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 the door behind her.
She walked to the entrance of a three-story walk-up, unlocked the front door and made her way up three flights to her studio apartment. Her cousin Simone complained about the high rent Faith paid to live in Manhattan, but she loved historic Greenwich Village with its bohemian lifestyle, quirky residents, charming row houses, hidden alleys and narrow streets. It was after dark that the Village truly came alive with late-night coffeehouses, jazz clubs and cafés. Her apartment took up less than a thousand square feet of living space, but she’d learned to maximize every foot, and the result was inviting as well as charming.
She opened the door, and warmth curled around her like a rising mist. When she flipped a wall switch, two table lamps flooded the apartment with soft yellow light. She’d lived in the building for three years, and there was never a day when she didn’t have heat or hot water.
Her home had become a retreat where she came to relax, eat and sleep. A compact utility kitchen ran the length of a brick wall, and a cushioned window seat with storage drawers spanned the width of three tall, narrow windows providing the perfect place for her to curl up to read or while away hours watching her favorite movie on the flat-screen television on its stand resting on a bleached pine drop-leaf table. The pale color was repeated in the other furnishings: a claw-foot pedestal table with four matching petit-point-cushioned pull-up chairs, an antique sleigh bed in an alcove that had been a walk-in closet, an antique-white armoire and a love seat covered with Haitian cotton.
Former tenants hadn’t removed the shelves in the converted closet, so Faith stacked them with books, linens and a collection of priceless crystal vases. An antique clothespress doubled as a bureau and vanity for items that normally would’ve been stored in the minuscule bathroom that had been updated to include a basin, commode and shower stall.
The telephone rang as she slipped out of her coat. Hanging it on a coat tree, Faith picked up the cordless receiver off the kitchen countertop. She smiled when she saw the name on the display. “Yes, Tessa. I’m hosting Monday’s get-together.”
Her cousin’s sultry laugh came through the earpiece. “For you information, Miss Smarty Pants, I’m not calling about Monday night.”
Cradling the receiver between her chin and shoulder, Faith leaned over and pulled off her boots. “What’s going on, Tessa?”
“Are you free to go to Mount Vernon with me tomorrow?”
“What’s happening in Mount Vernon?” she asked as she made her way into the bathroom to wash her hands.
“I’m bringing Micah with me so he can meet the family.”
She