[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin Read online

  Something flutters in my stomach at those words, but anger quickly suppresses the sensation.

  “What do you want?” I demand. “Why the hell are you here?”

  “I should think that would be obvious,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To convince myself that you weren’t just a figment of my imagination.”

  For the love of God, I wish he would take off those damn sunglasses and let me read his expression.

  “Well, you’ve seen me,” I say. “And I have a business to run, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.”

  He glances around the shop. “You’ve got a charming little place here. You always did make amazing desserts. You seem to have done very well for yourself since the last time we spoke.”

  “A lot has changed since we were together,” I admit.

  His chin dips slightly, and I realize too late that he’s looking at the ring finger of my left hand. I quickly tuck my hands under the table, but he’s already seen what he needed to see.

  “You aren’t married yet,” he observes.

  My face is burning. “No.” Suddenly I’m all too aware of my three years of celibacy, and I refuse to lose face in front of Dante, especially when he’s put me in this position. “But I have a boyfriend.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, but I still can’t read him through his sunglasses.

  “That’s good to hear,” he says. “You deserve someone special.” I don’t miss the hint of condescension in his tone. Annoyance flares in my chest.

  “He’s very special,” I say before I can stop myself. “The best man I’ve ever dated.”

  His mouth twitches again, and this time there’s no doubt that he’s trying to hide a frown. “Have you been together long?”

  The last thing I want to do is get into a conversation about my nonexistent boyfriend with the man who broke my heart. But I’m in too deep now, and Dante’s blasé attitude is infuriating me more with every passing second.

  “A year,” I say. That’s a safe enough number.

  “Do you think you’ll marry him?”

  His tone is still casual, but the question throws me.

  “That’s personal,” I say. “And I don’t see why you care.”

  He shrugs. “Believe it or not, Ashlyn, I do want the best for you.”

  I scoff. “Forgive me for not believing you, based on our history.”

  His frown is unmistakable this time. “I know things ended poorly between us, but I never—”

  “You don’t need to bother. It’s in the past. We’ve both moved on.”

  “Ah, you see, that’s where I beg to differ. For someone who claims she’s indifferent toward me, you seem to be very upset.”

  “I’m not upset!” I blurt, feeling my cheeks get even hotter. I want to kick myself. I’ve done nothing but snap at him since the moment he walked in here—I might as well have told him outright that he still has the ability to get under my skin. And I can tell by the set of his mouth that he’s very aware of that fact.

  “I deserve your anger,” he says. “I’ll never deny that.”

  “I’m not angry,” I say, still refusing to admit the truth out loud to him. I’ve never been able to hide my emotions, so stubbornness is all I have. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

  “You liked me once,” he observes. “More than that, even. A man doesn’t forget the way a woman cries out his name when he’s buried inside of her.”

  “Things change,” I counter, trying to ignore the feelings and images his words bring to mind.

  “Now you scream this man’s name instead, is that it? What did you say he’s called?”

  Fuck, I think, my mind scrambling. I need to get my details straight before making up lies. I grab the first name that pops into my head.

  “Jack,” I tell him. Better to build my make-believe boyfriend out of someone I know than make up a guy from scratch.

  “And Jack knows how to pleasure you properly?”

  “My relationship with Jack is personal. And I’m still not sure why it matters to you.”

  “Oh, it matters,” he says, tilting his head. “Are you saying it doesn’t matter to you how I feel about Emilia?”

  “It doesn’t matter a bit,” I say. “And it shouldn’t. We’ve moved on with our lives.”

  “There you go, lying again.” There’s something in his voice—something that suddenly makes me grateful that I can’t see his eyes.

  “I have moved on,” I say. “But I guess I can’t speak for you.”

  He opens his mouth as if to respond, but then he seems to think the better of it. His lips remain slightly parted, and my gaze can’t help but fall to them. I still remember how his kisses taste. Still remember the way his mouth felt against my throat and breasts and the tender skin around my belly button. God, what is wrong with me?

  “Well, if there’s no remaining awkwardness between us, then I suppose we should get back to business,” he says.

  “Business?”

  “The cake.” He gestures at my clipboard. “You said you recommended the chocolate?”

  It takes me a moment to catch up. “Uh, yes—yes, the dark chocolate is very popular.”

  “And what did you say for the other tiers?”

  I have to skim my messy, half-scribbled notes. “Citrus sponge. And maybe strawberry.”

  He nods. “I’ll need that for the twenty-eighth.”

  “Okay,” I say, still a little stunned. He’s actually going to buy a cake? “What sort of look were you thinking? Do you want a themed cake or something a little more classic?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Any guidance—”

  “I trust you, Ash. Just make it spectacular.”

  That’s still not helpful, and his “trust” is frankly making me a little uncomfortable. We haven’t spoken in years. I doubt he was even aware I owned a bakery until last night. What is he trying to do? His motives aren’t innocent, that’s for damn sure.

  “I won’t be able to give you an estimate of the cost until I know how it will be decorated,” I say. “The labor—”

  “I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll pay it.”

  With anyone else, I’d press the issue more, but let’s be real—Dante Fontaine can afford whatever cake I make for him. And I’m ready for this conversation to be over. If he’s content to let me make all of the important decisions myself, then there’s no reason we need to continue this meeting.

  “Well, that’s everything I need from you,” I say, skimming my form. “Except a contact email—”

  “My cell number hasn’t changed.”

  I bite down on my lip. “I’m afraid I don’t have your number anymore.”

  Without a word, Dante reaches over and plucks both the clipboard and pen out of my hands. His fingers brush against mine as he does, and I ignore the jolt that shoots up my arm at the contact.

  If he has a similar reaction to our brief touch, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he silently scribbles his number down on the form before returning it to me. I rise.

  “Thank you for your business,” I say. “I’ll have Karen contact you when we have the other details settled.”

  He stands. “I’d prefer to hear from you.”

  “Your movie has just debuted,” I remind him. “No doubt you won’t have time to talk about a cake.”

  “I’ll make the time.”

  “You don’t need to, really, I think—”

  “We’ve both moved on. That means there’s room for us to be friends, doesn’t it?” He smooths his hands down the front of his shirt and glances around. “I like seeing what you’ve built for yourself. And I’d like to catch up more.”

  I’m not sure what else there is to catch up on, and I’m about to tell him so, but he continues on.

  “I’m holding a small gathering at my place on Sunday night,” he says. “You should come. And bring this Jack of yours.”

  I shake my head. “Sunday won�
�t work for me. I’ve got a lot of work—”

  “You close at six on Sundays. I saw that on the door when I came in. My party won’t begin until eight.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t have work. I—”

  “I insist.” Somehow he’s grabbed my hand, but I’m not sure how or when. His fingers wrap around mine, and I fight back a little gasp of shock. “I’d hate to think you were avoiding me. And I’d very much like to meet this man of yours.”

  “Jack is very busy,” I say, trying to figure out how to extricate my fingers from his without revealing how shaken I am.

  “No doubt.” A smile plays at the edges of his mouth. “But how else am I going to make sure he deserves you?”

  Annoyance sweeps through me. “Who made you the expert on what I deserve?” I give my fingers a good tug, but he holds them tight. Not only that, but he leans toward me until his mouth is right next to my ear. My heart nearly stops as his breath tickles my skin.

  “I know better than anyone else,” he murmurs. “Never forget that.”

  My pulse is hammering as he pulls back, and I swear I don’t take another breath until he finally drops my fingers.

  “I’m still in the same house,” he says. “But I’ll text you the address again.”

  “I didn’t say I was going,” I snap, pissed that he’s managed to make me this breathless.

  “Just in case, then.” He smiles. “Have a good day, Ashlyn.”

  I have plenty more to say to him, but my tongue is in a tangle as he turns and walks back outside. I’m not sure what just happened, much less how I feel about it. Dante came here. To see me. To grill me about my nonexistent boyfriend. To invite me to his house. What the hell does that mean? How the hell am I supposed to respond if I want to emerge from this with my pride intact?

  The best thing to do is to pretend this never happened. Make his damn cake and get on with my life. One thing’s for certain: it would take all of the forces of hell to drag me to a party at that Devil’s den.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “We have to go,” Jack says.

  “Why?” I’m working on a batch of lemon tarts, but my cell is jammed beneath my ear. I’ve spent the last ten minutes going over every last detail of the Dante encounter with Jack, including the invitation to his house on Sunday.

  “Because how often do we get invited to the home of one of the Fontaines? Or any celebrity, for that matter?”

  I don’t bother pointing out that I’ve been to Dante’s place before. Attending Dante’s little get-together means continuing to engage him, and I refuse to do that.

  “You work for Brockman now,” I remind Jack. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to hang out with celebrities.”

  “Not at their homes. Or at their private parties. Come on, Ash, how bad could it be?”

  “Very bad. Very, very bad. I don’t think he believed me when I told him I had a boyfriend.”

  “All the more reason you should show up with me and we should rub it in his face.”

  “I’m not sure we could pull that off.”

  “Are you kidding? People always think we’re a couple when we go out together.”

  He’s right—Jack and I have been mistaken for a couple more than once while hanging out in public. But it’s one thing to fool a stranger or a random waitress at a restaurant and another to deceive an ex-boyfriend. Especially one as observant as Dante.

  “There’s no way Evan would go for this,” I say, trying another tactic.

  “Screw Evan. I want to hang out at Dante Fontaine’s house,” he says. “Besides, if Evan gets pissed, I know how to make it up to him after.”

  I roll my eyes. Evan’s never had a problem with my friendship with Jack, but Jack’s never pretended to be my boyfriend before.

  “I’m not going to do it,” I say. “It’ll be too awkward.”

  “Will Emilia be there?”

  I hadn’t even thought about that possibility, but it makes me sick to my stomach. “It’ll be awkward either way. Showing up there won’t accomplish anything.”

  “The way I see it, it accomplishes several things,” Jack counters. “First of all, it shows Dante Fontaine that you aren’t afraid of him. If you don’t show, he’ll always think that he managed to get to you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Secondly,” he continues, “it gives you the chance to rub your new relationship in his face.”

  “My new fake relationship.”

  “He doesn’t know that. It should still make him jealous. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Or would you prefer that he knew your lady bits are as dry as the Sahara?”

  “Ew, Jack.”

  “Well, I think getting out of your shell will make you feel better. But it’s still not the most important reason for you to go.”

  “What is, then?”

  “Your best friend just got one of your cakes in front of hundreds of very rich, very important people and now you owe him.”

  I set my pastry bag of lemon curd aside. “Going for the guilt trip, I see.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be bugging you mercilessly until then.”

  “Goodbye, Jack.”

  I hang up before he can plant more dangerous ideas in my head. Because the more he talks, the more sense he seems to make. That’s definitely not good.

  It’s not until I shove my phone in my pocket that I realize Mama Pat is back from her break. I didn’t hear her come in, but from the look she gives me, I know she heard more than a little of my conversation with Jack. I can tell from the look in her kind brown eyes that she has some opinions on what she just heard, but in spite of her motherly instincts, she’s not the sort of woman to start lecturing me outright.

  “All right,” I say, carrying my tray of tarts to the fridge. “Let’s hear it.”

  Mama Pat is tying up her thick, gray-streaked hair beneath her hairnet. “You’ve been out of sorts all day. Want to talk about it?”

  I grab the puff pastry out of the fridge. It’s been chilling for the last couple of hours, and it’s time to fold the dough again.

  “I’m not sure if talking will help,” I say honestly.

  Mama Pat nods as she washes her hands, taking me at my word. “Who was that man out there earlier? He was quite the looker.”

  My head snaps up. “You saw him?”

  “Honey, Karen came running back here the moment you had your back turned. We don’t get eye candy like that in here often. You can’t blame us for looking.”

  My ears burn. But if she recognized that our visitor was Dante Fontaine, she doesn’t say so.

  “You seemed awfully familiar with each other,” she continues, a knowing expression brightening her features. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  Anyone who’d been paying any attention to my conversation with Dante could have easily guessed we have some history.

  “He’s someone I used to date,” I admit.

  Mama Pat’s eyebrows rise. “Ah. He’s that one.”

  I blink. As far as I can remember, I’ve never mentioned anything about Dante to anyone here at the bakery. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that a lovely, charming, intelligent girl of your age should have a very active dating life. And if she doesn’t, usually it’s because she’s had her heart broken at some point. I’ve never heard you talk about a guy in all the time I’ve been working here. And you’ve avoided every attempt of mine to set you up with my neighbor. Who, by the way, was mowing his lawn without his shirt last night.”

  I’m not sure whether to laugh or sigh. But nothing gets past Mama Pat.

  “He’s the one,” I admit softly. “I ran into him last night. And today he showed up here and wanted to order a cake.”

  “And invited you to a party?” she prompts, confirming that she heard a good bit of my call with Jack.

  “I’m not going to go, of course.”


  “Do you still have feelings for him?”

  I slam my fist into the puff pastry dough. “Of course not.”

  “He hurt you very badly.”

  It’s not a question. And the fact that she’s said it saves me the pain of having to admit it out loud.

  “Which is why it’s better to get on with my life,” I say. “I’ll make his damn cake, but there’s no reason to do anything beyond that.”

  Mama Pat is silent as she gets a batch of buttercream going in the tabletop mixer. Finally she says, “Are you ready to get on with your life?”

  I frown and flip the dough again. “Of course I am. It’s been three years. I’m not so pathetic that I’m still pining for him or anything.” Having fantasies about keying his car doesn’t count as pining, right?

  Mama Pat looks thoughtful. “When was the last time you had a date, Ashlyn?”

  My frown deepens. “I’ve been busy running this place. I don’t have time to date.”

  “You could make time if you wanted.”

  I don’t respond. Just strike my dough a few extra times.

  “You’re a lovely girl, Ashlyn. You could have your pick of men. But you’ve been alone all this time. Haven’t even tried to find love again. In my mind, that means one of two things.”

  My fingers throb from folding and punching the dough. “What?”

  “Either you’re afraid to put yourself back out there again, to be vulnerable and trust your heart to someone else, or else you’re still in love with him.”

  My hands freeze. “I’m not still in love with him.”

  “Then you’re afraid. And there’s only one way to get over a fear. You have to face it.”

  “I can face it without going to his house.”

  “Maybe. You could go out with someone else. Allow yourself to fall in love again. But it might be quicker to face the demon right in front of you.”

  Damn it—she’s making even more sense than Jack.

  “I’ve been through my share of heartache in my day,” she continues. “But it was worth it in the end—it led me to William. You deserve that kind of love, Ashlyn. And you’ll find it. You just need some closure. You shouldn’t resign yourself to dying alone just because you dated an asshole.”