phenom away from a rival record label by offering him an unheard-of sum with perks usually reserved for multi-platinum-selling artists.
William Raymond, Jr., had made a name for himself as a maverick in the music industry when he set up his own label to compete with Sony, Atlantic and Columbia Records before he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday. In the two decades that followed, he’d signed artists whose debut albums went platinum while earning a Grammy for Producer of the Year three times. His prominence and wealth increased accordingly.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked, turning around and looking at the woman for the first time. His eyes widened in astonishment as he stared at her. Although she hadn’t worn any makeup, he found her breathtakingly beautiful. Her flawless dark skin shimmered with a healthy glow. Her short hairstyle that wouldn’t have worked for most women was perfect for her. Her large eyes, tilting at the corners, were hypnotic, and her short straight nose complemented a pair of high cheekbones and small chin. His admiring gaze lingered on her lush parted lips.
Faith patted her chest in an attempt to calm herself. “Yes.” The word came out in a breathless whisper.
It was her turn to stare at the man who’d interrupted Billy Raymond’s unsolicited advances. He was tall, at least six inches taller than her five-eight height, and startlingly attractive. She wasn’t able to pinpoint his age, but his smooth tawny brown skin belied the profusion of gray in his close-cropped hair. His sparkling sherry-colored eyes reminded Faith of newly minted pennies. With his black suit, shoes, tie and white shirt, she wondered if he, too, was also a member of WJ’s security team.
“Are you certain?” Ethan asked. His deep voice was low, soothing.
Faith smiled. “Very certain.”
“Do you want me to speak to Mr. Raymond about his son?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. I was just leaving.” She opened one of the closets, unbuttoned the tunic and dropped it and the toque into a large wicker basket. Less than a minute later she’d belted her coat around her waist and slung her bag over her shoulder.
Ethan reached for her elbow. “I’ll escort you downstairs.”
Faith met his steady gaze. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I believe it is necessary, Miss…”
“Faith Whitfield,” she supplied.
Ethan smiled, attractive lines fanning out around his eyes and dimples winking in his handsome face like thumbprints. He extended his hand. “Ethan McMillan.” He wasn’t disappointed when she placed her hand in his. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Tightening his gentle grip, he led her back through the kitchen to the elevator.
Faith nodded to the guard. He returned her nod with one of his own, and waved to Ethan.
“You can let go of my hand now,” Faith said softly once the elevator door closed behind them.
Releasing her hand, Ethan moved over to the opposite wall and pushed his hands inside the pockets of his trousers. “You’re a chef.” His question was more a statement.
“Actually I’m a pastry chef,” she corrected. Ethan smiled again, and Faith couldn’t believe how much the gesture transformed his face from stoic to irresistibly captivating.
“Yum, yum…the dessert lady. What did you make?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “A little bit of this and a little bit of that.”
Ethan’s sweeping raven-black eyebrows lifted slightly. “Are you always this mysterious?”
“No. It’s just that I’d like what I make to be a surprise.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone attending the party.”
His dimples winked again as Ethan lowered his head and stared at the toes of his highly polished shoes. “I suppose I’ll have to wait to be surprised just like everyone else.” The descent to the lobby ended and the elevator door opened with a soft swoosh. Cupping Faith’s elbow, he escorted her to the lobby. “Do you have a car?”
“No. I’m taking a taxi.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home.”
“Where’s home?” he asked.
“The West Village.” Normally she would’ve taken the subway downtown but not today. She wanted to go home and take a nap before tonight’s party.
“Where in the West Village?”
“Patchin Place.”
Ethan was familiar with the block of small, fashionable residences built in the mid-nineteenth century. He gestured to the doorman, who rushed over to the open the door. “Please hail us a taxi.” The light above the canopy came on as Faith and Ethan waited in the lobby.
A brilliant winter sun coming through the glass doors revealed what Faith hadn’t been able to discern in the penthouse’s artificial lighting. Ethan was even more attractive than he originally seemed. His silver-flecked hair afforded him an air of sophistication without adding age to his unlined face. Her breath caught for several seconds when he lowered his gaze to reveal the longest, thickest pair of eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man.
“What time are you coming back?” Ethan asked when the doorman’s shrill whistle signaled a passing taxi.
“I should be here around six-thirty.” The cocktail hour was scheduled for six and dinner at seven.
A streak of yellow skidded to a halt at the curb on West End Avenue as the doorman quickly opened the taxi door. Ethan escorted Faith to the taxi, waiting as she got in. Reaching into his pocket, he took a bill from a silver clip, and handed it to the cabbie.
“Take the lady to Patchin Place in the West Village.”
The address had barely left his lips when the cabbie took off in a burst of speed. Ethan stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the frigid air coming off the Hudson River. Emotions he hadn’t felt in years attacked him as he went back into the building, scowling. He’d thought himself immune to pretty faces, but it was obvious that his conversation with Faith Whitfield had proven otherwise. His frown deepened when he recalled the image of Billy harassing Faith. Once the teenager sobered up, he planned to have a man-to-man talk with his young cousin.
Faith leaned forward in her seat. “You can let me out here,” she told the taxi driver as she handed him a bill through the open partition.
The cabbie, chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar, shook his head. “Keep your money, lady. Your boyfriend already paid me.”
A frown furrowed her smooth forehead. “Boyfriend?”
“Yeah, lady. The guy who put you in my taxi.” He shifted on his seat and glared at Faith. “Are you getting out, or do you want me to take you somewhere else?”
“I’m getting out,” she said as she pushed open the door, got out and closed
