by Gina Gordon
Cole lifted his eyes, but not his head, as he stared from across the room. “Did you bring me string beans? I need the string beans.”
Jack shook his head, a smile curving his lips. And people thought Neil was the grumpy one in the morning. “Yes, they’re in here.”
Cole’s kitchen was clinical, all white and stainless steel, with the exception of the large wood-topped island in the middle of the room. His brand-new menu knocked the socks off the city’s crankiest of food critics. And he prepped for that menu while chopping celery at the wooden block.
“Why are you so happy this morning?” Cole asked.
Jack stopped the cart beside him. “It’s a beautiful morning. Isn’t that reason enough for me to be happy?”
Cole gave him a curious look. He didn’t care what Cole might think—he felt good, damn it. And he had a feeling it had everything to do with the beautiful woman he’d met last night.
“I brought you every ripe vegetable I could find this morning. And…” He pulled one of two stainless steel pots out of the cart. “I have two different soups you can offer today.”
“Soup?” Cole finally stopped what he was doing enough to pay attention. “When did you make soup?”
“This morning. I felt inspired.” Not to mention sexually frustrated. For the first time in a long time, he’d whacked off to ease the tension. The image of Sterling spread open for him in that limo? A sight he wouldn’t soon forget. Then she’d kicked up his fantasy to a ridiculous level when she disclosed that she was naked in the bathtub while talking to him on the phone. He was still patting himself on the back for his brilliant decision to hire her. She was soon going to be in very close proximity to continue exactly what they’d started.
Cole put down his knife and grabbed a spoon out of the cylindrical holder. He removed the Saran Wrap and dipped it inside, scooping up a mouthful.
Before he tasted, Jack said, “Potato and asparagus. It should still be warm.”
Cole’s surprised look was a little unnerving. Jack was no rookie—he was just as good a chef as his three brothers. But his brother’s surprise turned into a smile. “This is great.”
“Like I said, inspired.”
Cole reached for another spoon and headed to the steel pot that contained the second soup.
“White bean and pancetta.”
Cole took another spoonful. “Does this have anything to do with Sterling?”
“I enjoyed Sterling’s company.”
Cole studied the soup instead of making eye contact. “Looked like you two got to know each other very well, and this one—” he swallowed and pointed with his spoon to the pot “—is even better.”
Jack beamed. About the soup, not about the confession he had to make. “Actually”—admitting this was going to be difficult—“we didn’t have sex.”
Cole threw the dirty spoons into the deep sink. “Two years ago, Sterling wouldn’t have stood a chance against your charm.” He wiped his hands on his white chef’s coat. COLE MILLER, EXECUTIVE CHEF was embroidered in black across his left pec.
“We were interrupted.” He leveled his gaze. Damn that phone call.
“Sorry, bro. I couldn’t stop Penn from sweeping the boat.” Cole shrugged, showing no care or responsibility for Penn’s actions.
“Actually, there was a second interruption. She had an emergency and had to go.”
Cole laughed. “That’s a classic brush-off, if you ask me.” He returned to the island and picked up his knife to finish chopping. “Maybe you’ve just lost your touch.”
“It was a real emergency.” He had confirmed it on the phone that morning. Besides, Sterling didn’t seem like the type to take her orgasms and run.
“Gentlemen.” Finn wandered into the kitchen, his wide smile a huge contrast to the reaper on his black T-shirt.
Neil dragged behind him, buttoned up in a suit and tie. “Jack? What are you doing here?” He headed straight to the dishwasher where his favorite black coffee mug with the chip at the bottom waited for him.
Jack gestured to the cart. “I made a special delivery.”
“Jack’s been up all night making soup,” Cole said, the suspicion in his voice apparent.
“Why don’t I get any special deliveries?” Finn peeked inside the metal pots. “What’s cooking? I’m starving.”
“Imagine that,” Neil said, as he poured himself a cup of coffee, then settled his back against the counter. “Finn’s hungry.” Jack found it rather odd that Neil could be so casual when his life was in such obvious distress, despite his responsible nature. He disappeared most nights, nowhere to be found, unable to be reached. Not to mention the fact that he’d crashed at least three bikes in the last four months. But Jack wasn’t supposed to know that.
Finn shrugged off Neil’s comment with a smile and went directly for a bowl. It was a good thing he was a chef because the man was constantly hungry. How he remained so fit was a mystery.
He took a taste of the white bean and pancetta. “This soup is off the charts,” he said. “Jack. I’m impressed. Any particular reason for your inspiration?”
Remembering the reason the soup came into existence, a rush of heat spread through his body and settled in his groin. He clenched his fists, trying to stop the blood flowing from his brain to his cock.
“I wondered the same thing when he waltzed in here whistling and smiling,” Cole said.
“I know that look.” Finn snapped his fingers in front of Jack’s face, bringing him back to the conversation. “I take it Sterling crossed your mind last night?”
She had been on his mind since he’d left her in that limo.
“You mean Sterling almost ended up in his bed last night,” Cole corrected.
“Almost?” Finn and Neil said in unison.
That was last night. But almost wasn’t going to be in his vocabulary next week. Or the week after.
He frowned inwardly. He had hired her to do a job and all he could think about was getting her into his bed. Shouldn’t he at least try to be professional?
The three of them stared, waiting for an explanation. But Jack wasn’t in the mood to explain Sterling. Or what his plans were for her.
“I need some sleep.” Jack headed for the back door.
“Are you going to use all of these vegetables?” Finn asked.
“Hands off,” Cole snapped.
“Don’t be stingy,” Finn said. “Let me at least have the string beans.”
Jack chuckled. He had missed his brothers. Sticking around to help out his family gave Jack the opportunity to spend more time with them, something he hadn’t done a lot of since he’d taken off to pursue his own ambition. Which had pissed his brothers off. And they’d probably be just as angry when he took off again. Not that pissing off his brothers had stopped him from doing things before. No, it was something else this time—someone that made the thought of staying tolerable…for a short while longer.
Sterling Andrews.
Their promise of one night had been interrupted. They had agreed it was just a one-night thing, but she was an itch left unscratched. And with the little knowledge he had, if she was going to be in his home, close enough that he could place his hands anywhere on her body, he knew without a doubt that one night wasn’t going to be enough.
Chapter Six
Sterling pulled into the long driveway that led to Vivian Madewood’s house. When she emerged through a tunnel of trees, the home in front of her took her breath away.
It wasn’t a home, it was a compound. Gray brick, white shutters. Two pillars flanked the front door. Behind the house, and on either side, were buildings with the same façade. Maybe a guesthouse or a garage—or both.
The rolling front lawn, lush and green, continued to the edge of the property, where it was fenced off from the rest of the street. Purple, pink, and white flowers grew over two oversized pots by the front door.
She came to a stop at the top of the roundabout and threw her gearshift into park. While turn
ing off the engine, she got a tickle in her stomach at the thought of seeing Jack. She couldn’t stop from triple-checking herself in the rearview mirror. What she looked like shouldn’t matter. She was just here on business. Purely professional, nothing else.
She glanced at her watch—it was five, but she didn’t see any other cars in the driveway. She stepped out of her practical compact car and smoothed down the front of her khaki skirt, grabbed her purse and files from the back seat, and trotted up the front steps. The singsong chime of the doorbell sounded. When it finally opened, she fully expected an employee to answer, a maid or butler, or someone of that nature. Instead Jack stared back at her, looking as though he’d just woken up. His feet were bare, and for some reason, she felt as if she were intruding. But when he realized it was her, he smiled wide.
In the light of day the man was no less sinful, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off his tattoos—and there were a lot of them. This was the first time she’d gotten a glimpse of most of his arm. He was sex on a stick and she wanted to lick him like a lollipop.
Focus! You’re here to do a job. But she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from his biceps. Oh god, Boring Sterling didn’t ogle client biceps. But Penn’s voice took over her brain, coaxing her to bring out her exciting side. She tamped down her desire. Only Boring Sterling from here on forward.
He ducked his head and caught her stare. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she squeaked. She cleared her throat, fought her rising blush, and tried again. “Hi.”
“Come in.” He waved his hand behind him and she walked across the threshold.
The sweet scent of cookies and fresh flowers filled her nostrils. A beautiful summer arrangement sat in a large glass vase on a hallway table to her right—white lilies the star of the display.
She inhaled deeply. “It smells wonderful in here.”
“Ginger cookies. They’re almost done.”
“Those are beautiful flowers.” A woman would pick those flowers. There must be a maid—or he wasn’t unattached, as she’d originally thought.
“My mother loved having fresh flowers in the house. I just got into the habit of buying an arrangement every week.”
“You live here?” This unexpected and surprising opportunity was looking more complicated by the minute.
“For the moment.”
She nodded. He’d moved back in after his mother died. Sadness settled in his eyes but he shook it off with a swipe of his hand through his dark hair.
As if his gesture washed away his emotion, he smiled, a satisfied grin that traveled all the way to his eyes.
Heaven help me. She wasn’t supposed to get involved, but doing her job, in this house, where Jack Vaughn lived, was going to be difficult. “I feel like I’m intruding on family business. Believe me, I know how insane that can get.”
“You’re not intruding at all.” He moved closer, his shoulders relaxed, his gait confident. “This is a great opportunity for us to become friends.”
Friends? She wanted to be anything but friends with Jack Vaughn. Stop it, Sterling.
“So…you’ll be here. When I’m here. All the time.” Was she asking as the professional organizer trying to manage her time, or to confirm just how hard she would have to work to avoid him? There was no way she’d be able to focus with him in the same room.
“I’ll be working a few shifts here and there, but yes, I’ll be at the house.” That satisfied smile darkened to something a little more intense. Something that sparked a fire in the region she was supposed to be ignoring. “It’ll be nice to have the company.”
Right. Lonely. He didn’t know anything about being lonely. She was positive that his BlackBerry was filled with names of gorgeous models he’d dated over the years.
He leaned against the hallway table, crossing one foot over the other. Heaven help her. The man was sexy. “What exactly will you do?”
“Oh, um…” He sure did like to switch gears. She got back to business. “I’ll take an inventory of your mother’s things and then figure out a plan for storage, disposal, and donation if necessary.”
“Sounds good.” He raised his hand and gestured to the staircase. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
“I’d love a tour.” She grabbed a notebook and pen from her bag and followed him across the foyer, which had a fifty-foot ceiling. The walls that surrounded them curved inward as they got closer to the top.
“This is the sitting room that no one sat in until we came along.” He gestured to a stylish room with a white fabric couch and three matching wingback chairs. A fireplace in the center of the far wall was surrounded by a white mantel. Sterling admired the framed photographs of Vivian Madewood and her boys displayed across the top.
“White furniture and teenage boys?” she asked. “Your mother was a brave woman.”
“Or she had really great fabric cleaner.” He grinned. “The furniture is only a couple of years old.”
He took her through the rest of the first floor—the dining room had an old-world table that sat at least twelve people. Ornate china and silver were housed in a carved hutch and buffet. The kitchen was a chef’s dream. Counter space galore, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, two stovetops, two wall ovens, and the biggest exhaust fan she’d ever seen outside of a professional kitchen.
“How many hours did you and your brothers spend in this kitchen?”
He ran his hand across the granite countertop. “We spent more time in here than we did sleeping. It calmed us somehow.” He stopped and rested his back against the edge of the counter. She lost him for a moment or so, his brain no doubt thinking back to some good memories.
They continued on the first floor past the gym, which held more equipment than the Y she visited on occasion. He led her into the most elaborate den she’d ever seen. A screen took up an entire wall. A leather couch was arranged directly in front of it, and off to the sides and behind were several La-Z-Boy chairs. Large speakers were mounted inside the walls around the room. Along the left wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with DVDs.
“Wow. I bet you never went to the movies. You didn’t have to.” She ran her hand along the back of one of the chairs. She didn’t even have a television until she was fourteen. And even then, it was a puny twenty inches, and only watchable when the bunny ear antennae were feeling up to it.
“We had a lot of fun in here.” He laughed. “This is where we used to bring girls. We had a running bet on which one of us could get the furthest…” He stopped, a small grin appearing on his face. “That’s not really important.”
Laughing, she gripped the back of the chair. He had no reason to be ashamed. “I bet you were the first one.”
He only smiled.
“And your mom was all right with what went on in here?” She found it hard to believe that a woman like Vivian Madewood would agree to teenage fornication in what was supposed to be a family room.
“She wasn’t home every minute of every day.” He gave her a guilty look. Like a kid who’d just stolen a cookie from the jar. “Besides, as long as we weren’t on the street living the lives we escaped, I don’t think she would have cared about a little teenage sex.”
“There’s always a double standard, isn’t there?”
“Maybe. But Vivian would never stand for disrespect. And although it may sound crude what we did in here, only one of us sealed the deal. Although I won’t tell you who.” He winked then grabbed her hand. “Come on, let me show you upstairs.”
They headed back across the foyer to the rounded staircase. Along the white walls hung pictures of the family. The majority were pictures of the boys, alone and together. A strong, fearsome foursome. She wondered if they had always been so happy. One picture in particular caught her attention. Jack as a teenager—far less tattooed but still inked—standing next to Vivian and wearing his graduation cap. Vivian’s smile in the picture was so genuine, and her eyes sparkled with pride. She hugged Jack with the love of a mother. So tiny and
petite, she fit right in under his armpit.
“That’s one of the best memories I have.” He sidled up to her on the step and wiped his finger across the top of the silver frame.
“Your mom was a beautiful woman. You look happy,” she added.
“I didn’t think I’d ever graduate from high school. But Mom made sure of it.”
She loved that they called her Mom. One would think coming into a home as a teenager would douse any chance at the Mom card, but Vivian Madewood was obviously a special woman.
“That was also the day I decided to become a chef like my brothers. Like the man who might have been my father had he still been alive.”
He gestured farther up the wall to a picture of a man. Strong jaw and chin, dark eyes and hair. Handsome. Arthur Madewood. Below hung a picture of Arthur and Vivian on their wedding day.
“Don’t they look like they belong in a 1940s film? I’ve never seen a more attractive couple,” she said. “I wish I could have met her.”
“I wish you could have met her, too.” He stepped down, bringing himself closer, the air hanging heavily around them.
He brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek. Her mouth parted at his touch. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head slanted to get closer to his warm hand. Her body betrayed her. She was supposed to be strong, professional, but never had a simple touch from a man been so potent, or had the ability to cause her entire nervous system to short circuit.
What was she thinking? You can’t have the hots for your boss, Sterling. No way. No how.
But the bigger question, the burning question, remained: why was he touching her?
They’d agreed on one night and one night only. Yet here, on this staircase, she had the distinct impression that their encounter was nowhere near complete. She broke eye contact and he hustled up the stairs.
They toured the second-floor library and the attic. She had her work cut out for her. But the stress of trying to figure out a plan disappeared when she walked into the bedroom that belonged to Vivian Madewood.
Gold. Wood. Heavy floral tapestry. Her bedroom looked like the set of a historical romance movie. “Wow.”