dismay. No need to worry Andreas more than he already was. “Not a problem. We’ll start with the bed recipe—I mean, bread,” she said quickly.
Great.
Silence. “Gina, are you okay? You sound…strange.”
She struggled through a haze of major lust and stared up at Trace. He was focused on her entirely, his hands open on her shoulders. His attention—and his control—were nearly tangible.
Another major turn on, she thought. How long since a man had listened to her, watched with that kind of total focus and concern?
Never, a small voice whispered.
“I’m fine, Andreas. See you in five.” She powered off her cell phone and shoved it into her pocket. There was so much more to say, so much more that could have happened then.
But her time was up.
“I have to go.” Her voice was strained. “I can’t let them deal with this without me.”
He nodded as if he understood. “The elevator is beyond those stairs. Make a left and then a quick right. You can’t miss it.”
“How do you know where the elevator is?”
“I memorized the hotel floor plan. It’s a habit of mine.”
She frowned, suddenly aware how different his life was from hers and how unlikely it was that they’d ever met.
That knowledge made her push to her toes and rest her palm against his cheek, savoring the heat of his body. “Thank you.”
She felt his jaw flex. “I did nothing special.”
“Wrong. I’d forgotten there could be giving with no strings. I’d forgotten—a lot of things. You just reminded me.”
She brushed her mouth across his, feeling the instant rise of heat.
Him. Her.
They both felt it. His body left no mistake about that.
Wrong place, wrong time.
Gina forced herself to climb the stairs. No point in dragging things out. “After I change, I’ll leave your jacket upstairs in the kitchen. It’s just off the ballroom. Good luck with the champagne.” She smiled briefly. “I’ll…see you around.”
But she wouldn’t. They both knew that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE WATCHED HER GO, her hair swinging, her steps fast. Great legs, he thought. A woman with places to go and people to see.
He wanted her to stay.
She was mouthy and stubborn, but he liked her energy. He also liked her sense of loyalty to her kitchen team. Trace knew all about the importance of team loyalty.
But five hours to make one cake?
He felt a dull ache at his shoulder and grimaced. He was regretting his wrestling match with the big mixer, but he hadn’t done any real damage. Any pain had been more than offset by her smile of thanks and gentle kiss.
Great mouth, too.
Then he shrugged off the memory. She wasn’t his type. He’d always favored leggy blondes or sultry brunettes, women who liked to feel a man’s body fast and hard, without much discussion.
He rubbed his neck and wondered why the other women he could remember suddenly seemed pale and uninteresting.
He glanced at his watch.
Vintage champagne, he thought wryly. But first he was going to chew someone’s butt for closing the loading door without maintaining direct visual contact with the area. There was probably an override switch somewhere, but it was nowhere in sight, and someone could have been killed beneath the heavy door. The hotel was damned lucky that their only casualties were a forklift truck and a Hobart mixer.
After he retrieved his uniform jacket from the kitchen, he’d report that problem to security.
“LOOKING FOR SOMEONE?” Wolfe stole through the crowd, his smile forced.
“Just an escape route. I found the missing champagne. The senator’s wife seemed very happy.” Trace set his untouched glass of punch on a nearby table. “Is it just me or do these things keep getting worse?”
“Yes,” Wolfe said cryptically. “Don’t look now but the senator is gesturing. We should go make nice-nice.”
Trace uttered a sound of pain and eyed the open bar wistfully. “I didn’t sign up to play nice. I signed up for det cords and delayed rocket rounds.”
“Welcome to the New Navy,” Wolfe muttered.
TEN MINUTES LATER Trace stood at the back of the crowded room finishing a shrimp canapé that tasted like cardboard. To his left a journalist was trying to draw Wolfe into an argument about the necessity of collateral damage during wartime operations. Not that he’d succeed.
Finally Wolfe broke away, looking harassed as a woman slid a business card with her phone number into his pocket. “If I’m not brain dead, I will be in another five minutes.” Wolfe glanced at his watch, then examined the thinning crowd. “We’re done here. Let’s roll.”
“Hallelujah.” Trace headed to the door without a backward glance. He and Wolfe said polite goodbyes to the senator and his wife, then breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the elevators.
Trace consulted his memory of the hotel floor plan and hit the elevator button down.
“Fourth floor?” Wolfe raised an eyebrow as Trace pulled a bright pink sweater out of a brown paper bag. “I don’t think pink is your best color, O’Halloran.”
“I have to drop this off at a lecture downstairs. I won’t be long.”
The elevator doors opened at four.
“There’s a story here somewhere.” Wolfe stared at Trace, then shrugged. “None of my business, though. Downstairs. Five minutes. There’s a beer back at our hotel with my name on it.”
“Roger that.”
ALMOST DONE, Gina thought.
The crème brûlée demonstration had received wild applause, with her cake decorating tutorial a close second. She was pretty sure she had flecks of buttercream frosting in her hair, but she was too tired to care. All she wanted was to get back to the ship, kick off her shoes and unwind.
Then she saw the white uniform at the back of the room and all thoughts of relaxing vanished. He’d actually tracked her down. She’d expected him to be distracted and forget all about her.
She tried to focus on the food critic in the front row. The man tugged at his small goatee, launching into his third convoluted question.
Meanwhile, Trace was handing her sweater to Reggie. The two spoke quietly and Reggie nodded.
