Delectable Desire

by Farrah Rochon

  “Lorraine, I need to see you,” her father said.

  Her chin dropped to her chest. She was not up for this tonight. Whatever this was.

  She turned and walked into the sitting room that served more as an informal office for her father. He had a real office on his and her mother’s side of the penthouse, but he usually entertained business associates in this room.

  Her father and her brother both sat in leather wingback chairs, holding highball glasses filled with amber-colored liquid. Her father held a sheaf of papers in one of his hands.

  Arnold Hawthorne-Hayes was a huge man. Not fat. Never fat. But he had always been larger than life, with broad shoulders and an even broader countenance. Even though she’d lived with him for nearly all of her twenty-five years, Lorraine couldn’t say she knew the man all that well. He’d always been too busy building his empire; he didn’t have time to bother with something as trivial as being fatherly to his children.

  “It’s just after ten o’clock,” Lorraine said. “I still have two more hours before my curfew.” She inwardly cringed. She would gain nothing by intentionally antagonizing her father.

  “I don’t care what time you come home, Lorraine. What I care about is this.” Her father held up the papers. “Why are you trying to get a fellowship?”

  She stared at the documents, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “How do you even know about that?”

  “Because Warner Mitchell is one of the trustees responsible for making the decision,” Stuart piped in. “We were having lunch at the country club today and he wanted to know why my sister would need to apply for an artist fellowship, when the Hawthorne-Hayes Foundation already funds dozens of scholarships. I want to know the same thing.”

  “It wasn’t about the money,” Lorraine said. She’d donated five times what the fellowship was worth to the school. This particular fellowship wasn’t just a need-based award. It was also talent-based.

  “Do you know how embarrassing it was to have Warner ask me that question in front of everyone?” Stuart asked.

  “Forgive me, Stuart—I didn’t know my art was such an embarrassment.”

  “I’m tired of this, Lorraine,” her father stated. “I allowed you to pursue your art degree when you should have studied business as your brother and sister did, but I refuse to allow you to bring shame on this family’s name by soliciting fellowship money.”

  He ripped the application in half.

  Lorraine stared in disbelief at the tattered pages her father tossed onto the glass table between his and Stuart’s chair.

  “This had nothing to do with the family name. I didn’t want the family’s name to have any influence over the selection committee.”

  “You are a Hawthorne-Hayes,” her father said. “That name will always have influence.” He gave her a pointed look. “Forget the fellowship. This family gives to charity—it doesn’t take it.”

  Lorraine stood in the middle of the room, seething.

  She didn’t need additional proof of her skill as an artist. Many of her paintings had already garnered much acclaim across the city, but only a select few knew that up-and-coming erotic artist L. Elise and Lorraine Hawthorne-Hayes were one and the same.

  She was ready to step from behind the shadows of L. Elise’s paintings. Despite the success of her erotic art, a part of her still questioned whether that success had more to do with the subject matter than the artistic style. She wanted to be known for the less provocative, but equally arresting art she created as simply Lorraine.

  That fellowship had been a way to prove to herself that her success was not due to the shock factor of her risqué subject matter, but because of her God-given talent. And it would also show her family that her achievements had nothing to do with being a Hawthorne-Hayes.

  Her entire life she and her siblings had been accused of using their family’s influence to get ahead. Stuart didn’t mind; in fact, her brother had no problem throwing around the fact that he was a Hawthorne-Hayes, if it meant he’d get his way.

  Despite being a free spirit, Trina had done exactly as expected. When she earned her MBA this fall, she would step right into her role at Hawthorne-Hayes Jewelers, and be the perfect little daughter their father had always hoped she’d become.

  How appropriate that Lorraine, his mother’s namesake, couldn’t stomach the idea.

  “May I please be excused?” she asked.

  Her father didn’t speak, just gave a firm nod.

  Lorraine fought back angry tears as she walked to her room. The tornado of emotions rolling inside her made her want to burst out of her skin. There was more to life than just being heir to the Hawthorne-Hayes empire. She needed to do something with her life. Create something. She’d been blessed with a talent that she knew was not a fluke. She’d received enough feedback from people who had no idea what her last name was—patrons of Chicago’s art scene who had praised the soulful passion of her L. Elise paintings.

  Lorraine Hawthorne-Hayes wasn’t a jeweler. She wasn’t a businesswoman. She wasn’t a socialite.

  She was an artist.

  She needed to find a way to share her true self with the world, to actually do something with it.

  “Gosh, you are so pathetic,” Lorraine said with a sigh as she stepped out of her shoes.

  No, she wasn’t pathetic. She was just...lost. And confused.

  For the past five years, she’d gone to great lengths to present to the world a sophisticated woman who had it all together on the outside, but on the inside she was a complete mess. There was a war waging inside her, and she had no idea which side should win. Her loyalties were divided between what she wanted and what her parents demanded of her, and unfortunately, what should have been an easy choice to make had been complicated by her own stupid mistakes.

  She owed her parents everything. Without their help with the nightmare that was Broderick Collins, she would have been publicly humiliated, unable to show her face anywhere. A part of her felt as if she should just fall in line and be the dutiful socialite that her mother and father wanted her to be.

  But an even stronger part of her was yearning to allow her creative side to blossom.

  Lorraine washed the makeup from her face, put on her nightgown and slipped between the cool sheets on her bed. When she closed her eyes, she saw her father ripping up that document, and the tears she’d tried to stave off started flowing down her cheeks.

  That fellowship would have been the validation she’d been seeking, the proof that she was so much more than just her name. This battle between living up to her family’s expectations and living the life she just knew she was destined to live was exhausting. How would she ever meld the two?

  * * *

  Carter loaded the sheet pan into one of the bakery’s industrial-size ovens. Today was a rare day off for him, but he’d decided to come in and give Malik a hand in the kitchen. His original plans had consisted mainly of catching up on a couple of crime dramas he had stored on his DVR, but Carter knew he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on television. For the past twelve hours, all he had been able to think about was how his date with Lorraine had ended.

  Having some random photographer snap their picture was strange enough, but why had she run like a scared rabbit? Last night, he had teased her about being in some type of witness protection program, but now Carter was starting to believe there was merit behind his joke. She refused to disclose her last name. She wouldn’t allow him to pick her up at her house. And she totally freaked out at having her picture taken. What other explanation was there for the mystery surrounding her?

  Carter emptied the remaining batter for Lillian’s Lemon-Raspberry Bars into a second sheet pan and slipped it in next to the first one, programming the timer on the oven’s computer panel. He carried the dirty bowls, beaters and spatula to the washroom and wiped down his station, and then he went in search of Malik. He found his best friend stretched out on the sofa in the empty office that was used as a break room. He
had a newspaper spread out across his lap.

  Carter flicked the towel he’d draped over his shoulder at Malik’s head, catching him on the ear.

  “What the hell?” Malik scrambled to sit up and turned to glare at Carter.

  “That’s my question,” Carter replied. “I come in on my day off to help you and find your lazy ass lounging with the paper? What’s up with that?”

  “I’m on a break,” Malik argued. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve been holding out on me?”

  Carter’s brows rose in question.

  “This.” Malik held out the Arts & Entertainment section of the paper. “You’ve been seeing a Hawthorne-Hayes and didn’t bother to rub it in anyone’s face? That’s not like you.”

  Carter snatched the paper from him. On the front page of the A&E section, in full color and above the fold, was a picture of him and Lorraine last night in front of Les Nomades. The caption under the picture read Jewelry Heiress Lorraine Hawthorne-Hayes Is Showcasing New Bling.

  “When did you start dating her?” Malik asked.

  “I didn’t... I’m not. I mean...” But he couldn’t finish his response. He just stared at the picture, registering the pure shock and horror the photographer had captured in Lorraine’s eyes.

  “I know you’re a Drayson and all, but she’s pretty rich even for your blood,” Malik added.

  “I didn’t know who she was,” Carter said, still unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph. “I only know her as Lorraine. She never told me her last name. I guess this is why,” he said, gesturing to the picture. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm.

  “So, how serious is it?” Malik asked. “You plan on going ring shopping soon? I’ll bet Daddy Hawthorne-Hayes would give you a discount.”

  “Shut up,” Carter told him. “I only met her a couple of days ago when she came in to order a cake for her sister’s bridal shower.”

  “You’ve only known her for a couple of days and already took her to Les Nomades? Damn, maybe you will be ring shopping soon.” Carter glared at him, but Malik only laughed. “You know I’m just messing with you, man. I had to put up with enough flak from you when things got serious between me and Belinda. I deserve to get some payback.”

  “Nobody said this thing with Lorraine was serious,” Carter countered. “I’m not about to get shackles around my wrists like you.”

  “Hey, man, don’t knock it until you try it. I didn’t realize just how empty my life was until Belinda and I got together.”

  Carter rolled his eyes. “Please spare me the sappy love song lyrics.”

  “Whatever,” Malik said. Then his expression took on a more serious edge, and his voice lowered as he asked, “Now that you’re dating, does this mean that other thing you’re thinking about is off the table?”

  “No.” Malik was the only one he’d told about his conversation with the restaurateur in New York. “Tell me you haven’t told Belinda about any of this.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t,” his best friend said. “Just promise me you’ll think this through, Carter. Lillian’s needs you. Don’t make any rash decisions.”

  “If I were in the business of making rash decisions, I’d be gone already,” Carter pointed out. “I’m weighing all of my options, but when I finally do make a decision, it’ll be the one that’s best for me.”

  The door swung open and Drake entered the break room. “Hey, what are you two up to?”

  When Malik looked over at Carter with a note of inquiry in his eyes, Carter gave his head a subtle shake. He didn’t want Drake’s opinion on either of the topics he and Malik had just discussed.

  “Nothing,” Malik said. “What’s up?”

  “We need to talk about the cookbook,” Drake started. “I heard from the publisher earlier today. They’re ready to move forward on this ASAP.”

  “Damn, they’re that eager to cut us that fat advance check?” Malik asked.

  “More likely they’re eager to jump on the bandwagon of the Brothers Who Bake blog,” Carter said. “Can’t say I blame them.”

  “My entry with the white chocolate, macadamia and pineapple cake bars had over five thousand hits,” Malik bragged.

  “That’s a good recipe. We need to include that one in the book,” Drake said, grabbing a pen and steno pad from a side table. “We also need to figure out who will write which portions. It makes sense for Carter to do the entire section on cake baking and decorating, since that’s his specialty. Malik, you’re the guy who does brownies, cookies and bars.”

  “Hey, I do more than just that,” Malik said with an affronted frown.

  “We all do more than just one thing,” Drake pointed out. “And we’re all going to have some input into everything that goes in the book. But I think for the first pass, we should work with our strengths.”

  “Have they set a deadline yet?” Carter asked, thinking about his own timetable. He knew he would have to make a decision about the job in New York sooner rather than later, and with the You Take the Cake competition coming up, and the mystery that was Lorraine Hawthorne-Hayes now occupying every bit of space in his brain, his mental plate was full.

  “Once we sign the book contract, we have six months to get the first draft to them,” Drake said. “And that includes detailed recipes and photographs. I think the smartest way to tackle this is to brainstorm the recipes we want to include in the book, and clear an afternoon so we can bake them. We hire a photographer to come in and take all the shots, and it’s done.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Carter said.

  “So, we’re definitely doing this, right?” Drake asked.

  “I’m in,” Malik said.

  “Hell yeah,” Carter added. “With the blog, this book and You Take the Cake, Lillian’s is about to hit the big time.”

  He just wondered if he would be around to see it all happen.

  * * *

  Lorraine used the pad of her thumb to fill in the white space on the canvas. She was working with charcoal today. It was a medium she rarely used, but the somber shades of gray matched her melancholy mood.

  It never ceased to amaze her how rapidly things could go downhill.

  Last night had started out practically perfect. Carter had been the ultimate flirt, but also the consummate gentleman, to the point of almost charming her right out of her panties.

  Almost.

  Thank goodness she had not succumbed to her body’s craving. In the light of day, without the romance of a fancy dinner and Carter Drayson’s deadly charm clouding her judgment, Lorraine knew that going home with him last night would have been detrimental to the image she’d cultivated over the past five years, not to mention the delicate trust she’d been able to build with her parents.

  For that alone Lorraine was grateful to the photographer who’d snapped those photos last night. But that was all she was grateful for. She resented the complete disregard for her privacy, and with the emergence of additional online social media, it seemed to get worse every year.

  She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could keep her identity hidden from Carter any longer, and the thought left her heartbroken. She could usually count on at least a few weeks of being able to just be herself before she was forced to don the Hawthorne-Hayes mantle. Carter would treat her differently; men always did once they discovered she was heiress to part of her family’s jewelry empire.

  “They can keep their empire,” she said as she swiped the charcoal across the canvas with violent strokes.

  The guilt that followed was immediate and stinging in its intensity.

  She had enjoyed the type of life many people dreamed of. She’d attended the best schools, dressed in the best clothes and had visited more than two dozen countries on lavish summer and winter vacations. She’d never wanted for anything...except her parents’ attention.

  Thanks to Broderick Collins she’d certainly gotten it, in spades. It brought new meaning to that adage “be careful what you wish for.”

&n
bsp; “Enough with the pity party,” Lorraine admonished herself. But as hard as she tried, she could not shake the gloomy cloud that had been hovering over her all day. She felt as if she were drifting, with no real direction, no purpose.

  She looked around her studio, her eyes roaming over the paintings of luscious landscapes, architectural landmarks and the Chicago skyline lined up against the walls, stacked two and three deep. What was the point of all this if they just remained in here, for only her eyes to enjoy?

  She needed to do something with these paintings. She needed to find some meaning in all of this.

  She wondered what Carter would think if she brought him here to show him her work, and then wondered why his opinion would matter at all. There were people she had known her entire life who had no idea she owned this loft in Chicago’s more artist-friendly Wicker Park neighborhood, yet she was thinking of bringing a man she’d met only a couple of days ago here?

  What was it about him that elicited such a strong reaction within her? Lorraine didn’t have to think too hard to come up with an answer. He had a genuineness about him that was in such contrast to the men she had previously dated. She’d had her fill of artificial men who didn’t bother to get to know the real her, men who were only interested in what she could do for them as a member of the powerful Hawthorne-Hayes family.

  Now that Carter knew who she really was, would it change the way he saw her?

  “I hope not,” she said with a forlorn sigh.

  Her cell phone rang.

  Lorraine wiped the charcoal from her fingers with a swatch of ragged linen. She reached for the phone, expecting to see Trina’s number, or maybe her mother’s, but it was a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Lorraine speaking.”

  “Hello, Rainey,” came a smooth, familiar voice.

  Tremors of excited heat skittered across her skin. A part of her had hoped to never hear from him again after the disastrous end to their date, but an even stronger part had desperately prayed that he’d contact her. She had been waiting for him to contact her.