Sizzle in the City (6 page)

“You bet your cute Texas ass we do.”

5

“I
T
WAS
WONDERFUL
, Mario—truly.” Shelby smiled warmly at the handsome Italian chef. “I’d love to know what you put in the marinara sauce.”

Mario waggled his finger. “Not even for you,
bella.
My great-great grandmother would never let me past the gates of heaven.”

“We can’t let that happen. How about a trade? I’ll bring you four dozen of my chocolate-chunk caramel cookies, and you give me four jars of that sauce?”

With a smile, Mario nodded. “This is an excellent idea.”

They agreed to trade on Tuesday, and Shelby picked up her wineglass with a satisfied sigh. She might be in a financial and emotional pinch, but the best things in life were sometimes easy to come by.

She directed her attention to Trevor, wondering if, with his privileged upbringing, he’d taken that kind of thing for granted.

“How nice of you to notice I’m still here,” he said, drumming his long, elegant fingers against the table.

Impulsively, she covered his hand with hers. “Sorry. I get carried away by great food. Occupational hazard.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her fingers in an old-fashioned gesture that left her breathless. “I agree the food has always been delicious here, but I’ve never gotten such exceptional service.” He paused, his expression wry. “But then Mario never seemed enamored with my cleavage.”

“Oh, good grief. He’s married and has four kids.”

“Yes, well, I’m not so sure his wife would be impressed by his close customer service.”

Trevor’s possessiveness should have bothered her. It didn’t. “You’re jealous?”

“I like cookies, too.”

Delighted and charmed, she squeezed his hand and scooted closer to him in the intimate corner booth they shared. “How many do you want?”

“If Mario gets four dozen, I want five.”

“I could also add dark chocolate and cranberries to yours. It gives the sweet cookies a hint of tartness.”

“I like tart and sweet.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have.”

She’d gone out with him to spy and help her parents’ cause—or so she’d told herself at the start of the evening.

She should be probing Trevor for information about Max and wondering if he’d told her the truth about his brother. Or if he actually knew Max was an amoral creep. Or if he knew anything about this investor’s meeting. But she’d barely given the Robin Hood matter a minute’s thought. In fact, she’d purposely avoided the subject of Max, as the more she enjoyed time with Trevor, the more guilty she felt for misleading him about her true motives.

Dinner had been delightful. Trevor was intelligent and attentive. He was determined and self-made, despite counting royalty among his friends. His wit had its British moments, but since he’d left his family’s long shadow and come to New York at the young age of twenty-two, his ideas had a distinctly American slant. And maybe, most importantly, the idea of him sharing DNA with a scheming, self-absorbed creep like Max Banfield seemed ludicrous.

She wished she could convince herself she was impressed by him because her last decent date had been months ago, but she knew deep down that Trevor would be impressive to anyone and in any situation.

“Should I bring the cookies Tuesday?” she asked.

“How about right after you deliver Mario’s? Then they’ll be dessert after I take you to a great steak house. Have you ever eaten at Palo’s?”

She had—once. Victoria had treated her and Calla after Victoria had landed an important client but lost her latest lover because she’d spent so much time wooing the big client.

Shelby, however, couldn’t afford to order so much as a salad there at the moment. Her stomach clenched. Was she using him again? Had her dip into spying, eavesdropping and vindictiveness already shifted her morals?

No, she decided quickly. Not yet anyway. She’d go to dinner with Trevor if they ate at a hot-dog stand on the street corner. And surely she could keep her personal relationship with him separate from her revenge quest. The subject of Max would be off-limits. Easy as pie.

“I’d love to have dinner Tuesday,” she said. “Especially at Palo’s.”

He brushed his lips over hers, like a whisper…or a promise. “So date number two is secured even before the end of date number one? And here I thought my previous kissing technique would hamper me.”

“Your technique is fine.”

“Just fine?”

“You kissing me didn’t aggravate me at the time—only later, after I found out who you were.”

“But the Banfield men have established a reputation for charm. My great-grandfather had a constant stream of mistresses, supposedly reaching double digits, and my grandfather had four wives. My father’s broken the mold by staying single since he and my mother divorced, but it’s early days yet. He’s not yet sixty.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How many do you intend to have?”

“One. But then I’m exceedingly picky. Much like you with whom you allow to kiss you.”

“Sorry to be difficult. There are a lot of players in this city—and not only the kind in sports.”

His gaze searched her face. “You think I’m playing you?”

No.
Um, probably not. Besides, in light of her current agenda, she could hardly demand full disclosure from him. “Maybe we should try it again. The kissing, I mean, just to see if last night was a fluke.”

“I look forward to the challenge.”

The desire and promise in his beautiful blue eyes made her dizzy with heat. Why me? she nearly asked. He could have anyone—and probably had. Given his secrecy the night before, she wondered if she was trusting too easily and falling too quickly.

Yet logic dictated an unarguable fact—if Max had sent his brother out to romance women for his latest scheme, most notably the mysterious investors’ meeting, he would have certainly picked Victoria. The suit she’d been wearing during the party had been Chanel, and a man as sophisticated as Trevor could certainly spot that kind of quality next to Shelby’s serviceable black pants she’d bought on sale at The Gap.

Maybe he simply had a thing for redheads.

Regardless, she needed to stop overthinking every move and enjoy herself. She couldn’t possibly hold Nearly Royal Trevor’s interest for long.

The waitress arrived and cleared their plates, suggesting Mario’s coveted tiramisu for dessert, which they agreed to share.

When they were alone again, Trevor slid his hand down Shelby’s back in a casual gesture that suggested he’d done it a million times before. He was clearly a tactile kind of person, reminding her of men in her native Georgia. The idea comforted, as she’d gotten used to more reserved New Yorkers. She’d learned years ago not to hug people unexpectedly the way everyone did down South.

“I was serious last night at Max’s party, by the way,” he said.

Max’s name had her fighting a jolt.

Okay, so maybe not easy as pie, separating revenge and romance. It might be more like soufflé—lots of broken eggs and fervent prayers that the finished product wouldn’t collapse.

Stalling, she sipped her wine. “Really? About what?”

“The dinner party I’d like to plan.”

Relief washed through her. “Oh, right.”

He angled his head, studying her. “You don’t mind discussing business over dessert, do you?”

“No.” She smiled, hoping to cover her brief discomfort. “I do my best work surrounded by food.”

Enjoying cappuccino with their tiramisu, they discussed the details of a party he wanted to host for a potential new client and his top executives. He emphasized elegance, but nothing stuffy. His would-be clients were running a company started by their proud-to-be-blue-collar grandfather and enjoyed muscle cars and rye whiskey more than limos and fine wine.

Shelby suggested a steak and potatoes meal, plus a light salad tossed tableside. The meat would be acquired from her prime supplier and butter and cheese always made a popular accompaniment to any kind of potato.

Trevor agreed simplicity was best and told her his apartment address. She couldn’t swallow her gasp fast enough.

“I did mention my business was fairly lucrative, didn’t I?” he asked smoothly.

Actually, he hadn’t. And even though Calla’s article had given her a fair idea of his success, the reminder of the difference in their lifestyles was shoved into the brightness of reality.

“I figured you worked hard,” she managed to say.

“So do you.”

“Caterers don’t make what transportation moguls do.”

Laughing, he slid his arm around her waist, holding her to his side. “And yet we’re all outpaced by guys who can throw a football sixty yards. It’s a strange world sometimes.”

After the check was presented, paid and whisked away, Trevor led her outside to a waiting cab.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a limo and driver.”

“I like being a regular New Yorker.” He linked his fingers with hers, letting their joined hands rest on the worn black vinyl seat. “I especially don’t like people waiting on me every minute of the day.”

“I would have imagined you’d be used to that.”

“No. As I said earlier, I’m the second son. My safety, education and general health was taken care of. But as for anything else, I was pretty much on my own.”

“On your…” The coldness of his words hit her, even though he communicated no resentment. “Your parents?”

“My parents divorced—rather bitterly—when I was five. My father was busy with parliament. My mother became obsessed with screwing every tennis instructor in England. My father booted her off the estate when he found out, though I expect the abruptness had more to do with the gossip than unfaithfulness. I’ve always wondered if he still pines for her, no matter how inappropriate she was for him and his proper life, but instead of women, Dad focused all his energy in molding the perfect heir.” With a crooked smile, he shrugged. “Everybody copes with setbacks in their own way.”

So Trevor was ignored in favor of
Max?
Shelby could barely contain her outrage. “But—”

“Being on my own taught me self-reliance. I’ve never had Max’s obligations to the future title, never wanted them. Never had to live up to anything but my own expectations, as long as I did everything my father asked, of course.” Regret filled his eyes. “The divorce hit Max harder than me. He was devoted to Mum, while I had Florence, who was my governess back then.”

In other words, she was the only one who cared,
Shelby thought.

He stroked her cheek. “Your face is turning as red as your hair. Don’t be outraged for me. Remember, I’m related to George the Third—yes, the one who fought the American colonists. I have an excellent pedigree.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Who cares about that?”

He pressed his lips against her skin. “A great many people.”

His breath stirred her hair; his scent stirred her senses. Maybe her allure wasn’t the color of her hair after all. Maybe he liked her simply because she was normal.

Since his upbringing certainly wasn’t familiar. At least to her.

And all she’d done lately was complain about the burden of her parents. While not living up to Daddy’s expectations certainly didn’t excuse Max’s swindling schemes, Trevor’s devotion to his family, flaws and all, was humbling.

She laid her palm against his chest, feeling the strong, sure beat of his heart. “Why aren’t you angry?”

“Because they’re family. No matter our differences, I can’t unchoose them the way I can select my friends. And besides the posturing and rules and general silliness, the Banfields have been part of English society for hundreds of years. I have a responsibility to honor them as best I can. I imagine you’d do anything for your family.”

Dropping her gaze, Shelby nodded. She was doing something for her family, all right.

The cab pulled to a halt in front of the cozy, Chelsea-area redbrick apartment building where Shelby lived. The streetlights illuminated the generous sprinkling of shady trees as well as the front-porch pots filled with bright spring flowers. It was a dream to live there.

Shelby’s landlady was rich as a queen and charged her renters a modest monthly sum. Thankfully, she’d hired Shelby to cater her birthday party three years ago and fell in love with Shelby’s chicken cacciatore. She’d quickly become one of Mrs. Hines’s beneficiaries, which had allowed her to move out of Brooklyn and into the city.

Trevor paid the cabdriver, then he walked Shelby to the door. “Business must be pretty decent,” he said, his gaze roving the building.

“I do okay.” She explained about Mrs. Hines. “As long as my tomato supplier doesn’t bug out on me, and I make her a spectacular birthday cake every year, it’s like having rent control.”

“It’s a great area. We’re nearly neighbors. I live on 26th, remember?”

He probably
owned
26th, but at least Shelby could be proud to show him her place. Very few people in her income bracket could afford to live so well. “You want to come up for coffee?”

“I very much want to come up. But not for coffee.” He slid his arm around her waist and cupped her jaw in his palm. “I should probably go.”