Sweet On You

chapter Four



The building was deserted, a shell of what it used to be regardless of its bright exterior.

Nico stood across the street and studied it, remembering despite himself. When he and his brother had lived there, the building had just been gray and prison-like. The artsy facade had been added a few years ago by a local artist trying to ameliorate the neighborhood.

Nothing would ever make this building happier, in his opinion, but he appreciated that someone tried.

Taking the small bottle of Jim Beam from his pocket, he crossed the street and went up the walkway to sit on the front step. The street lamp flickered and then turned off.

Just as well. The shadows suited him just fine when he came here.

He untwisted the cap and took a grimacing sip. The stuff was awful, but it'd been his brother's favorite, so that was what he always brought.

He held the bottle up. "Salud, Eddie."

He poured the rest of the bottle on the sidewalk, watching it drip down the walkway.

The same way Eddie's blood had.

He closed his eyes and rested his head on his folded hands. It was over twenty years later and he could still see the sight clear as day. Eddie's body riddled with bullets, deposited in front of the building as a message.

A message he'd gotten loud and clear, just not the one the gang had intended. Instead, Nico saw it as Eddie's biggest act as an older brother—a warning not to walk the same path he'd errored down.

Nico had been so close.

Now he owned the world.

And soon he'd own this building. He'd destroy it, finally, the way Eddie had always wanted to do when they were kids.

Nico tipped the last bit of bourbon down the sidewalk and saluted the sky. Getting up, he started down the walkway.

And then he stopped, catching a flash of motion. He ducked into a shadow, watchful.

A figure crawled out of one of the partially boarded windows of the building.

Nico moved stealthily closer, careful not to give away his presence. Then he frowned. It was a woman—there was no mistaking the curves of her body or the feminine way she moved.

He watched as she walked to a nearby box, pulled out a bundle, and crawled back into the building.

He hurried after her.

The window opening was jagged with broken glass, and his wide shoulders made it more challenging to enter. Using his foot, he broke off the remaining shards of glass and climbed inside.

It was dark, and he saw no sign of her. So he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Seconds later she rushed toward the window.

Toward him.

She was so focused on her thoughts she didn't see him blocking the window until she was almost on top of him. She uttered a startled gasp, her eyes wide.

She looked small and soft. She had the face of a Renaissance angel, with dark free flowing curls and pure milky skin. Skin he had the urge to touch, and a face he recognized.

Daniella Rossi.

What was she doing here? The last place he'd expect a woman who'd baked for kings, a woman who'd had a popular television cooking show, was climbing through a window of a condemned building.

It intrigued him despite himself.

He searched her eyes, looking for answers. He saw the sorrow of the past and the potential of the future. He saw compassion and passion, like a sea of chocolate he wanted to bathe in—dark and rich, bittersweetly delicious.

His groin tightened.

Those eyes narrowed, and she marched toward him, putting her hands on her hips when she stopped right in front of him. "Don't even think about it," she said, her voice low with warning.

He couldn't help it—he smiled. "I'm already thinking of it."





The man in front of her looked like a thug in sheep's clothing.

He had all the ingredients for danger: powerful build, dark hair, expensive clothing. The barest hint of sweetness, with his curious gaze. And a dash of spice: the sort of five o'clock shadow that'd rasp the skin of your inner thighs.

He was a recipe for ecstasy.

If he were cake, he'd be Devil's Food—rich and dark. Forbidden. A guilty pleasure you wanted to indulge in secretly.

Daniela licked her lips. Delicious, really.

And insane. Here she was: in a dark, condemned building, at dusk, and she was getting it on with him in her head. Tony would have ripped her a new one over her lack of sense.

But she couldn't help it. Something inside her went gooey looking at the stranger.

She shook her head. "I have a death wish."

He tipped his head, watching her carefully. "Why do you say that?"

"You're obviously a threat, but I'm mentally undressing you." She looked him over thoroughly. "Silk."

He blinked once, as though she'd taken him off guard. "Excuse me?" he said in rough voice that was street with a thin veneer of Park Avenue.

"Boxers. You've got rough edges, but I bet you like silk underneath."

He smiled like a wolf. "Want to find out?"

"A woman would have to be stupid not to want to get into your pants." She sighed regretfully. "But I'm busy right now."

"Busy doing what?"

"None of your business," she said tartly, pushing past him and climbing out the window.

She'd expected him to follow her, but he just leaned in the window and watched her.

She lifted a box of small quiches. She'd gone overboard with the food, making way too much for just three people, especially since she doubted they had a way to store any of it. But maybe they'd share it, and she'd wrapped the bread so it'd keep regardless.

Her arms complained as she carried the smaller box back to the window. She glared at the mystery man. "You could help."

"I could, if I knew what I was helping to do." But he took the box from her anyway.

She studied him. "You won't call the police?"

"Why would I?" He sniffed the quiches. "Have you baked pot into these?"

"Of course not. I'm leaving food for the homeless."

He was silent for a long moment, staring at her. His gaze was probing and direct, but it didn't bother her—Tony looked at people the same way. Besides, she had nothing to be ashamed of.

Finally he said, "You're here in the dark, leaving food for homeless people?"

"It's not completely dark, and don't say it like I'm a fool."

"You are a fool, to risk your safety. This is a dangerous neighborhood."

"Please." Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she made a dismissive noise. "I grew up in New York."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just said, "Hand me the rest of what's in your box."

She did, quickly, before he changed his mind. When he had it piled in his arms, she told him to go down the hall and leave it where she'd already set the loaves of bread.

He was back quickly, crawling through the window with a grace and ease she wouldn't have expected from a man his size. He brushed off his hands on his expensive jeans and then gestured toward the street. "Let's go."

She sighed, disappointed that he didn't take her hand. "Are you leading me to your lair?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm taking you to a cab." He glanced at her. "You have no sense. You should be scared of me."

"I can't help it. You're all bark. I think you're a marshmallow inside."

He scowled as if the description were distasteful. "No one's ever called me a marshmallow."

"Then no one's ever really looked at you." If they did, they'd notice the sadness under the intelligence and steadiness of his eyes.

Who cooked for him? For some reason, she doubted he'd had a grandmother who taught him about life as she fed him.

It made her sad, too.

She cleared her throat. "What do you like to eat?"

"What?"

"Your favorite food? I bet it's something warm and mushy, like you are on the inside."

He glared at her.

"See?" She grinned. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"You're playing with fire, baby," he said in what was probably his best gangster's voice.

Daniela rolled her eyes. "Please don't say I'm going to get burned. Besides, I know how to handle heat. I'm a chef."

He said nothing, silently contemplating her.

"This is where you say who you are and what you do," she prompted as they walked around the corner, away from the building and onto Mission Street.

"You didn't tell me who you are."

"Daniela." She held her hand out.

He took it and pulled her closer.

Her breath caught as she steadied herself against his chest. Her senses overloaded, with the hot feel of her hand engulfed in his and the hardness of his pecs under her palm. She knew she probably looked like she was caught in headlights.

She had no idea what to do.

It wasn't like she didn't get hit on. A few of her customers, and sometimes their guests, tried to corner her. But she'd never wanted to be cornered quite as badly as she did now.

She'd never felt as wild.

She hadn't felt so much like herself in—

Well, definitely since her birthday, but possibly since her grandmother had died a year ago. Feeling that old cockiness went to her head.

It was such a rush that it made her feel reckless. She closed the distance between them. "Tell me now if you're a serial killer or something, because I'm about to be very foolish, and I want to be warned if I'm making a big mistake."

"I'm in real estate," he said in his dark voice.

Ah—he was here to scope out the building then. Or else he was the one selling it. Either way, now she could do this without worry.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

It was slow and deliberate, deep and hot. She suddenly knew what melting icing on hot cinnamon rolls felt like.

"Yum." She sighed and nuzzled his scratchy cheek with her nose. "I knew buying this building was a good thing, but I had no idea it'd be this good."

"You aren't buying that building."

"Yes, I am."

He lifted her face. "What the hell would you want that dump for?"

"To turn it into a soup kitchen."

He gazed at her like she was insane. Then he shook his head, took her hand, and flagged a taxi.

"Despite appearances, I'm not really that kind of girl," she said, following him to the curb. "I'm not going home with you, but I wouldn't mind kissing again."

He muttered something that sounded like Spanish under his breath. "I'm putting you in a cab before you cause more trouble."

"You liked my brand of trouble a moment ago," she said, disappointed when a taxi veered and stopped directly in front of them, like it knew better than to defy him.

He opened the door, but before he stuck her inside, he searched her face one more time. Then he shook his head and practically pushed her in.

She told the cab driver to wait a second as she lowered the window. "You should have kissed me again like you wanted to," she said to the stranger.

"Maybe."

He looked so alone, standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets. Her heart wept for him. She wished she could take him home and make him pasta. A la arrabiata, hot and spicy, the way she liked it. She had a feeling he liked it the same way.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" she asked.

"What difference would it make?"

"Because I'm going to daydream about your silk boxers, and you wouldn't want me to call you Nigel in my fantasies, would you?"

He grinned despite himself. "Nico."

"Nico." She liked it. Simple. To the point. Strong.

He leaned his forearms on the window, a breath away from her lips.

Would he kiss her? Goose bumps rose all over her body in anticipation.

But he just whispered, "No boxers, baby. I go commando."

He patted the roof of the car, nodding at the driver, who took off.

Daniela sat back and fanned herself. "Nico," she repeated, wondering when she'd see him again. She knew one thing for certain: he'd find her. And she was looking forward to it.