The Sweetest Temptation

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.”