LITMIR.BIZ

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her up against one of the rough brick walls and take her right there, hard and fast.

      And that was thoroughly incongruous with his usual mind-set. And with the fact that even if he did usher everybody out of the dining area, and lock the door, his daughter would probably still be in the back somewhere. Which was something he really needed to remember.

      “Your daughter?” The woman blinked, biting her lower lip, which he felt all the way down in his own body.

      “Violet. Violet Donnelly.”

      A realization seemed to hit her on an indrawn breath. The reason he’d looked familiar when she’d seen him in the bar. He was a Donnelly. “Right. Of course.” She shook her head. “Of course. She is off about now. I’ll go get her.”

      “Is your boss back there?” He didn’t know why he had stopped her, mostly because he wanted to delay her leaving just a second. For what, he didn’t know. Torturing himself? Maybe he was into that now. He wouldn’t know. It had been so long since he had explored exactly what he was into, he had forgotten.

      “My boss?”

      “Yes. The owner of the bakery? Alison something? I haven’t had a chance to meet her yet, and I thought maybe I would.”

      “I’m Alison something,” she said, her tone dry, her expression strangely resigned. “Alison Davis, actually.”

      Heat and irritation coiled in his stomach, creating a molten ball that he thought might explode. “You own the bakery.”

      She didn’t look a day over twenty-five to him, much less old enough to own what appeared to be a successfully established business.

      “Yes,” she said, “I do. Is that surprising?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why?”

      Again, he wasn’t sure why he was submitting to the banter. He should just tell her to go get Violet. Of course, she was responsible for his daughter’s paycheck and, more than that, the only activity she had in town. Which was the only thing keeping Violet from going completely feral.

      “Because. You look too young to own a bakery. Not exactly what I pictured. Except for the flour on your nose.”

      She wrinkled said facial feature, reaching up and brushing at it with her fingertips. “It’s powdered sugar,” she responded.

      It took everything in him to keep from commenting on the fact that that sounded even more appealing. Because it would be even sweeter if he tasted her skin.

      Holy hell. He was in the middle of some kind of severe sexual psychosis. He had been married for years. Which meant that the time of seeing random women on the street as sexual possibilities was long past. His default was not to see women as potential partners.

      It still was, he supposed. This...aberration was something to do with her. And she was his daughter’s boss. Which was about the most inappropriate thing he could think of.

      “Well,” he said, “that’s important to know.”

      “In the interest of being strictly correct, yes.”

      “I’m nothing if not pedantic when it comes to the details of baked goods.”

      “Maybe I should have hired you then.”

      That at least penetrated his thick skull and made him think about something other than sex. “Why? Is Violet having a hard time?”

      “Not any more than usual,” Alison said. She seemed much more comfortable with the topic of Violet introduced. “I just meant because she clearly doesn’t have any experience baking. So, all things considered, she’s doing really well. Just a couple of sunken cakes. But nothing I can’t eat.”

      “Is there anything I can help her...work on at home?” He didn’t know why he was asking. He knew next to nothing about baking. As far as he was concerned cake came from the store.

      “I can think of a few things, if you wouldn’t mind.”

      “I actually have no idea how to help her. It just seemed like the thing to say.”

      Alison laughed, and the sound was unexpectedly erotic. It fired through his veins, made him want to earn some more laughter. Possibly because he was mainly accustomed to having women glare at him, yell at him. It had been a long time since he’d made one laugh. Since one had looked even remotely delighted with him in any way.

      “Sorry,” he said, finding himself smiling. “I’m really not that helpful. But I can taste-test.”

      “Well,” she said, “Violet does have a cake in the back. You’re welcome to come back and...have a taste.”

      “Sure.” Cake was not what he wanted a taste of. He wanted to taste that little hollow at the base of her throat. Wanted to see if her skin was as soft as he thought it might be. Wanted to see if she tasted like sugar, or if she tasted like flowers. He wasn’t really particular as long as the flavor of woman was layered beneath.

      “Come on back,” she said, scurrying to the other side of the counter and opening a small, swinging gate, gesturing toward the double doors that he presumed led to the kitchen.

      He saw no reason not to comply. So he did. It was tidy behind the counter, plates stacked out of view of the patrons, and napkins and dish towels neatly folded and stacked beside them. She ushered him into the kitchen, and he saw that it was no less organized. There were large mixers, a double oven lining a back wall and Saran-wrapped trays stacked in large holders, full of various baked goods.

      And in the back of the room was his daughter, laboriously piping icing onto what looked like several dozen cookies.

      “She’s practicing,” Alison said. “She learned a really basic technique the other day, so she gets to try it out on an order that we got for a client’s office party.”

      Violet’s expression was full of concentration, and he was momentarily distracted from the strangeness between himself and Alison by it. By the intensity with which she was focused on her task. By the fact that, for a moment, his daughter look like a stranger to him. Not like a child, and not like the angry teenager he was used to seeing.

      She looked content, even though she was deep in concentration and actually applying effort to it rather than just rolling her eyes and tossing out a careless whatever.

      It struck him then that he didn’t know this version of his daughter at all.

      “Wow,” he said, not sure what else to say.

      Violet obviously recognized his voice, because she stopped and looked up. Her expression went flat for a moment, and then came a smile that he could tell was forced. “Oh, hi, Dad. I didn’t realize you were going to come by.”

      “Lane was busy. So I figured I would come and get you.”

      Violet frowned. “Is it time already?”

      “Yeah, but if you want to finish, that’s fine. I can wait.”

      “Yeah,” Violet said, “I’m going to finish.” She turned her focus back to the cookies. And Cain turned his focus back to Alison.

      “Nice place you have.”

      There were other women—it was all women—bustling around the kitchen, barely acknowledging him as they took cakes out of the oven and moved mixing bowls around, and colored bowls of frosting.

      “Thank you. We’re working toward doing more than just selling things here at the bakery. We make desserts for special events. And supply cakes for parties, weddings. And we’re working on packaging some of our baked goods and getting them in stores. And in various showrooms. So what you see up front is only a small sampling of what happens here.”

      He gestured back toward the dining area, because he wanted a chance to speak to her without Violet in earshot. She caught his meaning, and led the way back out of the kitchen.

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