what was happening between herself and Bryan.
The only question left was, would they act on the waves of desire coursing between them?
She knew she wanted to, and she’d let Bryan know her feelings in no uncertain terms. But she still wasn’t sure what he wanted. He hadn’t said a word about it during the silent drive home.
Now, as the minutes clicked by on her bedside clock, it became more and more evident that he wouldn’t come to her. He was staying away on purpose, trying to avoid any awkward good-night scenes.
She knew that for him to make love to her would cross an ethical boundary, and she respected Bryan’s wish not to mix his professional life with his personal.
But how often did two people resonate the way she and Bryan did? How did one simply turn one’s back on those feelings?
She couldn’t do it.
When more than an hour had passed, Lucy’s frustrations turned to worry. What was keeping him? What could he possibly have to check on at the restaurant that would take this long? Had something happened to him?
When she couldn’t stand not knowing any longer, Lucy got out of bed and threw on a pair of warmup pants and a T-shirt. Hardly clothing designed for seduction, but seduction was far from her mind now. She put on her glasses—a new, more stylish pair with lightweight lenses Bryan had insisted on when they’d ordered her contacts—and headed for the elevator.
She could get out of Bryan’s apartment, but unless she found him, she couldn’t get back in. So she took a few dollars with her and Scarlet’s phone number, in case she got locked out. Then she got in the elevator and headed down to the restaurant level.
The restaurant had been dark when they’d arrived home, but she could see a light coming from somewhere now. She tried the door. It was locked, so she banged loudly.
At first no one came, and Lucy envisioned the worst—Bryan lying on the floor in a pool of blood, helpless to answer her knock. But finally she saw a shadowy figure approaching. Apprehension seized her, followed quickly by a rush of relief when the figure resolved into Bryan’s familiar form.
He turned the dead bolt and opened the door. “Lucy, what are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you when you didn’t come back.” She realized how stupid that sounded. She was worried about a superspy, so she was coming downstairs to rescue him?
He smiled indulgently at her. “Thank you for worrying. And I’m sorry, but I got caught up—”
“What is that smell?” she demanded, cutting him off. She yanked the door open wide enough that she could slide inside past Bryan. The smell coming from the kitchen drew her like the pied piper’s music.
“It’s just a … dessert.”
“After all the food we ate at your grandparents’ house, you were hungry?” But even as she said that, her own stomach growled, reacting to the commingled scents. Whatever was cooking, she wanted some of it.
“Cooking helps me think,” he said.
She zeroed in on the tall cake sitting on a cooling rack. “Orange, that’s what I smell.”
“Right. It’s an orange pound cake.”
“And chocolate. And … bourbon?”
“You have a good nose.”
“What is this dessert?” she asked, intrigued.
“I don’t know yet. I’m making it up as I go along.”
Lucy inspected the sauces slowly simmering on the stove, taking a good whiff of each one. Her mouth watered. Unable to resist, she dipped a finger in the warm chocolate sauce and took a taste.
“Mmmm.”
“Lucy! This is a restaurant. You can’t do that.”
“You’re not actually going to serve that cake to patrons, are you?”
“I can’t now.” But he grinned. “Actually, I was planning to eat the whole thing myself.”
“Not without my help, you don’t. What comes next?”
She watched as Bryan used a very sharp knife to cut the cake into four layers, all perfectly uniform. “You’re good with a knife,” she said.
“I’m good with all my tools,” he replied, paying her back for her saucy comments on the beach earlier.
“I’ll bet you are.”
He gave her a warning look, then returned his attention to the cake. He spread fresh whipped cream on the bottom layer, then spooned on some of the chocolate sauce and set the second layer on top. Then came more whipped cream and the bourbon sauce, and another layer. Yet more whipped cream, more chocolate sauce, and some toasted almonds, and the final layer.
“I want to drizzle a glaze on top, but I’m not sure what to flavor it with. Lemon?”
Lucy shook her head. “Too much citrus. I don’t know what I’m talking about, but how about crème de menthe? When I was little, I used to mix orange sherbet with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.”
“You innovator, you.” He grinned. “Okay, what the hell.” He quickly mixed up a glaze, adding a dash of spearmint extract rather than crème de menthe, which he thought might compete with the bourbon. He garnished the cake with orange slices and sprigs of fresh mint.
“It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen,” she said reverently.
“You’re not laying it on a little thick, are you?”
“No. It’s a work of art. Shame to cut into it. But you are going to cut into it, aren’t you?” she asked anxiously.
In answer he got out two plates, then wielded his knife and spatula to cut two perfectly uniform slices, which he laid on the plates sideways. He topped each with another small dollop of whipped cream and a mint leaf.
“Presentation is everything.”
Lucy knew she should be admiring the dessert. But she’d eyed a small spot of whipped cream on Bryan’s cheek, and she became fixated on it.
“What?” he asked.
“You have whipped cream on your face.”
“Oh.” He rubbed one side of his face with the dishcloth he kept over one shoulder, missing the spot completely.
“Here, let me.” She took the dishcloth from him. But instead of wiping his face, she stood on her tiptoes and licked off the whipped cream.
Bryan’s pupil dilated. “Oh, Lucy.” His voice was hoarse with suppressed passion. They were standing near the stove, and Lucy reached over to the pan of chocolate sauce, dipped her finger in again, and wiped a little on his other cheek before sucking the end of her finger.
“You do
