The Billionaire's Gamble (10 page)

“The best substances in nature give off more than one bio product.”

Leave it to him to say something like that. “I’m glad you don’t think I’m weird.”

“Moi? Am I not the inventor of the Paint Prep Mistress?” His chuckle was as dark and gooey as the caramel sauce she stirred with the spoon resting nearby. “We’ll overlook the fact that you thought I was weird at the time.”

He was still standing close enough to touch her, following her progress. She could step away, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. “You’re a bigger man than I am for forgetting that.”

“I think Mother Nature would agree,” he said, gesturing to his tall frame. “Not that you aren’t perfect the way you are. You’re a pocket Venus.”

Her mouth parted. “Wow! No one has
ever
called me that. It might be the best compliment I’ve ever had. I love that statue—”

“In the Louvre,” he finished.

It was weird, how they read each other’s minds. Now that she was one hundred percent sure he found her attractive, her skin buzzed with sensation.

“What about your cinnamony awesomeness?” he quipped. “That’s a pretty cool compliment.”

But she’d made that one up herself. “True. Okay. You got me there.”

She washed her hands and dried them off so she could handle the dough, needing space so she could avoid breaking her own rules and his current celibacy vow. Gently setting it on the floured surface she’d prepared to roll it out, she eyed the clock on the stove. Her guests would arrive in ninety minutes. The timing was perfect.

“Can I watch you assemble them? I have an idea in my head, but…” He gestured to the dough. “I like seeing how things are put together.”

“I got that about you,” she answered, oddly touched. “Of course you can.”

The dough was already calling to her, so she grabbed the rolling pan and dusted it with flour. Working gently, she exerted a downward pressure until the dough started to thin out into the shape of a large rectangle. Her passes over the dough grew more sweeping, and she paused from time to time to dust the rolling pin and the countertop to make sure the dough didn’t stick. When she was satisfied that the dough was an even half an inch thick, she stepped away to pop the butter in the microwave.

“Ah, butter,” he said with a cute smile on his face. “Anything worth eating must by definition have at least one stick of butter in it. I love the French for how much they worship butter.”

The microwave chimed when the cycle came to an end, and she stirred the butter with the tip of her finger. She wanted it melted, but not too hot. “I know. They even have different butter than we do in the States.”

“Yeah,” he said, squatting down until he was eye level with her rolled out dough. “There’s a higher butter-solids-to-water ratio in France.”

Again, she had to marvel at his mind. He was a man with a genuine curiosity for life, and it was so downright sexy, she felt like the dough: all laid out before him. She swallowed thickly.

“Where do you learn all this stuff?” she asked.

“I read a lot,” he said, but his frame went from relaxed to stiff. “Or I used to. I need to start doing more of it again. Are you basting the bread with all that butter? No wonder it’s so delicious.”

He clearly didn’t want her to ask him any more questions along that line, so she nodded. “Yes, I’m using all of it. Grandma Kemstead doesn’t baste. She dumps.” Tipping the bowl, she let the butter spill over the dough like a giant yellow flood. “She uses her fingers to spread the butter.” It was rather sensual, but Margie couldn’t say that to him, not when the atmosphere around them already crackled with electricity.

Once the butter was spread, she picked up the bowl of sugar she’d measured and poured it evenly over the dough. Then she grabbed the industrial-size cinnamon, not caring that her hands were tacky, and shook a healthy stream on top. The sugar was already being absorbed by the butter, and the cinnamon soon turned from rust to dark brown as the butter enveloped it as well.

“That’s a masterpiece,” Evan said, staring at her doughy canvas. “I can see why you love this so much. It’s a layered process filled with what the French would call
la sensualité.”

Sensuality.
So he felt it too. The word hovered between them. His eyes locked with hers, pinning her in place.

“The French are all about
la sensualité
,” he said, but this time his voice was deeper, darker.

Places below the countertop turned liquid, and she fought for breath. “And
joie de vivre,”
she burst out. “Don’t forget that.”

His gaze dropped, releasing her back to herself. She was finally able to inhale.

“I could never forget the joy of life,” he said, stepping away to give her room. “What’s next?”

Wishing she could shake her body free of the goosebumps shivering up her arms, she took the ends of the dough between her fingers. “Now, you simply roll the dough. Almost like you’re making hay bales.”

He laughed, and even to her ears, her description sounded lame. She kept going, letting the familiar motions ground her. When she finished rolling all the dough into one long…tunnel—okay she really needed a new metaphor—she pinched the ends and reached for a large knife.

“Now you cut them into rolls,” she said and did, slicing the first one about two-and-a-half inches thick. The buttery mixture oozed out, streaked with the brown flecks of cinnamon. “Then you lay them down on a greased pan so the rolled layers face up.”

“Awesome,” he said, and her breath caught again at the trace of awe in his voice. He was acting like he was watching her create a masterpiece, and since that’s how she felt making bread and other yummy delights, the urge to reach for his hand to strengthen their connection was too strong to ignore.

He stilled when her fingers touched the back of his palm, which was resting on the counter. His blue eyes locked with hers again, and she met them dead on. In them was the same desire she was feeling, along with a touch of surprise. He hadn’t expected her touch, and because he hadn’t, it only made her want to touch him more.

“Evan…I…thank you for sharing this with me,” she said. “Other than Grandma Kemstead, I haven’t baked with anyone. It’s…”

“Nice to share our passions,” he finished for her. “I know. I have a friend who shares mine sort of, but not too many other people get it. Creating can be a lonely process sometimes.”

She saw it then, with her eyes on his, unflinching. There was a deep well of loneliness inside him. That’s what had led him to Dare Valley. She allowed herself to give him a spontaneous hug and then jumped back, not trusting herself. He still lived in her house, and…and… Things just hadn’t worked out with Howie. He’d been an artistic type and loner too.

She knew she was making excuses.

He cleared his throat and picked up his wine glass, then took a healthy sip as he watched her finish cutting the rolls and laying them in the pan. Unable to meet his eyes now, she grabbed a towel and covered them.

“Now, we let the yeast do its job,” she said, placing the rolls in a sunny spot in the kitchen so they could expand and rise.

“Thanks for showing me,” he said in a deeper voice than usual. “It’s an honor to watch a master at work. I’m…ah…going to take a shower before your guests arrive.”

“Okay,” she said, and she dared a glance at him again.

His eyes met hers one last time before he stepped out of the kitchen. She sipped her wine, thinking about the water trickling down the hard lines of his body. Deep in her belly, she wanted to join him, but she breathed through the longing until it subsided. She hoped he would come back down and keep her company after his shower, but the water shut off. A few minutes passed, and he still didn’t come.

The rolls rose under the towel as the wall clock ticked off the time. When they were ready, she warmed the oven to three hundred seventy-five, struggling with herself and all the new emotions Evan had awoken in her. Finally, she walked to the base of the stairs, gripping the railing.

“Evan?” she called out.

His door opened, and he came to the top of the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said like they hadn’t just gotten all hot and bothered in the kitchen. “I’m about ready to finish the rolls and pop them into the oven. Do you want to see the final step?”

As he came down the stairs, she saw his hair was still damp from his shower and curlier than when it was dry. It was rather sexy, and so was the pine scent of his soap that flooded her senses as he approached her.

“Sure thing.”

She fought a huge smile. “Great. Follow me.”

Back in the kitchen, she bumped the bowl she reached for, spilling a little cream on the counter. “This is the sauce,” she said, reaching for a paper towel to swipe up the mess. She stirred the mixture until the cream was fully blended with the corn syrup and cinnamon.

“Sometimes, Grandma Kemstead adds some melted butter to this if she has any left over,” she told him as she poured the uncooked mixture evenly over the top of the rolls.

The mixture started to seep into the layers of bread, collecting at the edges. She walked over to the preheated oven and slid the pan inside. After setting the timer, she turned to him. “Now, you just let the heat do its thing. In about twenty-five to thirty minutes, we’ll have fresh cinnamon rolls right out of the oven.”

“Incredible. Everyone is going to love them.” He wasn’t meeting her eyes now either, she noticed. Had he realized they were walking a dangerous line?

The clock showed her guests were due to arrive in fifteen minutes. “Would you like to have some more wine?”

He tugged on his Rebel T-shirt, which he’d laundered with the rest of his clothes last night. “Margie. I…if I wasn’t living here and…on this celibate kick, I’d…”

When he didn’t finish the sentence, she gulped and said, “I know. It’s probably best for us to talk about it. It’s been building between us since you first arrived. And you’re going to be here for a few more weeks. We need to be…restrained.” At least until she was in Paris when they weren’t living together. Okay, she’d already decided she was going to see him in Paris. With no constraints between them.

Something dark came and went in his eyes. “It was the Paint Prep Mistress, right? That’s what made you want me.”

Her chest was almost too tight to laugh, but she did anyway. It seemed the only safe emotion in the moment. “Actually, it was seeing you rig up that old adding machine like MacGyver. He was kinda hot back in the day.”

“He was, at that,” Evan agreed, walking to the corner of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway. “I’d like to say it was your cinnamon rolls, but I can’t. From the moment I opened the door and saw you standing there like a sexy pocket Venus fallen from Mount Olympus, I’ve wanted you. But over the past couple of weeks, I’ve seen so much kindness and bravery from you, it’s made me a complete goner.”

“I’m coming to Paris,” she found herself saying out loud.

The intensity in his gaze was magnetic. “I know.”

“I don’t usually…” she found herself saying, picking up the towel she’d covered the bread with so her hands could hold something.

“I know you don’t.” His voice was growing more mesmerizing with each word.

“And I won’t be staying long,” she said in a quiet voice. “I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

His mouth tipped up. “Then it’s good I’m celibate now, and you don’t date your tenants. We both have time to think about it.”

She nodded her head because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she agreed.

“Do you need any help setting things up last minute?” he asked.

“No, I have everything covered.”

“Great,” he said. “Call me when they arrive.”

He took a few steps to the door before spinning around and striding toward her. Purpose filled his movements, and she found her mouth going dry at the thought—the hope—that he was going to throw caution to the wind and kiss her senseless like they both wanted.

But he only laid his hand on her bare arm and stared into her soul. “I’m really grateful I’m here with you too,” he said, echoing her earlier words after their toast. Then, he retraced his steps and left the kitchen.

With the scent of cinnamon and bread baking around her, all she could do was lean against the counter with her hand on her heart, wondering what would happen in Paris—and eager to find out.

Chapter 5

Evan had been to the finest wine tastings the world over, but he was more excited about Margie’s cinnamon roll tasting than he’d been about any of them. He’d changed into Evan Murray’s best clothes after their last exchange—jeans and a black T-shirt. As he came down the stairs, he realized why he’d done it. He wanted to look his best for her. Tonight was going to be special.

It was a good thing he’d called out their mutual attraction in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure he could have continued to ignore the growing intensity between them, and after overhearing her sweet toast and sharing it with her, he’d seen the vulnerability lying underneath the surface of her confidence and determination. He remembered those feelings all too well—they were inescapable when you risked everything for your dreams.