The Sweetest Temptation. Rochelle Alers

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      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 shop, I have personal clients and I’m involved with my cousin’s wedding business. I couldn’t assist even if I wanted to.”

      Kurt winked at Faith. “You can’t blame a bloke for trying.” He patted her back. “I’m going to fix us something to eat while there’s a lull. What can I get for you?”

      “Chicken and veggies.”

      Faith was still sitting in the kitchen when Ethan walked in. He’d removed his tie and suit jacket. And, despite the lateness of the hour, his shirt was completely wrinkle-free. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the way his trousers fit his slim waist and hips as if he’d had them tailored expressly for his lean physique.

      “Have you eaten?” she asked softly.

      Ethan forced himself not to stare at Faith’s long legs. She sat on the high stool, legs crossed at the knees and her skirt riding up her thighs. The heat in the kitchen was stifling, yet the sheen on her face made her skin appear dewy, satiny.

      “I was just coming to get a plate.”

      “What do you want, Mac?” Kurt asked as he reached for a clean plate for Faith.

      “What do you have?”

      “Prime rib, chicken and fish.”

      “I’ll have the fish.”

      Kurt turned on an exhaust fan and prepared plates for Faith, Ethan and himself. The three moved over to a serving table and sat down.

      Ethan bit into a tender piece of fish. He nodded to Kurt. “The fish is delicious.”

      “I can’t take credit for the fish. You have to thank Faith.”

      Ethan looked at her as if she were a stranger. “You cooked?”

      The slight frown that’d formed between his eyes deepened as Kurt explained his dilemma. “Savanna’s guests would still be waiting to eat if Faith hadn’t stepped up to the plate to help me.”

      Ethan lowered his head, his gaze fixed on his plate. “WJ hired her to bake, not cook.” There was a silken thread of censure in his statement.

      “I’ll pay her for her time,” Kurt countered angrily.

      Ethan waved his hand. “Don’t bother. WJ will take care of it.”

      Faith listened intently to the interchange between the two men. They were discussing her as if she were invisible. “I didn’t help out because I expected to be paid.”

      Ethan glared at Faith. He’d just left Billy’s room after reading him the riot act as to how he could’ve been charged with sexual harassment. His young cousin had refused to leave his room, saying that his sister “had enough people grinning up in her face,” and because his parents hadn’t wanted to have a family row and spoil Savanna’s engagement party they’d left him sulking in his room.

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