Sweet on You (3 page)

She called it her Batcave.

She had a separate entrance that led directly into it, and sometimes when she came back from taking photos at night, she imagined she'd been out fighting crime and was slinking back to her lair.

Her mother, a high-powered editor in New York, would have hated the basement. She'd have tried to light up every corner, complaining about how dreary it was. But then, her mother had never understood her—or even tried to. Marley had always been some foreign creature to her literary mom: a strange girl who loved to be in the shadows and had an obsession for comic books.

When Daniela had declared they were moving to San Francisco, Marley had been torn. The distance from her mother would be a blessing. The distance from the man she loved? Torture.

Not that Antonio Rossi knew she loved him. Or even that she existed, for that matter.

She unlocked the door to her Batcave and wound her way through the hallway to her office. Closing the door out of habit, she sat at her desk, blew a kiss to Batman who stared enigmatically from the print she'd hung on the wall, and took her iPhone out of her purse.

Tony answered the phone the way he always did, regardless of caller ID. "Rossi."

Every time Marley heard his voice or saw him walk into a room, she had a moment when she couldn't breathe. Struck completely speechless.

She knew it was ridiculous—she'd been around him in some form or another for seven years—but she couldn't help it. It wasn't that he was gorgeous, which he was. He had that "it" quality movie stars like Brad Pitt and Gerard Butler had, that made you just want to wrap yourself around them and ask them to take you.

Marley was
so
not the kind of woman anyone would take, especially Antonio Rossi. But, goodness, did she want to try.

"Marley?" he asked, concern in his voice. "Are you there?"

"Oh. Yes." She cleared the jittery nerves from her throat. "Daniela's baking."

Silence stretched on the other end of the line. Then he said, "Is she listening to music?"

"Frank Sinatra."

Tony heaved a sigh. "Thank God. Does this mean she's over whatever funk she's been in?"

"I don't know, but it seems promising," she said hopefully. "She hasn't baked anything except one wedding cake in months, and she's only baking bread."

"
Bread
?"

"A lot of it."

After a moment, he said, "Okay, it's a start. It's better than nothing. Listen, Marley, I need you to press her."

She blinked in surprise. "Press her on what?

"For one thing, finishing up the storefront. Renovation has been going on too long."

"Got it," she said, writing down a note. With Daniela baking again, it shouldn't be too difficult to get her to finally tie up all the loose ends with the remodel.

"Additionally, the Food Network wants her to do another show. They see her as the counterpart to Bourdain, traveling around the world, trying desserts. They like that she's like a more feisty Giada de Laurentiis."

That described Daniela a year ago, but her boss hadn't been feisty in months.

Unaware of her thoughts, Tony continued. "It's a fantastic opportunity. She needs to say yes."

"I'm not sure she will," Marley said hesitantly.

"Which is why I need you to press her."

She fell silent, feeling awkward. Daniela wasn't just her boss but her friend, too. Marley knew this was a good opportunity career-wise for Daniela, but was it what she really needed? Because she suspected what the woman really needed was a long stay in a luxury resort, to rest. "I don't know, Tony."

"It's the best thing for her," he said in his smooth voice. "She's been stuck in this rut for too long, and she's immobilized. She just needs to start moving again and she'll be okay. I have her best interests at heart."

She didn't doubt that. Tony and Daniela were enviably close. Marley had been an only child of a single parent, her dad having remarried and started a new family. She'd always wondered whether she and her mother might be closer if there'd been a buffer between them.

Tony was nothing if not an excellent salesman. He didn't disappoint her. He sensed her hesitation and eased in for the kill. "You're the closest one to her right now. You're the one to save her from herself, Marley."

She pictured herself in a cape and big boots. "I don't know."

"I have every confidence in you."

"Really?" She sat up proudly, bolstered by his praise.

"Definitely. You won't let me down."

She nodded. "I won't."

"Good." His tone softened. "You're the best, Marley."

She hung up, still glowing from his praise. Until she started thinking about telling Daniela about the new show.

Daniela was
not
going to be happy.

Marley whirled her chair around and looked balefully at Wonder Woman, who stood guard in a framed poster behind her. "I can't believe I let him schmooze me into agreeing."

Wonder Woman's expression seemed to say
Really?

She sighed. "I know. Tony's my Kryptonite."

Wonder Woman looked cheerfully unsympathetic.

Marley shook her head and turned around. Next time, she was turning to Aquaman.

Chapter Four

The building was deserted, a shell of what it used to be regardless of its bright exterior.

Nico stood across the street and studied it, remembering despite himself. When he and his brother had lived there, the building had just been gray and prison-like. The artsy facade had been added a few years ago by a local artist trying to ameliorate the neighborhood.

Nothing would ever make this building happier, in his opinion, but he appreciated that someone tried.

Taking the small bottle of Jim Beam from his pocket, he crossed the street and went up the walkway to sit on the front step. The street lamp flickered and then turned off.

Just as well. The shadows suited him just fine when he came here.

He untwisted the cap and took a grimacing sip. The stuff was awful, but it'd been his brother's favorite, so that was what he always brought.

He held the bottle up. "
Salud
, Eddie."

He poured the rest of the bottle on the sidewalk, watching it drip down the walkway.

The same way Eddie's blood had.

He closed his eyes and rested his head on his folded hands. It was over twenty years later and he could still see the sight clear as day. Eddie's body riddled with bullets, deposited in front of the building as a message.

A message he'd gotten loud and clear, just not the one the gang had intended. Instead, Nico saw it as Eddie's biggest act as an older brother—a warning not to walk the same path he'd errored down.

Nico had been so close.

Now he owned the world.

And soon he'd own this building. He'd destroy it, finally, the way Eddie had always wanted to do when they were kids.

Nico tipped the last bit of bourbon down the sidewalk and saluted the sky. Getting up, he started down the walkway.

And then he stopped, catching a flash of motion. He ducked into a shadow, watchful.

A figure crawled out of one of the partially boarded windows of the building.

Nico moved stealthily closer, careful not to give away his presence. Then he frowned. It was a woman—there was no mistaking the curves of her body or the feminine way she moved.

He watched as she walked to a nearby box, pulled out a bundle, and crawled back into the building.

He hurried after her.

The window opening was jagged with broken glass, and his wide shoulders made it more challenging to enter. Using his foot, he broke off the remaining shards of glass and climbed inside.

It was dark, and he saw no sign of her. So he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Seconds later she rushed toward the window.

Toward him.

She was so focused on her thoughts she didn't see him blocking the window until she was almost on top of him. She uttered a startled gasp, her eyes wide.

She looked small and soft. She had the face of a Renaissance angel, with dark free flowing curls and pure milky skin. Skin he had the urge to touch, and a face he recognized.

Daniella Rossi
.

What was she doing here? The last place he'd expect a woman who'd baked for kings, a woman who'd had a popular television cooking show, was climbing through a window of a condemned building.

It intrigued him despite himself.

He searched her eyes, looking for answers. He saw the sorrow of the past and the potential of the future. He saw compassion and passion, like a sea of chocolate he wanted to bathe in—dark and rich, bittersweetly delicious.

His groin tightened.

Those eyes narrowed, and she marched toward him, putting her hands on her hips when she stopped right in front of him. "Don't even think about it," she said, her voice low with warning.

He couldn't help it—he smiled. "I'm already thinking of it."

The man in front of her looked like a thug in sheep's clothing.

He had all the ingredients for danger: powerful build, dark hair, expensive clothing. The barest hint of sweetness, with his curious gaze. And a dash of spice: the sort of five o'clock shadow that'd rasp the skin of your inner thighs.

He was a recipe for ecstasy.

If he were cake, he'd be Devil's Food—rich and dark. Forbidden. A guilty pleasure you wanted to indulge in secretly.

Daniela licked her lips. Delicious, really.

And
insane
. Here she was: in a dark, condemned building, at dusk, and she was getting it on with him in her head. Tony would have ripped her a new one over her lack of sense.

But she couldn't help it. Something inside her went gooey looking at the stranger.

She shook her head. "I have a death wish."

He tipped his head, watching her carefully. "Why do you say that?"

"You're obviously a threat, but I'm mentally undressing you." She looked him over thoroughly. "Silk."

He blinked once, as though she'd taken him off guard. "Excuse me?" he said in rough voice that was street with a thin veneer of Park Avenue.

"Boxers. You've got rough edges, but I bet you like silk underneath."

He smiled like a wolf. "Want to find out?"

"A woman would have to be stupid not to want to get into your pants." She sighed regretfully. "But I'm busy right now."

"Busy doing what?"

"None of your business," she said tartly, pushing past him and climbing out the window.

She'd expected him to follow her, but he just leaned in the window and watched her.

She lifted a box of small quiches. She'd gone overboard with the food, making way too much for just three people, especially since she doubted they had a way to store any of it. But maybe they'd share it, and she'd wrapped the bread so it'd keep regardless.

Her arms complained as she carried the smaller box back to the window. She glared at the mystery man. "You could help."

"I could, if I knew what I was helping to do." But he took the box from her anyway.

She studied him. "You won't call the police?"

"Why would I?" He sniffed the quiches. "Have you baked pot into these?"

"Of course not. I'm leaving food for the homeless."

He was silent for a long moment, staring at her. His gaze was probing and direct, but it didn't bother her—Tony looked at people the same way. Besides, she had nothing to be ashamed of.

Finally he said, "You're here in the dark, leaving food for homeless people?"

"It's not completely dark, and don't say it like I'm a fool."

"You
are
a fool, to risk your safety. This is a dangerous neighborhood."

"Please." Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she made a dismissive noise. "I grew up in New York."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just said, "Hand me the rest of what's in your box."

She did, quickly, before he changed his mind. When he had it piled in his arms, she told him to go down the hall and leave it where she'd already set the loaves of bread.

He was back quickly, crawling through the window with a grace and ease she wouldn't have expected from a man his size. He brushed off his hands on his expensive jeans and then gestured toward the street. "Let's go."

She sighed, disappointed that he didn't take her hand. "Are you leading me to your lair?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm taking you to a cab." He glanced at her. "You have no sense. You should be scared of me."

"I can't help it. You're all bark. I think you're a marshmallow inside."

He scowled as if the description were distasteful. "No one's ever called me a marshmallow."

"Then no one's ever really looked at you." If they did, they'd notice the sadness under the intelligence and steadiness of his eyes.

Who cooked for him? For some reason, she doubted he'd had a grandmother who taught him about life as she fed him.

It made her sad, too.

She cleared her throat. "What do you like to eat?"

"What?"

"Your favorite food? I bet it's something warm and mushy, like you are on the inside."

He glared at her.

"See?" She grinned. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"You're playing with fire, baby," he said in what was probably his best gangster's voice.

Daniela rolled her eyes. "Please don't say I'm going to get burned. Besides, I know how to handle heat. I'm a chef."

He said nothing, silently contemplating her.

"This is where you say who you are and what you do," she prompted as they walked around the corner, away from the building and onto Mission Street.

"You didn't tell me who you are."

"Daniela." She held her hand out.

He took it and pulled her closer.

Her breath caught as she steadied herself against his chest. Her senses overloaded, with the hot feel of her hand engulfed in his and the hardness of his pecs under her palm. She knew she probably looked like she was caught in headlights.