The Sweetest Temptation

The Sweetest Temptation
Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Whitfield Brides series

You’ve met Ryan, Jeremy and Sheldon—the Blackstones of Virginia—and now it’s time to meet the Whitfields of New York. In this Arabesque trilogy, you will meet the wedding divas of Signature Bridals: Tessa, Faith and Simone Whitfield. These three women are so focused on their demanding careers that they’ve sacrificed their personal happiness. Within a year, though, each will encounter a very special man who will not only change them but change their lives forever.

In Long Time Coming, wedding planner Tessa Whitfield never imagined that opening the doors of Signature Bridals to Micah Sanborn would lead to their spending the next twelve hours together after a power outage hits her Brooklyn, New York, neighborhood. Her vow never to mix business with pleasure is shattered when the Brooklyn assistant district attorney offers Tessa an extraordinary friendship with a few special surprises that make her reevaluate everything she’s come to believe about love.

Wedding cake designer Faith Whitfield, who owns the fashionable Greenwich Village patisserie Let Them Eat Cake, has all but given up on finding her prince, and refuses to kiss another frog. But when she least expects it, she discovers love in the passionate embrace of pilot to the rich and famous, and modern-day knight-in-shining-armor Ethan McMillan in The Sweetest Temptation.

After a disappointing marriage and an ill-fated reconciliation with her high school sweetheart, floral designer Simone Whitfield wants nothing to do with men. She’s content to run her business, Wildflowers and Other Treasures, in the greenhouses on her White Plains, New York, property. In Taken by Storm, Simone witnesses an attack on a federal judge and suddenly finds her cloistered suburban life turned upside down when U.S. Marshal Raphael Madison from the Witness Protection Unit is assigned to protect her 24/7. Although they are complete opposites, Simone and Raphael come to share a heated desire and a love that promises forever.

Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers

For Sean D. Young—

The ultimate wedding planner diva

His left hand is under my head and his right arm embraces me.

—Song of Solomon 8:3

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

Faith Whitfield smiled at the doorman as he opened the rear door to the taxi and extended a hand. Grabbing her gloved hand, he helped her to her feet.

She’d come to record producer William “WJ” Raymond’s West End Avenue high-rise river-view apartment to prepare the dessert menu for his daughter’s engagement party. Tonight’s menu would differ from the traditional one because most of the candies, cookies, cakes and tortes would be made with chocolate. And those familiar with Savanna Raymond knew she was a diehard chocoholic.

It was January eighth, and the number of projects Faith had committed to had increased instead of slowing down as they usually did during the postholiday season. It wouldn’t have been a problem if Faith hadn’t signed a contract with a major publisher for a book featuring her cake designs.

She’d admitted to her cousins Simone and Tessa Whitfield that she was tired, but the truth was that she was beyond tired. She was worn-out, done-in and completely exhausted. Faith’s next projects included two cakes for afternoon and evening Valentine’s Day wedding receptions.

Her smile was still in place when she stood on the sidewalk under the maroon canopy. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said, reading the name tag pinned to his greatcoat.

The doorman touched the shiny brim of his cap. “You’re quite welcome, Miss Whitfield.”

His gaze lingered on her tall figure in a pair of jeans, low-heel boots and black wool wrap coat. He’d made it a point to remember the name of the incredibly beautiful dark-brown-skinned woman who’d come to see William Raymond. New York City luxury-apartment-building doormen were notorious gossips, and a housekeeper for the Raymonds had let it be known that Miss Whitfield had been hired to create a specialty wedding cake for their daughter’s Valentine’s Day wedding.

Thomas rushed to open the door to the lobby as Miss Whitfield strode by with an oversize black leather bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ll call to let someone know you’re on your way up,” he said to her as she walked past him.

Faith nodded, refusing to dwell on how long it would take her to bake and decorate a large heart-shaped chocolate and red currant torte for Savanna Raymond as she stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the penthouse. Her newly hired assistant, a recent graduate of a highly regarded New York City culinary school, had spent two days collecting and cleaning orange, bay, citrus and beech leaves, using them as templates for the chocolate leaves that would top the torte.

She’d baked everything, with the exception of the heart-shaped torte and chocolate-covered fresh fruits in her shop—Let Them Eat Cake—carefully packaging and labeling the contents before they were delivered to the Raymond residence the night before. The Raymonds had invited forty guests, and Faith had created a special gift for each: chocolate candies in edible boxes.

The door to the household staff entrance was open as Faith exited the elevator. A tall man standing a few feet away mumbled a greeting when he recognized her. He worked security for William Raymond.

A sensor set off a soft chiming as Faith walked through the door and into the stainless-steel kitchen reminiscent of those in restaurants or cooking schools. The Raymonds had employed a live-in chef who prepared gourmet meals for his employer and their guests. The smell of freshly brewed coffee reminded Faith that she hadn’t had her morning cup of coffee.

Placing her leather bag on a stool in the corner, she made her way through the kitchen to an area with walk-in closets to hang up her coat. Selecting a white tunic and toque from a supply stacked on a shelf in another closet, she covered her blouse and hair.

Returning to the kitchen, she opened the bag and took out a plastic container with the chocolate leaves and several others filled with sliced kumquat, kiwi, strawberries, mandarin oranges, star fruit and bananas. After a cup of coffee with a liberal splash of cream, Faith busied herself arranging the fruit on platters. She stirred a mixture of sugar crystals and sugar syrup until the soft icing was the consistency she sought for a fondant she planned to flavor with a rum extract. In the two hours it took for the fondant to dry, she mixed the ingredients for the torte and placed the cake in a preheated oven. Working nonstop, she coated the strawberries with fondant before dipping them into couverture, placing them on parchment paper to set. She repeated the exercise with the other fruit, sans the fondant.

It was late morning when Kurt Payton strolled into the kitchen. The tall, lanky chef had soulful blue-gray eyes that were mesmerizing. His natural culinary talent had flourished only after he’d completed an apprenticeship under the tutelage of a tyrannical master chef at a three-star Boston restaurant. Kurt had eventually set up his own catering business, but had given it up twenty-two years later to work exclusively for William and Linda Raymond.

The distinctive lines around Kurt’s eyes crinkled as he watched Faith Whitfield put the finishing touches on the torte. She’d spread a chocolate ganache over the top, sprinkled it with finely crumbled pistachio croquant, then topped it off with fresh raspberries on puffs of meringue.

“I bet you’ll never eat chocolate again,” he drawled lazily.

Faith looked up. A hint of a smile played at the corners of her generous mouth when she spied the chef in a white tunic, black pinstripe pants and a pair of black leather clogs. He’d concealed his wiry salt-and-pepper hair under a black bandanna.

“No lie, Kurt.”

“Are you finished here?” He wanted to start preparing for the party.

She nodded. “I will be as soon as I put these in the refrigerator.” She pointed to half a dozen parchment-lined trays filled with the fresh fruit confectionery. The chocolate-covered fruit were turned into candies because their natural sweetness harmonized well with the bitter chocolate when dusted with a sugar coating in the form of a fondant or the base of sweet almond paste.

Kurt moved over to the counter. He pointed to a tray. “What are these?”

“Kumquats. Take one and tell me if you like it.”

He picked up one without the grated pistachios, popping it into his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise as he chewed thoughtfully. “You used an almond paste and orange liquor. Now, that’s nice.”

She curtsied as if he were royalty. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as the ultimate compliment.”

Kurt waved a hand. “If I’d met you a couple of years ago I would’ve asked you to work with me. We would’ve been a dynamic duo.”

Faith lifted a tray and made her way to one of two walk-in refrigerators. “It wouldn’t have worked,” she said over her shoulder. “I prefer baking to cooking.”

“You would’ve been my pastry chef.” Kurt picked up two of the trays and followed her.

Faith pressed the foot lever on the refrigerator, and the door swung open. “I like working for myself.” She liked being her own boss even if it meant working long hours. It was much more gratifying because she set her own hours and earned much more than she could’ve working for someone else.

Kurt’s cell phone rang as he helped put the last tray into the refrigerator. Excusing himself, he walked out of the kitchen to answer the call as William Raymond III, affectionately called BJ, shuffled in drinking a bottle of beer.

Faith watched him out of the corner of her eye as she washed her hands in a sink. He had on a pair of baggy jeans and nothing else. It was obvious he worked out because there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his compact muscular frame. His shaved head, gold-brown coloring and trimmed mustache and goatee and strong features hinted of a sensuality that definitely wasn’t lost on the opposite sex.

“Waz-zup, boo?” BJ asked, angling his head and leering at Faith.

“Hello,” she answered as she dried her hands on a towel before retrieving her bag off the stool. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t his peer, and definitely not his boo.

“Where are you rushing off to?” he asked when she headed out of the kitchen.

Faith decided it best not to respond to his query as she went to get her coat. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when she found that BJ had come up behind her. Each time she moved, he also moved.

“Excuse me.”

He leaned closer, the stale odor of beer wafting over her face. “Excuse you for what?”

Her attempt to sidestep him was thwarted when he came face-to-face with her. “Please step back.”

A sneer pulled one side of his slack mouth downward. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a sexy-ass mouth?”

Faith knew physically she was no match for Billy Raymond, yet she didn’t want to give him the impression that she was afraid of him. She pushed against his solid chest. “Get out of my face!”

Propping an arm on the wall over her head, he dipped his head in an attempt to kiss her. She raised her hand at the same time an arm snaked around BJ’s throat and jerked him back.

“You heard the lady, junior,” crooned a soft male voice inches from his ear. “Get out of her face, and go sleep it off.” The man held out a hand. “Give me the beer.”

Billy’s bravado fled with the soft-spoken warning. He pushed the bottle into the outstretched hand, turned and made his way down the hallway.

Faith hadn’t realized how fast her heart was beating as she pulled off her cap and slumped against the closet door to collect her wits. She forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Cursing softly to himself, Ethan McMillan watched his godson’s retreat. Billy had begun acting out after his father ordered him back to New York from Florida. WJ had received a veiled death threat that targeted his son after WJ had signed a much-talked-about new artist to his label. However, Billy refused to allow his father’s bodyguards to monitor his every move, and the nineteen-year-old sought to punish WJ by openly smoking, drinking and now sexually harassing women.

The rumors spreading throughout the hip-hop community claimed that WJ had lured an up-and-coming hip-hop phenom away from a rival record label by offering him an unheard-of sum with perks usually reserved for multi-platinum-selling artists.

William Raymond, Jr., had made a name for himself as a maverick in the music industry when he set up his own label to compete with Sony, Atlantic and Columbia Records before he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday. In the two decades that followed, he’d signed artists whose debut albums went platinum while earning a Grammy for Producer of the Year three times. His prominence and wealth increased accordingly.

“Are you okay?” Ethan asked, turning around and looking at the woman for the first time. His eyes widened in astonishment as he stared at her. Although she hadn’t worn any makeup, he found her breathtakingly beautiful. Her flawless dark skin shimmered with a healthy glow. Her short hairstyle that wouldn’t have worked for most women was perfect for her. Her large eyes, tilting at the corners, were hypnotic, and her short straight nose complemented a pair of high cheekbones and small chin. His admiring gaze lingered on her lush parted lips.

Faith patted her chest in an attempt to calm herself. “Yes.” The word came out in a breathless whisper.

It was her turn to stare at the man who’d interrupted Billy Raymond’s unsolicited advances. He was tall, at least six inches taller than her five-eight height, and startlingly attractive. She wasn’t able to pinpoint his age, but his smooth tawny brown skin belied the profusion of gray in his close-cropped hair. His sparkling sherry-colored eyes reminded Faith of newly minted pennies. With his black suit, shoes, tie and white shirt, she wondered if he, too, was also a member of WJ’s security team.

“Are you certain?” Ethan asked. His deep voice was low, soothing.

Faith smiled. “Very certain.”

“Do you want me to speak to Mr. Raymond about his son?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I was just leaving.” She opened one of the closets, unbuttoned the tunic and dropped it and the toque into a large wicker basket. Less than a minute later she’d belted her coat around her waist and slung her bag over her shoulder.

Ethan reached for her elbow. “I’ll escort you downstairs.”

Faith met his steady gaze. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I believe it is necessary, Miss…”

“Faith Whitfield,” she supplied.

Ethan smiled, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes and dimples winking in his handsome face like thumbprints. He extended his hand. “Ethan McMillan.” He wasn’t disappointed when she placed her hand in his. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Tightening his gentle grip, he led her back through the kitchen to the elevator.

Faith nodded to the guard. He returned her nod with one of his own, and waved to Ethan.

“You can let go of my hand now,” Faith said softly once the elevator door closed behind them.

Releasing her hand, Ethan moved over to the opposite wall and pushed his hands inside the pockets of his trousers. “You’re a chef.” His question was more a statement.

“Actually I’m a pastry chef,” she corrected. Ethan smiled again, and Faith couldn’t believe how much the gesture transformed his face from stoic to irresistibly captivating.

“Yum, yum…the dessert lady. What did you make?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “A little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

Ethan’s sweeping raven-black eyebrows lifted slightly. “Are you always this mysterious?”

“No. It’s just that I’d like what I make to be a surprise.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone attending the party.”

His dimples winked again as Ethan lowered his head and stared at the toes of his highly polished shoes. “I suppose I’ll have to wait to be surprised just like everyone else.” The descent to the lobby ended and the elevator door opened with a soft swoosh. Cupping Faith’s elbow, he escorted her to the lobby. “Do you have a car?”

“No. I’m taking a taxi.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home.”

“Where’s home?” he asked.

“The West Village.” Normally she would’ve taken the subway downtown but not today. She wanted to go home and take a nap before tonight’s party.

“Where in the West Village?”

“Patchin Place.”

Ethan was familiar with the block of small, fashionable residences built in the mid-nineteenth century. He gestured to the doorman, who rushed over to the open the door. “Please hail us a taxi.” The light above the canopy came on as Faith and Ethan waited in the lobby.

A brilliant winter sun coming through the glass doors revealed what Faith hadn’t been able to discern in the penthouse’s artificial lighting. Ethan was even more attractive than he originally seemed. His silver-flecked hair afforded him an air of sophistication without adding age to his unlined face. Her breath caught for several seconds when he lowered his gaze to reveal the longest, thickest pair of eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man.

“What time are you coming back?” Ethan asked when the doorman’s shrill whistle signaled a passing taxi.

“I should be here around six-thirty.” The cocktail hour was scheduled for six and dinner at seven.

A streak of yellow skidded to a halt at the curb on West End Avenue as the doorman quickly opened the taxi door. Ethan escorted Faith to the taxi, waiting as she got in. Reaching into his pocket, he took a bill from a silver clip, and handed it to the cabbie.

“Take the lady to Patchin Place in the West Village.”

The address had barely left his lips when the cabbie took off in a burst of speed. Ethan stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the frigid air coming off the Hudson River. Emotions he hadn’t felt in years attacked him as he went back into the building, scowling. He’d thought himself immune to pretty faces, but it was obvious that his conversation with Faith Whitfield had proven otherwise. His frown deepened when he recalled the image of Billy harassing Faith. Once the teenager sobered up, he planned to have a man-to-man talk with his young cousin.

Faith leaned forward in her seat. “You can let me out here,” she told the taxi driver as she handed him a bill through the open partition.

The cabbie, chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar, shook his head. “Keep your money, lady. Your boyfriend already paid me.”

A frown furrowed her smooth forehead. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, lady. The guy who put you in my taxi.” He shifted on his seat and glared at Faith. “Are you getting out, or do you want me to take you somewhere else?”

“I’m getting out,” she said as she pushed open the door, got out and closed the door behind her.

She walked to the entrance of a three-story walk-up, unlocked the front door and made her way up three flights to her studio apartment. Her cousin Simone complained about the high rent Faith paid to live in Manhattan, but she loved historic Greenwich Village with its bohemian lifestyle, quirky residents, charming row houses, hidden alleys and narrow streets. It was after dark that the Village truly came alive with late-night coffeehouses, jazz clubs and cafés. Her apartment took up less than a thousand square feet of living space, but she’d learned to maximize every foot, and the result was inviting as well as charming.

She opened the door, and warmth curled around her like a rising mist. When she flipped a wall switch, two table lamps flooded the apartment with soft yellow light. She’d lived in the building for three years, and there was never a day when she didn’t have heat or hot water.

Her home had become a retreat where she came to relax, eat and sleep. A compact utility kitchen ran the length of a brick wall, and a cushioned window seat with storage drawers spanned the width of three tall, narrow windows providing the perfect place for her to curl up to read or while away hours watching her favorite movie on the flat-screen television on its stand resting on a bleached pine drop-leaf table. The pale color was repeated in the other furnishings: a claw-foot pedestal table with four matching petit-point-cushioned pull-up chairs, an antique sleigh bed in an alcove that had been a walk-in closet, an antique-white armoire and a love seat covered with Haitian cotton.

Former tenants hadn’t removed the shelves in the converted closet, so Faith stacked them with books, linens and a collection of priceless crystal vases. An antique clothespress doubled as a bureau and vanity for items that normally would’ve been stored in the minuscule bathroom that had been updated to include a basin, commode and shower stall.

The telephone rang as she slipped out of her coat. Hanging it on a coat tree, Faith picked up the cordless receiver off the kitchen countertop. She smiled when she saw the name on the display. “Yes, Tessa. I’m hosting Monday’s get-together.”

Her cousin’s sultry laugh came through the earpiece. “For you information, Miss Smarty Pants, I’m not calling about Monday night.”

Cradling the receiver between her chin and shoulder, Faith leaned over and pulled off her boots. “What’s going on, Tessa?”

“Are you free to go to Mount Vernon with me tomorrow?”

“What’s happening in Mount Vernon?” she asked as she made her way into the bathroom to wash her hands.

“I’m bringing Micah with me so he can meet the family.”

She paused drying her hands. “What aren’t you telling me, cousin?”

“I got engaged last night!”

Faith hadn’t realized she was screaming until Tessa pleaded with her to calm down. “I don’t believe it, Tessa! Did he give you a ring? When am I going to meet your manly man?” Simone, who’d met Micah, described him as a manly man.

“Yes, he gave me a ring. Come with me tomorrow and you’ll meet him.”

Reaching for a towel, she dried her hands and walked out of the bathroom. “I can’t make it tomorrow. I’m having brunch with Peter Demetrious, and I can’t change the date or time because he’s only going to be in New York for the weekend.”

Faith had thought herself blessed when Tessa convinced the celebrated photographer to take pictures of her cake designs.

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight I have Savanna Raymond’s engagement party. Why don’t you bring Micah with you when you come Monday?”

“No, Faith. Mondays are for the girls, not girls and guys.”

“Is it going to be that way after you’re married?”

“My marrying Micah shouldn’t change our bimonthly get-togethers. Don’t forget our mothers still get together with their girlfriends once a month without their husbands.”

“You’re right, Tessa. Nothing should change that drastically, just because you’re changing your name.”

“I’m not changing my name to Sanborn.”

“You plan to keep your maiden name?”

“No, Faith. I’m going to hyphenate it like Micah’s sister did. She’s now Bridget Sanborn-Cohen, and when I marry Micah I’ll become Theresa Whitfield-Sanborn.”

“How is baby girl doing?” Faith knew within minutes of meeting Bridget Sanborn for the first time that she’d been spoiled and indulged. And it was obvious that her new husband would continue to indulge her. When Bridget and Seth sampled fillings and conferred with each other about the overall design for their wedding cake, Seth had always deferred to Bridget.

“Micah said Bridget and Seth are still honeymooning in Tahiti. After two weeks they’re going to Fiji for another week.”

Faith smiled. “Nice.” Her smile faded. What she would give for a few days in a warm climate. It didn’t have to be the South Pacific. A weekend in the Caribbean, or even South Florida would do quite nicely.

“Bridget gave me a gift to give to you. I’ll bring it when I come Monday.”

“She didn’t have to give me anything. After all, I charged her top dollar for the cake and the individual cakes she gave as favors.”

“She said it’s just a little token for making her day so special given such short notice.”

Faith smiled again. Tessa had successfully coordinated a formal New Year’s Eve wedding in only ten weeks. “Isn’t that what Signature Bridals do? You’ve established a reputation of performing wedding miracles.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you and Simone. You know I want you to design my cake.”

“Have you set a date?”

“We’ve decided on the last Saturday in June. And of course it will be held at Whitfield Caterers.”

Faith nodded even though her cousin couldn’t see her. Their fathers were closing their catering business at the end of August to open a bowling alley the following spring. “You know Daddy and Uncle Malcolm have been waiting a long time to host another Whitfield wedding.”

“Well, they won’t have to wait too long because June is less than six months away. I’m going to let you go because you have a party tonight. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Faith repeated before ending the call. She turned off one of the table lamps.

Walking over to the alcove, she set the alarm on the radio, undressed and got into bed. She couldn’t believe it. Her cousin was getting married. Tessa, who hadn’t dated in years, had fallen in love and planned to marry the brother of one of her clients. At least one of them had found her prince.

A groan escaped Faith’s lips as she turned her face into the softness of the pillow. The instant Edith Whitfield found out that another one of her nieces was getting married, Faith was going to have to put up with her mother’s constant haranguing about why couldn’t she find “a nice boy to settle down with.”

She’d lost count of the number of times she’d informed her mother that she didn’t want a boy but a man. And just because they were male and over eighteen, that didn’t necessarily make them men.

At thirty, she’d had more than her share of dates and a couple of what she’d considered serious relationships. In fact, she’d kissed so many frogs trying to find her own prince that she was afraid she’d get warts.

Her dating woes ended the year before when she made a resolution not to date again until she found Mr. Right. She’d tired of the Mr. Right Now or Mr. for the Moment. And if she never found her prince, then she was content to live out her life as an independent single woman.

All thoughts of princes and marriage faded when she drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

Faith walked out of her building and came to an abrupt stop when she recognized the man leaning against the bumper of a late-model Lincoln Town Car. Her eyes widened as he straightened and came over to meet her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Ethan.

He flashed his sensual, dimpled smile and reached out to take her arm. “I’ve come to drive you uptown.”

“Did WJ tell you to pick me up?”

Ethan steered her over to the car and opened the rear door. Waiting until Faith was seated comfortably on the leather seat, he closed the door and came around to sit behind the wheel. It wasn’t until he left the narrow street and pulled out into traffic that he spoke again.

“Yes, he did.”

She stared at the back of his head. “I could’ve just as easily taken a cab.” Faith wondered if Ethan had told WJ about his son’s attempt to kiss her.

“What happened to ‘thank you’?”

“Say what?”

“Isn’t door-to-door car service in Manhattan better than trying to hail a cab at night in the middle of winter?”

The heat from her blush intensified. Ethan McMillan had just verbally spanked her. “Thank you, Ethan.”

Ethan schooled his features to stop the grin parting his lips. “You’re welcome, Faith.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Your face looks very nice.”

She couldn’t stop the blush heating her cheeks. “A little makeup can work miracles.”

He shook his head. “A miracle cannot improve perfection. I’m sure men have told you that you’re very beautiful.”

Faith stared out the side window. “Men have told me a lot of things.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you believe them?” Ethan asked, slowing down and stopping at a red light.

“Because it’s easier for them to lie than admit the truth.”

“So, you have trust issues with men?”

If she’d taken a taxi uptown she wouldn’t be having this conversation with her driver. She didn’t know Ethan McMillan, and she had no intention of spilling her guts to a complete stranger.

“I’d rather not answer that question.”

“You don’t have to, Faith. The fact that you don’t want to answer it tells me that you do.” He drove several blocks in silence then asked, “Why did you decide to become a pastry chef?”

Faith smiled. The conversation had segued to a topic less personal in nature. “After graduating culinary school I worked in a restaurant for two years.”

“Did you like it?”

She shook her head. “Even though I liked cooking what I hated was the frenetic pace of cooking for hundreds every night. There was always chaos when a dish didn’t turn out right or when the head chef got in our faces because we weren’t working fast enough. One night I decided I’d had enough. I handed in my resignation and went back to school to specialize in cake decorating. Now I work at my own pace and if I ruin something I can usually salvage it.”

“If the icing doesn’t come out right, don’t you throw the cake away?”

“No. I usually remove it and start over.”

“How long does it take to decorate a wedding cake?”

“It depends on the size of the cake, the decorations and accessories. However, making bows, flowers and ribbons are the most time-consuming.”

Ethan concentrated on driving as he detected a thawing in Faith’s tone. It was no longer guarded, but soft and seductive as she talked about cakes with specific themes. The ride ended much too soon as he maneuvered into the building’s underground garage.

Once inside the elevator, he inserted a key into the slot for the penthouse. Leaning against a wall, he stared openly at Faith’s enchanting profile, finding everything about her breathtakingly stunning. Her short curly black hair hugged her head like a soft cap, and the light dusting of makeup served to enhance the rich, dark hues of her satiny mahogany skin. Mascara, flatteringly applied eye shadow and a glossy wine-colored lipstick on her sexy, lush lips held him hypnotized.

She’d replaced her jeans, boots and wrap coat with a bottle-green, three-quarter shearling coat, a navy-blue pencil skirt, ending at her knees, matching sheer hose and suede pumps that added another three inches to her dramatic height.

The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and he moved forward as the door opened. Ethan looped an arm around her waist as if he’d performed the gesture countless times and led her past the small crowd waiting to get into the penthouse. The Raymonds had mailed out specialized invitations with bar codes that were scanned upon arrival.

“This is why WJ wanted me to pick you up,” he whispered close to Faith’s ear.

Smiling up at him over her shoulder, she mouthed a thank-you.

He escorted her past the kitchen to the hallway where she could hang up her coat. The distinctive, soulful voice of a new artist who’d signed with WJ’s record company floated from speakers concealed throughout the penthouse. The Raymonds had planned for a sit-down dinner, followed by Savanna opening her gifts, then dancing under the stars in the enclosed solarium.

“Will you save me a dance?”

With wide eyes, Faith halted unbuttoning her coat. “No!”

Ethan leaned closer, his warm breath sweeping over her ear. “Why not?”

She shrugged out of her coat. “Have you forgotten that I’m not a guest but hired help?”

“Then that makes two of us, Faith Whitfield. Hired help need fun, too.” He ignored her soft gasp. “All I want is one little itty-bitty dance.”

“No. Not here, Ethan.”

“Where, Faith?”

Why, she thought, was Ethan pressuring her to dance with him? “I’ll let you know.” She saw a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes at the same time a smile softened his generous masculine mouth.

He winked at her. “Okay.”

Faith smiled up at him through her lashes. “Now, get out of here so I can get some work done.” William and Linda Raymond had paid her quite well to prepare the desserts for their daughter’s party.

Ethan gave her a sharp salute, took a step backward and spun around on his heels like a soldier at a dress parade, leaving Faith smiling at his retreating ramrod-straight back.

Wearing a white tunic over her white silk blouse, Faith walked into the kitchen but quickly backpedaled to avoid being knocked over by a waiter hoisting a tray on his shoulder. Other waiters followed with trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Another carried a crate filled with bottles of wine and fruit juice.

A young woman tapped her arm. “Are you Faith Whitfield?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

“Mr. Payton asked that you see him as soon as you arrived.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

She entered the kitchen to find Kurt with a towel slung over one shoulder, peering at the meat thermometer inserted into a generous cut of prime rib. “You wanted to see me?”

The chef let out an audible sigh. “Thank goodness you’re here. I need you to fill in as my sous chef tonight. Please, Faith,” he said quickly when he saw her stunned expression. “The person I’d hired to assist me called about half an hour ago to tell me he has the flu.” He grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. “I wouldn’t ask you if I weren’t desperate. I’ll pay you—whatever you want, just please help me out here.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve—”

“It’s like riding a bike or having sex,” he interrupted. He kissed her hand again. “You never forget.”

Faith rolled her eyes at him. “Let go of my hand, Kurt. I need to cover my head.”

“Bless you, my child.”

“The hand, Kurt,” she warned softly.

Kurt was right. After removing her desserts from the refrigerator and placing them on a cart that would be rolled into the dining room later that evening, Faith found herself at the industrial stove braising, sautéing and stirring as if it were something she did every day. She saw another side of Kurt’s easygoing personality. The chef ran his kitchen like a drill sergeant, barking orders to the waitstaff. However, his tone softened whenever he asked her to prepare something for him.

She’d finished filling gravy boats when a waitress rushed in, wringing her hands. “We don’t have any fish plates.”

Kurt mumbled a savage expletive under his breath. He’d been so busy serving meat and chicken that he’d totally forgotten about those who’d requested fish. “Faith, can you get the tray of fish from the refrigerator and prepare a sole meunière?”

“Are they marinated?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

The fact that the fillets were seasoned would save time in preparing the fish dish served with a butter and lemon sauce. She took the tray from the refrigerator, heated a pan with unsalted butter, then placed them skin side up and fried each side until they were golden brown; she placed them on a heated plate. All of Faith’s culinary training returned when she drained off the butter for frying, wiped out the pan with a towel before returning it to the heat. Chilled cubed butter was cooked until golden and frothy. She removed the pan from the heat, adding the juice of fresh lemons. While the mixture still bubbled, she spooned it over the fish. A quick garnish with parsley and lemon wedges and the dish was ready to be served.

“How many want fish entrées?” she asked the waitress who’d stood off to the side waiting for her to finish.

“Six.”

Reaching for six plates, she quickly spooned slices of fish onto them, adding lemon wedges and a garnish of parsley to each.

Then she lost track of time as she assisted Kurt slicing prime rib, halving Cornish hens, adding a medley of steamed vegetables and seasoned roasted potatoes to plates as the waiters loaded their trays with the entrées. And it wasn’t until all the guests sitting in the formal dining room were served that she found a stool in a corner, sat down and dabbed her damp face with a cloth napkin. The smell of brewing coffee overpowered the scents left from the beef, fish and chicken.

Kurt was right about her not forgetting her former training, but it was the noise and chaos that went along with working in a restaurant that reminded Faith why she’d elected to become a pastry chef.

The chef handed her a bottle of chilled water. “You’re fantastic, Faith Whitfield. I told you we would work well together. How would you like to be my on-call assistant?”

Faith took a long swallow of water, the cool liquid bathing her throat. She gave Kurt a withering look. “No.”

“No?”

“Which part of the word don’t you understand?” she asked.

He moved closer. “It would be no more than twice a year. WJ usually hosts an open house for the Super Bowl and a pre- or postcelebration Grammy Award get-together.”

“No, no and no. I run a bake shop, I have personal clients and I’m involved with my cousin’s wedding business. I couldn’t assist even if I wanted to.”

Kurt winked at Faith. “You can’t blame a bloke for trying.” He patted her back. “I’m going to fix us something to eat while there’s a lull. What can I get for you?”

“Chicken and veggies.”

Faith was still sitting in the kitchen when Ethan walked in. He’d removed his tie and suit jacket. And, despite the lateness of the hour, his shirt was completely wrinkle-free. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the way his trousers fit his slim waist and hips as if he’d had them tailored expressly for his lean physique.

“Have you eaten?” she asked softly.

Ethan forced himself not to stare at Faith’s long legs. She sat on the high stool, legs crossed at the knees and her skirt riding up her thighs. The heat in the kitchen was stifling, yet the sheen on her face made her skin appear dewy, satiny.

“I was just coming to get a plate.”

“What do you want, Mac?” Kurt asked as he reached for a clean plate for Faith.

“What do you have?”

“Prime rib, chicken and fish.”

“I’ll have the fish.”

Kurt turned on an exhaust fan and prepared plates for Faith, Ethan and himself. The three moved over to a serving table and sat down.

Ethan bit into a tender piece of fish. He nodded to Kurt. “The fish is delicious.”

“I can’t take credit for the fish. You have to thank Faith.”

Ethan looked at her as if she were a stranger. “You cooked?”

The slight frown that’d formed between his eyes deepened as Kurt explained his dilemma. “Savanna’s guests would still be waiting to eat if Faith hadn’t stepped up to the plate to help me.”

Ethan lowered his head, his gaze fixed on his plate. “WJ hired her to bake, not cook.” There was a silken thread of censure in his statement.

“I’ll pay her for her time,” Kurt countered angrily.

Ethan waved his hand. “Don’t bother. WJ will take care of it.”

Faith listened intently to the interchange between the two men. They were discussing her as if she were invisible. “I didn’t help out because I expected to be paid.”

Ethan glared at Faith. He’d just left Billy’s room after reading him the riot act as to how he could’ve been charged with sexual harassment. His young cousin had refused to leave his room, saying that his sister “had enough people grinning up in her face,” and because his parents hadn’t wanted to have a family row and spoil Savanna’s engagement party they’d left him sulking in his room.

When WJ informed him that Billy wouldn’t be joining the family, Ethan told WJ that he would talk to his younger cousin. At first Billy refused to unlock the door, but when Ethan told him that if he had to kick open the door, then William Raymond III would be forced to prove his manhood. Within seconds of his threat Billy opened the door.

At thirty-eight, Ethan was twice Billy’s age, and even though he hadn’t fathered any children, in that instant he’d become a surrogate father, listening to his teenage cousin blame his namesake for screwing up his life.

Ethan didn’t say anything until Billy finished spewing his venom, then promised him that he would talk to his father in an attempt to come up with a strategy that would prove amenable to both William Raymonds. So far, he hadn’t thought of anything because his thoughts were occupied with the image of Faith Whitfield—her face, voice and body.

He turned his attention to Faith. “Whether you expected to be paid is irrelevant. You will be paid for cooking.” He finished eating, rose to his feet, looked at Kurt, then Faith. “Thank you for dinner.”

“I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this,” Kurt said, apologizing to Faith once they were alone.

She leaned closer. “Why is Ethan blowing this up when it’s not even necessary?”

“Maybe because he’s family.”

Her curving eyebrows lifted. “Family?”

Kurt almost laughed when he saw Faith’s expression. “You didn’t know that Mac and WJ were related?”

A rush of heat stung her face. “But…but he told me that he’s hired help.”

This time Kurt did laugh. “You, me, the housekeepers and the guys you see standing around packing heat are hired help. Ethan McMillan and William Raymond, Jr., are first cousins.”

Faith recovered enough to ask, “What’s with Ethan playing chauffeur?”

Kurt shook his head. “I know nothing about that arrangement. Mac showed up the day after the news got out that someone was out to whack Billy Junior.”

She wanted to question Kurt further about Ethan McMillan but held her tongue now that she was aware that Ethan was related to her client. He’d told her that he was hired help, yet something should’ve alerted her when he came up behind Billy and defused what could’ve become an embarrassing scenario. Billy hadn’t challenged Ethan when he probably would’ve defied one of his father’s employees.

She wanted to know more about the mysterious man with the X-rated dimpled smile who’d asked that she dance with him. She didn’t know whether he was married or single, a father or a baby’s daddy, but that wasn’t important, because after tonight she probably would never see Ethan McMillan again.

Faith never saw a bride on her wedding day, or interacted with her family members. Most times she scheduled a delivery for the wedding cake hours before the reception. Many of her cakes, baked in tiers, were packaged separately and then painstakingly put together with the assistance of one, and sometime two, of her employees.

She’d scheduled a time with the banquet manager at Tavern on the Green to set up Savanna Raymond’s three-tiered cake at noon for a two o’clock reception. Later that afternoon she would deliver another cake to a Long Island country club for a wedding ceremony scheduled for six in the evening. No, she mused, the world wasn’t going to stop spinning on its axis if Faith Whitfield didn’t give Ethan McMillan his “one little itty-bitty dance.”

All too soon the calm ended when the waiters returned to the kitchen. Dinner was over.

Chapter 3

Savanna Raymond’s fiancé touched her arm to get her attention as the dessert cart was rolled into the dining room. She covered her mouth with her hand when the large heart-shaped chocolate-and-red-currant torte was placed in front of her. Platters of candies with exotic fillings, butter cookies, truffles, chocolate-covered fruit and petit fours were set on the tables, much to everyone’s delight.

Savanna, a very pretty, full-figured, twenty-five-year-old elementary schoolteacher with a flawless café-au-lait complexion and glossy black chemically straightened shoulder-length hair, stared numbly at the profusion of chocolate confectionery, her eyes welling with tears.

Her fiancé shook his head in amazement. Tall, studious-looking geneticist Dr. Roland Benson threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Baby, you’re going to OD on all this chocolate.”

Linda Raymond smiled at her future son-in-law. “Don’t worry about Savanna overdosing, because she’s going to have plenty of help.” Linda and Savanna looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, while Billy was a younger version of his father. There came a chorus of “amen” and “you ain’t lying” from several of the invited guests.

Faith leaned over and handed Roland a sharp knife. She’d covered the handle with a napkin. “Why don’t you and your fiancée get in some practice making the first cut? Then, I’ll take it from there.” She’d made the torte large enough to serve at least forty. Savanna placed her hand atop Roland’s and the moist blade of the knife sliced cleanly through the layers of ganache, frozen raspberry and white cream filling and sponge cake.

Faith took the knife from them. “I have gift bags you can give to your guests before they leave. They’re chocolates in edible packaging wrapped in cellophane.” It’d taken countless hours and skill to make the rectangular pieces of chocolate, then assemble them, using tempered couverture in a pastry bag to glue them together. All the tops were striped with either dark or white chocolate.

“I also made one for you and your fiancé to share with your parents,” she continued in a hushed tone. The smaller rectangular boxes each contained eight pieces of candy made with walnut caramel, while the larger round box held sixty in various shapes that were filled with mocha and nutty creams.

Pushing back her chair, Savanna stood up and hugged Faith tightly. “Thanks so much, Miss Whitfield. I can’t tell you how special you’ve made this day for me.”

“This is only the dress rehearsal for your big day.”

Savanna fanned her face with her hand. “I just hope I make it.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll make it,” Faith reassured Savanna as she picked up the torte, turned and walked in the direction of the kitchen.

Leaning against one of the massive columns separating the living room from the dining room, Ethan crossed his arms over his chest and watched Faith with Savanna. Everything about her radiated confidence—of herself and her place in the world. She claimed she preferred baking to cooking, yet her fish entrée was extraordinary.

He’d found her utterly feminine, something that was missing in the women with whom he’d become involved since his divorce. And although Faith Whitfield looked nothing like his ex-wife, there was something about her that reminded him of Justine. What bothered him was that his attraction to both had been instantaneous.

He occasionally dated women who tried too hard to impress him, while the ones with the pretty faces and gorgeous bodies were usually too insipid to keep his attention for more than a few hours.

Waiting until Faith left the room, Ethan made his way over to William Raymond. “I need to talk to you,” he said in a low, quiet voice.

William patted the empty chair his wife had just vacated. “Sit down, Mac.” Ethan complied. Vertical lines appeared between the deep-set dark eyes of the man who’d amassed a small fortune because of his innate gift for recognizing musical talent. “You’ve heard something about…?” His words trailed off.

William had spent most of his life avoiding trouble, but at fifty-four trouble had come knocking at his door in the form of a rival who’d threatened his son. It wouldn’t have unnerved William if the threat had been directed at him. He’d grown up on New York City’s mean streets, learning how to survive well enough to avoid becoming a statistic. But someone had gotten to him, struck his Achilles’ heel when they put his son’s life—heir to his music empire—in jeopardy.

“What’s up, Mac?”

“What do you think of sending Billy to Cresson to stay with my folks? He could transfer his credits from Bethune-Cookman to Mount Aloysius and get his degree there.” Billy had just completed the first semester of his sophomore year. A look of uncertainty crossed William’s face as he and Ethan regarded each other.

“Aloysius isn’t a historically black college,” Ethan continued, “and west-central Pennsylvania isn’t Florida, but I don’t think anyone would think of looking for him in the Allegheny Mountains.” He’d made the suggestion because his parents were professors at the college.

William’s face brightened as he ran his fingers over his mustache and goatee. Nodding, he crooned, “It could be you’re on to something.”

“It’s only a suggestion.”

“I like your suggestion, Mac. Now, all I have to do is convince my son that sending him to live with his great-aunt and -uncle would be in his best interest.”

Ethan patted his cousin’s hard, muscled shoulder under a custom-made silk and wool blend suit jacket. “I believe it would go better if I talk to him.” He knew Billy resented his father too much to listen to anything he had to say right now, even if it meant protecting his life. He leaned closer. “There’s something else you should know.”

The music mogul listened to his younger cousin, then nodded in agreement. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll take care of it.”

Ethan felt a measure of satisfaction. He’d come up with a plan for his godson, but if Billy rejected his suggestion, then he would have to come up with an alternative solution. And he knew if WJ hadn’t been so focused on seeing his daughter married, he would’ve come down hard on Billy for his behavior.

Ethan hadn’t come to stay at the West End Avenue penthouse to protect his godson from what was potentially a real threat, but rather from his father’s explosive temper. Growing up, he’d witnessed the hurt WJ had inflicted on anyone who’d dared to cross him.

Faith slipped into her coat and gathered her handbag. She was ready to go home. She managed to slip out without encountering Kurt or Ethan, taking the elevator to the lobby. Someone was exiting a taxi as she walked out of the building. The doorman’s whistle stopped the driver from pulling away from the curb.

She got in, gave the bearded man her address, closed her eyes, then settled back against the seat for the short ride to the Village. The cabbie drove as if he was training for the NASCAR circuit, and Faith didn’t draw a normal breath until she found herself on terra firma outside her building.

The harrowing experience came close to making her swear off riding in New York City taxis for a very long time.

The ride, the lingering smell of the food clinging to her body and the image of Ethan McMillan’s sensual smile were forgotten when she brushed her teeth, showered and crawled into bed.

Other than an early-morning jog, attending mass and sharing brunch with Peter Demetrious, Faith planned to take advantage of the rest of her Sunday to do absolutely nothing!

Sunday dawned with an overcast sky and below-freezing temperatures. Dressed in a pair of sweats, a baseball cap, short jacket and running shoes, Faith inserted earbuds in her ears and began walking north, increasing her pace each time she crossed another street until she was jogging at a pace that didn’t leave her feeling winded. Although she preferred reading a book to listening to them, she made the exception when jogging.

As the narrator read a fairly explicit love scene, it reminded Faith why she’d stopped reading romance novels. What she didn’t want was to be reminded of her resolution not to date, because if she kissed one more frog she would swear off men altogether. The reason she’d downloaded the audio book to her iPod was because it was advertised as a mystery. But, damn! she mused, did the author have to be so descriptive when the female detective, having denied having feelings for her partner, finally went to bed with him? By the time Faith reached the next block the erotic scene was over.

She jogged to Chelsea, stopped at a Starbucks to sit and enjoy a latte before retracing her route. Every time she jogged she varied her route. Most times she stopped in Soho, Tribeca, Chinatown, Little Italy, the East Village or the Lower East Side.

When the heat and humidity became too oppressive to jog, she set off on leisurely walks. For someone who’d grown up in the suburbs, the bright lights, large crowds, noise and pulsing energy of New York City enraptured her in a magical world that she never wanted to leave.

Even if she’d wanted to move out of the city she couldn’t because she’d invested too much money in Let Them Eat Cake, and the small patisserie, conveniently located three blocks from her apartment building, was now showing a profit. She also had to consider her employees—two full-time clerks, part-time baker and now her assistant. Six months ago she’d expanded the shop’s hours of operation from four to five days a week. However, she did make an exception for weeks during Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine’s Day. The only time she opened on Sunday was for Mother’s Day.

Faith returned home in time to shower and make it to the twelve o’clock mass. She’d attended an all-girl private Catholic school from grades one through twelve, and going to mass was a ritual that had become as natural to her as breathing.

Sleet had begun falling when she left the church to hail a taxi to take her to the Ambassador Grill, a restaurant in the United Nations Plaza Hotel, touted to serve an extraordinary Sunday lobster-and-champagne brunch buffet. The restaurant was a favorite of Peter Demetrious. He was waiting for her when she arrived, and within minutes they were shown to a table.

He was shorter in person than he appeared in photographs, his full head of hair a shocking white, and the minute lines crisscrossing his weather-beaten face reminded her of a map. Faith had researched his background on the Internet and learned that the celebrated photographer, the only child of a Greek father and Italian mother, was born in San Francisco, and currently made his home in Southern California. In several articles written about him he admitted his obsession with photography began when an uncle gave him a Brownie camera for his eighth birthday; half a century later his passion hadn’t waned.

Over flutes of mimosas and fluffy omelets, Faith outlined the concept for the coffee-table book as Peter Demetrious studied her face as if she were a photographic subject, his sharp, penetrating black eyes missing nothing.

“When’s your deadline?” he asked.

“June thirtieth,” Faith replied.

Peter removed a small leather-bound diary from his jacket pocket, flipping pages. The creases in his forehead deepened. “How many cakes do you want me to photograph?”

Faith touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth. “I’m not certain. What I’d like to do is separate the book into themes—birthdays, holidays, weddings and special occasions like sweet sixteen, engagement, new baby and anniversaries. Then there are the religious themes—christening, communion, bar and bat mitzvah.”

“Give me a number, Faith.”

“I estimate between eighty and one hundred. The publisher has projected a 240-page book, and that includes text, recipes and credits.”

Peter stared at the pastry chef as if she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses. “You’re going to bake one hundred cakes before the end of June?”

She nodded, smiling. “It’s not impossible. If I bake five or six a week, then there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be able to make my deadline.” Faith knew it wasn’t impossible now that she had an assistant. “Do you have a date for the shoot?”

Peter stared at a page in his diary. “I’m going to be back in New York for several weeks in late April.” He flipped a few more pages. “And I also have a full week in mid-June.”

Pulling her cell phone from her handbag, Faith turned it on. She’d missed a call because she always turned it off before entering church. Activating the calendar feature, she scrolled through the months. The end of April meant that she had at least sixteen weeks to bake and decorate the cakes. A smile softened her mouth. Peter had given her plenty of time.

“I’ll have them ready for you,” she confidently.

“Will they keep?” the photographer asked.

Faith nodded. “Yes. They’ll be frozen solid and definitely not fit for human consumption, but I’ll spray them with a waxy substance before you photograph them to give them a fresh look.”

“Where are you going to store them?”

“Some I’ll store in the freezer in my shop, and the others in the freezer of a friend’s restaurant.”

She’d called a friend who owned and operated a restaurant before she signed the book contract to ask if she could rent space in one of her walk-in freezers to store the cakes.

Peter’s dark eyebrows lifted with this revelation. “It looks as if you’ve done your homework.”

“Would you have agreed to collaborate with me if I hadn’t done my research?”

“No, Faith. I’m too busy, and to be honest I don’t need the money. I agreed to collaborate with you because I’ve never done anything like this, and I owe your cousin Tessa for contracting me to photograph the Fyles-Cooper wedding, which by the way will be in the next InStyle Wedding book.”

If Peter owed Tessa, then Faith owed Tessa—big-time—for getting him to agree to photograph her cake designs. Tessa and Simone Whitfield were the sisters she’d never had, but somehow she got along better with Tessa than Simone.

“Where are you going to photograph them?”

Resting his elbows on the table, Peter leaned closer and lifted his bushy eyebrows. “I’ll make arrangements to shoot them in a photography studio in Tribeca.”

“Do want to take any outdoor shots?”

“No. The studio is filled with stock art and set decorations that we can use for interior and exterior shots.”

Raising her flute, Faith touched it to Peter’s. “Cheers!”

He raised his glass, grinning broadly. “Il saluto!” he countered in Italian.

They lingered at the restaurant for another half an hour, then Peter settled the bill and suggested they share a taxi. He got out in Tribeca while Faith continued on to the West Village.

It was exactly four when Faith walked into her apartment, ideas as to what cake designs she wanted Peter to photograph crowding her mind. She’d tried imagining what the book would look like on bookstore shelves or on coffee tables, and until she decorated the first cake the notions remained that—just a notion.

She’d grown up a dreamer—a weaver of fairy tales. Her parents thought she was going to be a writer because of the number of notebooks she’d filled up with childlish stories. The day she celebrated her sixteenth birthday she wrote down three wishes in her diary: become a chef, write a cookbook and marry a prince before she turned twenty-five. Long ago she’d accepted the truth that not all dreams come true as scheduled, but she was satisfied knowing that two of the three had manifested.

Faith changed out of her pantsuit and into a pair of well-washed faded jeans, a long-sleeved tee and a pair of thick cotton socks. She checked her home phone for messages. Nothing. Then she remembered the missed call on her cell phone. Retrieving it, she tapped in her password and folded her body down onto the cushioned window seat.

She listened to the recorded message: “Faith, this is WJ. I was told that you helped Kurt in the kitchen last night. I wanted to speak to you but you were gone. I’m sending someone over to your place this afternoon to deliver a little something to show my gratitude for all you’ve done to make my daughter’s engagement party so spectacular. The person should be at your place at four-thirty. If this is not a good time for you, then call me…”

The sound of the doorbell eclipsed the voice coming through the earpiece. Faith took a quick glance at the clock radio. It was 4:33. Whoever WJ was talking about was standing on the other side of her door.

She crossed the room and peered through the security eye. William Raymond’s someone was no other than Ethan McMillan.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Ethan McMillan.”

Faith unlocked the door, coming face-to-face with the man with the sexy smile and seductive voice. He was dressed down in a pair of faded jeans, pullover sweater, lined bomber jacket and brown suede oxfords. Her pulse quickened. The man should’ve been arrested for exuding that much masculinity.

Her smile was slow in coming. “Hello, Ethan.”

Ethan returned her smile, dimples winking at her. “Hello, Faith. Did WJ tell you I was coming?”

“No. He said someone was coming.”

Ethan angled his head. “Well, I’m that someone.”

“Do tell,” she teased.

“I would’ve rung your intercom to let you know I was downstairs, but one of your neighbors let me in.”

Faith opened the door wider. “Please come in.”

Wiping his feet on the straw mat outside the door, he walked into warmth. Ethan glanced around the apartment. “This is really nice.”

Closing and locking the door, she turned to stare at Ethan surveying her apartment. “Thank you. It’s a little small, but I like it.” Why, she chided herself, was she apologizing to him about the size of her studio?

Ethan shook his head. “It really isn’t that small. There are plenty of New York City studio apartments half this size.”

He turned to stare at Faith. It was if he were truly seeing her—all of her for the first time. Her jeans hugged her body like a second skin, outlining the sensual curves of her hips. She was slender, but not a raw-boned slender. With her height, face and body she probably was mistaken for a model.

Faith met Ethan’s stare with one of her own. There was something about him that intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him: his age, what he did for a living, other than being related to William Raymond, what was his association with the record mogul?

She blinked as if coming out of a trance. “You lied to me, Ethan McMillan.”

His expression mirrored confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Folding her arms under her breasts, Faith gave him a saucy smile. “You told me you were hired help when in reality you’re WJ’s cousin.”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Ethan’s mouth. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you and WJ were related?”

“You didn’t ask,” he countered.

Faith refused to relent. “And if I had asked would you have told me?”

“Why not? I may deny a few things, but never family.”

“Lie or deny?”

“Deny, Faith.” A slight frown distorted his handsome face. “It seems as if we’re back to the topic of you not trusting men.”

“This is not about me, Ethan,” she retorted.

“Then exactly who is it about? It certainly can’t be about me,” Ethan said, answering his own question. “I was raised to tell the truth, and rather than lie I just won’t say anything.” He gestured to her. “Come on, Faith, ask me something.”

“What do you do for WJ?”

“I’m his driver.” He angled his head. “Now, may I ask you to do something for me?”

Something told her not to ask, but she did anyway. “That all depends what it is.”

Ethan pointed to the coffeemaker on the kitchen’s countertop. “Would you mind brewing me a cup of coffee? I’ve been on the road for the past twelve hours and I need a double shot of caffeine to keep my eyes open before I drive to New Jersey.” He’d been awake for thirty hours, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that sleep deprived.

He’d talked to Billy about attending college in Pennsylvania, and much to the elder Raymond’s shock, he’d agreed. It was only after Savanna’s guests retreated to the rooftop solarium that Ethan and an armed bodyguard escorted Billy down the stairwell to the underground garage and into the Town Car.

Ethan had called his parents en route to let them know that their grandnephew would be staying with them until he completed his education or whoever had threatened his life was apprehended. He made it to Cresson, Pennsylvania, in record time, stayed long enough to see Billy settled in, then got back into the car for the return drive to New York.

He’d returned to his cousin’s penthouse, shaved, showered and packed his clothes. Once he informed WJ that he was returning to his Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, town house condo, his cousin asked that he deliver a letter to Faith Whitfield.

Faith saw a trace of fatigue etched on his face for the first time. His eyelids were drooping and his speech was slower. “Of course I don’t mind. Let me hang up your jacket.” He shrugged out of the leather jacket, handing it to her. He swayed before righting himself. Instinctively she reached out to steady him, but drew her hand back. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed before you end up on the floor, and there’s no way I’ll be able to lift you.”

A tired smile pulled one corner of Ethan’s mouth upward. “Thanks.”

He headed for the large bed in the alcove covered with a white comforter, shams, throw pillows and dust ruffle trimmed in lace. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve turned his nose up at the frilly bed linens, but now it was like an oasis to a thirsty traveler.

He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, then lay on the unabashedly feminine bed and exhaled a sigh of relief. Englewood Cliffs was right across the river from New York but as he lay staring up at an eave above the bed he doubted whether he would’ve been able to make the drive without being a danger to himself or other motorists.

Ethan closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. “Would your boyfriend mind if I took you dancing?”

Faith was barely able to control her gasp of shock. She stopped pouring coffee beans into the grinder. Within seconds she recovered enough to say, “No.”

“No, what? You don’t have a boyfriend, or you don’t want to go out with me?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off.

Her cheeks warmed with heat. “No to both.”

Her answer pleased Ethan. He was more interested in knowing if Faith Whitfield had a boyfriend than taking her out, because if she was involved with someone, then that meant he’d have to retreat honorably.

“Thank you.” The two words came out slurred.

Shifting, Faith stared at the tall man reclining on her bed. To say he was an enigma was putting it mildly. He’d asked her to go dancing with him, then acted as if she’d given him a reprieve when she turned him down.

“Thank you for what?”

“For your honesty and…”

“And what, Ethan?” There was no answer. “Ethan?” She called his name again and was greeted by soft snores.

Resting her hands on her hips, she glared at the figure lying sprawled across her bed, unable to believe he’d come to her apartment to sleep. If he was that tired, then she would’ve given him the address to several hotels in the area. He could’ve checked into the Washington Square Hotel for about one-fifty a night, or if he wanted luxury then there was the Marriott Financial Center at three to four hundred a night.

Faith smothered a curse under her breath as she pressed a button on the grinder. The tantalizing smell of fresh coffee filled the air. She’d come home to relax, but that was thwarted because Ethan McMillan had commandeered her bed. She programmed the coffeemaker to begin brewing in three hours. That was all the time she was going to give the man sleeping in her bed before she’d wake him to send him on his way.

Chapter 4

Faith opened the window shutters, sat down on the window seat and stretched her legs along its length. The width of the seat was one of many reasons why she’d decided to rent the apartment. It provided additional seating, and the windows overlooked an alley wide enough to park at least half a dozen cars. During the warmer weather she opened them and sat out on the fire escape. It wasn’t a traditional balcony or terrace, but served the same function.

Resting her back against an overstuffed pillow, she closed her eyes. What was it with the men who came to the homes of Whitfield women for the first time and ended up sharing their bed? She opened her eyes, staring at the falling snow piling up on the fire escape. Ethan was in her bed, even if she wasn’t sharing it with him.

Tessa admitted that she’d shared her bed with Micah Sanborn the night he’d come to her home because of a blackout, and within a week knew that the Brooklyn A.D.A. was her prince.

Reaching for a book, Faith opened it to the last page she’d read. She chanced a quick glance at Ethan McMillan and shook her head. He wasn’t a prince, but then he wasn’t exactly a frog, either. He was more like a bad penny that kept turning up when she least expected. Focusing on the book, she forgot about the man in her bed and lost herself in the lives of the novel’s characters.

The smell of brewing coffee wafted in Ethan’s nostrils as he opened his eyes to semidarkness. The only light in the room came from a floor lamp near the windows. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his gaze widening when he saw Faith on the window seat with her head at an odd angle.

His feet were silent on the floor as he neared her. A book lay open in her lap. It was apparent she’d fallen asleep while reading. Guilt assailed him when he realized he’d put her out of her bed. Checking his watch, he realized it was almost eight o’clock. When he’d asked Faith if he could lie down to wait for coffee, he hadn’t thought he would end up sleeping for hours.

Ethan stood over Faith, staring openly at her and seeing up close what he hadn’t noticed the day before. Her hands were delicately formed, the fingers long with tapered nails. There was a tiny beauty mark on her temple near her left eye. The yellow glow from the lamp highlighted the gold undertones in her flawless dark skin, which reminded him of minute particles of gold dust mixed with smooth dark milk chocolate.

His gaze moved lower to the rise and fall of her breasts under the T-shirt, and within seconds he felt like a pervert spying on an unsuspecting woman. The sound of the coffee brewing was unusually loud in the quietness of the apartment. A gurgling noise indicated the brewing cycle had ended. Turning away from Faith, Ethan made his way to the kitchen to fortify himself with a cup of the brew that was certain to keep him alert long enough to make it home.

He found a large mug in an overhead cabinet, filling it to the brim. Resting a hip against the countertop, he sipped the steaming-hot coffee, the heat burning his throat and settling in his chest and belly like a soothing blanket.

Ethan hadn’t lied to Faith when he’d told her that he liked her apartment. The pale colors and her choice of furnishings gave the space a lived-in look, unlike his that had been decorated by an interior-design firm. Once he’d closed on the luxury two-bedroom condominium, he hadn’t had the time nor the patience to visit stores or shops looking for tables, lamps, beds or the other accessories that determined a room’s personality. He told the decorator what he didn’t like, and she took it from there. There were times when he felt as if he were walking into a furniture showroom, but for all of the time he spent there it was more than adequate.

He felt rather than saw Faith move, and he straightened from his lounging position. Smiling, he watched her come awake with the grace of a cat. He knew he’d frightened her when a small cry escaped her parted lips.

Blinking, Faith stared at the man standing in the shadows. “You woke up.”

“So did you.” Ethan gestured to the coffee in the carafe. “Would you like a cup?”

Faith couldn’t believe his audacity. He was offering her her coffee in her own home! “You’re really ballsy, aren’t you?” When Ethan glanced down at the front of his jeans she wanted to disappear on the spot. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Ethan didn’t move. “How do you want me to interpret ballsy?”

“What I meant is cheeky, audacious and—”

“I get your meaning, Faith,” he said, putting up a hand and cutting her off. “Now what have I done for you to get your back up?”

Swinging her legs off the window seat, Faith walked over and stood less than a foot from Ethan. His warmth and the lingering scent of his cologne had become an aphrodisiac, pulling her to him when the opposite was what she wanted. She wanted Ethan McMillan out of her home because everything about him was a sensual assault.

“I do the serving in my home.”

“Now, that’s a very selfish approach, Faith,” he chastised in a soft tone. “If you were in my home I’d permit you to do whatever you wanted.”

“That’s where we’re different, Ethan.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Wrong, Faith. We’re more alike than dissimilar.”

“Why would you say that? You don’t know anything about me, or vice versa.”

“What I do know and what I see I like.”

This time Faith had no comeback. Clamping her jaw tightly, she refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting the same. Despite all of her protests, she also liked what she saw and what he’d shown her—arrogance notwithstanding.

“WJ said he gave you something to give me,” she said instead, deftly changing the topic of conversation.

Ethan set his mug on the counter and went over to get the envelope from his jacket hanging on the coat tree. Retrieving it, he handed it to Faith. “Thank you for the use of your bed and the coffee.” He winked at her as he walked over to the bed to get his shoes. “I believe I can make it home okay now.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he stared at her. “Are you inviting me to spend the night?”

“No. It’s just that it’s snowing and…”

His eyebrows lifted when she didn’t finish her statement. “I’m touched that you’re concerned about my well-being, but I can assure you that I’m able to maneuver in snow.”

Faith gave him a facetious grin. “Of course. After all, you are a chauffeur.”

“Right,” he said after a lengthy pause. Driving wasn’t his livelihood or career, but that wasn’t something he would disclose to her. Bending over, he tied his shoes. Rising from the bed, he closed the distance between them. “You still owe me a dance,” he whispered close to her ear.

Faith’s eyes narrowed. He was like a dog with a bone. “What if I put on some music and we dance here?”

“No, Faith. You should’ve danced with me last night, but you cut and run like a candy-ass.”

Her delicate jaw dropped before she recovered. “Now, that sounds like military jargon. Were you in the military?”

“I’ll tell you, but under one condition.”

Faith registered the teasing quality in his voice. “What’s that?”

“Because you forfeited the chance to dance with me last night, now it will have to be someplace else.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Ethan?”

“Let me know when you’re available to go out.”

She stared wordlessly as a shock flew through her. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“No, Faith. It’s not going to be a date.”

“If my going out with you is not a date, then pray tell what is it?”

“You making good on your promise for one little itty-bitty dance, and in turn I’ll tell you about my military experience.”

Faith saw the beginnings of a smile crease the skin around his eyes. She didn’t know whether he was teasing or serious about taking her out. Now she had another adjective to add to his personality—persistent.

“What are you trying to do? Wear me down?”

“Nope,” Ethan countered. “All you have to do is say yes.”

“But what if I say no.”

“Then I’ll be forced to wear you down.”

She shook her head. “Please don’t. Not only am I worn down but also worn-out.”

“What say you, Faith Whitfield?”

She couldn’t stop the smile softening her mouth. “I say yes, Ethan McMillan.”

Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

“But you don’t have my number,” she said to his back when he walked over to get his jacket.

Slipping his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, Ethan turned and looked at Faith. “I’ll get it from WJ.” He gave her a snappy salute, turned and opened the door. It closed and locked automatically behind him.

Faith stared at the door, unable to believe what she’d just committed to. Ethan wanted to take her out for “one little itty-bitty dance,” and to her that translated into a date. Glancing at the envelope in her hand, she returned to the window seat, sat down and opened it. WJ had enclosed a business card. She flipped it over, smiling. He’d scrawled the word thanks, his signature and drawn a smiley face. Her smile faded when she peered into the envelope to find a stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She removed them from the envelope and began counting. She stopped at eight hundred. William Raymond’s little something added up to more than a thousand dollars.

Tucking the flap into the envelope, she stood up, crossed the room and opened the doors to the armoire and secreted the money in a sachet-scented lined drawer cradling her lingerie. The Raymonds hadn’t blinked when she quoted a figure for the dessert menu for Savanna’s party, a figure that was near the top of her price list because of the amount of chocolate she’d ordered from a renowned confectioner who imported raw cocoa beans from South America, Java, Grenada, Mexico and Gabon.

Faith knew any attempt to return the cash would be construed as an insult by WJ, so she had to devise another plan to thank him for his extraordinary generosity or pass his gratitude along to her employees in the form of a bonus when they put in long hours to accommodate the customers who crowded into Let Them Eat Cake for the specially prepared candies, tortes and cookies for Valentine’s Day.

Blowing snow and an accident slowed traffic to a crawl. Ethan was less than three miles from his home, but it could’ve been three hundred because of the “lookie-loos” craning their necks to stare at the two men waving their arms and yelling at each other because of a fender-bender. Someone blew a horn, prompting a cacophony of horn blasts until the congestion eased and he maneuvered past the scene of the accident and drove to an industrial area where he would park the Town Car and pick up his own car.

The windows to MAC Elite Car Services, Inc., were dark, which meant his office manager had followed his directive to close because of the weather. Kenneth Mobley would’ve remained in the office until his shift ended, taking calls and instructing drivers to pick up clients who were partial to door-to-door car service. He’d also instructed Kenny to call the drivers to tell them to come back to the garage after their last drop-off, because the lives and safety of his employees were more important than the bottom line.

Punching in a series of numbers on the remote device attached to the limousine’s visor, Ethan waited until the door to the bay opened where he’d left his car. Within minutes he’d backed out a late-model Mercedes-Benz coupe, maneuvered the Town Car into the space and driven the short distance to the gated community and his town house condominium.

He parked in an attached garage, unlocked the door leading directly into the kitchen. Not bothering to check the stack of mail the cleaning woman had left on a side table in the living room, he climbed the staircase to his second-floor bedroom. The large numbers on the clock on a bedside table glowed eerily in the darkened space. Not bothering to turn on a lamp, Ethan undressed, leaving his clothes on a leather-covered bench at the foot of the king-size bed. All of his actions were mechanical as he pulled back the comforter and sheet, got into bed and let out a sigh of relief.

It was the first time since he’d moved into the house that he truly appreciated his bed. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Faith Whitfield’s face with a pair of dark eyes, pert nose and incredibly sexy mouth, a mouth he wanted to sample, to discover if it tasted as delicious as it looked.

Faith woke late Monday morning, feeling more rested than she had in weeks. Let Them Eat Cake, closed on Sundays and Mondays, didn’t require her going into the shop, so the only thing on her agenda was cleaning her apartment and preparing dinner for her bimonthly get-together with her cousins.

Looking through her freezer, she took out several bags of shrimp: medium Gulf white for stir-fry with snow peas, jumbo for shrimp cocktail and Maine shrimp for shrimp chowder. She had most of the ingredients on hand for her seafood menu with the exception of the snow peas, scallions, garlic, potatoes, leeks and chives, and that meant she would have to make a trip to Balducci’s, her favorite gourmet grocery at 14th Street and Eighth Avenue.

Fortified with a cup of coffee, she turned on the radio to a station featuring the latest R & B, pop and hip-hop, singing along and dancing to a few of her favorite artists. Snow accumulations measured three inches, not enough to close schools, but enough to make walking hazardous for pedestrians trying to jump over mounds of snow created by sanitation department plows.

Faith emptied the laundry hamper, stripped her bed and changed the towels in the bathroom, putting everything in two bags. Although there was a self-serve Laundromat on the avenue around the corner, she was loath to spend hours in the place, waiting for a washer or dryer, then having to fold up clothes and carry the bags up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. The owner of the laundry offered pickup and drop-off. She willingly paid for the additional service.

She called the laundry for a pickup, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, dusted all the furniture and changed her bed. She hadn’t thought of Ethan again until she recognized the lingering scent of his aftershave on one of the pillows.

Faith wasn’t certain what it was about the man who’d appeared to have more than his share of ego, a trait she didn’t particularly like in a man, yet she didn’t find it repulsive. She’d dated men who were so aggressive that their behavior bordered on bullying. One had insisted because he wanted her that she would eventually surrender to his will. What he failed to realize was that Faith Vinna Whitfield surrendered to no one—especially a man. She might not have known what she wanted, but she knew without a doubt what she did not want, and that included men who took rejection as a personal affront and those who were so full of themselves that they were unable to fathom that a woman might not want to have anything to do with them.

They were nothing more than insufferable, egotistical, nauseating frogs! She would go out with Ethan McMillan, but if he exhibited even the slightest indication that he was like the rest of her past dates, then he would also be relegated to frog status.

The downstairs bell chimed, and Faith glanced around the apartment before going over to the intercom. Depressing a button, she spoke into the tiny speaker next to the door. “Who is it?”

“We’re here,” the sisters said in unison.

Tessa had called to let Faith know that she and Simone were meeting at the West 4th Street Washington Square subway stop. Both had decided to leave their cars in Brooklyn Heights and White Plains respectively, and take the subway and railroad.

Smiling, Faith pressed the button that would release the lock on the outer door. She was ready for her Monday-night get-together. It’d been several months since her cousins had come to Manhattan for their bimonthly dinner because she hadn’t been available. Unlocking the door, she opened it slightly before walking over to the refrigerator to remove a bowl of salad. She’d even included her shrimp theme in the salad.

“Something smells good,” Simone announced, sticking her head through the slight opening in the door. At the same time she removed her boots, leaving them on the thick straw mat.

Faith smiled at Simone. “I made one of your favorites.” She knew how finicky her cousin was when it came to food.

Petite, hazel-eyed, with a profusion of red and gold-streaked curly hair falling down her back, Simone Whitfield had been blessed with a natural seductiveness that was startling and breathtaking at the same time. The talented, divorced, thirty-three-year-old floral decorator always shocked men when she revealed her age because she looked as if she were barely out of her teens. While most women would’ve given anything to look years younger without help from a plastic surgeon, Simone complained that she was still carded when ordering a drink.

Simone walked into Faith’s apartment, set a shopping bag on the floor, removed her coat and hung it up. Her eyes widened when she saw a quartet of shrimp perched around the rim of crystal cocktail glasses filled with cocktail sauce at each place setting.

“Thank you, Faith,” she crooned, moving over and hugging her cousin.

Faith returned the hug. “You’re welcome.” She didn’t get along with Simone as well as she did Tessa because of Simone’s occasional dark moods. Simone blamed her mercurial disposition on seasonal affective disorder, but Faith attributed most of it to her on-again, off-again relationship with her shiftless, trifling ex-husband.

“Everything looks nice,” Tessa said, walking in and closing the door. She slipped out of her coat, draping it over a hook on the coat tree.

There was no mistaking Tessa and Simone for sisters, although Tessa’s hair, eyes and complexion were darker than Simone’s. Thirty-one-year-old Tessa had become a preeminent wedding and event planner in the four years since starting up Signature Bridals and Event Planners, Inc. with her sister and first cousin. Tessa owned sixty percent of the company, while Simone and Faith shared equally in the remaining forty. The company had afforded the thirty-something Whitfields a very comfortable lifestyle.

“Thanks. I love your haircut, Tessa,” Faith said, smiling. She was surprised to see that Tessa had cut her hair. For years she’d affected a flyaway hairdo that was a modified throwback to the Afro of the seventies. The shorter style was a combination of punk and chic.

“Enough chitchat,” she said, extending her hand to Tessa. “Let me see it.” Tessa held out her left hand. Prisms of light sparkled from a magnificent cushion-cut diamond with round and baguette diamonds set in platinum. Faith turned her hand over. There were pavé diamonds on the band. “It is exquisite, Tessa.” There was no mistaking the awe in Faith’s voice. She placed her arms around her cousin’s neck and kissed her cheek. “You deserve all of the good things coming to you.”

“Stop, Faith, before I start crying. And I did enough of that yesterday to last me a lifetime.”

Simone removed a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of pink hydrangeas and grape hyacinths and a bottle of white wine from the shopping bag. “Tessa had everyone crying, Mama, Daddy and Aunt Edie. Even Uncle Henry wiped away a tear or two.”

“Did your soon-to-be, manly man brother-in-law cry?” Faith teased.

“No. In fact, he seemed rather amused. I can’t wait to see what happens when we go to Franklin Lakes this coming Sunday to have dinner with the Sanborns. And please, Faith, don’t tell me you have something on your calendar for Sunday,” Simone drawled facetiously.

A slight frown appeared between Faith’s eyes. “I don’t believe I do.”

“Go check!” the sisters chorused.

Hiding a grin, Faith crossed the room and picked up her PDA from the bedside table and scrolled through her calendar. “I’m good.” She hadn’t planned anything for the day, but she would’ve used the time to bake and decorate a couple of cakes for her book.

“I’ll call and let you know what time Micah and I will pick you up,” Tessa said. “And if it’s not raining or snowing, then dress casually. And bring a change of clothes,” she added cryptically.

“Why?”

“That’s because the Sanborns get together to play touch football on Sundays.”

Faith shook her head while waving a hand. “Forget it, Tessa. I don’t do sports.”

“Neither did I before I got involved with Micah,” Tessa admitted reluctantly.

“I love rolling around in the dirt,” Simone said, as she filled a vase with water and skillfully arranged the colorful blooms.

Faith gave her cousin an incredulous look. “That’s because to you dirt equals money.”

“No lie,” the floral decorator quipped.

“And, by the way, the flowers are beautiful.” Simone knew she was partial to pink flowers.

Affecting a curtsey, Simone flashed a wide grin. “Thank you.” She’d just signed a contract with a well-known White Plains law firm to deliver floral arrangements for their reception area and conference rooms. She’d built a greenhouse on a portion of her property where she grew and cultivated herbs and flowers year-round. She’d grown her business, Wildflowers and Other Treasures, selling bouquets and corsages for birthdays, holidays and proms. Her involvement with Signature Bridals expanded into specialty wedding bouquets, and now she’d added her first corporate client. She set the vase of flowers on the table, glancing around the studio apartment.

“Tessa’s right. Your place does look nice.” Soft music flowed from concealed speakers, lighted lemon-scented votives and the lowest setting from the three-way bulb in the floor lamp provided a calming, subdue setting for laid-back dining pleasure. “You should be entertaining a man tonight, not your cousins,” Simone said in a quiet tone.

Faith rolled her eyes upward. “I’ve dated more men than the two of you combined, so please don’t mention entertaining a man.”

“But how many have you slept with, Faith?” Simone asked.

She lowered her gaze. “Not many.”

“How many is ‘not many’?” Simone questioned.

“I’m not going to tell you that!” Faith said in protest. Although she’d dated a lot of men, she hadn’t slept with them. “And that’s because most of them weren’t worth taking off my clothes to even consider sleeping with them.” Faith looked at Tessa. “I know you’re getting your freak on with Micah, but you, Miss Simone Whitfield, are a different story. Once you fell under Anthony Kendrick’s spell you never looked at another man.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “How many men, other than Tony, have you slept with in the past…” She paused. “How long has it been—seven or eight years?”

“Eight,” Simone mumbled. “But that’s over and done with, and Tony knows it.”

Faith blinked once. “You told him?”

Simone nodded. “Yes. Tessa is my witness.”

“Yes!” Faith said through clenched teeth. “I know I’ve kissed a lot of frogs, but with all you have going for yourself, Simone, I always thought you could do so much better than that…Tony,” she said, biting back the criticism she usually reserved for her cousin’s highly educated, bum-ass ex-husband.

Tessa smiled at her sister and cousin. “Now that we’re done discussing men, I’m going to wash up so we can eat. I’m starved.”

Both pairs of eyes, one light and the other dark, stared at Tessa. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” Simone asked.

Tessa gave her a saccharine grin. “I know I’m not.” She headed for the bathroom.

“Do you and Micah plan to have children?” Faith said as Tessa retreated.

Tessa smiled over her shoulder. “Yes.”

Simone winked at Faith before following her sister into the bathroom. “Hot damn! We’re going to be aunties.”

“I’m going to spoil my niece or nephew!” Faith called out.

“You better not,” Tessa called out.

“Try and stop me, Theresa Anais Whitfield.”

Tessa stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Oh, no, you didn’t call me by my full name.”

“Yes, I did.” Faith returned to the kitchen area to turn off a simmering pot of shrimp chowder. She added a Thai peanut dressing to the salad, tossing the crisp greens and crispy-fried popcorn shrimp, placing the bowl on the table next to the floral centerpiece. She planned to begin the five-course meal with shrimp cocktail, followed by soup, salad, an entrée of shrimp and snow peas with white rice and a dessert of frozen cassata—a vanilla ice cream cake that incorporated the flavors of an Italian cannoli filing: ricotta, chocolate, pistachios and orange peel.

The sisters returned. Tessa offered to uncork the bottle of wine while Faith ladled the steaming chowder into soup bowls. Her cell phone rang, and before she could tell Simone not to answer it, she’d picked it up.

“Good evening, Let Them Eat Cake.” Simone knew Faith used her cell phone exclusively for business.

“May I please speak to Faith Whitfield,” said a deep male voice.

Simone’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Ethan McMillan.”

Simone covered the mouthpiece with her thumb. “It’s Ethan McMillan.”

Faith’s breath caught in her chest before she let it out slowly. “Ask him if he can leave a number so I can call him back.”

Simone repeated Faith’s request. “Hold on while I get something to write with.” She gestured for something to write, and Faith handed her a pen and paper from the magnetic pad attached to the side of the refrigerator. Simone wrote down the number, then repeated it for accuracy. She was smiling when she ended the call. “Who’s the brother with the X-rated voice?”

Faith schooled her expression not to reveal what she was feeling at the moment—a rush of excitement for a man who’d managed to affect her more than she wanted, a man whose very presence disturbed and piqued her curiosity.

“How do you know he’s a brother?” she asked Simone as they sat down.

“Don’t play yourself, cousin,” Simone drawled as she placed a cloth napkin over her lap. “Only brothers are blessed with voices that deep.”

Tessa peered closely at Faith. “Who is he?”

Faith knew that if she didn’t give the two a plausible explanation, then they would pester her throughout dinner. She could lie and say he was a client, but she’d never lied to her cousins and didn’t want to start now.

“He’s someone I promised to go out with.”

Tessa shared a smile with Simone. “I’m going to ask you one question, then I’m going to get out of your business.” Faith nodded. “Is he what Aunt Edie would call ‘potential husband material’?” Faith’s mother had lectured them sternly once they’d begun dating, saying, “Every man you date should be considered a potential husband. If not, then don’t waste your time.”

Faith filled the wineglasses with the pale wine rather than meet Tessa’s questioning gaze. “I’ll reserve comment. First I have to find out whether he’s a frog.”

“Ribbit!” Simone croaked.

Faith and Tessa burst out laughing, setting the tone for an evening of good food and a closeness that had begun with earlier generations of Whitfield women.

Tessa pushed back her chair and stood up. “I forgot to give you Bridget’s gift.” She retrieved her purse and took out a small gaily wrapped box, handing it to Faith.

Simone and Tessa stared at Faith as she removed the paper, opened a small black velvet box and stared numbly at a pair of thirteen-millimeter Tahitian pearl earrings suspended from a drop clasp of bezel-set diamonds.

“Oh, my!” Faith gasped in awe. “They are stunning!”

“I got the same pair,” Simone said.

Faith smiled at Tessa. “I’m going to wear them at your wedding.”

“Speaking of weddings, Faith,” Tessa began softly, “I’d like to ask you if you’d be my maid of honor.”

A rush of tears filled Faith’s eyes. She blinked them back before they fell. “I’d be honored, Tessa. How many attendants do you plan to have?”

“That’s going to depend on Micah. He’s asked his father to be his best man, and his two brothers will be groomsmen. You’ll be my maid of honor, Simone a bridesmaid and I’m thinking of asking Micah’s sister-in-law whether her teenage daughter can be a bridesmaid.”

Faith wrinkled her pert nose. “Isn’t it going to feel funny planning your own wedding?”

“I’m not,” Tessa admitted smugly. “Simone’s going to be my wedding planner.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Faith asked, an expression of shock freezing her features.

Simone shook her head. “No, she’s not.”

A blush suffused Tessa’s face. “Micah and I have decided to begin trying for a baby as soon as we’re married. And if that happens, then I’d like to have a backup person in case of morning sickness, bloated ankles and when I’m too fat to bend over to tie up my shoes.”

Faith waved her hand. “Please, Tessa. Knowing you, you’ll probably design a wardrobe that will make you Brooklyn’s most tricked-out mother-to-be. Speaking of Brooklyn, do you still plan to live there after you’re married?”

Tessa nodded. “Yes. Micah sold his Bronx condo to Bridget and Seth, and he only has six months left on his Staten Island rental. I’ve put a lot of money into the brownstone, so I’ve decided to keep it.”

Reaching for her wineglass, Faith raised it in a toast. “To Tessa and Signature Bridals.”

Simone and Tessa followed suit, touching glasses in a toast to Signature Bridals.

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