Rochelle Alers - The Sweetest Temptation

“Have you eaten?” she asked softly.

Ethan forced himself not to stare at Faith’s long legs. She sat on the high stool, legs crossed at the knees and her skirt riding up her thighs. The heat in the kitchen was stifling, yet the sheen on her face made her skin appear dewy, satiny.

“I was just coming to get a plate.”

“What do you want, Mac?” Kurt asked as he reached for a clean plate for Faith.

“What do you have?”

“Prime rib, chicken and fish.”

“I’ll have the fish.”

Kurt turned on an exhaust fan and prepared plates for Faith, Ethan and himself. The three moved over to a serving table and sat down.

Ethan bit into a tender piece of fish. He nodded to Kurt. “The fish is delicious.”

“I can’t take credit for the fish. You have to thank Faith.”

Ethan looked at her as if she were a stranger. “You cooked?”

The slight frown that’d formed between his eyes deepened as Kurt explained his dilemma. “Savanna’s guests would still be waiting to eat if Faith hadn’t stepped up to the plate to help me.”

Ethan lowered his head, his gaze fixed on his plate. “WJ hired her to bake, not cook.” There was a silken thread of censure in his statement.

“I’ll pay her for her time,” Kurt countered angrily.

Ethan waved his hand. “Don’t bother. WJ will take care of it.”

Faith listened intently to the interchange between the two men. They were discussing her as if she were invisible. “I didn’t help out because I expected to be paid.”

Ethan glared at Faith. He’d just left Billy’s room after reading him the riot act as to how he could’ve been charged with sexual harassment. His young cousin had refused to leave his room, saying that his sister “had enough people grinning up in her face,” and because his parents hadn’t wanted to have a family row and spoil Savanna’s engagement party they’d left him sulking in his room.

When WJ informed him that Billy wouldn’t be joining the family, Ethan told WJ that he would talk to his younger cousin. At first Billy refused to unlock the door, but when Ethan told him that if he had to kick open the door, then William Raymond III would be forced to prove his manhood. Within seconds of his threat Billy opened the door.

At thirty-eight, Ethan was twice Billy’s age, and even though he hadn’t fathered any children, in that instant he’d become a surrogate father, listening to his teenage cousin blame his namesake for screwing up his life.

Ethan didn’t say anything until Billy finished spewing his venom, then promised him that he would talk to his father in an attempt to come up with a strategy that would prove amenable to both William Raymonds. So far, he hadn’t thought of anything because his thoughts were occupied with the image of Faith Whitfield—her face, voice and body.

He turned his attention to Faith. “Whether you expected to be paid is irrelevant. You will be paid for cooking.” He finished eating, rose to his feet, looked at Kurt, then Faith. “Thank you for dinner.”

“I’m sorry you had to get caught up in this,” Kurt said, apologizing to Faith once they were alone.

She leaned closer. “Why is Ethan blowing this up when it’s not even necessary?”

“Maybe because he’s family.”

Her curving eyebrows lifted. “Family?”

Kurt almost laughed when he saw Faith’s expression. “You didn’t know that Mac and WJ were related?”

A rush of heat stung her face. “But…but he told me that he’s hired help.”

This time Kurt did laugh. “You, me, the housekeepers and the guys you see standing around packing heat are hired help. Ethan McMillan and William Raymond, Jr., are first cousins.”

Faith recovered enough to ask, “What’s with Ethan playing chauffeur?”

Kurt shook his head. “I know nothing about that arrangement. Mac showed up the day after the news got out that someone was out to whack Billy Junior.”

She wanted to question Kurt further about Ethan McMillan but held her tongue now that she was aware that Ethan was related to her client. He’d told her that he was hired help, yet something should’ve alerted her when he came up behind Billy and defused what could’ve become an embarrassing scenario. Billy hadn’t challenged Ethan when he probably would’ve defied one of his father’s employees.

She wanted to know more about the mysterious man with the X-rated dimpled smile who’d asked that she dance with him. She didn’t know whether he was married or single, a father or a baby’s daddy, but that wasn’t important, because after tonight she probably would never see Ethan McMillan again.

Faith never saw a bride on her wedding day, or interacted with her family members. Most times she scheduled a delivery for the wedding cake hours before the reception. Many of her cakes, baked in tiers, were packaged separately and then painstakingly put together with the assistance of one, and sometime two, of her employees.

She’d scheduled a time with the banquet manager at Tavern on the Green to set up Savanna Raymond’s three-tiered cake at noon for a two o’clock reception. Later that afternoon she would deliver another cake to a Long Island country club for a wedding ceremony scheduled for six in the evening. No, she mused, the world wasn’t going to stop spinning on its axis if Faith Whitfield didn’t give Ethan McMillan his “one little itty-bitty dance.”

All too soon the calm ended when the waiters returned to the kitchen. Dinner was over.

Savanna Raymond’s fiancé touched her arm to get her attention as the dessert cart was rolled into the dining room. She covered her mouth with her hand when the large heart-shaped chocolate-and-red-currant torte was placed in front of her. Platters of candies with exotic fillings, butter cookies, truffles, chocolate-covered fruit and petit fours were set on the tables, much to everyone’s delight.

Savanna, a very pretty, full-figured, twenty-five-year-old elementary schoolteacher with a flawless café-au-lait complexion and glossy black chemically straightened shoulder-length hair, stared numbly at the profusion of chocolate confectionery, her eyes welling with tears.

Her fiancé shook his head in amazement. Tall, studious-looking geneticist Dr. Roland Benson threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Baby, you’re going to OD on all this chocolate.”

Linda Raymond smiled at her future son-in-law. “Don’t worry about Savanna overdosing, because she’s going to have plenty of help.” Linda and Savanna looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, while Billy was a younger version of his father. There came a chorus of “amen” and “you ain’t lying” from several of the invited guests.

Faith leaned over and handed Roland a sharp knife. She’d covered the handle with a napkin. “Why don’t you and your fiancée get in some practice making the first cut? Then, I’ll take it from there.” She’d made the torte large enough to serve at least forty. Savanna placed her hand atop Roland’s and the moist blade of the knife sliced cleanly through the layers of ganache, frozen raspberry and white cream filling and sponge cake.

Faith took the knife from them. “I have gift bags you can give to your guests before they leave. They’re chocolates in edible packaging wrapped in cellophane.” It’d taken countless hours and skill to make the rectangular pieces of chocolate, then assemble them, using tempered couverture in a pastry bag to glue them together. All the tops were striped with either dark or white chocolate.

“I also made one for you and your fiancé to share with your parents,” she continued in a hushed tone. The smaller rectangular boxes each contained eight pieces of candy made with walnut caramel, while the larger round box held sixty in various shapes that were filled with mocha and nutty creams.