are the most time-consuming.”
Ethan concentrated on driving as he detected a thawing in Faith’s tone. It was no longer guarded, but soft and seductive as she talked about cakes with specific themes. The ride ended much too soon as he maneuvered into the building’s underground garage.
Once inside the elevator, he inserted a key into the slot for the penthouse. Leaning against a wall, he stared openly at Faith’s enchanting profile, finding everything about her breathtakingly stunning. Her short curly black hair hugged her head like a soft cap, and the light dusting of makeup served to enhance the rich, dark hues of her satiny mahogany skin. Mascara, flatteringly applied eye shadow and a glossy wine-colored lipstick on her sexy, lush lips held him hypnotized.
She’d replaced her jeans, boots and wrap coat with a bottle-green, three-quarter shearling coat, a navy-blue pencil skirt, ending at her knees, matching sheer hose and suede pumps that added another three inches to her dramatic height.
The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and he moved forward as the door opened. Ethan looped an arm around her waist as if he’d performed the gesture countless times and led her past the small crowd waiting to get into the penthouse. The Raymonds had mailed out specialized invitations with bar codes that were scanned upon arrival.
“This is why WJ wanted me to pick you up,” he whispered close to Faith’s ear.
Smiling up at him over her shoulder, she mouthed a thank-you.
He escorted her past the kitchen to the hallway where she could hang up her coat. The distinctive, soulful voice of a new artist who’d signed with WJ’s record company floated from speakers concealed throughout the penthouse. The Raymonds had planned for a sit-down dinner, followed by Savanna opening her gifts, then dancing under the stars in the enclosed solarium.
“Will you save me a dance?”
With wide eyes, Faith halted unbuttoning her coat. “No!”
Ethan leaned closer, his warm breath sweeping over her ear. “Why not?”
She shrugged out of her coat. “Have you forgotten that I’m not a guest but hired help?”
“Then that makes two of us, Faith Whitfield. Hired help need fun, too.” He ignored her soft gasp. “All I want is one little itty-bitty dance.”
“No. Not here, Ethan.”
“Where, Faith?”
Why, she thought, was Ethan pressuring her to dance with him? “I’ll let you know.” She saw a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes at the same time a smile softened his generous masculine mouth.
He winked at her. “Okay.”
Faith smiled up at him through her lashes. “Now, get out of here so I can get some work done.” William and Linda Raymond had paid her quite well to prepare the desserts for their daughter’s party.
Ethan gave her a sharp salute, took a step backward and spun around on his heels like a soldier at a dress parade, leaving Faith smiling at his retreating ramrod-straight back.
Wearing a white tunic over her white silk blouse, Faith walked into the kitchen but quickly backpedaled to avoid being knocked over by a waiter hoisting a tray on his shoulder. Other waiters followed with trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Another carried a crate filled with bottles of wine and fruit juice.
A young woman tapped her arm. “Are you Faith Whitfield?”
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“Mr. Payton asked that you see him as soon as you arrived.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
She entered the kitchen to find Kurt with a towel slung over one shoulder, peering at the meat thermometer inserted into a generous cut of prime rib. “You wanted to see me?”
The chef let out an audible sigh. “Thank goodness you’re here. I need you to fill in as my sous chef tonight. Please, Faith,” he said quickly when he saw her stunned expression. “The person I’d hired to assist me called about half an hour ago to tell me he has the flu.” He grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. “I wouldn’t ask you if I weren’t desperate. I’ll pay you—whatever you want, just please help me out here.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve—”
“It’s like riding a bike or having sex,” he interrupted. He kissed her hand again. “You never forget.”
Faith rolled her eyes at him. “Let go of my hand, Kurt. I need to cover my head.”
“Bless you, my child.”
“The hand, Kurt,” she warned softly.
Kurt was right. After removing her desserts from the refrigerator and placing them on a cart that would be rolled into the dining room later that evening, Faith found herself at the industrial stove braising, sautéing and stirring as if it were something she did every day. She saw another side of Kurt’s easygoing personality. The chef ran his kitchen like a drill sergeant, barking orders to the waitstaff. However, his tone softened whenever he asked her to prepare something for him.
She’d finished filling gravy boats when a waitress rushed in, wringing her hands. “We don’t have any fish plates.”
Kurt mumbled a savage expletive under his breath. He’d been so busy serving meat and chicken that he’d totally forgotten about those who’d requested fish. “Faith, can you get the tray of fish from the refrigerator and prepare a sole meunière?”
“Are they marinated?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
The fact that the fillets were seasoned would save time in preparing the fish dish served with a butter and lemon sauce. She took the tray from the refrigerator, heated a pan with unsalted butter, then placed them skin side up and fried each side until they were golden brown; she placed them on a heated plate. All of Faith’s culinary training returned when she drained off the butter for frying, wiped out the pan with a towel before returning it to the heat. Chilled cubed butter was cooked until golden and frothy. She removed the pan from the heat, adding the juice of fresh lemons. While the mixture still bubbled, she spooned it over the fish. A quick garnish with parsley and lemon wedges and the dish was ready to be served.
“How many want fish entrées?” she asked the waitress who’d stood off to the side waiting for her to finish.
“Six.”
Reaching for six plates, she quickly spooned slices of fish onto them, adding lemon wedges and a garnish of parsley to each.
Then she lost track of time as she assisted Kurt slicing prime rib, halving Cornish hens, adding a medley of steamed vegetables and seasoned roasted potatoes to plates as the waiters loaded their trays with the entrées. And it wasn’t until all the guests sitting in the formal dining room were served that she found a stool in a corner, sat down and dabbed her damp face with a cloth napkin. The smell of brewing coffee overpowered the scents left from the beef, fish and chicken.
Kurt was right about her not forgetting her former training, but it was the noise and chaos that went along with working in a restaurant that reminded Faith why she’d elected to become a pastry chef.
The chef handed her a bottle of chilled water. “You’re fantastic, Faith Whitfield. I told you we would work well together. How would you like to be my on-call assistant?”
Faith took a long swallow of water, the cool liquid bathing her throat. She gave Kurt a withering look. “No.”
“No?”
“Which part of the word don’t you understand?” she asked.
He moved closer. “It would be no more than twice a year. WJ usually hosts an open house for the Super Bowl and a pre- or postcelebration Grammy Award get-together.”
“No, no and no. I run a bake