The Sweetest Temptation

“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.”