Seducing the Playboy (A Hot Nights Series Book) (Entangled Brazen)

by Amanda Usen

  He grabbed her hand and held it. Don’t do this. The voice inside him was insistent, and he groaned. Jenna shifted closer, and he knew he was either going to have to let her continue or explain why he wanted her to stop. He was saved by the sound of crunching gravel and loud voices on the other side of the fence. Barb and Devon had returned in the nick of time.

  “Rain check.” His voice was thick.

  “I can’t in good conscience leave you in this condition.”

  His body agreed, throbbing against her. “This isn’t about me. I may be a hedonist, but I can control myself with enough incentive.”

  “And your incentive is…”

  “Making it good for you. Fulfilling your fantasies. Anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac. Plus, this is the best kind of torture. Good, clean, dirty fun.” Would she believe him?

  She didn’t look convinced. “You want to fulfill my fantasy? Meet me in my room in ten minutes.”

  He lifted her off his lap and set her down on the bench beside him just as he heard the front door slam and the sound of a car leaving the driveway. “I told you the other night. My timetable or no deal.”

  Her brow furrowed, and he could tell she was trying to think of another angle.

  He raised an eyebrow, amused and a little desperate. “I haven’t seen you pout since yesterday, so you’re due for a temper tantrum. C’mon, let’s see that lower lip. Give it to me.” He hoped teasing would dispel the tension between them, but her eyes darkened and her chin came up, signaling trouble.

  “I would love to give you my lower lip, both of my lips in fact.” She paused to give him a searing look. “Anywhere you want them.”

  “I want them.” I do, God help me. He took a deep breath, and squeezed her hand. “I want you, but I need to do this my way. I want you to remember me with fondness when you go back to New Jersey. And sometime in the future, I’d like to have dinner with your family again without you hating my guts. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I’d like to stay friends.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I’m pretty sure friends can give friends blow jobs these days, but whatever.” She was teasing him, yet they both knew she meant it.

  “No doubt, and if you feel that way tomorrow, maybe I’ll say yes. But I don’t want you feeling obligated to offer quid pro quo just because I stole third base in a hot tub.”

  Her steady gaze rocked him to the core. “There was no stealing. I gave it to you.”

  “I know.” And I don’t feel nearly as guilty as I thought I would. He brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

  “We are going to become lovers, aren’t we, Roman?”

  He understood her confusion. They were consenting adults, boundaries clear, risks minimized, and there was enough heat between them to boil the water in the hot tub. He was worried about what Cole would say if he found out, but his worries weren’t going to win out against his lust the next time he found himself half-naked with Jenna—and there would be a next time.

  He nodded slowly, coming to a decision. “Las Vegas.” As he said the words, he knew it had been his plan all along. A decadent night of pleasure in Sin City, and then they’d go their separate ways. It was what was best. After all, he’d only booked one room.

  Her grin was as bright as the lights on the Vegas Strip.

  He swallowed hard. “For the next few days, we’re going to be too busy for anything but work anyway…at least I hope so.” Another kind of anxiety flashed through him. They’d only be busy if the Beach House opening was a success. He’d reassured Jenna, but there was no guarantee.

  “It’s going to be awesome, Ro. Have some faith.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek, and he felt humbled and grateful. Hadn’t she come to Venice Beach to seek his help? He closed his arms around her, pulling her close, holding on to the moment. She was biased, dismissive of the challenges they faced, but God, her unwavering support felt good.

  Down, boy. You can’t keep her.

  As if to underscore his thoughts, Jenna slid out of his arms. She stood, steam rising from her skin as she stepped carefully out of the tub. “Speaking of work, I think we should do individual croquembouches for the Vegas event. What do you think?”

  He made a face, remembering the soggy pile of cream puffs stuck together with caramelized sugar he and Alex had made in culinary school. “No way. Nightmare.”

  “No so fast. Keep an open mind,” she said as he followed her out of the tub.

  He grabbed a towel, quickly running it over his body before he wrapped it around his waist. She wanted to do a classical French dessert for a crowd of rowdy celebrities? He pictured Alex laughing him out of the kitchen. His mother hovering over the plates making panicked suggestions. The guests sneering. There was no way he was putting his name on a dessert that had disaster written all over it. His career would be over. Seriously, why not just go the whole nine yards and make the stupid puff pastry swans he had never been able to master?

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “But I think swans would be overkill.” She giggled and reached over to nudge his mouth shut with the tip of a finger.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?” he demanded.

  “We went to the same culinary school, silly—I took a guess. Now hear me out. I bake the cream puffs and make the mousses at the Beach House. We pack them up and take them to Vegas. I e-mailed the chef and he said I can use part of the kitchen—”

  “Wait,” Roman broke in. “Hang on a sec.”

  “No—you listen to me. I fill the puffs on the day of the event so they won’t get soggy. We use ganache to hold them together—sugar would be too complicated and no one wants to eat it anyway—but we make spun sugar for a garnish and put bright sauces on the plate, maybe use some gold foil or gold dust for accent. It will look like a million bucks, perfect for Vegas.”

  “So you say. Your name isn’t going on that menu—mine is.” Until she’d cut him off, he’d fully intended to correct her misapprehension and tell her Alex was a woman, but now he was glad he hadn’t. The last thing he needed was those two ganging up on him. No doubt Alex remembered exactly how flat his cream puffs had been when they were in school. She’d be all for the idea. “I’ve got a lot riding on this, and I haven’t seen the new event menu yet. What if it’s sushi? Or Pacific Rim? Not classical at all?”

  “Then we use Asian or Latin flavors in the mousses. The croquembouche is a classic for a reason. It has universal appeal, but it’s also adaptable. I guarantee the diners won’t be able to resist popping at least one cream puff into their mouths…especially if we make chocolate pâte à choux. A cute little individual chocolate croquembouche would look awesome on a white plate, especially with the spun sugar.”

  Her enthusiasm was persuasive, but…cream puffs? “I was thinking something modern, like chocolate bombes.”

  “Of course you were.” She snorted. “How many molds do you have? Even if you have twenty I’d have to make at least a dozen separate batches and wait for them to set. Or you’d have to buy more molds. Then there’s transportation. If we make them here, we’d have to keep them frozen during the trip, then ganache them in Vegas. Talk about a nightmare.” She shuddered and headed for the house.

  He followed. “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “Constantly. I don’t want to let you down, Roman. Trust me, I’m right about this. Croquembouches are the way to go. Practical, delicious, and I promise to make them stunning. The plate-up will be a breeze, too. Are you seeing my genius yet?”

  He wouldn’t call it genius, but he didn’t have a better idea. “Do you have recipes for all these things? You don’t have much time to experiment.”

  “I’m all set. Just get me that menu, so I can figure out the fillings.”

  “I was expecting it two days ago. I’ll make sure we get it tomorrow.” He swatted her ass as she reached the door.

  Heat flared in her eyes. “I’m going to change your mind a
bout cream puffs.”

  “I hope so.” He held the door for her and followed her into the house. Upstairs, he could hear Barb calling to Devon that it was past her bedtime.

  “Leave the suit in the bathroom. I’ll take care of it.” Jenna left him at the door and walked down the hall.

  When he came out of the bathroom, she was sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of wine. She had changed into another soft-looking T-shirt and a pair of loose pants. She set her wine aside and walked him to the door.

  “Thanks for coming.” She held out her arms.

  He stepped forward, bracing himself. He wasn’t used to wanting but not having, and every time he got to the edge with her, it was harder to pull back, especially when she was so ready to move forward. As always, she fit him perfectly, but this time she didn’t push for more. Their bodies settled together, and he held her, enjoying her softness and the faint chlorine-and-flowers smell of her hair. It wasn’t a platonic hug, but it was comfortable. Comforting? Did he need to be comforted? Something felt different, and the strangest mix of anxiety and peace washed over him, as if something inside him was screaming yes at the same time something else was howling no.

  She tilted her face toward his. “Good night, Roman.”

  He bent his head and brushed her lips with his. The soft kiss took him right back to the brink.

  He pulled away. “Good night.”

  As he drove home, he was still rattled, and he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.

  Chapter Seven

  Lunch was slow but steady. Jenna watched Roman pacing in front of the line, making sure each plate was perfect. T-Bird had distributed menu fliers to his surfer friends and they’d spread the word up and down the beach. She’d been hoping a mob would hit the front door as soon as it opened, but steady was good enough for her.

  As dinner was getting underway, she approached Roman. “Do you have the menu for Vegas yet?”

  His eyes met hers, and her cheeks flamed. She’d returned his distracted nod this morning when they’d both been consumed by last-minute details. Now that things had slowed down, she was afraid every X-rated dream she’d had about him last night was playing in high-def across her forehead. Her mind had replayed their scene in the hot tub in an endless loop of anticipation, ecstasy, and frustration. She’d awakened on the edge of orgasm, and her body had been pretty steady in that zone ever since. Maybe she could blame her flushed cheeks on sunburn.

  He dug in his pocket. “I’ve got it right here. Sorry. It’s been a hectic day.”

  She nodded, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs with as much air as she could cram into her overheated body. She exhaled slowly. Breathing was good. She’d just keep breathing and somehow she would get through it, red-faced perhaps, but if she kept breathing, she wouldn’t pass out from lust. That underwater orgasm had been incredible. She wanted more. She wanted him…and he was completely focused on the Beach House.

  He edged close and leaned to whisper, “And I couldn’t sleep last night in spite of the very cold shower I took as soon as I got home.”

  Relief rushed through her. It wasn’t only her. Thank God.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Cold shower? Why cold? I’ve been taking hot ones. Very hot, if you know what I mean.”

  The look on his face was priceless as her meaning sank in. “That’s cheating.”

  She shook her head. “No way. That’s just common sense. I think of you, if it makes you feel any better.” She batted her eyelashes. “Still want to wait until Vegas?”

  He snorted. “Take a gander at this menu and see if you need an answer to that question.”

  She looked at the e-mail printout he thrust into her hand and gasped, breathless again. Breathing didn’t matter now. No amount of oxygen was going to help her create flavors to match an exquisite menu full of classic dishes accented by truly inspired ethnic sauces and accompaniments. She felt dizzy.

  “I know, right? Total overkill. Alex is such a show-off.”

  “I think the menu looks incredible.” She studied it again, gaze drifting to the e-mail signature at the bottom. Shock tightened her grip, crumpling the paper. “Alexandra Banks? Alex is a woman? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His gaze skated away from hers. “I didn’t want you two ganging up on me about the cream puffs. She knows I can’t bake for shit. We were partners in culinary school.”

  “I just bet you were.” The words shot out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  “Ancient history.”

  So they had been lovers. No wonder he didn’t want them comparing notes, not that Jenna had many notes. Was Alex the reason Roman kept putting her off? Was he hoping to hook up with the Castle chef instead of her in Vegas?

  She thrust the paper into his hand. “Nice. Keeping your options open, huh?”

  “I was going to tell you last night, but you interrupted me. If I’d wanted to keep it a secret, I wouldn’t have shown you the e-mail.” His gaze was cool. “Do you still think your croquembouches can top that menu?”

  Her cheeks heated. She’d forgotten all about the menu. Work—we have work to do. She leaned over to read the menu again. It really was impressive. “Damn, think the food will taste as amazing as it sounds?”

  He scowled. “Anybody can make truffles and foie gras taste good. Did you see the wines paired with each course? At least they’ll all be drunk by dessert and won’t notice what we put in front of them.”

  His words made her temper flare. “You don’t think I can do this, do you? Create a dessert to impress your friend Alex, your mother, and her billionaire?” She may have been worrying about that herself, but he wasn’t allowed to doubt her.

  “Alex is not my friend anymore.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She lifted her chin and waited.

  His eyes were a beautiful stormy blue, but she refused to let it distract her. Finally, he growled, “Of course you can. But Alex is going to do everything she can to showboat, and I’m afraid we’re getting set up to fail, no matter what you make.”

  “Wrong. Everybody loves cream puffs,” she argued. “Classic comfort food.”

  “Like burgers and fries? Guess who talked me into that?” Roman glanced pointedly at the nearly empty ticket spike.

  She glared back at him. “Is that why you’re so pissy? Give the buzz a chance to build. The dining room will be full before you know it. Meanwhile, don’t take your bad mood out on me. I’m the good guy.” She pointed to her toque. “See? White hat.”

  He cursed softly. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged, not ready to let him off the hook for that low blow. He hadn’t exactly put up a fight about changing the menu, so he couldn’t blame it all on her. She was doing the best she could, which was a damn sight better than he could do, at least when it came to dessert. His comment about the Beach House menu had stung, and his continued doubts about the Vegas dessert hit harder now that she knew Alex had been his lover.

  He sighed. “You’re right. I’m taking my bad mood out on you because our first lunch was slow.”

  “Does that mean this is a bad time to remind you someone needs to learn to make the desserts?” she asked, wanting to punish him. He might not miss her, but he’d miss her damn pastries. “I’m heading back home after Vegas.”

  Max looked up from the grill, a Cheshire-cat grin on his face. “I love to bake. Teach me.”

  “Pick me, Chef. I can bake my ass off.” T-Bird raised his gloved hand from the salad he was tossing.

  Roman shook his head. “I’ll hire a pastry chef. You two jokers have enough to do.”

  She crossed her arms. “And that’s the other problem. I need oven space and room to work, both hard to come by now that we’re open for lunch and dinner. I have a thousand cream puffs to bake.”

  “Shit.” He frowned. “After service?”

  “I guess so.” He could at least show a little gratitude for her dedication. Abruptly, she’d had
enough. “I’m going home for a nap. I didn’t sleep well either.” Bastard.

  “You need a ride?”

  Oh, the irony. She glanced at her watch and shook her head. “The bus comes in fifteen minutes. I’m good. See you later.” And when she did, she’d make the best cream puffs he’d ever tasted and force him to eat his doubts, one by one.

  …

  Dinner service was a little busier, but it didn’t improve his mood. The tight look on Jenna’s face when she’d left the restaurant haunted him, and he knew he owed her another apology. He should have set her straight about Alex the minute it came up, and it wasn’t fair to blame her for a slow lunch at the Beach House. After all, it had been slower before she got here. He planned on making it up to her by helping her bake the cream puffs. He’d spent the rest of his day getting ahead on work so he’d have time to catch up on sleep tomorrow.

  Thank God Max had stepped up and taken over the ordering. Not only was Max completely capable of handling the new menu, he was catching Roman’s errors. Roman was grateful for the help, but if his buddy gave him that knowing grin and made one more crack about actually sleeping while he was in bed, Roman might drag him outside and drown him in the ocean.

  Naturally, Max assumed he was having sex all night, not tossing and turning because hot dreams were giving him a monstrous erection every hour. His decision not to sleep with Jenna until Las Vegas might actually kill him before they got there…and yet he knew he was doing the right thing.

  It was harder and harder to think of her as Cole’s little sister when she was giving orders in his kitchen. Clearly, she’d grown into her bossy streak. His cooks cheerfully made room for her on the line, although Roman had a suspicion she bribed them for oven space. Every time he kissed her, touched her—hell, every time he looked at her—he felt a little less guilty about the things he wanted to do to her.

  He looked up from the computer screen as Max entered the office, unsurprised to see he was munching on a cookie.

  “You’re eating the profits…and about a zillion calories,” Roman pointed out.