Claudia
dreamed of someday moving Fantasy Feasts out of her home and into a commercial
building with space that she could design from scratch. But she would have to
land quite a few more jobs like the Valentine’s Day cotillion before that could
happen.
She
also hoped she would be able to hire an assistant or two. She desperately
wanted an
us
, so the phrase “Let
us
cater to you” on her truck
would be accurate. She wanted to reclaim her weekends, to be able to share the
burdens as well as the pleasures of her work.
It
would be nice to have company while she worked, too, she thought as she glanced
up from the candy molds and found Ned observing her intently. An odd ripple of
heat coursed through her, and she decided that if she ever did have the chance
to hire an associate she’d make sure it wasn’t a man with bedroom eyes.
She
filled the last molded indentation. Ned reached out and caught a drip of
chocolate on the rim of the bowl. He licked his finger and moaned. “This is
fantastic.”
“It’s
just candy,” she said with a laugh.
“I
can’t believe I’m doing this.” He ran his finger around the bowl. “I don’t even
like chocolate.”
“Everybody
likes chocolate,” she argued, sliding the trays into the refrigerator.
“Not
me.” He belied his claim by pulling the bowl closer to him and scooping another
bit of the gooey chocolate onto his finger. “Chocolate’s too complicated. I
like vanilla better.”
“Vanilla’s
too virginal,” Claudia said, then bit her lip and cringed. Merely uttering the
word “virginal” in Ned Wyatt’s presence seemed like a fatal mistake.
His
silence convinced her of it. She risked a fleeting glance his way. He was once
again regarding her with inscrutable intensity, his gaze penetrating, his smile
enigmatic. A tiny drop of chocolate clung to the corner of his mouth and
Claudia found herself wondering what it would be like to lick it off.
Forget
it. Even if the only woman in his life at the moment was his mother, Claudia
couldn’t allow herself to entertain any notions about kissing Ned. He was out
of her class, in every definition of the word. The scion of the richest family
in town, the brother of the most powerful bitch in town…
Forget
it.
She
headed toward the oven to check the baking cake layers. To her surprise, Ned
blocked her path. “You like chocolate better than vanilla?” he asked.
“No,”
she lied.
“But
you think complicated is better than virginal.”
She
felt her cheeks grow warm. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“I’m
not.” He skimmed his finger along the surface of the bowl once more. “This is
the most complicated chocolate I’ve ever tasted. Maybe that’s why I like it so
much.”
“Well,
enjoy yourself,” she said, moving to step around him.
Before
she could stop him, he poked his chocolate-covered finger into her mouth. Her
eyes widened with shock, but her tongue reflexively lapped the tangy sweetness
from his skin. His sensual grin caused her cheeks to grow hotter. A feverish
flush spread through her body.
She
opened her mouth and backed away. “Mr. Wyatt—”
“Uh-oh,”
he said, still grinning. “That’s an extremely vanilla reaction.”
“I’d
just as soon keep things vanilla between us,” she said, trying to forget the
erotic sensation of his finger between her lips, trying to convince herself
she’d responded not to the smooth, hard texture of his fingertip but to the
chocolate blanketing it. “I don’t even know you.”
“I
don’t know you, either,” he conceded, “but I think I’m beginning to understand
what a fantasy feast is all about.” He traced a writhing line through the
thickening vestiges of chocolate in the bowl. “Come on—share it with me.” He
extended his finger toward her.
“Really,
Ned—”
He
brushed his fingertip along the curve of her lower lip. Her muscles grew
suddenly, treacherously tense as he smoothed the warm, fluid chocolate across
her lip. Her breathing grew shallow, her hips taut as his gaze bore down on
her, his eyes glittering with green and gray and amber as he ran his finger
slowly over her mouth.
She
sucked on her lower lip, removing the chocolate with her teeth and then her
tongue. His smile faded as he leaned toward her. He was going to kiss her, and
for a crazed moment she wanted him to.
With
a small, helpless moan, she spun away. “You’d better leave,” she murmured.
She
heard him exhale. He drummed his fingers against the counter. A faint laugh
escaped him. “I left my bike at Wyatt Hall.”
She
didn’t dare to look at him. She knew that if she did she would once again
succumb to that aching expectation, that yearning for his kiss. “I’ll drive you
there.”
“You’ve
got cakes in the oven.”
“I’ll
drive you there when they’re done.”
“You’re
the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
That
got a guffaw from her. “If you want to sweet-talk me, you’re going to have to
do better than that.”
“Would
my efforts be worth it?”
Grinning,
she shook her head. “I have a lot of work to do. I didn’t invite you here so I
could listen to blarney.”
“
Blarney?
”
he echoed, incredulous. ”
Blarney?
St. Patrick’s Day is next month,
sweetheart.”
She
sidled past him and opened an oven door. “When your last name is Mulcahey,
you’re allowed to say ‘blarney’ whenever you want.”
“Is
that a fact?”
“On
the other hand,” she continued, testing one of the cake layers, “when your last
name is Wyatt, you’re not allowed to say ‘blarney’ at all.”
“We
WASPs use a much cruder term,” he said. “Something to do with bovine digestive
systems.”
“Your
word will do as well as mine. They both describe the line you just handed me.”
“It
wasn’t a line,” he declared, cupping his hand over her shoulder and urging her
around to face him. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
He
sounded much too sincere. And for a few mindless moments, she could believe
that he thought she was beautiful.
“Do
you honestly want to keep things vanilla between us?” he asked, his voice low
and husky.
No,
she wanted to cry out. No, she wanted to make things as complicated as
chocolate. But while she could allow herself a brief, reckless daydream, she wasn’t
stupid enough to follow through on it. “Did it ever occur to you that I could
be married?”
“Are
you?”
She
lowered her eyes to his jaw, to the smoky shadow of his overnight growth of
beard. “No,” she confessed. “But I’m not interested in an affair. I’m not
looking for a romp. If that’s what you came here for, you’re wasting your
time.”
“Well.”
He released her shoulder and she drew in a long breath. “That was blunt.”
“Blarney
isn’t my long suit.”
“Do
you believe in Valentine’s Day?”
“As
a profitable day for Fantasy Feasts? Sure.”
“Where’s
your spirit of romance?”
She
shot him a scathing look. “I’m a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
Romance is a luxury I can’t afford.”
That
silenced him. And broke the spell between them. He turned and carried the bowl
to the sink. “Do you want me to wash this?”
What
she wanted was to stop feeling so attracted to him, to stop responding to his
intriguing eyes and his provocative smile and the strong, hard heat of his hand
on her shoulder, his finger on her lip. Given the impossibility of that, she
wanted him to keep his distance from her.
“If
it makes you happy, go right ahead.”
He
sent her a short, meaningful look, one that told her exactly what would make
him happy.
It
was the most un-vanilla look she’d ever seen.
Chapter Three
10:27
a.m.
NED
EXAMINED THE wicker basket on his lap. Although small, it held a mountainous
heap of homemade cookies which were held in place by a square of artfully
wrapped red cellophane and a white satin ribbon. He had watched Claudia prepare
the basket, awed by her efficiency and her casual grace.
This
was a woman who knew what she was doing.
He
thought about the women he used to date in New York. They were invariably
professionals like himself, intelligent, articulate, well read and up to date.
He couldn’t picture any of them baking a cake.
It
wasn’t as if Claudia Mulcahey was old-fashioned or unliberated. She wasn’t
plump and maternal; she didn’t seem particularly nurturing. What she was
was…competent. Efficient. In charge of her world.
That
she was willing to get behind the wheel of her van after her calamity earlier
that morning was more evidence of her courage. He recalled the way her hands
had trembled within his, right after the skid. She wasn’t the sort to fall
apart, though. She’d permitted herself a moment’s terror, then squared her
shoulders and forged ahead. She was brave and talented and…
Damn,
so sexy. He relived the arousing sensation of her tongue curling around his
finger when he’d poked it into her mouth. He recalled the way her breath had
grown shallow and her breasts had risen and fallen under her sweater. He
recalled his own body’s response, a craving for something much sweeter and more
complicated than chocolate.
He
hadn’t even known he liked chocolate. He suspected that Claudia Mulcahey could
introduce him to plenty of other hungers he’d never known before.
They
were nearing Wyatt Hall and he assessed his options. He could keep pursuing her
in the hope that sooner or later he’d get to satisfy those hungers. Or he could
thank her for the cookies, hop onto his bicycle and ride to his mother’s
townhouse.
No
contest. As Claudia turned onto the circular driveway leading up to the house,
he didn’t bother to glance at his abandoned bicycle.
She
drove around to the kitchen entrance at the rear of the house. Several other
cars and trucks were parked there, among them his sister’s black Mercedes. He
smothered a scowl. He wasn’t in the mood to see Melanie, but he couldn’t very
well hide in the van.
“You
really don’t have to help,” Claudia said as she turned off the engine.
“Why
do you keep saying that? I
want
to help.”
She
eyed him dubiously. “It’s a beautiful day. The warmest day in two weeks—you
said so yourself. You don’t want to spend it lugging trays into the kitchen.”
“And
why don’t I want to do that?” he asked with artificial patience.
“Because
guys don’t like kitchens. They think it’s a hazardous environment. Bad for
their machismo.”
“You’re
speaking from experience, I take it.”
She
nodded.
“Past
lovers?”
Her
cheeks darkened briefly with that now familiar lovely blush, but that was the
only evidence he’d flustered her. “My father,” she told him.
“One
of those old-fashioned machismo types, huh?”
“My
father owned a restaurant in Norwalk. A diner, actually. He was the boss and he
never set foot in the kitchen. His idea of running a restaurant was to greet
the customers when they were on their way in and take their money when they
were on their way out. My mother was the head cook. I worked as a waitress and
did some of the cooking, too. My father claimed he was running the place, but
did he ever lend a hand in the kitchen?” She answered her own question with a
snort.
“I’m
not your father.”
“You’re
also not a diner employee. You’re a man who grew up in this palace—” she waved
at the massive brick edifice before them “—and if you keep wanting to help me,
I’m going to suspect you of ulterior motives.”
“You
know my motives,” he said, deciding he could be as forthright as she was.
“There’s nothing ulterior about them.”
She
lowered her eyes. He regretted losing sight of them, as beautiful as blue
topaz, but he satisfied himself by admiring her long, tawny lashes. “The only
fantasy feast you’re going to get from me is food,” she warned.
“What
are you afraid of?” He tucked his thumb under her chin and lifted her face to
his.
She
appeared on the verge of answering. Her lips moved as she mulled over her
words, then moved again. The temptation was unbearable.
Leaning
across the console between their seats, he touched his mouth to hers. Just a
light, tantalizing brush, scarcely a kiss. Just enough to let her know how
thrilling a longer, deeper kiss would be.
She
pulled back slightly and gazed at him, her eyes clouded with doubt. “I don’t
even know you,” she whispered, a plea filtering through the words.