Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir(4)

She was softer than he remembered, more well-rounded in all the right   places. But she still smelled of strawberries and cream from her   favorite brand of shampoo. And even though she'd cut her hair to   shoulder-length, she still had the same wavy copper locks that he knew   from experience would be soft as silk against his fingertips.

He nearly reached up to find out for sure, his gaze locked on her   sapphire blue eyes, when she pulled away. He let her go, but immediately   missed her warmth.

"I told you to wait outside," she pointed out, licking her glossed lips   and running a hand down the front of her snug white blouse. The  material  pulled taut across her chest, framing her full brea**sts  nicely.

He probably shouldn't be noticing that sort of thing about his ex-wife. But then, he was divorced, not dead.

In response to her chastisement, he shrugged a shoulder. Her annoyance amused him all to hell.

"You were taking too long. And besides, this is a public establishment.   The sign in the window says Open. If it upsets you that much, consider   me a customer." Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his money clip   and peeled off a couple of small bills. "Give me a cup of black coffee   and something sweet. You choose."

Her eyes narrowed and she skewered him with a look of pure disdain. "I   told you I don't want your money. Not even that," she added, her gaze   flickering to the paltry amount he was holding out to her.

"Have it your way," he told her, sliding the bills back under the gold   clip and the entire bundle back into his front trouser pocket. "So why   don't you start the tour. Give me an idea of what you do here, how you   got started and what your financials look like."

Vanessa blew out a breath, fluttering the thin fringe of her bangs and   seeming to come to terms with the fact that she wasn't getting rid of   him anytime soon.

"Where's Brian?" she asked, glancing past his shoulder and searching the front of the bakery for her financial advisor.

"I sent him back to his office," Marc answered. "Since he's already   familiar with your business, I didn't think it was necessary for him to   be here for the tour. I told him I would stop in or call after we've   finished."

Tiny lines appeared above Vanessa's nose as she frowned, bringing her   attention back to him, though he noticed she wouldn't quite meet his   gaze.

"What's the matter?" he teased. "Afraid to be alone with me, Nessa?"

Her frown morphed into a full-fledged scowl, drawing her brows even more tightly together.

"Of course not," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, which   only managed to lift her generous brea**sts and press them more snugly   against the fabric of her blouse. "But don't get your hopes up, because   we aren't going to be alone. Ever."

As hard as he tried, Marc couldn't stop an amused grin from lifting his   lips. He'd forgotten just what a fiery temper his little wife had, but   damned if he hadn't missed it.

If he had anything to say about it, they very well would be alone   together at some point in the very near future, but he didn't bother   saying as much since he didn't want to send her into a full-blown   implosion in front of her customers.

"So where do you want to start?" she asked, apparently resigned to his   presence and his insistence on getting a look at her bakery as a   possible investment opportunity.

"Wherever you like," he acquiesced with a small nod.

It didn't take long for her to show him around the front of the bakery,   given its size. But she explained how many customers they could serve   in-shop and how much take-out business they did on a daily basis. And   when he asked about the items in the display cases, she described every   one.                       
       
           



       

Despite her discomfort at being around him again, he'd never seen her so   passionate. While they'd been married, she'd been passionate with him,   certainly. The sparks they'd created together had made Fourth of July   fireworks look like the flare of a wooden matchstick in comparison.

But outside of the bedroom, she'd been much more subdued, spending her   time at the country club with his mother or working on various   charitable committees-also with his mother.

When they met, Vanessa had been in college, not yet decided on a major   and he freely admitted that he'd been the driving force behind her not   graduating with the rest of her class. He'd wanted her too much, been   too eager to slip his ring on her finger and make her his-body and soul.

But he'd always expected her to go back to school, and would have   supported her a thousand percent, whatever she wanted to do with her   life. Somehow, though, she'd gotten distracted and fallen into simply   being his wife. A Keller woman whose main purpose was to look good on   his arm, add reverence and prestige to the family name, and help raise   money for worthy causes.

He wondered now, though, if that's what she'd wanted. Or if she'd maybe wanted more than to be simply Mrs. Marcus Keller.

Because while he knew she was proud of the fundraising work she'd done   while they were married, she'd never talked about it with this level of   enthusiasm in her voice or this much animation to her beautiful   features.

He also wondered how well he'd really known his own wife, considering   that-with the exception of a few romantic, candlelit meals she'd   prepared for him while they were dating-he hadn't even realized she   liked to cook or was a world-class baker. But after sampling some of her   creations, he decided that if a successful business could stand on its   product alone, she may just be sitting on a gold mine.

Finishing the last bite of the banana nut muffin she'd offered, he   actually licked his fingers clean, wanting to savor every crumb.

"Delicious," he told her. "So why didn't you ever bake like this while we were married?"

He didn't know if it was his tone-which he'd thought was pleasant   enough; he certainly hadn't meant for it to sound accusatory-or the   question itself that got her dander up, but she immediately stiffened   and took a step away from him, the brief pleasure he'd noted on her face   fading away.

"I don't think your mother would have appreciated me messing up her   pristine kitchen or getting in Cook's way," she replied tersely. "It   might have been the Keller family estate, but she runs the place like a   monarchy."

No doubt she was right. Eleanor Keller was rather stuck in her ways.   Raised in the lap of luxury and used to servants bustling around her,   ready to do her bidding, she wouldn't have looked kindly upon her own   daughter-in-law doing something as lowly or mundane as preparing a meal   or baking desserts, regardless of how talented she might be in that   respect.

"You should have done it, anyway," Marc told her.

For a minute, Vanessa didn't reply, though her mouth tightened into a   flat line. Then she murmured, "Maybe I should have," before spinning on   her heel and leading him away from the counter and display cases.

She pushed through a set of swinging doors painted yellow with The Sugar   Shack emblazoned on them in a playful white font and led him into the   kitchen. Along with a wave of heat wafting from the industrial ovens   lining one wall, the smell of baking was even stronger here, making him   hope Vanessa might offer to let him sample a few more items as part of   his tour.

While explaining the setup of the kitchen and how she and her aunt   shared both baking and front counter duties, she moved around checking   timers. Slipping a thick oven mitt on one hand, she began removing   cookie sheets and pie pans, setting them on a wide metal island at the   center of the room.

"A lot of the recipes are from Aunt Helen's personal collection," she   confided, using a nearby spatula to transfer cookies from sheet to   cooling rack. "She's always loved to bake, but had never considered   opening her own shop. I couldn't believe she wasn't earning a living   with her talents, since everything she makes tastes like heaven. I'm   pretty good in the kitchen myself-I must get it from her-" she added   with a lopsided grin "-and I guess after a bit, the two of us decided to   make a go of it together."

Marc rested his hands on the edge of the island, watching her work. Her   movements were smooth and graceful, but also quick and efficient, as   though she'd done this a million times before and could do it with her   eyes closed, if necessary.