Chocolate Kisses (7 page)

“I
came here to help you,” he said, then shook his head. “Not true. I came because
I couldn’t stay away.” He said it so frankly, so bluntly, she had to accept his
words as the truth.

If
she matched his candor, she would have to admit that ever since she’d driven
away from his mother’s townhouse she had been thinking of him, reliving his
kiss, obsessing about him. Wishing he would come to her.

She
could scarcely admit that to herself. She wasn’t about to admit it to him.
“Well, if you’re here to help, you may as well help,” she said, guiding her
spinning beaters deeper into the frosting. “There’s a roll of plastic wrap on
the counter by the phone. Could you bring it over?”

He
located the box and carried it to her, then moved behind her and planted a kiss
on the crown of her head. Her scalp tingled, sending a flutter of sensation
down her spine. She shivered and clicked the motor speed higher, whipping the fluffy
pink frosting against the sides of the bowl.

Ned
slid his hands to her waist and pulled her back against him. “Turn the machine
off,” he murmured.

She
felt him through her jeans and his, felt the hardness of him against the small
of her back. She swallowed, shivered…and turned the machine off. “Please,
Ned.” Her voice emerged small and breathless. “Don’t play games with me.”

He
slid his hands forward, flattening them across her belly. “I’m not playing
games,” he swore, his lips close to her ear. “Watching you cook turns me on.”

“I’m
not cooking,” she argued inanely, wishing her legs didn’t feel so weak, wishing
her hips didn’t want to nestle back against him. “I’m whipping up the
frosting.”

“Whipping
it up,” he repeated, putting an erotic emphasis on each syllable. “Indeed.”

“Ned…”

He
spun her in his arms, then pressed into her again, this time seeking the warmth
between her legs. “After you whip it up,” he asked, his eyes sparkling with an
odd blend of amusement and blatant arousal, “what do you do?”

“I
spread it—” Blushing furiously, she cut herself off.

“You
spread it,” he echoed, insinuating his knee between her legs and nudging them
farther apart. “It sounds delicious.”

“Coming
from you, it sounds X-rated.”

“It
sounds wonderfully wet.” He bowed and brushed a light, searing kiss across her
lips.

“Actually,
it can get kind of crumb-y,” she punned, finding the courage to meet his bold
gaze.

“I
suppose that would happen if you don’t spread it properly.”

“Or
if the cake is too warm,” she said, swallowing the tremor in her throat as his
thigh moved between hers. “The layers have to cool down.”

“I’ll
bet they do.” He flexed the muscles of his thigh slowly, subtly against her.
She closed her eyes and suppressed a moan. “I like my layers warm, though.”

“Then
you can’t frost them,” she told him, her tone rasping. If he didn’t kiss her
soon, really kiss her, kiss her the way he had outside his mother’s house…she
didn’t know what she would do.

He
rocked against her in a deliberate rhythm. “Can’t the layers be warm and firm
at the same time?”

“Not
when it comes to cake.”

Reaching
around her, he scooped a dollop of frosting onto his finger. “Taste it,” he
whispered, presenting his pink-glazed fingertip to her.

This
was insane. She had work to do, tons of work, the most important work in her
life. Yet, as if under a spell, she opened her mouth and ran the tip of her
tongue over his finger.

Simultaneously
his tongue darted out to lick the frosting. Their tongues touched, sweet and
sticky with peppermint, and she sank against the work island, buffeted by the
deluge of hot sensation that seared her.

“Make
love with me,” he said, half a plea, half a demand. His gaze burned through
her, expressing desire and need, lust and something more.

“I
can’t,” she groaned, even as her thighs tensed around his leg, as her tongue
tingled with the flavors of confectioner’s sugar and butter, peppermint extract
and passion. “I can’t, Ned.”

“Because
of the cotillion?”

She
nodded. Let him think her professional pressures and deadlines were what was
preventing them from finishing what they’d so recklessly begun with a finger
full of frosting. Let him believe that Fantasy Feasts was her only reason for
saying no.

There
would be time later, after she’d composed herself, to remind him that he was a
Wyatt with a Roman-numeral name, pampered and privileged, a citizen of a
community where she would always be an outsider. An employee. A bit too Irish,
according to his sister.

If
Ned was looking for a quick fling, she wasn’t interested. And if he was looking
for anything more than that, it wouldn’t work. She would never belong in his
world.

When
his hands relaxed at her waist, however, and he eased back from her, she found
herself wondering whether a quick fling with Ned Wyatt might be worth all the
heartache and regret she would feel afterward, after he’d had his fun and
returned to his proper place among the ranks of the elite.

No
man had ever excited her the way he could. No man had ever made her want so
much. Not that she believed in love at first sight, not that she believed any
of the blarney his mother had dished out, but…God, wouldn’t it be nice if Ned
wanted the same things Claudia did?

What
he wanted, she admitted with a doleful sigh, was to have his cake and eat it,
too. And she also admitted that cake and chocolate kisses, while delectable
treats, would never be enough to satisfy her.

Chapter Six

2:12
p.m.

“FINANCING?”
she asked.

They
were in the kitchen of Wyatt Hall. Seated on a stool, Ned observed as Claudia
arranged her cake materials on the counter. This time everything had survived
the trip across town in her van.

Following
in his car, his back seat filled with heaping trays, Ned had felt her absence
keenly. He had wanted to be with her, smelling her clean fragrance, admiring
her stunning blue eyes.

Of
course, if he’d been seated beside her in her van, he might have been unable to
resist the temptation to reach out and grab her. And then she would have lost
control of the van and it would have skidded on an icy patch of road and all
the food would have been ruined again.

And
then they would have had to start all over. Which might have been kind of fun.

Fun
for him, anyway. For her it would have been a disaster. As soon as he’d stopped
trying to seduce her at her house, she’d become compulsively businesslike,
trooping around her kitchen like a drill sergeant, barking orders as if she
viewed the cotillion as a military campaign—with Melanie serving as the
commanding officer of the opposing army.

Fortunately,
Melanie wasn’t at Wyatt Hall when they arrived. Edie was, but after huffing
about Claudia’s invasion of her precious kitchen, she let Ned convince her that
the florist needed her invaluable advice regarding the flower arrangements in
the ballroom. Once he’d dispatched Edie, Claudia got to work assembling her
cakes.

It
seemed like a good time to broach the subject. “Nothing complicated,” he told
her. “I’m only thinking of what you could accomplish with the proper
capitalization.”

She
flashed him a sharp, blue-eyed glance. “Proper capitalization, huh,” she
repeated dubiously. “Pretty fancy language.”

“All
it means is having enough money to get Fantasy Feasts to the next level.”

“The
next level of what?”

He
watched as she smoothed the pink frosting over the largest chocolate cake
layer, which sat on a doily-lined silver tray. With a deft flick of the pan,
she dropped the second layer on top of the first, centering the smaller heart
atop the larger one.

“Imagine
what your life would be like if you could work in a kitchen this big all the
time, in a shop in town. If you had a clerk, and an assistant, and an
eye-catching sign out front.”

“Yeah,
right,” she snorted. “That sounds like a lot more fantasy than feast.”

“Not
if your company had an infusion of cash. That’s where I could help you out.”

She
shot him another look, this one decidedly suspicious. “What am I, the newest
Wyatt charity?”

He
shook his head and chuckled. “No one’s going to
give
you a penny.
However, I can put together funding—”

“A
loan? Forget it.” She cut him off. “I’m already paying off my van, a mortgage
and the refrigerator in my cellar. I’m not taking any more loans.”

“I’m
not talking about a loan, either,” he explained patiently, trying not to let
the graceful gliding motions of her fingers distract him. “I’m talking about an
investment. I could find you a silent partner, someone looking for a promising
business to sink his money into, in return for a portion of your profits.”

“Profits?”
She laughed. “I’m just barely breaking even.”

“Most
new businesses don’t start breaking even for years. If you’re not in the red,
you’re doing great.”

“Who’s
going to invest in my company?” she asked, flipping the smallest chocolate
layer onto the cake. “Who in his right mind would invest in my rickety little
catering company when they could buy something safe and sound, like municipal
bonds?”

“You’ve
got a better chance of avoiding bankruptcy than some municipalities I know,” he
argued, smiling. She dragged over a bowl of chocolate kisses and used them to
create a decorative border around each later. “If my clients wanted to buy
municipal bonds, they wouldn’t come to me.”

She
eyed him warily. “And by getting these clients to invest in Fantasy Feasts you
pick up a whopping commission?”

There
was that, sure. But more was at stake than simply Ned’s commission. He wanted
Claudia to succeed because it meant so much to her. Because she was entitled to
it. Because if she didn’t succeed her spirit would be broken in two.

It
was her spirit that excited him, more than her reddish-brown hair and her pure
blue eyes, more than her prowess with shrimp and sweets. He wanted her happy.

“I
can think of at least two clients who might be interested in parking some money
with you. I’d need to examine your profit-loss records, your debt service and
son on. But—”

“I’m
supposed to let you see my private financial records?”

“I’d
have to see them before I recommended that my clients invest in Fantasy
Feasts.”

She
set down her knife and gripped the tray. “Here’s what you’d learn from my
records, Ned. I’m your basic hand-to-mouth model. My bank balance resembles
what you probably spend during an average night out with a woman.”

If
she’d meant to discourage him, she’d made a mistake. “Now, there’s an idea. Why
don’t you and I spend an average night together tomorrow and see if it
resembles your bank account?”

Claudia
bit her lip. Maybe he was pushing too hard. But after the way she’d responded
to him a mere hour ago, the way her body had arched and surged against his and
her hips and moved with his and her eyes had closed in surrender…

Why
shouldn’t he push a little? Why shouldn’t he bring this relationship to the next
level? No matter how anxiously she was avoiding his gaze right now, he knew she
was as interested as he was in taking things further.

“I
don’t want you spending your money on me,” she muttered, lifting the tray
carefully.

“All
right. We’ll keep it cheap. I’ll rent the DVD, you make the popcorn.” At her
skeptical stare, he shrugged. “Hey, I can do a low-rent date just like you.”

“Right.
And you can also peel carrots.” She handed him a bag of them, and holding her
head high she carried her magnificent cake out of the kitchen.

Ned
was lost in a reverie. A bowl of popcorn, his toasty wool afghan spread over
them, a 1950’s thriller about mutated insects on the TV in the background…and
afterward, they could discuss making a formal announcement and setting a date.

An
average night with the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met, he thought with
a smile. It could be the most exciting night in his life….

He
heard a scream, and another, and a loud thump. This might be the most exciting
night, after all, he thought as he bolted from the kitchen. But he was no
longer smiling.

***

“WELL,
IT WAS TOO
PINK!
” Edie ranted. “The color startled me! In all my days,
I’ve never seen a cake that color pink!”

It
wasn’t a cake any more. It was a mess of smeared frosting and crumbs strewn
across the marble floor of the ballroom.

Claudia
wanted to weep. She sat on the hard, shiny floor, less than an inch from where
she’d been standing when Edie had noticed the cake, shrieked and dropped her
dry mop at Claudia’s feet where she would trip over it. Two stories above her
loomed the ornately corniced ceiling of the ballroom. Chairs and settees stood
along the room’s perimeter, along with tables festooned with flowers and the
elegant dessert table where the cakes were supposed to be displayed. An arching
stairway that looked as if it had been designed just for debutantes soared to a
balcony along the inner wall.