behind him.
Faith stared at the door, unable to believe what she’d just committed to. Ethan wanted to take her out for “one little itty-bitty dance,” and to her that translated into a date. Glancing at the envelope in her hand, she returned to the window seat, sat down and opened it. WJ had enclosed a business card. She flipped it over, smiling. He’d scrawled the word thanks, his signature and drawn a smiley face. Her smile faded when she peered into the envelope to find a stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. She removed them from the envelope and began counting. She stopped at eight hundred. William Raymond’s little something added up to more than a thousand dollars.
Tucking the flap into the envelope, she stood up, crossed the room and opened the doors to the armoire and secreted the money in a sachet-scented lined drawer cradling her lingerie. The Raymonds hadn’t blinked when she quoted a figure for the dessert menu for Savanna’s party, a figure that was near the top of her price list because of the amount of chocolate she’d ordered from a renowned confectioner who imported raw cocoa beans from South America, Java, Grenada, Mexico and Gabon.
Faith knew any attempt to return the cash would be construed as an insult by WJ, so she had to devise another plan to thank him for his extraordinary generosity or pass his gratitude along to her employees in the form of a bonus when they put in long hours to accommodate the customers who crowded into Let Them Eat Cake for the specially prepared candies, tortes and cookies for Valentine’s Day.
Blowing snow and an accident slowed traffic to a crawl. Ethan was less than three miles from his home, but it could’ve been three hundred because of the “lookie-loos” craning their necks to stare at the two men waving their arms and yelling at each other because of a fender-bender. Someone blew a horn, prompting a cacophony of horn blasts until the congestion eased and he maneuvered past the scene of the accident and drove to an industrial area where he would park the Town Car and pick up his own car.
The windows to MAC Elite Car Services, Inc., were dark, which meant his office manager had followed his directive to close because of the weather. Kenneth Mobley would’ve remained in the office until his shift ended, taking calls and instructing drivers to pick up clients who were partial to door-to-door car service. He’d also instructed Kenny to call the drivers to tell them to come back to the garage after their last drop-off, because the lives and safety of his employees were more important than the bottom line.
Punching in a series of numbers on the remote device attached to the limousine’s visor, Ethan waited until the door to the bay opened where he’d left his car. Within minutes he’d backed out a late-model Mercedes-Benz coupe, maneuvered the Town Car into the space and driven the short distance to the gated community and his town house condominium.
He parked in an attached garage, unlocked the door leading directly into the kitchen. Not bothering to check the stack of mail the cleaning woman had left on a side table in the living room, he climbed the staircase to his second-floor bedroom. The large numbers on the clock on a bedside table glowed eerily in the darkened space. Not bothering to turn on a lamp, Ethan undressed, leaving his clothes on a leather-covered bench at the foot of the king-size bed. All of his actions were mechanical as he pulled back the comforter and sheet, got into bed and let out a sigh of relief.
It was the first time since he’d moved into the house that he truly appreciated his bed. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Faith Whitfield’s face with a pair of dark eyes, pert nose and incredibly sexy mouth, a mouth he wanted to sample, to discover if it tasted as delicious as it looked.
Faith woke late Monday morning, feeling more rested than she had in weeks. Let Them Eat Cake, closed on Sundays and Mondays, didn’t require her going into the shop, so the only thing on her agenda was cleaning her apartment and preparing dinner for her bimonthly get-together with her cousins.
Looking through her freezer, she took out several bags of shrimp: medium Gulf white for stir-fry with snow peas, jumbo for shrimp cocktail and Maine shrimp for shrimp chowder. She had most of the ingredients on hand for her seafood menu with the exception of the snow peas, scallions, garlic, potatoes, leeks and chives, and that meant she would have to make a trip to Balducci’s, her favorite gourmet grocery at 14th Street and Eighth Avenue.
Fortified with a cup of coffee, she turned on the radio to a station featuring the latest R & B, pop and hip-hop, singing along and dancing to a few of her favorite artists. Snow accumulations measured three inches, not enough to close schools, but enough to make walking hazardous for pedestrians trying to jump over mounds of snow created by sanitation department plows.
Faith emptied the laundry hamper, stripped her bed and changed the towels in the bathroom, putting everything in two bags. Although there was a self-serve Laundromat on the avenue around the corner, she was loath to spend hours in the place, waiting for a washer or dryer, then having to fold up clothes and carry the bags up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. The owner of the laundry offered pickup and drop-off. She willingly paid for the additional service.
She called the laundry for a pickup, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, dusted all the furniture and changed her bed. She hadn’t thought of Ethan again until she recognized the lingering scent of his aftershave on one of the pillows.
Faith wasn’t certain what it was about the man who’d appeared to have more than his share of ego, a trait she didn’t particularly like in a man, yet she didn’t find it repulsive. She’d dated men who were so aggressive that their behavior bordered on bullying. One had insisted because he wanted her that she would eventually surrender to his will. What he failed to realize was that Faith Vinna Whitfield surrendered to no one—especially a man. She might not have known what she wanted, but she knew without a doubt what she did not want, and that included men who took rejection as a personal affront and those who were so full of themselves that they were unable to fathom that a woman might not want to have anything to do with them.
They were nothing more than insufferable, egotistical, nauseating frogs! She would go out with Ethan McMillan, but if he exhibited even the slightest indication that he was like the rest of her past dates, then he would also be relegated to frog status.
The downstairs bell chimed, and Faith glanced around the apartment before going over to the intercom. Depressing a button, she spoke into the tiny speaker next to the door. “Who is it?”
“We’re here,” the sisters said in unison.
Tessa had called to let Faith know that she and Simone were meeting at the West 4th Street Washington Square subway stop. Both had decided to leave their cars in Brooklyn Heights and White Plains respectively, and take the subway and railroad.
Smiling, Faith pressed the button that would release the lock on the outer door. She was ready for her Monday-night get-together. It’d been several months since her cousins had come to Manhattan for their bimonthly dinner because she hadn’t been available. Unlocking the door, she opened it slightly before walking over to the refrigerator to remove a bowl of salad. She’d even included her shrimp theme in the salad.
“Something smells good,” Simone announced, sticking her head through the slight opening in the door. At the same time she removed her boots, leaving them on the thick straw mat.
Faith smiled at Simone. “I made one of your favorites.” She knew how finicky her cousin was when it came to food.
Petite, hazel-eyed, with a profusion of red and gold-streaked curly hair falling down her back, Simone Whitfield had been blessed with a natural seductiveness that was startling and breathtaking at the same time. The talented, divorced, thirty-three-year-old floral decorator always shocked men when she revealed her age because she looked as if she were barely out of her teens. While most women would’ve given anything to look years younger without help from a plastic surgeon, Simone complained that she was still carded when ordering a drink.
Simone walked into Faith’s apartment, set a shopping bag on the floor, removed her coat and hung it up. Her eyes widened when she saw a quartet of shrimp perched around the rim of crystal cocktail glasses filled with cocktail sauce at each place setting.
“Thank