Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel)

by Nina Lane

  TO: Luke Stone, Megalomaniac Willy Wonka

  (l.stone@sugarrush.com)

  FROM: Polly Lockhart, Tea Brewer Extraordinaire

  (polly@wildchildbakery.com)

  Mr. Stone:

  Attached are the password-secured Important Financial Documents you requested. I will be at my desk until five p.m., should you have any questions. If not, I will be at your office at two p.m. tomorrow for our meeting.

  Sincerely,

  Polly Lockhart

  Luke hit the reply button.

  TO: Polly Lockhart, Pagan Witch

  (polly@wildchildbakery.com)

  FROM: Luke Stone, Master of the Universe

  (l.stone@sugarrush.com)

  Miss Lockhart:

  Received and noted. You have a great ass.

  L. Stone

  He printed out the documents and logged out of email. He’d been expecting that the bakery’s finances would be a mess, but he hadn’t expected this level of disorganization. Polly’s business assets were nonexistent, and her profits on a steady decline. She had no cost of sales or even a list of expenses.

  He wrote up a preliminary business plan, studied other bakeries in the nearby area, looked into the suppliers Polly had been working with, and redid her projected cash flow and balance sheet. By mid-afternoon, he started to think he had some solid ways for her to get a handle on her business before it dropped out from under her.

  He nodded with satisfaction. That was all he had to do. Go on a few dates, help her get the bakery back on track, and teach her how to run it properly. She was a smart girl. Once she had the tools in place and knew how to use them, she’d be fine.

  And then he could walk away.

  The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Stone, your . . . shit.”

  Kate’s voice dropped off just as the door opened and Julia strode into his office, looking like she’d just stepped out of the pages of Vogue in a gray tweed Chanel suit.

  Kate followed, her expression both worried and irritated. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize she would take the stairs.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” Luke said. “I’ve got this.”

  His assistant left, closing the door behind her. Julia approached his desk with her usual predatory “give me intel or I will crush you” look.

  “Who is she?” Julia asked. “Evan said she was there the other night when he and your father arrived.”

  Luke made a mental note to have a talk with his little brother. “Evan needs to stop gossiping.”

  “Well, when I threatened to turn my matchmaking efforts onto him rather than you, he sang like a canary.” Julia arched an eyebrow. “Do I know her?”

  “No. You’ve never met her. In fact, we just started seeing each other.”

  Julia looked at him skeptically. “Since when?”

  “Uh, last week.”

  “You started seeing her last week and you had her at the house?”

  “My house,” Luke corrected.

  “And is there a reason you didn’t tell me this the other day?”

  “Yeah. It’s none of your damned business.”

  Unfazed by the sharp retort, Julia stepped closer to the desk. “So where did you meet her?”

  “While I was out.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She owns a bakery. And she’s in the culinary program at Hartford Community.”

  “What bakery?”

  “Just a hole in the wall. I’m helping her sort out the business end.”

  Julia frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I can.” Luke sighed. “Julia, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll ask Polly to the museum dinner. You can meet her then, and your seating chart will be intact.”

  She tapped her fingers against her arms, her eyebrows high, still looking as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him.

  “Now go away,” Luke said.

  “She doesn’t sound as if she’d quite fit,” Julia remarked.

  “I’m not doing that soap opera crap with you. Either I bring her, or I don’t go. That’s it.”

  “All right.” She held up her hands in a placating gesture. “I trust your judgment.”

  The comment twisted inside Luke. Because they both knew his judgment had failed in the past.

  Once. Only once. He had no intention of it failing again.

  After Julia finally left, Luke turned his attention back to Polly’s paperwork. Close to six, he checked his email and opened a message from the Indigo Bay police chief. Brad had attached a PDF of crime incidents in the vicinity of Wild Child over the past year.

  Luke opened the file and scrolled through it. More drug investigations, weapons violations, robberies. Then his gaze landed on the line non-residential burglary, followed by the address of Wild Child.

  His jaw clenched. According to the police report, one break-in had occurred last May at eleven p.m. and the other in mid-October after midnight. The suspects had gotten away with petty cash in both incidents, having gained entry through a picked lock and broken window.

  Luke picked up the phone and placed an urgent call to the head of the security company who’d worked with Sugar Rush for years. He issued Gavin a set of instructions as he tossed folders into his briefcase and shrugged into his suit jacket. Dusk was already starting to fall. By the time Polly closed the bakery at seven, it would be close to dark and she’d be alone.

  He drove to Rainsville and parked in the shadow of the warehouse across from Wild Child, thinking his car might not be there when he returned but seeing no other option. The only light in the building was the one in the bakery window.

  He crossed the street and pushed open the door. Polly looked up from cleaning the cold case, her curly hair pulled back into a messy knot and her apron streaked with chocolate.

  A smile bloomed on her face. A strange feeling tightened his chest in response. She actually looked happy to see him again. Not many people were.

  “Hi there,” Polly said. “What are you doing back here? I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow.”

  Luke shook off the odd feeling, reminding himself why he was here. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve had two break-ins in the past year?”

  She winced. “How did you find out?”

  “Police report. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t a big deal. Besides, the burglars didn’t get much. I keep everything important in the safe.”

  “I don’t care what they got,” Luke snapped. “I care that they broke in. How many times has that happened over the years?”

  “We’ve had some issues, but no one has ever gotten hurt,” Polly said. “And the alarm system has been a good deterrent, but it went out a few months ago and I haven’t been able to afford a new one.”

  “I’m buying you a new one,” he said. “That’s not negotiable.”

  “They’re terribly expensive. I’ve shopped around.” She scrubbed at the counter and shook her head. “I can’t let you buy me a whole new system.”

  “Well, you’re going to,” he retorted. “Because I’m not helping you improve a business that doesn’t even have a decent security system. By the look of it, you also need new locks and deadbolts. Loss prevention is Business 101. I’ve already called the head of a security company and told him to put together a team to do a risk assessment of Wild Child, both the physical structure and your computer system.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked up. “I do want your help, but I don’t want you to pay for everything I need. However, if we agree this is a loan and that I’ll pay you back when the bakery starts turning a profit, then I accept. And thank you.”

  Luke nodded, still not entirely satisfied with the agreement but understanding her desire not to take a handout from him. He’d have felt the same way. And he liked her belief that the bakery would start turning a profit one day soon. Failure wasn’t an option.

  “I looked over your paperwork,” he said. “How about I go through your files to see if there’s anyth
ing we missed?”

  “Sure, go ahead.” She gestured to the back office. “The key for the desk is under the flour sack.”

  He went into her tiny office and compiled old bank statements, tax returns, and lists of suppliers. He put them all in the trunk of his car and returned to help Polly finish clearing out the display cases and mop the floor. She closed out the register and got her things together.

  As Polly locked the front door, Luke stared at her features, the dusting of freckles on her nose, the bow shape of her lips. The curve of her throat, the V-neckline of her T-shirt that exposed a tempting expanse of white skin. He remembered how her breasts had felt, her hard nipples pressing against his chest, her mouth open against his . . .

  It was dangerous the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Couldn’t stop wanting her. She was crowding into places in his mind that he’d always reserved for either his family or his business.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Upstairs.”

  He frowned. “Upstairs?”

  Polly ducked her head and took a set of keys from her bag. “Come on.”

  They walked to the narrow alley behind the bakery. Luke followed her up a rickety staircase to a front door with an old, rusted lock.

  Was she fucking kidding him?

  “You live here?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve been here for about a year. My mother, sister, and I used to live in an apartment downtown, but I couldn’t afford the rent after she died. So the landlord said I could move into the studio. The commute is fantastic.”

  She smiled. Luke didn’t. He hated the thought of her struggling to pay the rent after her mother’s death. And it made him batshit crazy to know that she’d probably been sleeping here when a couple of thugs were breaking in downstairs. What if they’d taken the narrow stairs leading to her apartment? What if they’d hurt her?

  Anger and apprehension flooded his chest. A bakery in trouble was one thing. His girl in trouble was something else entirely.

  “Home sweet home.” She opened the door and spread her arm out.

  Luke shook his head to dislodge his thoughts, especially the one about Polly being his girl. He forced his fists to unclench as he followed her into the studio apartment.

  One room with a bathroom and tiny kitchen, the place had secondhand furniture, a dining nook with a white painted table, and framed prints on the walls. There was a little vase of flowers on the coffee-table and a patchwork quilt tossed over the bed.

  The wall plaster was cracking, the kitchen appliances were rusty, and the window was small and dingy, but somehow Polly had made the apartment look . . . nice. Really nice. Put your feet up and take a deep breath nice.

  “You did a great job with this place,” he admitted, not that the décor made it any more okay that she was living here.

  “Thanks.” She tossed her bag onto a chair. “If you’re nice to the tenant, she’ll give you free cookies.”

  “It’s not cookies I’m after.” Luke couldn’t help smiling when her cheeks got pink.

  “Be good, Mr. Stone.”

  “You sure you want me to be?”

  “No.”

  Polly winked at him and headed toward the bathroom. Luke let his gaze stroke over the curve of her ass in her worn jeans. She was wearing a baggy, white T-shirt, and her shoulder-length hair was a tangle of shiny curls. Her sweet, spicy scent of oranges and cloves wafted over him.

  He took a breath, battling the urge to have it out about her living conditions. Though he’d known Polly for less than two weeks, he already knew she’d bite back if he went on the offensive.

  He circled the room. A copy of Pierre Lacroix’s The Art of French Pastry sat on the coffee table. A corkboard hung on the wall, layered with photos and cut-out magazine articles of Paris. The bookshelves were stacked with novels, chef’s biographies, and cookbooks, and a CD set of “Learning French.” A bunch of classic movie musicals—The Sound of Music, An American in Paris—sat beside the small TV.

  Luke found himself putting all those pieces together to form a full picture of Polly Lockhart. He didn’t do that with other women. Come to think of it, he also didn’t go to women’s homes or apartments. They always came to him.

  He opened the kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator, neither of which contained much except for mac and cheese, yogurt, and canned pasta. Probably all she could afford.

  Tension tightened his neck. He needed to get her back to his place. Hell, he needed to keep her there so he didn’t have to think about her living alone in this dump, waking at four to open her failing bakery before trudging to a community college for culinary arts classes.

  Polly emerged from the bathroom, her flour-dusted jeans exchanged for black yoga pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Get dressed in something nicer.” Luke could come up with a plan later, as long as he didn’t let her out of his sight. “We’re going to dinner.”

  She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “How about . . . Polly, will you please have dinner with me tonight? Go on, try it.”

  He smothered a rush of irritation. “Polly, will you have dinner with me?”

  “No.”

  “What the . . .”

  She held up a hand to stop his imminent tirade. “I don’t have time tonight. Yes, we’re going to go on dates soon, but tomorrow morning I have a test on aerated confections and nougat.”

  “What about the bakery?”

  “Clementine is opening tomorrow. I’m taking the afternoon shift.”

  He took his phone out of his pocket and hit the search button.

  “What are you doing?” Polly asked.

  “Ordering Chinese food.”

  “I told you, I don’t have time to—”

  “You need to study, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Peach, today is your lucky day.” Luke spread his arms out. “Because I know a hell of a lot about aerated confections and nougat.”

  LUKE STONE KNEW A LOT about . . . a lot. Polly was pretty sure of that.

  And she had no doubt he was an expert on seducing women with champagne and expensive dinners, but as he sat across from her at the worn kitchen table, Polly imagined she was probably the only woman in the world who could get weak in the knees over his explanation of batch process nougat-making.

  “It requires an eight percent moisture content before the whipping agent is added to the syrup.” He wrote on her scribbled notepad. “The whipping agent is usually egg albumen, gelatin, or milk protein.”

  When she didn’t respond, he glanced up to catch her staring at him. Her heart jumped. His jaw was dusted with five o’clock stubble, giving his strong features a very sexy and dangerous look. She liked him that way. Heck, she liked him ten ways from Sunday.

  “Did you learn all this just from making candy?” she asked.

  He nodded. “In addition to our branding overhaul, we had to revamp and streamline a lot of the processes when I took over the company. Made everything more efficient.”

  His cell buzzed again, as it had at least half a dozen times in the past hour. With an apology, he checked it and responded to an email.

  “Do you ever take time off?” Polly asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You don’t sound very convincing.”

  He didn’t look up from his phone. “I travel often for work.”

  “Where?”

  “Europe. Switzerland, Germany, and France mostly.”

  “How many times have you been to Paris?”

  “I don’t know.” He swiped the screen on the phone. “I go a couple times a year for business. We consult with several chocolate and candy makers in Paris.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  He rattled off the names of the chefs who ran Fouquet, La Maison du Chocolat, and Alain Ducasse. Polly had read their books, visited their websites, learned where they were educated and trained, wa
tched their TV shows.

  And Luke Stone personally consulted with them.

  “What about Pierre Lacroix?” she asked.

  “We worked with him last year to develop a candy version of macaroons.”

  Awestruck, Polly sat back. She pictured Luke visiting the kitchens of such renowned chocolatiers and patisseries—the air filled with sweet scents and the lyrical cadence of French, watching chefs create towering, sugar-glass confections and tiny, perfect candies of almond paste. Miniature apples and pears, hand-painted animals and sucettes. Caramels, pralines, bon-bons.

  She looked down at her textbook. The Hartford course in candy technology was required for the Culinary Arts certificate, and though she was enjoying the class, it was nothing compared to what she could learn in Paris.

  She reached for the open bag of Jelly Rolls, which was one of several packages of candy Luke had produced from his briefcase, and plucked out a few red ones. The Sugar Rush version of jelly beans, Jelly Rolls were soft, round candies encased in a smooth icing shell. He’d also brought a bag of Puffles, the gummy candy she had liked, and Chocolate Crackles, crispy nut-and-puffed rice nuggets coated with bittersweet chocolate.

  “These were my sister Hannah’s favorite when we were kids.” Polly indicated the Jelly Rolls. “She was never really into desserts, but she liked these.”

  “They’re based on a French fruit candy called calissons.”

  “Where do you stay when you visit Paris?” She popped the red Jelly Roll into her mouth, enjoying the burst of sweet cherry.

  “One hotel or another,” Luke said. “Wherever the secretary books a room.”

  He made it sound like he was visiting Podunk, Nowhereville, and staying at the Motel 6. Polly had thought she had missed out on a lot of youthful adventures, but she was only twenty-three years old. She had a lot of time left to see the world and have new experiences—at least the possibility was there even if she didn’t have the resources to do any of that anytime soon.