, but enjoyed.” She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “You see, this is why I left all those pressure-cooker kitchens. I could make the most gorgeous desserts in the world, but I wasn’t enjoying the work, so I left and went out on my own.”
He wondered how she could possibly have made the transition from world-renowned kitchens to novelty bakery so easily. “And you enjoy your work now?”
“I love it,” she answered without hesitation.
He started slightly, taken aback by the unequivocal response. And more than a bit jealous of her confidence. He hadn’t been sure of anything for a very long time. Her self-assurance was admirable. And attractive. “Good for you.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement, then changed the subject so adroitly he couldn’t help but wonder how one managed to become so blatantly self-assured. “So, here are my questions.” She raised one slender finger. “Will you be the one working on my installations?”
Mike nodded. “Well, yes, I can. We usually kind of round robin the project-management piece. Most of the actual installation work is done by a company we subcontract with, but we supervise each aspect.”
“I want you.”
The plainspoken demand set off a nuclear reaction inside him, but he somehow managed to maintain his outward calm. “Did Colm offend you in some way?”
Georgie was quick to shake her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. I just want you to be my…contact.”
Frissons of heat and happiness zipped through his bloodstream. “Fine. I will be.”
She raised a second finger, the second knuckle wrapped in a brightly colored bandage. He recognized the cartoon character printed on the narrow strip and nearly groaned aloud. Princess Clarissa and her merry band of sycophants were a particularly touchy subject with him and his friends. A glimpse of the bandage woke the beast in his brain. The animated film’s lead song would be playing in a continual loop in his head for the rest of the day.
Oblivious to the damage she wrought, Georgie went on. “In that case, I want to include the storage and living areas. I agree I need surveillance cameras, but can we make them as unobtrusive as possible and cue them so they only run inside the bakery during the hours we are closed?”
The request surprised and confounded him. Deterrence was the main point of installing security cameras. If people bent on trouble couldn’t see them, they weren’t likely to change their plans. “Yes, but why?”
She shot him an amused look. “Would you have liked having your foray into the naughty bakery filmed?”
Mike wanted to say he wouldn’t have minded, but she was right. The possibility of being caught on tape might actually drive some business away. Rather than answering the challenge directly, he nodded. “We can do hidden cameras and set recording times.”
Georgie treated him to another one of her generous smiles. “Excellent.” She scooted to the edge of the chair and leaned forward. “Give me a contract to sign, and we’ll seal the deal with cake.”
Trying to ignore the way her dress rode inches higher on firm, pale thighs, he hit a key to wake his computer once
more. With a few clicks, he opened the contract he’d prepared the day he’d delivered the initial proposal. “Give me a minute to add some notes to this, and I’ll get the forms printed.”
“Take your time.” She slumped back in the chair without moving her bottom, causing the hem to slide higher still. Mike watched from under his eyelashes as she folded her hands over her stomach and settled in.
He tried not to think about those unnerving gray eyes on him as he typed in a few modifications to the contract and hit the button to send the document to the main printer. Not thinking about her eyes proved to be as difficult as not thinking about her hands. Over the past few days, he found it impossible to stop thinking about her at all.
He eyed the cake as he pushed back to rise. “I think Rosie keeps a knife and stuff in the kitchen. Be right back with those contracts.”
Glad for a chance to regroup, Mike gathered the documents from the printer and hurried into the storage room-slash-kitchenette at the back. They had a fridge and a microwave, but, truthfully, Rosie was the only one who ever used them. Most days, he, Colm, and James were busy with client meetings, installations, or making pitches to prospective clients. Truthfully, they all relished time away from the office. Lunch was often the only meal any of them ate that didn’t involve chicken tenders, macaroni, and intense negotiations.
A quick perusal of the drawers netted him a lethal-looking knife, some Power Ranger paper plates Rosie had procured for an impromptu birthday party they’d had for the twins, and exactly one plastic fork encased in packaging. The rest of the cutlery appeared to have been used—and presumably washed—but he couldn’t be sure. Snagging a roll of paper towels from the counter, he picked the cleanest-looking fork from the remainders and started back to his office.
He almost made it.
The front door swung open as he crossed the reception area, and a blond bullet shot straight for his legs.
“Daddy! Daddydaddydaddydaddy!”
He raised the hand holding the knife and other cake-related equipment high, but patted the wispy gold curls with the hand holding Ms. Walters’s contracts. “Hey, sweet pea.”
