Sweet on You (2 page)

What was the boy doing here? She watched him carefully wiggle his way into the building through a jagged window.

Curious, worried, she followed him in. Fortunately, she wasn't that much bigger than he was, otherwise she'd have had trouble getting in.

She didn't have to go far to find him. She followed the sound of young voices. She peeked around the corner just in time to see him hand the pink bear to a little girl who had cowlicky hair just like his.

The girl gasped, her eyes widening when she saw the toy. She took it carefully. "For me?"

"Duh." Grinning, the boy ruffled her hair.

She grasped it, staring at it incredulously. Then she grabbed the boy in a huge hug. "Thanks, Jimmy."

He patted her back awkwardly.

A woman called out from somewhere down the hall. "Jimmy, are you back? Did you find food?"

"Yeah, mom," he yelled, taking the girl, who was obviously his sister, with him as he hurried down the hall.

Daniela stood there and watched them disappear, the echo of their voices fading. She looked around at the building. Trash littered the hall, and the smell of urine assaulted her with every inhale. She flipped a light switch on the wall next to her but nothing happened.

They lived
here
?

She felt guilt over being so unhappy when she had so much. She had a large house in Laurel Heights, a four-story monstrosity that Tony had arranged for her to rent, as well as her flat in New York and
pied à terre
in Paris. She'd never known hunger, much less been without her own bed to sleep in. They were so different than the pampered kids she was hired to bake cakes for.

She wondered if either the boy or girl had ever had a birthday cake.

Her heart broke, remembering the way Nonna used to sit her on the counter in the kitchen as she baked cannoli or made pasta. Daniela had learned about life and love sitting on that counter. Without that, she had no idea where she'd be right now.

That boy had to scrounge for food to take home to his sister. Her brother would have done that for her. He used to protect her from bullies who teased her about her big, alien eyes, help her when she didn't understand math, and threaten to beat up any guy who broke her heart.

Once upon a time.

She walked down the hall. If someone bought the building, that poor family would be out on the streets, most likely.

Turning the corner, she wondered where she was. This wasn't the way she'd entered. Disoriented, she looked around, trying to figure out where she'd come from. Shrugging, she pushed open the swinging door in front of her to see if there was an exit.

No exit—just an industrial-grade kitchen.

Of course, it was completely trashed. Careful not to brush up against the appliances, all caked in grime, she made a pass through, looking at the space with a professional's eye.

To make it functional, it'd have to be gutted and power-hosed. But the walk-ins were of good quality, and the range just needed to be cleaned. The space was open and would accommodate a large crew serving many people.

With one last slow turn, she went back out the way she came, fumbling down the hallway until she found her way out.

At the sidewalk, something made her turn around and look at the building again, and the sale sign caught her attention.

The building, with its enormous kitchen, would make a great soup kitchen.

Daniela studied the building with fresh eyes. There were a lot of homeless downtown—you couldn't ask for a better location. She imagined a fully running kitchen, cooks bustling to serve the hungry.

She imagined baking for people who genuinely appreciated her baking. For people who cared more about the food than the cachet of having her cook for them.

It was a
brilliant
idea.

Feeling a rush of purpose for the first time in forever, she hurried to the street and hailed a cab. "Sacramento and Laurel," she told the driver as she climbed in. "Hurry."

Chapter Two

Nico Cruz stood in the living room window of his suite and gazed out at all of downtown San Francisco below him. He should have been listening to what his second-in-command, Jason Lethem, was saying about the deal they were closing, but instead he stared at the Christmas lights and decorations cluttering Union Square and the surrounding streets.

Bah humbug
.

Of all the holidays, Christmas was his least favorite. It reminded him of everything he'd lost and underscored that, as much as he'd regained—as far up in the world as he'd come—some things were beyond his reach.

Like happiness.

As much as he acquired, as great as he grew his empire, it wasn't enough. He had anything he could possibly want. Fancy cars. Private jet. He lived in the Mandarin Oriental, for chrissakes.

He looked at his reflection in the glass. He was average height, broad in the shoulders, wearing a handmade suit that cost as much as most families made in a month. His expensive watch peeked out from his sleeve, and his hair was the kind of perfect that only a two-hundred dollar cut could buy.

It just wasn't enough. He was still unsatisfied and, to his own eyes, he still looked like the street thug he'd been as a teenager.

If he went to a shrink, he'd be told that he'd been so starved as a child that he overcompensated now. That he'd never be satisfied, because it'd never be enough. That he'd never be able to shake his gangland roots, because he wasn't ready to forgive himself.

The shrink would be right. There was no reason to waste the money to prove it.

"And I hired elves for the holiday season," Jason said loudly.

Frowning, Nico turned around. "Excuse me?"

Jason gave him the flat stare that intimidated other businessmen.

Tugging his sleeves down, he strode to the table where Jason had laid out all the contracts and sat down. "Did you think I wasn't paying attention?"

"It certainly looked that way," his right hand said in his crisp British voice.

When he'd first hired Jason twelve years before, Nico had been impressed with the man's business mind, but he'd hired him for his elegance. It softened his own rough edges to have someone so cultured in his corner.

Because underneath the silk shirts and hand-stitched shoes, he was still the street thug that he'd been as a kid. The edges may have smoothed out a little, but they hadn't been sanded away completely. Given the right circumstance, he could be just as ruthless as he’d been living on the street.

It made real estate the perfect milieu for him.

Jason set the papers aside and steepled his hands in front of him. "Nico, you've been more aloof than even you usually are. You've taken brooding to a whole new level."

"I'm not brooding."

"Aren't you?"

"No," he said, shutting that conversation down before Jason started psychoanalyzing him. Jason enjoyed dissecting Nico's "inner workings," as he called them.

"Is it a woman?" his right hand asked.

Nico couldn't fault Jason's relentlessness. That was one of the reasons he'd hired the man. But his personal life was personal—and nonexistent at the moment, except for the occasional casual date. He was too busy conquering the world. "Just finish what you were saying, Jason."

"Before you started to daydream about sugar plums, or your woman
du jour
"—Jason gave him an arched look—"I was saying Parsons was ready to close the deal. There's still a bit of negotiation, I think, but we're close."

"Good." He checked his watch. "Anything else?"

"Yes, since I have your attention now." He shuffled some papers until he found what he was looking for. Holding them out, he said, "The dilapidated building South of Market you've wanted forever was just put up for sale. That old motel."

Nico stilled. Then he took the pages from Jason.

The MLS listing detailed the usual information: square footage, number of units, and asking price. It didn't say that the building had been a flophouse that’d housed countless poor families. That the gangs in the Mission had recruited their foot soldiers directly from those barren rooms. That people had died there.

Like his brother Eddie.

He swallowed thickly as he looked at the photo of the edifice's front courtyard, where he'd found Eddie's body dumped, like it was trash. There was no evidence of the murder, but he still saw the blood pooling on the pavement.

He'd been waiting for this building to come up for sale for twenty years, so he could buy and raze it until not a speck of it existed. But the owner had adamantly held on to it, even after it'd been condemned in the '89 Loma Prieta earthquake.

"What changed the owner's mind about selling?" Nico asked hoarsely.

"Death. His heir wasn't as averse to selling it as the original owner was. There's just one catch," Jason warned.

"What?"

"Someone else expressed a strong interest in the building."

He calmed. He always won. "That's not a problem then. Make sure you outbid him."

"Her." Jason shifted through more papers until he found what he was looking for. "Daniela Rossi, the world-renowned pastry chef."

"You say that like I should know who she is."

Jason smiled mildly. "Her chocolate cake is one of the top five things I've ever eaten in my life."

"High praise coming from a man who loves to eat."

"It was heaven," Jason said devoutly, closing his eyes. Then he refocused on Nico. "It's just as well you don't know her. She's your type and, if you'd met her, you'd have broken her heart. Then we'd have not just an adversary on our hands but a vengeful woman who was out for your balls."

"It'd have added to the thrill of the hunt."

"You're a seriously disturbed man." He began gathering his contracts and notes.

Unable to help it, Nico asked, "What makes her my type, Jason?"

"Feisty," he said without hesitation. "Face of a Botticelli angel. She's the type of woman you never go for."

He shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. You just said she was my type."

"She is, but you never go for women who have life and substance to them. Instead you go for the obvious and dull. Tall, blond, and icy."

He raised his brows. "Icy?"

Jason shrugged. "I was being kind."

"What makes you think that this Daniela Rossi is better for me?" he asked curiously.

"She's as passionate as you are," Jason said without pause. "She'd stand up to you. You need someone you can't boss around. You tend to pick women who are easily swayed to your way of thinking, let's just say."

"You mean I control them?"

"If you want to be blunt about it."

Nico frowned. "You sound like you know Daniela Rossi well."

"I only met her once, over a slice of her chocolate cake, but it made a lasting impression."

"Apparently." And he didn't like it.

Jason grinned and stood with his briefcase. "You're just jealous you haven't tasted her cake."

Maybe. Maybe he was jealous that someone could enjoy something so small as a piece of cake. He hadn't enjoyed anything in a long time. He was only going through the motions.

But he
would
enjoy tearing down the Harrison Street building. He'd demolish it and erect a marketplace and parking facility, like the Ferry Building. Most importantly, he'd erase the last reminder of where he came from and what he'd lost.

And then...

He shook his head. He'd figure out what then after. First things first. "Get me that building, Jason."

"Of course." Tipping his head, he let himself out.

As soon as he was gone, Nico sat in front of his laptop and opened a browser. Into Google, he typed
Daniela Rossi
.

Chapter Three

Marley walked into the unfinished kitchen of Daniela's West Coast operation and stopped in shock. "Daniela, are you
baking
?"

Her boss grunted, occupied by kneading dough on her special pastry counter.

Marley stared at the sight. Daniela hadn't baked in—well, she couldn't remember the last time, aside from the wedding cake she'd made for the owner of Grounds for Thought, with whom Daniela had bonded.

But there it was, right in front of her eyes: Daniela Rossi with her hands caked in flour and Sinatra crooning softly from the expensive sound system Marley had had installed per Daniela's instructions.

She looked at her boss, trying to figure out what had changed. Daniela wore a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, showing off her toned arms, which were partly credited to Pilates but mostly due to manipulating batter and dough. Her mass of dark curly hair was rolled and pinned on top of her head, a few short strands trailing loose. Her cheeks looked flushed, like she was feverish.

It was the look she got when she was determined.

A determined Daniela never bode well for Marley. It meant her job of wrangling the hot-headed pastry chef was going to be difficult.

But the fact that she was baking had to be a good sign.

Marley slowly backed out of the kitchen, careful not to make another peep. Daniela got extremely focused when she was cooking, and the slightest interruption set off fireworks that rivaled the Fourth of July.

Stepping over construction debris, she let herself out of the showroom, which wasn't completed yet because Daniela was dragging her feet, and went out the front door. She locked it and hurried to the house Daniela's brother had arranged for them to live in.

House
was understating things. It was more like a mansion, especially for someone who'd grown up in Manhattan. Four stories on the edge of Laurel Heights, it was gaudy as hell, but that was Antonio Rossi's style. Daniela hated the house.

Marley loved it.

Not the whole house, per se, but the basement level that she'd taken over for herself, with Daniela's blessings. She had the entire floor, which included an office, a huge bedroom and sitting room, a bathroom fit for an emperor, a sauna, and a room entirely dedicated to her photography.