Flirting with Felicity (8 page)

“There was nothing to indicate his wealth either, except for
a few financial statements near the bedside,” Blake added as he removed the
last of the sweaters from the chest of drawers. He moved them to the box nearby
when a small, leather-bound book fell to the floor.

Blake’s fingers were steady but not his heartbeat as he
picked up the book. He flipped the book open to find a black and white picture
of two young men.

“Do you recognize the photograph?” Felicity asked.

“I don’t know who the man on the right is, but the one on the
left is most likely my grandfather.”

He set the picture aside and looked at the pages of the book.
The first page was blank. He flipped to the second and frowned.

“What does it say?” Felicity asked.

“It’s an unfinished note of some kind addressed to me. It
reads
Blake,
I
—then stops.” He couldn’t keep the pain inside him as he spoke. “Why
was everything between my uncle and me unfinished? Was he leaving me an
explanation? A warning?” He slipped the picture back inside the book and
snapped it closed.

Blake rammed his fingers through his hair. For years, he’d
wondered what was so horrible about himself that made people push him away. His
teachers had. His parents had. His uncle had.

“Maybe Vern was starting to rethink some of the things he’d
done over the years. At dinner each night, he was starting to talk about some
of his regrets in life.”

“Did he ever mention me?”

She hesitated, then finally said, “No.”

Blake clenched the book in his hands. “I don’t know why I
expected anything more.”

“I’m sorry.”

He frowned at the sympathy in her eyes. A lump of
constricting sorrow tightened his chest. He shrugged the sensation away and set
the book alongside the watch and the picture. “I stopped needing my uncle’s
approval a long time ago.”

Blake went back to emptying the dresser. He closed up the last
box and set it outside the door. He looked over the few possessions his uncle
had left behind, feeling suddenly that his own life had very little worth as
well. He might be obscenely wealthy, but what did he have to show for anything?
He had no family left, and no one special in his life. He had plenty of
employees, but none who would particularly miss him when he was gone. His only
legacy, much like his uncle’s, would be in the hotels he left behind.

Not liking where his thoughts had led him, Blake stiffened. “Since
we are done here, I’ve got something I must do.”

Felicity picked up the watch. “Do you want to take this with
you, or should I send it somewhere?”

“Donate all of it,” he said, keeping his tone bland.

She frowned down at the watch. “I don’t know much about
antiques, but I’m certain this is valuable.”

He turned and headed toward the door. “As a matter of fact,
it’s completely worthless. Do whatever you want with all of it.”

Without looking back, Blake headed for the elevator, ready to
leave all remnants of his uncle’s life and advice behind him.

On his way back to his own room, Blake grabbed his
cell phone and placed a call to Marcus, in an effort to fight the ache inside
him that made him long for things he knew he could never have. Things that
could only hurt him more. And he’d been hurt enough for one lifetime—by both
his uncle and his parents.

He opened the door to his room and stepped inside, waiting
for Marcus to pick up. Work was what he needed to focus on to get his
equilibrium back.

“Blake,” Marcus greeted him, obviously recognizing the
number. “Can’t you ever go on vacation and just relax?”

“This isn’t a vacation, and you know it,” Blake replied. “You
promised me an update on the Heritage Hotel.” He’d been in negotiations with a
small hotel property in the Bay area that was built in the 1900s. The location
was ideal. The hotel itself would be almost as expensive to repair and bring up to the standards set by Bancroft Industries as it would be to tear it down
and build something new.

“Jamison wants you to agree to restoration, not a teardown,”
Marcus said.

“I’ll agree to nothing except the purchase price.”

Blake could hear Marcus’s frown, even though he couldn’t see
it on the other end of the call. “Can’t you bend just a little this time?”

“For seventy million dollars, I should be able to do whatever
I want with the place.”

“He’s seeking historical protection.”

Blake groaned. Why did the owners of the older buildings
always grasp at that straw? Felicity was no exception. Historical protection
could not protect a building from destruction if the owner wanted it torn down.
“All right. Raise the offer to seventy-two million. I want that building,
Marcus.”

“Done. I’ll let you know what he says.”

Blake hung up feeling even more unsettled than when he’d left
his uncle’s room. He clenched his jaw, wanting desperately to control this one
area of his life. He might not be able to force others to abide by his wishes,
but he could make it pretty damn hard for them to say no.

Later that evening, Felicity told herself she still
wasn’t waiting for Blake to come find her. It was only because she couldn’t
sleep that she returned to the kitchen long after everyone else had gone home.
When she couldn’t sleep, she did what she always did; she made her way back to
the Dolce Vita to cook.

With a rolling pin, Felicity pressed the
sfogliatelle
dough
into a thin layer on her marble cutting board. The dough would be gathered like
a jelly roll, cut into chunks, then formed into a flaky, layered pouch. She
would eventually stuff each pouch with creamy ricotta filling.

Setting down the rolling pin, she started to gather the dough
when a sound came from the corridor outside the kitchen. She froze, and held
her breath as the footsteps came closer and the kitchen door swung open. A
thrill moved through her when Blake appeared, dressed in the same jeans and
t-shirt from earlier today.

“Hey,” he greeted. He stood there, neither coming forward nor
retreating, but she could feel a tension in him that echoed in her.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Too wound up from the day.” He leaned against the doorjamb.
His t-shirt molded to his chest, and the material of his jeans clung to his
muscular thighs and hips with blatant delineation.

A tingle of appreciation moved through Felicity, and she
hurriedly lifted her gaze back to his face. “Are you hungry?”

He watched her from the doorway. “I’m sorry I disappeared on
you earlier.”

She dropped her gaze to the dough in her hands, pressing the
delicate pastry with more force than was necessary. “You don’t owe me any
explanation.” Felicity swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “Want
some
sfogliatelle
?”

At her invitation, he came forward, stopping inches from her.
Her nerves flicked as his woodsy scent teased her. Despite his claim to
sleeplessness, he seemed more at ease than he had earlier today. “What is it?”
he asked.

She moistened her lips. “It’s an Italian pastry—flaky with a
hint of sweet.” She reached past him to select one of the pastries she’d
finished that were cooling on a rack. She brought the treat to his lips and
offered him a bite, and then fully realized what she was doing. Blake wasn’t
one of her kitchen staff who would think nothing of the gesture.

His lips parted. Her chest constricted. She pulled in a deep
breath and slid the tip of the pastry into his mouth.

Blake took a bite. He closed his eyes, chewed, and let out a
soft moan. “It’s amazing. It might be the best pastry I’ve ever had.” She’d had
plenty of time to perfect her cooking techniques over the years, working at any
number of restaurants late into the evening while she attended classes during
the day.

He opened his eyes and took the
sfogliatelle
from her
fingers. Instead of offering her a bite, he scooped up a dollop of the still
warm orange-flavored ricotta filing. He held his finger out to her. “Your turn.
Enjoy some of your own cooking.”

Felicity hesitated for a moment before she parted her lips
and closed them around his finger. The scent of him and the taste of sweet
cream overwhelmed her senses. She found herself staring, unable to look away
from those deep blue eyes. She could feel her heart beating harder, her skin
warming as the blood ran faster in her veins.

He popped the remainder of the pastry into his mouth and
chewed, perhaps not knowing he gave her time to get her wildly vacillating
emotions under control.

“Where did you learn to cook like that?” he asked.

“I spent six years in cooking schools locally and in
California. It was from the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone that I
received my degree. After that, I received a national scholarship that allowed
me to spend a year in Italy working and studying. I worked for a variety of
restaurants, but found my true calling in Naples. The food, the people, the
countryside—they all spoke to me.”

“Why did you return home, if you were so happy there?” he
asked, his tone sincere.

She shrugged. “I had obligations.” She looked away, not
wanting to elaborate and uncertain if she would see compassion or suspicion in
his eyes. “I brought the best recipes home with me. I’ve tried to re-create
much of what I learned in Italy here at the Dolce Vita.”

“No wonder Uncle Vernon ate here every night.”

Felicity tensed, preparing for a round of insults about her
relationship with his uncle.

Instead, Blake hooked his finger underneath her chin and
lifted her head until her eyes met his. “That was a compliment.” Something slid
sideways, and suddenly his smile was charming, and his touch sizzled.

Felicity drew a ragged breath. “What are we doing, Blake? I
have no idea what to expect from you. One moment we’re getting along, the next
we’re adversaries.”

A bemused look crept over his features as his thumb moved
down to her throat. “You are such a surprise. This would be so much easier, if
you were like all my other competitors.”

“I’m not like your other rivals?”

His gaze locked with hers. “No, you’re not.”

Her knees went weak, and she could feel heat rise to her
cheeks. She should step back, away from his touch, but she couldn’t.

He cradled her head, leaned in, and met her lips in a slow,
gentle kiss that was nothing like Felicity expected. She’d braced herself for
an assault, something more in line with Blake’s business practices. But his
tenderness surprised her; it was a tenderness that melted her reservations. He
might be her enemy, but she wanted this, she deserved this: a stolen moment in
his arms.

Felicity leaned into the kiss, demanding more.

And he gave her exactly what she wanted. His hand traveled
down her spine, stopping at the small of her back. He cradled her waist, and
pulled her even tighter against him. His tongue traced along the seam of her
lips, urging them to part, but when they did he didn’t plunge inside. Instead,
his assault was just as devastatingly tender, which did more to fire her own
desire than a steamy kiss might have.

Time suspended until, with a groan, he pulled back. But he didn’t
release her. He continued to cradle her in his arms as though he liked the feel
of her against him.

This was pure insanity. And yet Felicity couldn’t step out of
his arms. Some strange force kept her there. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Wasn’t supposed to, but it did.” His voice was raw, another
surprise.

She gazed up at him. “What do you want with me, Blake? I’m
confused. Do you want the hotel or something else?” She couldn’t say the words
. . . couldn’t ask him if he wanted her. His kiss said he did. But why?

“I want the hotel. Make no mistake about that.” He kissed the
top of her head, the gesture both charming and sweet despite his words. “But,
if we are honest with each other, we both want so much more.”