[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin

  The Sweet Taste of Sin

  The Fontaines

  EMBER CASEY

  Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

  Top photo: © simbiothy

  Bottom photo: © DmitryRukhlenko

  You can contact Ember at ember.casey@gmail.com.

  Website: http://embercasey.com.

  BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

  THE FONTAINES

  The Secret to Seduction

  The Sweet Taste of Sin

  The Lies Between the Lines

  The Mystery of You

  The Thrill of Temptation

  THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

  His Wicked Games

  Truth or Dare

  Sweet Victory

  Her Wicked Heart

  Take You Away

  Lost and Found

  Completely (short story)

  Their Wicked Wedding

  A Cunningham Christmas

  Their Wicked Forever

  ROYAL HEARTBREAKERS

  Royal Heartbreaker

  Royal Mistake

  Royal Arrangement

  Royal Disaster

  Royal Escape

  THE DEVIL’S SET

  Jackson

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  The Billionaire Escape Plan

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  In my opinion, there’s no greater pleasure in the world than the buttery, slightly nutty flavor of a classic caramel sauce. The secret is, of course, to add a pinch of salt—just enough to stimulate the taste buds but not so much that you overpower the sauce’s warm, buttery sweetness. For such a simple recipe, even the smallest change can make a huge difference—using brown sugar instead of white, for example—and after hours of experimenting, I think I’ve gotten my version just right. I’ve finally created a mouthwatering, toe-curling, devilishly perfect caramel sauce.

  Who needs sex when the world holds pleasures like this?

  I’m still licking bits of it off my spoon when I hear the jingle of the bell hanging on my bakery’s front door.

  “I’m coming!” I call around my mouthful of caramel. I toss my spoon aside and wipe my hands on my apron as I jog out of the kitchen.

  Jack Teegan, my best friend, is standing at the counter with a large to-go bag in his hand. His eyes are roaming over the refrigerated cases of sweets on display. Ashlyn’s Bakeshop sells a little bit of everything—tarts, éclairs, sweet buns, and a number of classic French desserts that no one here in Los Angeles seems to know how to pronounce—but I do the bulk of my business in specialty cakes, sculpted creations so wild that some of them hardly resemble cake at all.

  Jack is looking at one of my latest creations in the case right now, a dummy cake sculpted to look like a man’s chest—complete with bulging pecs and washboard abs.

  “Classy, Ashlyn,” he says with a laugh.

  “It’s the latest trend in bachelorette party cakes,” I reply, propping my elbows on the counter.

  “What happened to penis cakes?”

  I grin. “I can’t exactly put one of those in the front case.” Sometimes I can’t believe my business has come to this—carving men’s body parts out of cake. But I’ll take whatever work I can get.

  Jack grins. “If you ever need a model…”

  “Got it, perv. What did you bring me for dinner?”

  He holds up the bag so I can see the GoGo’s Drive-In logo on the side. “Chili cheese fries, extra cheese.”

  I squeal and grab the bag. “You’re the best.”

  I practically skip over to the small table in the corner of the shop. On most days, this table is where I hold cake tastings. But it’s Monday, the one day a week my shop is closed, so Jack and I decided to meet up for dinner. I pull my box of fries out of the bag and push the rest of the food back towards Jack.

  “They’re probably soggy,” he warns me as he unwraps his burger.

  “They’re best when they’re soggy,” I reply. I shove a handful of fries in my mouth and close my eyes in ecstasy. “God, I love you. In a platonic way, of course.” I grab a second handful before the first is even down my throat. “And I’ve got a surprise for you for dessert. I just perfected my caramel recipe.”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, too. A big one.”

  My fist of fries freezes halfway to my mouth.

  “You mean…” I lean across the table, my eyes searching his. “Ohmygod, did you ask Evan? You asked Evan, didn’t you?”

  Jack opens his mouth to respond, but I’m still trying to process this monumental news.

  “You bastard! Why didn’t you tell me last night was the night? I would have made you a special engagement dessert or something! Tell me everything. How did you do it? What did he say? I wasn’t going to bring this up yet, but I’ve been working on designs for the cake—”

  Jack catches my arm as I’m rising out of my chair.

  “Stop. Breathe,” he orders. “I haven’t asked Evan anything yet.”

  “Oh.” I sink back down in my seat. Jack’s been thinking about popping the question to his partner for a while now, and ever since he’s told me, I’ve spent my free time dreaming up designs for their cake. Wedding cakes are my favorite—I live for sugar paste roses, for royal icing, for cornelli lace—and the thought of making one for my best friend is even more appealing.

  But apparently I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Or maybe all of those naked man-chest cakes have made me crazy.

  “You still get to make a cake, though,” Jack says. “And if you play your cards right, you might get to make a bigger, more important cake very soon.”

  I lean forward, intrigued. “Okay, spill it.”

  “You actually have my predecessor to thank for this.”

  I frown. “Who?”

  “Cory Westers. You know—Brockman’s former assistant?”

  Jack recently wrangled his way into the coveted position of personal assistant to Matthias Brockman, one of the higher-ups at Fairlake Films. For someone like Jack, who’s spent his entire life dreaming of working in Hollywood, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A few years ago, it would have been exactly the sort of job I thought I wanted, too—but a lot has changed since then.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Where does the cake come in?”

  “Well, Cory dropped the ball on a lot of shit there at the end, including some details for several upcoming events. I spent most of the day dealing with the mess.” He grins at me. “But that’s not the important part. The important part is that I convinced Brockman
we should do something extra special for the party on Thursday. And that includes getting an awesome themed cake for the occasion.”

  “A cake?”

  “For three hundred people. The more elaborate, the better.”

  I shove more fries into my mouth as I let that sink in. “This Thursday?”

  “Now, I know it’s not a lot of notice,” Jack says, “but I think—”

  “Are you kidding? You’re fucking amazing!” I leap up and practically throw myself at him. Who cares if I only have three days? Who needs sleep when I have an opportunity like this? If I can make a name for my bakery among the bigwigs in Hollywood… “What kind of party is it?”

  “Only the after-party for the biggest premiere of the year.”

  My blood goes cold and I abruptly release him. “Wait—what?”

  “And I haven’t even told you the best part,” Jack continues, apparently too excited to notice my reaction. “Remember how I said this might snag you an even bigger cake? Well, it just so happens that the two stars of this movie recently announced their engagement. So if your cake this Thursday is a hit, then maybe—”

  “Wait, which movie is it?” I demand, unable to process anything else. Please, don’t let it be what I think it is.

  Jack’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “God, Ash. What—”

  “Which movie?”

  I know he can’t possibly understand why I’m suddenly so upset, but before this conversation goes any further, I need to know. I have to be certain there’s absolutely no chance of seeing him. The man I’ve spent the last three years trying to forget.

  Three long, sexless years.

  Jack is looking at me like I’ve suddenly gone crazy. And maybe I have. But I have a very bad feeling in my gut.

  He shakes his head. “I’m almost afraid to tell you now. But trust me—anyone else in this city would be dying for this chance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to shake off my fear. Trying to sound eager. “Tell me. I’m dying for it. I promise.”

  A little bit of the excitement creeps back into his face. In spite of my reaction, he still looks like he’s bursting to tell me.

  “I know you’ve been avoiding all the big movie news,” he says, “but even you have to have heard of this one. It’s—”

  “Cataclysm: Earth,” I whisper under my breath at the same time he announces the same name out loud.

  Shit. The bottom drops out of my stomach as he confirms my worst fears.

  Cataclysm: Earth has generated a huge amount of buzz. In part because of its enormous budget—the largest in Hollywood history, if we’re to believe the rumors—and in part because the production of this futuristic disaster epic has involved several members of the notorious Fontaine family, the freaking royal family of the film industry. The Fontaines have cracked the ultimate key to Hollywood success, balancing the ability to find infamy in the tabloids with the talent to craft one cinematic masterpiece after another. Charles and Giovanna Fontaine have been featured on magazine covers for decades—since they first hit the red carpet with their high-profile romance—and now their four grown sons are making their own headlines. Hardly a week goes by without one of them—Dante, Luca, Raphael, or Orlando—dominating the celebrity news media.

  And I want absolutely nothing to do with them. Well, at least one of them.

  I’ve done everything in my power to pretend the entire family doesn’t exist. But that’s next to impossible in this town, especially with Cataclysm: Earth coming out. The Fontaines are everywhere. On magazines. On every television channel. All over the internet. I can’t even walk down the street without seeing one of their faces plastered on the side of a bus. You can’t escape them.

  Meanwhile, Jack is looking at me expectantly.

  “Well…?” he says, spreading his arms. “This is huge, right?”

  I want to be excited. I want to squeal and jump up and down and proclaim my undying love for Jack for getting me this opportunity. But even if I thought he’d buy my bullshit—which he won’t—I can’t lie to him.

  And Jack, as usual, is two steps ahead of me. He crosses his arms.

  “What?” he demands. “What could possibly be wrong with the greatest opportunity you’ve ever had?” He snatches my chili fries out of my reach before I can stuff any more of them in my mouth to avoid answering his question. “Ashlyn, we’re talking about getting your cake in front of Luca Fontaine and Emilia Torres. Do you even understand what that means? If you do this right, you could be the one to make their wedding cake. And you’re an idiot if you think that cake won’t be in every magazine at every checkout stand in the country.”

  He’s right. If my bakery got that kind of press, I’d be booked solid for the next year. Screw that—the next five years. And with gorgeous, multi-tiered wedding cakes covered in rolled fondant and beautiful lacework, not more phallus-shaped monstrosities. The first dozen or so penis cakes were fun, but the subsequent dozen… not so much. That’s not why I opened this bakery.

  But taking this job means I might run into him, and in spite of everything, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.

  Jack is giving me a look. “Seriously. What?”

  After everything I’m sure he’s done to get me this opportunity, I owe him an explanation.

  “I know someone involved with Cataclysm: Earth,” I say. But that’s not enough. “And he’s the last person in the world I ever want to see.” I risk a glance up at my friend. He’s frowning, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out the part I didn’t say.

  Suddenly, his eyebrows shoot up. “You mean…”

  “Yes. Him.” I grab the box of fries back from him. I’m sure my cheeks are nearly as red as my hair. “So you can imagine why I’m hesitating.”

  “The Devil Himself got a job on Cataclysm: Earth?”

  Three years ago, I spent many a drunken night crying to Jack about the Devil Himself. In fact, I met Jack only a few weeks after everything with the Devil Himself exploded so dramatically, back when we were all students in the same film studies grad program—back when I still thought I wanted to follow my parents into the movie industry. So he knows everything—except the Devil Himself’s real name. In fact, Jack was the one who came up with that charming nickname after I refused to name the bastard out loud.

  But I can’t hide that name from Jack now.

  My friend’s nose is wrinkled. “I thought you said he was a screenwriter. You said he had some fancy-schmancy project waiting for him when he graduated.”

  Another few chili fries disappear in my mouth. “He did. He is a screenwriter.”

  “Well, maybe you’ve got your films mixed up, because this is Dante Fontaine’s big project.”

  I look at him pointedly.

  Jack’s eyes almost bug out of his head. He nearly chokes.

  “The Devil Himself is Dante Fontaine?” he manages between his coughs. “The Dante Fontaine?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly, I’m having trouble looking at my friend. This is not a conversation I was expecting to have today. The last thing I want to do is drag up those memories.

  But Jack is not about to let me off the hook.

  “Wait,” he says. “Are you really telling me that you dated Dante Fontaine and lied to me about it? You lost your virginity to Dante-Fucking-Fontaine?”

  “I never lied,” I said. “I just never told you his name. There’s a difference.”

  “If Dante Fontaine so much as looked at me, you can bet your ass that you and everyone else in this town would know every little detail. If he and I—”

  “I know. It was just… complicated,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter why. I can’t risk running into him again.”

  “Fuck. Dante Fontaine.”

  “You don’t have to keep saying his name.”

  “Forgive me. I just found out my best friend lost her virginity to one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history.”

  “You mean one of the hottest guys in Hollywood history turned her
off men forever.”

  “Well, you still admit that he’s hot, so you haven’t completely abandoned the cock.”

  I groan. “This isn’t about cock. This is about me staying as far away from him as possible.”

  “First of all,” Jack says, leaning across the table and pointing a finger at me, “you can’t let your fear of some dickwad dictate what you do. Grow some balls. Secondly, this is still an amazing opportunity, and you know it. Thirdly, he’ll still be at the film screening when you’re setting up. And he’s never been a big partier. He might not even show up to the after-party at all. You two probably won’t even cross paths.”

  Jack does have a point, but in spite of his challenge to ‘grow some balls,’ I still find myself hesitating.

  “Oh, come on,” Jack says. “Do you really want to be making cakes of male body parts for the rest of your life? This could be your big break.”

  “I’m not sure bakers get ‘big breaks’ like people in the film industry.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do. And honestly, I have no more excuses.

  “Fine,” I say finally. “But I swear, if I see him I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”

  “Fair enough. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  Jack grins at me. “Don’t mess up his face. They don’t make them like that often.”

  * * *

  I have to admit—it’s one of the most impressive cakes I’ve ever made. I started with a classic tiered cake, then used the Cataclysm: Earth movie poster for inspiration as I decorated the layers, creating an apocalyptic scene in sugar and icing. There aren’t many bakers in this world who can make a cake that’s both elegant and captures the essence of a disaster film, but I’m pretty sure I’ve managed it. This cake could get me work for months—maybe even years.

  For luck, I wear my favorite dress—a knee-length plum garment that sets off my red hair to perfection—and I pay one of my pastry assistants overtime to help me transport the cake to the events facility where they’re holding the after-party. I don’t have enough money to have a full-time driver, and so usually I end up doing the deliveries myself.