Ned shrugged. “I think she’d like to give it to the historical society or something. Melanie thinks my mother’s in the early throes of dementia. When my mother bought the condo, Melanie went into a major panic and demanded that I come to Glenwood and deal with the situation.”
“Have you dealt with it?”
“It isn’t a situation. My mother’s happy where she is, and she’s not demented. Melanie will just have to get used to it.”
“Is that why you’re in Glenwood? To deal with the…non-situation?”
“Originally.” He leaned over to pluck something from the floor at his feet. “But since I’ve been here I’ve discovered that I like being out of New York. I’ve had it with all the crowds and the noise. I’m enjoying myself here. I have a temporary office in town and I can accomplish just about anything with a phone and a fax.”
“What kind of work do you do?” she asked, trying to glimpse the object in his hand.
“Investment consulting. I specialize in financing for start-up companies, new technologies.” He rubbed the small, round item with his thumb to clean it, then lifted it to smell. “Wow.”
She shot him a swift look in time to see him pop an errant chocolate kiss into his mouth. “Don’t! It was on the floor!”
“It wasn’t dirty,” he said thickly, his mouth filled with gooey chocolate. “Wow, that’s incredible! I’ve never tasted a chocolate kiss like that before.”
She smiled. “It’s my specialty.”
“What’s the secret ingredient?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“Are we going to make more of these?”
She chuckled and shook her head. “If we do, you’ll probably eat all of them.”
“Three-quarters. We’d set aside a few for the cotillion.”
She steered onto the driveway of her modest ranch house, sending arcs of slush in all directions. “For the last time, Mr. Wyatt, you really don’t have to do this.”
“Call me Ned,” he said, gazing at her with a hunger she could interpret in more than one way if she dared. “As for helping you with your kisses, Ms. Mulcahey…I think that’s something I really do have to do.”
Chapter Two
9:47 a.m.
CLAUDIA WAS STIRRING the chocolate and corn syrup she’d just melted in the microwave when the dreaded phone call came. “Hello?”
“Claudia! Where the hell are you?”
It was Melanie Steele. And she sounded frenzied. Claudia glanced over at Melanie’s far from frenzied brother, who stood at the sink, rinsing out the lidded bowl that had once contained yogurt dip.
Over the past half hour he’d made himself indispensable, helping her to clear the van of any salvageable food. While she made the cake batter, he’d cleaned the van. Now the cakes were baking in their valentine-shaped pans in Claudia’s industrial double oven.
She still faced a ton of work. She had no time to explain everything to Melanie. If she had a spare minute, she would have preferred to spend it gazing appreciatively at Ned’s lanky, virile physique, at his disheveled mane of hair, his snug-fitting black jeans, his surprisingly competent hands and his sexy hazel eyes.
“You know where I am,” she said to Melanie. “You’ve just phoned me.”
“I am at Wyatt Hall.” Melanie’s tone was edged with hysteria. “There’s no food here. You said you would start bringing the food over at nine. It’s now almost ten o’clock and there’s no food here.”
“I—uh—I had to revise my schedule,” said Claudia. From across the room she saw Ned grinning at her, openly eavesdropping.
The eavesdropping she didn’t mind. His grin, however, stroked her nerves into an overheated state of awareness. One corner of his mouth was skewed slightly higher than the other, lending his smile a predatory quality.
Why had she let him inside her house? Why had she trusted him—and herself? The brightly lit kitchen was as unromantic a setting as she could imagine, yet whenever she glimpsed Ned Wyatt she felt soft and syrupy inside. She could focus only so much on the numerous tasks that awaited her. Part of her mind—the warmest, most womanly part—clung to him like sweet, sticky honey and refused to let go.
She turned to stare at the yellow ceramic tiles lining the wall. “Mrs. Steele, everything is just fine. I’m very busy right now, so—”
“When are you going to start bringing the food over?” Melanie continued. “I told my friends they’d get to see the cakes if they come here at twelve.”
“The cakes aren’t going to be ready at twelve,” Claudia informed her.
Melanie shrieked. “I’m paying you a lot of money for those cakes.”
“And they’ll be worth it,” Claudia assured her. “I’ll bring them over as soon as they’re ready.”
“What do you think, we can sit around all day waiting?” Melanie sounded as if she were speaking through clenched teeth. “If you don’t have the cakes here by noon—”
“You can see them this evening,” Claudia insisted, struggling to keep her exasperation out of her voice. This was the most important job Fantasy Feasts had ever had. Melanie Steele was her most influential client. “I promise you, the cakes are going to look magnificent. Why don’t you wait and be surprised?”
“I wanted a preview,” Melanie said petulantly.
“I wish I could give you one, but I can’t. Trust me, everything’s going to be wonderful.” Unless you keep me on the phone all morning, she added silently, glancing toward the cooling chocolate in the bowl on the work island. “I really have to get back to work, Mrs. Steele. Just relax. The cakes are going to be great.”
Melanie mumbled something and hung up. Claudia hung up, too. She rested her head against the cool, smooth tiles and let out a weary sigh.
“She has a way with people,” Ned remarked, sounding much too close. Claudia flinched and spun around to find him directly behind her, leaning against the work island and regarding her with a wry smile.
“Your sister is very nice.”
“My sister is a bitch. What did she do to you?”
Claudia pressed her lips together to keep from blurting out her true sentiments. “What she did was hire me to feed one hundred-fifty people at Wyatt Hall this evening. It’s an opportunity I can’t afford to blow.” She pushed past Ned and reached for the bowl of chocolate.
Ned rested his elbows on the island, propping his chin in his hands and watching her. “Are those the kisses?”
“They will be.”
“When do I get to eat them?”
“Tonight. Can you pass me those candy molds near the sink?”
While Ned went to get them, she pulled a bottle of bourbon out of a nearby cabinet. Ned turned back in time to see her pour several generous splashes into the chocolate. “Ah, so that’s the secret ingredient?”
“One of them.” She added a hefty portion of cinnamon, several generous shakes of ginger and a less generous shake of ground cloves, then poured the chocolate into the molds.
“How did you learn to make chocolate kisses?” he asked.
“How did you learn to finance new technologies? This is my job, Ned. It’s what I do.”
He gazed around the room, silently appraising her work space, a cramped suburban kitchen which had been completely remodeled with industrial appliances to accommodate her business.
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 r
ipple 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 he
r 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?”
Chocolate Kisses Page 2