Kitabı oku: «Sizzle in the City», sayfa 3

“His name is Mario.”

He walked around the desk and assisted her to her feet. “He’s not your knife-wielding cousin or boyfriend, is he?”

“My cousin lives in Fort Lauderdale and runs a car wash, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I always thought the men of New York had good taste. Clearly, I’ve been misinformed.” He opened his office door and allowed Shelby to proceed him. “I’m leaving, Florence.”

“For the day?” His secretary’s pink painted mouth rounded in shock. “It’s barely after five.”

“It’s Friday. Go home. Enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, I remember how. Do you?”

Trevor narrowed his eyes briefly as he passed Florence’s desk. “Of course I do.” The last thing he needed was Florence blabbing about his obsessive tendencies. Success didn’t come without sacrifice, after all.

The irony that his secretary wanted him to slow down and have babies she could spoil, while his mother’s worst nightmare was becoming a grandmother wasn’t lost on him.

“But you’ll miss out on your workaholic merit badge for the week,” she called after him.

“Good night, Florence,” he said, refusing to rise to her critique.

To his relief, Shelby laughed. “And here I thought we had nothing in common. My friends and assistants are always trying to get me to work less and play more.”

“Easy to do when it’s not your company on the line.”

“Exactly.”

Trevor pressed the button for the elevator, which arrived immediately.

“Is your brother a crook?” Shelby asked abruptly.

He nearly stumbled. It was rare for him to be knocked off stride, and this woman had done it twice in ten minutes. “No. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged as the elevator doors slid closed. “Just curious.”

CALLA WALK ED AWAY FROM a lovely spring evening, through the police-station door and into chaos.

The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.

In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.

Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.

Lady Justice could hardly be proud.

But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.

Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”

The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”

You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”

“Is anybody in immediate danger?”

“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”

The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”

Calla blinked. “Uh … no, but—”

“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.

It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.

But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York and become a features writer. She’d navigated the turbulent waters of Texas politics, she’d interviewed presidents and kings, she’d even gone on safari in Africa last year. And she knew charm would get her further than bullying.

“I know you’re extremely busy,” she said sweetly to the clerk. “But I’m in a bind. I have important information on a fraud case that could really—”

“Are you high?” the clerk asked, nonplussed.

“No, of cour—”

“Do you know it’s Friday night?”

“Yes, of cour—”

“Then go away.”

Okay, maybe charm was overrated.

Before Calla could figure out her next move, a heavyset uniformed officer appeared at the end of the hall.

Calla rushed toward him before anybody in the waiting room could move. “I need to see somebody in the fraud department!”

His gaze flicked over her with a hint of male interest before he rolled his eyes. “Lady, I got—”

“Please. It’s an emergency.”

“It always is.” He sighed and pointed down the hall he’d just emerged from. “Sixth door on the left. See Detective Antonio.”

“Thank you,” Calla breathed, barely resisting the urge to kiss his pudgy cheek.

“Don!” the clerk shouted, leaping to her feet.

“What the hell you want me to do, Mary?” he hollered back. “I got an attempted murder to deal with here.”

Calla barely heard the renewed wailing from the waiting room, she was too busy scooting down the hall.

The sixth door on the left had the pealing, fading letters of Detective Division printed on the smoked glass. Drawing a deep breath and hoping not everybody inside was as cranky as the front-desk clerk, Calla turned the handle.

The room she entered was scattered with several metal desks, each containing a computer monitor and various personal items. A water cooler and coffee station took up most of the space in the back, and directly across from her was a closed office door that read Lieutenant Meyer.

Except for the distant ringing of a phone, it was blessedly quiet.

Better yet, only two people were inside—a woman in a well-worn brown suit, who answered the phone, and a dark-haired man, typing rapidly on a keyboard.

She approached him, confident when she revealed her information, he’d be interested. Detectives moved up the ranks by solving cases, right? Certainly this one would be no exception.

Up close, she realized his hair wasn’t brown but black—thick, wavy and slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his fingers through the locks repeatedly. His hands were large, and his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his wrinkled black shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal darkly tanned and muscular forearms.

This was not a man to be messed with.

“Detective Antonio?” she asked, hating the tentative note in her voice.

After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he lifted his head. His face was handsome and sculpted but hard. His lips might have been full but were flattened at the moment with a scowl. Eyes, green as a shamrock, but imparting none of the cheeriness of Ireland’s symbol, stared back at her with vivid reluctance.

“Yeah?” he returned, giving her a quick look from head to toe.

His expression didn’t soften with the perusal, and she found herself struggling not to be insulted. Granted, it had been a long time since she’d been the Cotton Bowl Queen, but she generally got a spark of interest from most men.

She’d even had her hair highlighted and gotten a glowing spray tan the day before.

Like that matters. Get on with it, girl.

She held out her hand. “I’m Calla Tucker.”

He rose, but not before expelling a tired sigh. “Devin Antonio,” he said, wrapping his hand around hers.

Fire darted through Calla’s body at the touch of his calloused palm. She flinched at the sensation and yanked her hand back, but it continued to tingle in the aftermath. He must have felt something similar since he glanced from her to his own hand and back again.

Now there was heat and anger in his remarkable eyes.

Though the tingling lingered, making her light-headed, she ignored it. She was supposed to be helping Shelby, not flirting.

“Devin,” she said after clearing her throat. “That’s an unusual name for an Italian.”

His scowl deepened. “It’s Irish. My mom was.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. She passed away?”

“Hell if I know.” He extended his hand to the chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically, though her thoughts were whirling. She’d traveled enough to know war and despair existed everywhere and on many different fronts. But even in abject poverty she’d seen families stick together and work hard to make the most of their circumstances.

She found it incredibly sad that Detective Antonio didn’t know that kind of comfort.

“Reporters are supposed to stay in the press room,” he said shortly.

“I’m not a reporter.” She waved her hand. “Okay, I was at one time. I’m a features writer now. Mostly for travel and lifestyle magazines.”

“And you’re here to do a story on me.” He glanced at his watch. “At seven o’clock on a Friday night?”

“No story, and why does everybody keep reminding me about the day and time? Writers work at all hours. Silly me, I thought the police station was pretty much a 24/7 seven operation.”

“It is, but not for me. I was on my way out.”

“You were typing.”

“Finishing up a report. Are you in some kind of trouble, miss?”

“It’s Calla, and, no, not me. It’s my friend Shelby, specifically her parents.”

Before he could interrupt or, worse, throw her back to the front-desk diva, Calla told him about how the Dixons had given their life savings to Max Banfield, only to see it go into his pocket.

“I’ve got statements from six other couples right here,” she concluded, fishing in her briefcase for the folder containing the transcriptions she’d painstakingly documented from her recorded phone interviews. “They all implicate Maxwell Banfield as the head of the investment company.”

The detective didn’t even glance at the folder she laid on his desk. “Investments come with a risk. I’m sure Mr. Banfield explained that to his clients.”

“But he didn’t even invest the money. Weeks after cashing the check, the phone number he gave was disconnected and the office abandoned.”

“Fraud is a difficult case to prove.”

“Then your job must be pretty damn miserable.”

He stared directly at her. “It has its moments.”

Was that his attempt to compliment her or was she one of the miserable moments? The guy was impossible to read.

“Look, miss, I—”

“Calla.”

“Fine. Calla.” He shoved her folder across the desk. “I’ve got ten open cases to work. And it looks like one of them is going to be transferred to Homicide, since the harbor patrol found my suspect floating in the East River about two hours ago.”

She pushed the folder toward him. “Then you’ll only have nine cases. You’ve got room for one more.”

“No. I’ll have to work with Homicide exclusively for the next few days, catching them up on all the background, which means I’ll be even more backlogged once they take over.”

Frustrated, Calla rose and turned away from him. Shelby and Victoria were right. The only way they were getting results was to get them on their own. She was wasting her time with the hot, angry detective.

“These statements aren’t admissible in court,” he said.

Calla turned. He’d opened her file. Suspicious of his curiosity, she nodded. “I know. I have the digital recordings to back up everything.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All these people would have to be interviewed by a cop.”

“So interview them.” She glared down at him, feeling better that she had the height advantage. “You guys know something squirrelly’s going on. Mrs. Rosenberg lives right here in the city, and she told me she filed a report with you guys months ago. Why won’t you help?”

“The case crosses state lines. That makes it federal.”

She leaned over, bracing her hand in the center of his desk. “Oh, that’s just crap. Unless Banfield walks into a bank with a loaded pistol, it’ll be years before the Feds get around to this case. And why should he resort to violence anyway? He’s doing just fine, smiling and lying and taking every meager penny these hardworking people have spent their lives earning. It’s unconscionable.”

He stood, taking her advantage with a single movement. “Where the hell are you from?”

“Texas.”

“That explains it.” He raked his hand through his inky hair, just as she’d imagined earlier.

The state of attraction along with dissent was foreign to her. When she liked a guy, she liked him. She had no idea what to make of this encounter. Or of him and where he stood.

“I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to,” he said, sounding as aggravated as he looked. “But I don’t want you going all Wyatt Earp on me and shooting down the guy at the local watering hole.”

“Wyatt Earp’s showdown took place in Arizona, not Texas.”

“You’re sure?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Pretty positive. Not to mention that happened about 130 years ago. Texans are independent and self-sufficient, not idiotic.”

“Stubborn comes to mind,” he muttered. “But whatever. I actually know about Banfield. One of our guys interviewed Mrs. Rosenberg, but we couldn’t find anybody else to corroborate her claim.”

“That’s because Banfield moves all over.”

“He’s technically a Brit. And now he’s bought a hotel in midtown.”

For the first time, Calla realized there was more going on behind the detective’s emerald eyes than resentment. “He certainly has.”

He tapped her folder with the tip of his finger. “I’ll look into the statements of the other victims, though you should know that people are reluctant to go on record about being duped.”

“I have complete faith in your powers of persuasion, Detective.”

“I’ll contact you if I have any questions. You got a card?”

She pulled one from the front pocket of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

His mouth twitched on one side, as if he might actually be tempted to smile. “All part of the community-service motto.”

“Good to know.”

She turned to leave without shaking his hand again. She finally felt as if they’d reached an even keel. The last thing she needed was to incite her lust again.

“And, Calla …”

When she turned, she found his perpetual scowl in place—which somehow didn’t lessen his attractiveness. His toughness made him all the more appealing. “Hmm?” she asked, perfectly aware she was staring.

“We’d really rather keep our information to ourselves for now. Let me look into this. No more victim interviews. Don’t go to the press. Don’t approach Banfield, don’t talk about him, don’t contact him in any way. Clear?”

A picture of the party the night before flashed in Calla’s memory. “Oh, sure.” She swallowed. “I imagine the NYPD looks down on vigilantes.”

“You bet your cute Texas ass we do.”

5

“IT 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.”

Belying his suggestion, his mouth covered hers with assurance, his tongue sliding between her lips in a teasing invitation that she felt to her toes. She leaned against him, feeling his muscle tone and the heat of his body through his pristine white shirt.

Desire, hot and sweet, invaded her as it hadn’t in a long, long time.

Or at least since last night anyway.

Everything about him called to her. She wanted to know if he’d been as scared to leave all he’d known in England, just as she’d been both terrified and excited to move away from her childhood home. She wondered if his father’s indifference had spurred him to the great success he’d clearly achieved. She longed to know everything from his views on politics to his favorite music and foods.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him against her. The kiss went on with their hearts racing in sync and long, drugging sensations that seduced her more thoroughly than she’d ever known.

“Well?” he asked, pulling back.

Hazy from the sweet sensation of his kiss, Shelby fought to remember where she was—other than in his arms—what year it was or what planet she inhabited. Her gaze focused on his mouth as she wondered when she could have it on hers again. “Hmm?”

“Technique, my lady.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Right. Yes, well …” She cleared her throat and prayed her brain would communicate something intelligible to her mouth. “Excellent work, your Lordship.”

“Glad to hear it. Men do have an ego where these things are concerned.”

“Yeah?” She blinked dazedly, as the look in his eyes wasn’t ego, but hunger. “Yours should be secure, then.”

“It’ll hold till Tuesday.” He pressed his lips to hers one last time, then started down the steps. At the bottom, he turned. “Are you sure you don’t have a thing for titles? I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t have one.”

“Me, either. You started it with the my lady business.” Noting he was frowning and realizing this was a hot-button issue for him, she added, “Frankly, I don’t have a clue how the English aristocracy works, and the only title I have a thing for is chef. Good enough?”