Easy Bake Lovin'

by Maggie Wells

  “Pardon me,” she said, raising her voice enough to cut through the remaining chatter. The murmur of conversation died as she flashed her Joker smile again. “Hello, and thank you for coming out to support the next mayor of our great city!”

  She touched a hand to her stiff blondish-brown hair as a smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. Clearly shaken by the lack of enthusiasm, she gripped the microphone as if she were about to rip it from the stand and bust out a few lines of hairband rock.

  “Thank you,” she repeated, as if the clapping hadn’t already died out.

  Mike felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman, but there was something sharp in her expression. Something that warded off an excess of warm-fuzzies. Frankly, she looked like she’d just as soon mow half the room down with an Uzi given half a chance.

  “On behalf of the whole Carson family, Gerald and I would like to thank you all for coming out tonight,” she said, her words were gracious, even if her smile came across as slightly maniacal.

  Gerald and I. The turn of phrase rang in his head for a moment. His head jerked as realization struck home.

  “Whoa. Meredith Carson,” he murmured, finally placing the oddly altered face of the city’s former first lady.

  A woman standing near him tittered. “Sort of.”

  “Not many original parts left there,” another chimed in.

  Ignoring the running commentary, he focused all his attention on the woman at the mic. Enhanced or not, she bore little resemblance to her son. Young Gerry was a replica of his father, right down to the razor-sharp part in his hair. Narrowing his eyes, Mike scanned the clump of hangers-on surrounding the candidate as he moved steadily toward the stage. He spotted Gerald Carson Sr. shaking hands with a slick-looking guy who also looked familiar.

  Flipping through his mental Rolodex, he landed on the photo James had included in the security briefing. Connection made, he checked the face against the reels of news footage playing in his head. Matthew Mulligan. The city’s self-proclaimed kingmaker.

  As Mrs. Carson continued extolling the virtues of her golden boy, Gerald Sr. spun away from Mulligan and froze when he spotted someone lurking in the shadows beside the stage. Mike’s senses went on high alert. He thumbed the mic button in his sleeve. “Who has a check on stage left?”

  A crackle popped in his ear, then Colm’s gruff voice came through clear. “I’m moving over there. What are you seeing?”

  “Nothing. Looked like Senior saw something he didn’t like.” He shifted his way through the crowd gathering at the foot of the stage. “Anything odd over there?”

  A long minute passed before Colm answered. “I don’t see anything weird. A few people around the steps, but I think they all belong there.”

  The audience began to applaud enthusiastically as Meredith Carson pivoted away from the microphone and held a welcoming hand toward the stairs. A curvy brunette in a dark dress climbed the steps ahead of Gerald Carson Sr., but Mike didn’t pay much attention. His focus was on the candidate.

  Mrs. Carson reclaimed her spot at the microphone, basking in the waves of adoration she had obviously missed in the years since her husband had been ousted from the mayor’s office. “We’re so thankful for all of you,” she cooed to the crowd, pressing her hands over her chest. “So, so grateful.”

  The applause continued. So did the stream of people edging their way onto the stage. The brunette moved toward the rear of the crowd. Unlike all the others jockeying for position, she seemed to want to avoid the spotlight. Her reticence made her infinitely more intriguing than the dozens of so-called dignitaries Mrs. Carson seemed hell-bent on introducing to the crowd one by one.

  He was moving closer to the stage to get a better look when a wall of hoots and applause rose from behind him and the crowd pushed forward. Mike caught the edge of the stage mid-thigh. He grunted and pitched forward as the sea of political junkies surged like a mosh pit.

  Gerry Jr.’s thanks boomed from the speakers. The woman next to Mike squealed and jiggled like a teenybopper, her bony elbow jabbing him in the ribs. Twisting away from Gerry’s groupie, he sidled toward the far end of the stage. Heart pounding, he looked up to find the woman who’d been hiding in the shadows staring at him, her face pale and blank. And all too familiar.

  “Thank you so much for coming out tonight. Your support means so much to Cara and me.” Gerry pulled his perfect blond wife close to his side.

  “Dad and Mom, of course,” Gerry added, gesturing to his beaming parents.

  The applause continued, unabated, but with fractionally less enthusiasm. The brunette’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something to him.

  Mike stared at the vision in the shadows, his mind whirring.

  Gerry Carson’s smile widened as an older woman handed over a picture-perfect blond boy dressed in a tiny suit. “My son, Trey.”

  The crowd cooed and crooned, chuckling as the toddler pressed his hands over his ears and buried his face in his father’s shoulder. Mike sought the spot where the woman had been standing, but she was gone. Puzzled, he scanned the assembly on the stage, then checked the stairs on the far end, hoping to catch sight of her again.

  “And last, but never, ever least, my sister, Georgianna,” Gerry called to the crowd. “The sweetest chef in town.”

  Mike’s head snapped around.

  Sure enough, the man at center stage hugged the tiny brunette with one arm.

  Mike’s tiny brunette.

  The woman Gerry Carson called Georgianna, but Mike called Georgie.

  The sweetest chef in town.

  Chapter 8

  Mike stared at the stunning woman standing beside the guy most likely to be their next mayor. Georgie. He still couldn’t believe the polished, elegant woman standing there in the spangled blue dress was Georgie. His Georgie. Georgianna Walters was actually Georgianna Carson. Their future mayor’s sister.

  Where the hell did the Walters thing come from? Why would she use a fake name?

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  Mike jumped and whirled, but he didn’t recognize any of the people around him. He realized with a jolt Colm’s question had come through the earpiece. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess so.” Georgie gave a quick, saucy wave, then wiggled out of her brother’s grasp.

  Silence crackled over the channel. By the time the beep of a walkie-talkie transmitter cut in on the frequency, Georgianna Carson had faded into the shadows beyond the spotlight once again.

  “Is who? Where?” James asked.

  “I believe our favorite X-rated baker is on stage,” Colm informed their partner.

  The radio bleeped again. James’s voice cut through the buzzing in Mike’s head. “Who? What?”

  A couple other guys chimed in, wanting to confirm if the person of interest they were discussing was the babe in the shimmery blue dress. Mike cut in.

  “Nothing. No one. Colm thought he saw his high school prom date,” he improvised. “The music is starting. Things are about to get moving. Let’s stay on our toes and keep this line clear.”

  The scrum on the stage was starting to dissipate. Like every other person in the room, he pushed toward the stairs at the opposite end. Unlike the others, his quarry wasn’t the candidate. Shouldering his way through the crush, he circled around to come at the stairs from behind the stage.

  Georgie was one of the last to slink out from the gloom left in the wake of the spotlights. He moved into position beside the staircase, then offered his hand to assist her. Holding the skirt of her dress with one hand, she favored him with a world-weary smile as she placed her hand in his.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she said sardonically.

  Mike’s gaze dropped to the sexy-as-sin shoes she wore as she took each step with deliberate care, but he said nothing until she was safely on the ground. Snaking an arm around her waist to be sure she
couldn’t bolt, he leaned in close and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear.

  “Fancy finding out the woman you’ve been sleeping with isn’t exactly who she said she was,” he said, his voice gruff with indignation.

  Apparently, he touched a hot spot. “I am exactly who I said I was. Am,” she amended quickly.

  He steered her away from the crowd and toward a deserted corner behind the stage. “Georgianna Walters?”

  She slipped out of his hold and squared to face him, two splotches of color riding high on her cheeks. “Georgianna Walters Carson.” She raised imperious eyebrows. “I opted not to associate the family name with my business. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  Mike looked away. The longer he looked into those smoke-gray eyes, the faster his exasperation evaporated, and he wasn’t quite ready to let the subject go yet. Even if what she said made perfect sense.

  “Some party, huh?” There was an edge to her voice. “Too bad you couldn’t come with me.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t you have a work thing tonight?”

  He stared at her, flabbergasted she was turning the tables on him. “I did. I do.” Frustrated, he rolled his shoulders, then showed her the wired earpiece in his ear. “I’m working now.”

  “Not anymore,” Colm said, brusquely.

  Once again, Mike checked over both shoulders. This time, he spotted his friend standing a few feet away. Their eyes met and Colm tapped his own earpiece.

  Mike cringed as he touched his own, wondering exactly what he had said and how much the whole crew had heard. He hoped he hadn’t said anything…incriminating. Either for his clients or himself.

  “You’re off duty. Looks like we’ve got things under control,” Colm said firmly.

  Without a second thought for the job, or even thanking his friend for his consideration, Mike pulled the earpiece from his ear and reached for the transmitter clipped to his belt to switch off the microphone. He lifted a hand in thanks to his friend, and to his surprise found Colm and Georgie exchanging friendly waves. A scalding spurt of jealousy shot like a geyser from his gut. Then, he remembered Colm had met with Georgie for the initial client interview.

  He squelched the urge to deck his friend. He probably would have missed anyway, as he was unable to tear his eyes off the woman currently inciting these internal riots. “Georgie.”

  Her name was all he could manage, because his brain was too muddled. She was here, of all places, at a political party. A party for her brother. Their biggest client. The guy running for the city’s highest office.

  More disturbing, she didn’t look like Georgie. At least, not the Georgie he was accustomed to seeing. This polished, poised version of the woman he knew was compounding his confusion. After all, he didn’t simply know Georgie, he knew her intimately. But he’d never seen her like this. Sans hardware, crazy hair colors, and combat boots. This elegant, poised woman couldn’t possibly be the one who had taunted him with bungholes and voiced a desire to decorate his dick with runny green icing.

  “You, uh,” he stammered to a stop. “You look—”

  She quirked her ringless eyebrow. Stunned to discover the lack of jewelry did indeed detract from the impact, he groped for the descriptor least likely to cause offense.

  “You look beautiful,” he managed in a rush.

  “Thank you.”

  Her response was a few degrees cooler than usual, but he didn’t blame her. They were both out of sorts. A befuddled laugh escaped him as he recalled his bout of wishful thinking from a short time earlier. “Here I was, wishing I was at your party with you. I figured you were having a lot more fun.”

  “You don’t find being trapped in the fourth circle entertaining?”

  He frowned. “Fourth circle?”

  “Dante’s Inferno?” she clarified with a sweet smile. “I’m pretty sure the fourth circle of hell is the one for greed.”

  Mike barely mustered a blank stare. Frankly, he was still freaking out. She was here. And she was part of one of Chicago’s most prominent and powerful families. He wasn’t feeling prepared for esoteric literary banter. A waiter with a tray filled with champagne flutes wandered in their direction, and Georgie hailed him with a flick of her finger. Her chin raised in clear defiance, she lifted two glasses from the tray with a murmured thanks. She offered one to him, and Mike realized he’d left his glass of fake booze somewhere or other.

  “Take this,” Georgie urged. “I have a feeling we’re both going to need some fortification.”

  He took the flute and tipped its entire contents into his mouth. “Georgianna Carson,” he gasped as the wine pooled hot in his belly.

  She rolled her eyes, and he saw his Georgie again. Even if she was wearing a fancy dress and no extraneous jewelry. “Actually, my name is legally Walters. I changed it to save everybody involved the headaches.”

  “You didn’t mention you were related to the Carsons.”

  The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could recapture them. Of course she hadn’t mentioned her famous relations. They’d been too busy having relations to exchange more than the most pertinent details. The lips he’d kissed dozens of times twisted into a sarcastic pinch.

  “We haven’t exchanged a lot of personal history,” she said with a pointed glare.

  All too aware he was falling ass over ears into the shit, he set the empty champagne flute onto the edge of the stage. Drawing a breath, he ran his hand over his face in hopes of erasing the last five minutes.

  “I’m sorry.” Having been married for most of the last decade, he learned leading with those two words opened a lot of closed doors. “I’m just… I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I got that.”

  Short answers. Lips still sort of pursed. Beautiful gray eyes dark and stormy-looking. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. He needed to adjust if he ever wanted to get a taste of her again.

  “Let me start over?”

  “Sure. Do over. Hit me with your best shot.”

  “Hello, Georgie, you look gorgeous.”

  “Oh, good opener.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “I also want to say you don’t look like you, but that would probably sound bad since I said you look gorgeous, right?”

  Again, the unfettered eyebrow lift and pursed lips. “Right.”

  Frankly, the prim lip pursing bit kind of did things to him. The Ferrari-red lipstick was tempting, but the glimmer in her eyes tripped his trigger. Still, he hadn’t gotten past the apology stage yet. “I don’t mean it that way.”

  “Yes, but I like to watch you squirm.”

  He smiled at her honesty. “Well, you always look good to me, but a week has passed since you kicked me out, and I’m weak.”

  “Ooh. Admission of vulnerability. I like where this is heading.”

  “I can’t stop staring at you. You look…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure your dress probably looked nice and conservative on the hanger, but on you it’s…incredible.”

  “Oh, so much better,” she purred, inching closer to him. “Missed me, have you?”

  “I have.”

  She gave him a lopsided smirk. He’d only called and texted multiple times since she kicked him to the curb.

  “You look pretty handsome yourself,” she said flirtatiously. “The Secret Service look suits you. Pun intended.” He chuckled, and she placed her hand on his arm. “So, you’re working here tonight?”

  “We have a contract with your brother. Mainly security and monitoring for campaign headquarters, but we’re also supplying some bodies for public events like this,” he explained.

  “Wow. Nearly three million people in this city. Bound to happen, right?”

  He digested the irony. “The conflicts of interest are mind-boggling.”

  Worry puckered her forehead, but her face cleared almost immediatel
y. Those bright red lips stretched into a full, inviting smile. She smoothed a hand over her dress. As if she needed to draw any more attention to how the fabric clung to every one of those delectable curves.

  “Right, but none of those conflicts are as dangerous as this dress, right?”

  “Nothing on earth is as dangerous as you in that dress.”

  She leaned in to whisper in his ear, and he caught the familiar scent of her. Shampoo. Sugar. Sex. God, he’d missed her.

  “Dance with me.”

  He froze. Every—absolutely every—muscle in his body grew tight. “Huh?”

  “Dance with me,” she repeated, drawing away, but taking him by the hand as she led the way into an open spot on the dance floor.

  Slowly he came to himself. Sometime, in those fleeting minutes, the band had reformed and expanded. Now sprawling across the dais, they launched into a Sinatra standard. A few intrepid dancers were attempting to take the parquet floor from the hangers-on. Mike scoured the area for any sign of Georgie’s relatives. Brother. Mother. Legendary father notorious for crushing his rivals into gritty bits of Windy City pavement.

  He didn’t spot any of them, but he did sight James and Colm huddled together near one of the exit doors. James shot a glance at the spot he and Georgie vacated and straightened. Mike hadn’t been a math major, but he was pretty sure they’d put one and one together and were talking about him. Them. Were they freaking out as much as he was? Would they have been so psyched for him to bang their friendly, neighborhood baker if they’d been aware of her family connections?

  “Mike?”

  The questioning tenor in Georgie’s voice jerked him into the here and now. She’d stopped in the center of the dance floor, her fingers wound tight around his, her expression open and hopeful. And so beautiful, looking directly at her made his chest seize. He’d missed her. Wanted to touch her. Hold her. Dance with her.