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

  “Coming?” she asked, picking her way back toward the Beach House. When she reached the Boardwalk, she brushed off her feet and jammed them back in her clogs. She heard Roman stomping behind her.

  They entered the kitchen, and she washed her hands before returning to the ingredients on her cutting board. Butter, flour, sugar, and eggs—simple things. But if she combined them in exactly the right way, he’d have no choice but to accept her help—and hopefully offer his in return.

  A slow smile spread across her face as she decided to make cupcakes after all. Adult versions of kid desserts were all the rage these days, especially in restaurants like this one. Her desserts were going to be decadent and sensual. Salted caramel. Oatmeal cream. Hot chocolate heaven. She would jog his memory, and then she would blow his mind.

  Her smile turned into a full-blown, wicked grin, picturing doing the same for the rest of him, and she laughed softly as she began to crack eggs. Roman Gallagher wasn’t going to know what hit him.

  …

  Roman took a seat in the dining room and eyed the desserts on the table in front of him, wondering what the hell she’d been thinking. He had to admit he was disappointed. She’d promised great desserts, but these pastries looked ordinary, pedestrian…boring. A cupcake, hot chocolate, a plate of cookies, and a piece of cake? The cake looked fancy enough to suit his customers, but the rest was pure snooze. So what if his mouth was watering? Just because he had a thing for warm chocolate chip cookies didn’t mean they belonged on his menu.

  He turned to Jenna. “Looks great, kiddo…but not Beach House material.”

  She crossed her arms and smiled. “Wrong.”

  Studying her offerings again, he wondered if she understood he was trying to attract celebrities, millionaires, and gourmets. His target customers would not be satisfied with something a PTA mom would whip up for a bake sale. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. His fingers twitched, and it took a conscious effort to keep from grabbing a cookie. He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, deciding to humor her. “How do you figure?”

  “I sat here in the dining room last night feeling uncomfortable, but not for the reason you probably think. I couldn’t resist a quick trip out to the beach when I got here, and when I sat down at my table, I was a mess.” She giggled and he saw a flash of the mischievous teenager submerged beneath her professional veneer. “I thought your manager was going to have a cow, but she just gritted her teeth and led me to a table with an amazing view of the ocean. Sitting there, I was jealous of the people I could see on the beach, but I doubt a single one of them was jealous of me. No one wandering on the beach would be allowed in here wearing jeans or a bathing suit.” She raised an eyebrow, mocking him. “Taste one. I dare you.”

  He forced his hand to move slowly as he picked up a cookie. He took a bite, and it was so good, his eyes slid shut. When he opened them, she was smirking. She picked up a cupcake and turned to face him. His heart skipped a beat, and he waited, wondering what she would do.

  She raised it to his lips.

  He opened his mouth and took a bite, holding her gaze. Cinnamon teased his memory as his teeth penetrated the cake, firm and filling. Smooth marshmallow cream surprised his tongue. Oats reminded him of mornings in the Cooper kitchen. He took another bite. After he swallowed, he said. “You made an oatmeal cream cupcake.”

  “Little Debbie ain’t got nothin’ on me.” Her eyes glowed. “What do most customers say when a server mentions dessert?”

  He thought for a moment and then snorted. “Check, please.”

  “Exactly. What if your server suggested dessert to go and a walk on the beach? What if one of the desserts was this?” She pressed the hot chocolate into his hand. “Let’s call it the Beach Warmer. It’s windy out there.”

  “What about their fancy shoes?” he asked, playing devil’s advocate but already seeing the possibilities.

  “They can leave them at the door. Or you can give them some cheap flip-flops with their check. Nobody comes to the beach to get dressed up and eat fancy food, but you’d make a killing if you sold gourmet burgers and exclusive craft beers.”

  Something clicked into place inside his mind, and he knew she was right, so right. For the last week he’d been thinking about making the place more casual. This was the perfect way. Amazing what a fresh pair of eyes could bring to the table. His mouth fell open, and she pressed her advantage, popping a bite of cake between his lips. His lips closed over the fork. When the flavor of caramel hit his tongue, he was gone, so gone. “Your mother’s Kentucky Jam Cake?” His voice was rough.

  “With salted caramel icing.”

  The layers were thin and moist, flavored with clove and nutmeg. It brought to mind Christmases spent at the Cooper house, evoking a sense of belonging, of holidays, and home. It made him want things he couldn’t have. “Not going to work.”

  She leaned forward to take a bite of cake, and the deliberate familiarity of sharing a fork made him hard as steel. He froze in place, caught between the desire to take her in his arms and the need to get the hell away before he pinned her to the table.

  She chewed slowly, swallowed. “I expect you to tell me why.”

  Her thigh brushed his as she shifted her chair a few inches away from the table, breaking his trance and making it possible for him to remember his excuse. “Your desserts are good, but I already told you they aren’t right for the menu.”

  “And I told you your menu is a disaster.”

  He scoffed. “Fresh out of culinary school and you think you know everything. I know my customers.”

  “Roman Gallagher, you are full of crap. I’m right and you know it. I can see it in your eyes. I bet you’ve already rewritten half of your menu while we were sitting here. You’re probably planning to knock out a wall, so you can offer a beachfront walk-up window for truffled garlic fries in a parchment cone with designer ketchup and Kobe beef sliders. Or maybe this.” She handed him the last dessert on the table. “I didn’t have time for ice cream to set, but I think milk shakes would sell like crazy. This one is blackberry and pistachio swirl…with chocolate ganache chips.”

  He gritted his teeth. She was right about everything, including the wall. He was going to need to refinish the back deck and buy tables for outside seating, too, but no matter what great ideas she came up with, he couldn’t afford to have her around. “I can’t hire you, Jenna. Not if I knock the wall out. Renovations are expensive.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Roman, you’re loaded. Do you expect me to believe the pile of shit you are shoveling?”

  “When did you get such a filthy mouth, Goldilocks?” He knew the childhood nickname would annoy her.

  “In kitchens—duh. I can curse in three languages. And don’t call me Goldilocks.”

  “Too hot. Too cold. Too salty. Not enough spice,” he teased. “I’m not surprised you hate my menu. Are you as picky as you used to be?”

  She looked away for a minute before she said, “It’s not my fault I have good taste, and stop trying to change the subject. You need me.”

  “No, sweetheart, I don’t. Even I can make cupcakes and chocolate chip cookies, but I appreciate the consult. I think you’re right about the menu, and you saved me some time and money, both of which I need, regardless of what you might think.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re going to steal my ideas? I’m not sure whether to be furious or flattered.” Instead of the anger he expected, her voice was thoughtful. “Go right ahead. I love it when cooks try to bake. By the way, I made enough desserts to get you through the night.” She glanced toward the open kitchen, where he saw Max glaring at him from the doorway, probably assuming Roman was trying to escape final prep details.

  The front door opened, and they watched the first well-dressed customers of the night mince their way into the dining room. Now that she’d pointed it out, the contrast between the casual setting and the dressed-to-the-nines diners was ridiculous.

  She snickered
. “I told you so.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Shut up isn’t nice,” she sing-songed in a dead-on impersonation of her mother.

  His heart lurched. It was really good to see her. Maybe he couldn’t hire her, but… “There’s a party on the beach tonight, if you want to come back around eleven. We could catch up on old times.” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “Yes. We’ll talk then.” Her smile took his breath away. “It’s a date.”

  What the hell did I just do? I can’t be around her.

  She stood, and he smelled sugar and cinnamon when she leaned down to press a swift kiss on his cheek. “Enjoy the shake.” She meant the ice cream, but he watched the confident sway of her hips as she headed back into the kitchen. His memory filled in the shape of her perfect ass beneath the boxy chef coat. The low-rise jeans she used to wear had killed him, and the one time he’d seen her in a bathing suit had made it impossible for him to get in the water with her. Stop thinking about Cole’s little sister. But his mind disobeyed, remembering the feel of her body when he hugged her. Firm, but soft, too…stop.

  This was just the sort of thing that would get him in trouble. He needed to fix the Beach House and get the hell back to Hollywood and Gallagher Holdings where he belonged. Impatience tightened his nerves, and he blamed it on inactivity. After all, he’d been banished here for a month now, and he’d kept a low profile. No big parties and no famous women to land him in the gossip columns. Actually, that part had been a relief. He didn’t miss the endless chatter and constant photo ops, but he did miss the sex. He stared at the milk shake on the table, knowing he was putting off the inevitable. He had to taste it. It was going to be fantastic, and he was going to have an erection all night.

  He picked up the spoon, resigned to his fate, and dug in.

  A groan ripped from his throat as the tart, sweet blackberry melded with the nutty pistachios. Of course it had to be pistachios, his favorite. He took another bite, uncovering a chocolate chip the size of a quarter. He dug to reach it, moaning softly under his breath at the sheer goodness coating his tongue. It was an incredible combination, inspiring and invigorating. The blackberry was lively. The pistachio was mysterious. The purple and green looked killer together and the chocolate added just the note of satisfying richness to make it a perfect dessert, his perfect dessert. She’d made this for him. Brat. He might be able to whip up some cookies but Jenna knew damn well he didn’t have time to fool with making homemade ice cream. That’s probably why she’d made it, so she could lord it over him and try to force him to hire her out of sheer gluttony. He’d kill to have one of these milk shakes waiting for him at the end of every shift.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Max’s mocking voice brought him out of his reverie. “I could use some help in the kitchen tonight.”

  Roman didn’t look up. “Bugger off. I’m busy.”

  “I see that.” Max snagged a cookie and took a bite. “Mmm.”

  Roman tugged the plate away from him. “Mine.”

  “Uh-huh. I gathered that from your territorial behavior toward our newest employee. You all but peed on her leg. Really, bro, I get it. I’ll wait until you’re done with her, but you can at least share her cookies.”

  Roman shot to his feet, milk shake in hand.

  Max grinned, neatly snagging the plate of cookies from the table. “God, you’re so easy,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back toward the kitchen.

  Feeling a little foolish, Roman followed. On the way, he caught the gaze of a server and jerked his head toward the table covered with Jenna’s desserts. “We have new desserts tonight. Make sure everybody tastes them and if you have any questions, ask them in the next fifteen minutes.” From the looks of the rapidly filling dining room, they might actually be busy tonight.

  …

  Jenna stalked out the back door of the Beach House and headed for the water. She dropped her toolbox on the sand and ripped her chef coat open. The cloth buttons easily gave way, and she shrugged out of it, dumping it on top of her box as she bent to roll up her checked pants. She stepped out of her clogs and walked toward the ocean.

  Bastard.

  She’d nailed those desserts. Why had he said no?

  She strode back to her toolbox, opened it, and extracted a purloined, parchment-wrapped cupcake. She held it up to her nose. Cinnamon, oats, butter, and the too-sweet scent of marshmallow took nostalgia to a whole new level. She’d been eating an oatmeal cream pie for an afternoon snack when Cole had brought Roman home the first time. They’d slammed through the door, and her mouth had been full. She’d swallowed too quickly, embarrassed to be caught snarfing junk food by the golden god suddenly appearing in her kitchen. Her face had blazed and she’d been sure her freshly erupted chin zit was a swelling beacon of uncoolness. It hadn’t mattered since he’d barely noticed her. They’d shot out the back door, taking the box of treats with them. She heard the bounce of a basketball in the garage, then fading up the street toward the park.

  She took a bite of the cupcake, relishing the sweet sting of hopeless love. She’d been blindsided that day and many days thereafter when he’d come home with Cole. She took another bite, evaluating the cake, the streusel, the filling, wondering if it wasn’t quite as good as she had first thought. She found it satisfying in every way—which brought her back to square one. Why hadn’t he offered her a job when her desserts were way better than the crap he was serving on the menu?

  She refused to believe it was because of money. He had plenty. More likely he saw her as nothing more than Cole’s little sister instead of an accomplished chef.

  Jenna sighed. Maybe professionalism had been the wrong approach altogether. Given his reputation, she should have waltzed in the door wearing nothing but high heels and a smile. Maybe that would have convinced him.

  She slid her cell phone out of her pocket and sent a short text to Lila and Betsy, her culinary school soul sisters. Crashed and burned.

  The rapid ping of responses made her smile through her tears. She wasn’t as alone as she felt. Lila’s response was typically supportive. Not possible. Betsy, as usual, wanted more information. What happened?

  He doesn’t want my desserts. Nothing else to bargain with. Suggestions?

  Fresh out. She wasn’t surprised. Lila had her hands full creating a menu for a soon-to-open New York restaurant while torturing the jackass chef as much as possible.

  Did you tell him about Cooper’s? Which is what Betsy had been suggesting all along.

  He turned me down before I got the chance.

  You have to tell him. And then make him an offer he can’t refuse. Naked? Betsy’s response suited her hometown of New Orleans and was curiously in sync with the thought that had just crossed her mind…

  This ain’t over yet. I’ll keep you posted.

  She tucked her phone into her pocket and lifted her face to the breeze, filling every corner of her lungs with the scent of salt, and wet, living things. The sun was heading for the horizon and the beach had a warm glow. Her spirits lifted as the last rays of the day warmed her face, chest, and arms. In a minute, the breeze would overwhelm the sun, and she’d have to put her jacket back on, but for now, she would revel in the freedom of being far from home and facing the infinity of the ocean. She might be a long way from Lambertville and the banks of the Delaware River, but with her feet rooted in the sand and the endless waves of the Pacific rolling up to kiss her ankles, she felt anything was possible.

  She’d been shaken by his refusal, but she wasn’t giving up.

  Naked, huh? Her heart fluttered and she bit her lip. She had another opportunity to convince Roman to hire her at the beach party tonight. If she could just get him alone, she could give it another shot…and make damn sure he never thought of her as Cole’s little sister again.

  Chapter Two

  “You coming to the party?” Max had a six-pack in his hand.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” Alone in
the kitchen, Roman mentally kicked himself for the umpteenth time that night. Inviting Jenna to the party had been idiotic. If he was going to see her again, it should be in broad daylight, surrounded by people who knew he didn’t seduce his employees.

  She isn’t my employee.

  But she’s still Cole’s little sister, the better half of him protested.

  He groaned aloud. Was he really standing here arguing with himself?

  Grabbing a bottle of wine and two plastic cups, he followed Max out the door, trying not to remember the touch of Jenna’s hand, her lips on his cheek, or the way her desserts had made his mouth water and his body crave satisfaction. The beach spread out before him like a slippery slope.

  “Tell me again why you didn’t hire that pastry chef?” Max asked when Roman caught up with him outside.

  “Don’t start.”

  “Dude, we blew through every single one of her desserts. I made as many Beach Warmers to go as I made entrées. She’s a genius.”

  “Anybody can make hot chocolate and cookies. I’ll show you tomor—” He saw Jenna walking toward them and sucked in a stunned breath.

  Beside him, Max chuckled. “I understand why you didn’t hire her now, and I commend you, even if I don’t share your scruples about sleeping around at work. The only thing that could possibly be better than eating her desserts is eating—”

  Roman shot an elbow into his side, making Max laugh harder as he headed down the beach.

  The crowd was strung out in loose groups across the Boardwalk, but the sound of guitars, laughter, and the rush of waves faded into the background as Jenna moved toward him.

  She was wearing jeans and some sort of black, lacy corset that showcased her magnificent breasts underneath a half-zipped jacket. The contrast between her bundled up body and her exposed cleavage was obscene—and electrifying. Every man she passed continued to stare.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded.

  “Clothes.”

  “That’s not a shirt. It’s a walking invitation to steal second base.”