Just One Taste...(2)

Dessert First had started on a whim, had quickly become a challenge, but it fulfilled Vanessa as nothing else ever had before.

She'd met Mia in culinary school, where her friend had excelled at  organizing and managing much more than she had at cookies and pastries.  They'd become close buds, then business partners and roommates. Vanessa  knew she could count on Mia like no one else in the world, and that  safety net allowed her to handle the tension between her and her family  with much more confidence and panache.

Maybe, with Mia's business savvy and Vanessa's sugary concoctions, they  wouldn't have to struggle so much someday. Maybe this party could be the  beginning of healing and understanding with her family.

Oh, yeah, and maybe the man of her dreams was going to pop out from  behind the fruit bowl and whisk her to his castle in the sky.



EXCEPT FOR HER, THE PARTY was a dead bore.

Lucas Broussard prowled the edges of the room, knowing he'd have to  endure many more of these things if he was going to be accepted in this  city. Networking in his profession was a necessity. A sacrifice, like so  many others, he'd just have to buckle down and endure.

Were they all genetically programmed for this stuff? Small talk, gossip, bragging. Trophy wives and pedigreed family trees.

At least, though his mistakes and faux pas were many, he'd never been accused of boring his audience to death.

As expected, and like everyone else, he'd flashed his Rolex. He wore a  custom-made designer suit. He'd made plenty of money as a respected  attorney, even if the money was a little too new to be decent and his  tactics were sneered at by some. He held his champagne glass by the  stem. He could even tell the brand was that old reliable Dom Pérignon  and not the now hipper Cristal.

And still the boy from Cypress Bayou Trailer Park of Lafayette, Louisiana, lurked inside him. Inescapable. Maybe even necessary.

All in all, he'd much rather snag that hot blonde in the red dress, a bottle of whiskey and head home.

Even as he managed not to choke over yet another story about hunting  lodges and the advantages of buying a personal Learjet, he watched her.  He smiled internally as she accepted a breath mint from her dark-haired  friend. His body tightened as she snitched a chocolate truffle from a  tray of sweets and slid it into her mouth with a sigh of pleasure, her  tongue peeking out to skim the last drop of chocolate from her bottom  lip. He noticed as she slipped into the kitchen, then return moments  later with a large silver platter of strawberries.

At first glance, he'd pegged her as a guest. With her sparkling dress;  tall, trim body; and sleek curtain of hair falling just past her  shoulders, she had class written all over her. But when he'd maneuvered  himself closer, he saw her nails were painted bloodred, and she had a  small butterfly tattoo on the back of her left shoulder.

And he'd smiled genuinely for the first time all night.

Now, while a local cardiologist-whom his company was panting over as a  client to represent in nuisance malpractice suits-explained the  advantages of jetting to Brussels in the spring, he watched the  chocolate-loving blonde rearrange strawberries on the fruit platters and  considered how she'd feel about comparing body decorations.

Even as the arousing picture of that played through his mind, he  strangled his libido and remembered his career. His life. His future.  And the future of those who depended on him.

He'd come to Atlanta to change direction. To amend for the past. To  remind himself why he'd started down the road of law in the first place.                       
       
           



       

Beautiful, butterfly-tattooed blondes would just have to wait.

He tuned into the European-vacation discussion. He smiled at appropriate  times. He didn't talk too much. Or too little. And when the esteemed  doctor excused himself to dance with his wife, Lucas's business card was  in his jacket pocket.

With a smile, he turned to find the next conquest. But as he continued  to schmooze, she was there. He felt her. Her smile and her grace. Her  glowing skin. The heat her body would undoubtedly radiate.

Why couldn't he forget her? Or at least set her aside until the business of the night was done?

Nothing came before business. At least nothing ever had before.

Tonight, though, he knew where she was at every moment. He knew she hovered nearby. Lovely. Tempting. Forbidden.

His muscles grew tired of holding back. His fingers tingled in  anticipation. He even got a crick in his neck from craning in an effort  to constantly keep her in sight. For a man who'd fought for and gained  control over his life and his emotions, the night was becoming both a  torture and a curiosity.

Oddly enough, the moment he buckled was when he saw her holding out a tray of strawberries to an elderly couple.

After they moved away, he approached her. "I'd rather have them dipped in chocolate."

Her head jerked up, and she met his gaze with a surprised jolt, as if she'd been lost in her own thoughts.

Smart move, chère, with this crowd.

"They're better with a bit more sweetness," he added, somehow knowing he wasn't through giving in to temptation.



ALL THE AIR LEFT Vanessa's body.

She shook her head to clear it, certain she was hallucinating.

A tall, trim, black-haired, green-eyed, strong-jawed, impeccably dressed  vision of a man was not standing in front of her. Popping out while she  was rearranging the fruit.

Quick, girl. Think of something clever. Knock that hard head of yours against something if necessary.

Instead, she stared.

His smile was just a tad too confident, but his eyes were bright, as if  lit from within. His posture and broad shoulders communicated assurance  and reliability, giving her the impression that he was capable of  slaying dragons, should such a drastic measure be necessary. She noted  the crystal champagne flute in his hand, and the Rolex encircling his  wrist, completing the picture of powerful elegance.

Why him? Why now? she wanted to ask somebody. Yell at somebody. Anybody.  She was supposed to be working. Impressing the moneyed masses. Avoiding  her mother's criticism. Denying her sister access to her neglected,  impulsive and sometimes romantic heart. And, last but not least, mending  the family fence-even if it was made of iron.

All desire for those lofty achievements had faded. Gone poof like a Vegas magician's assistant.

Somehow, someway, this man drew her to him, making her forget her goals  and needs. Other than the most carnal ones. By self-assurance or warmth  or the supernatural, she felt herself leaning closer, eager to catch the  next words he said.

You're supposed to say something, her libido reminded her.

To stall, she glanced down to note the silver tray trembling in her hands. What had he said? Strawberries. And chocolate.

"Sweet is good," she managed to say finally, setting the tray aside. And  those impulsive, rebel genes, no matter how deeply buried, popped out  like a stripper's implants. She stepped closer, and his eyes went hot.  His subtle cologne and body heat enveloped her. "Tasty. Tart. Warm."

"Exactly," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Desire slid through her body. When she'd first gotten out on her own,  she'd picked up a few guys at bars, just to give her cramped wings a  stretch, but her social life had quickly taken a backseat to work. The  success of her business was vital to her wallet, her peace of mind and  her pride. She hadn't met a guy who could hold her admittedly short  attention span for very long.

But her attention was riveted now. "I have strawberries just for the  chocolate." She licked her lips. "Do you need a demonstration on how to  dip them?"

"Love one."

She turned away, leading him to the chocolate fountain. Now that she  wasn't facing him, she could think a bit clearer. She thanked heaven,  her lucky stars and her fairy godmother that she'd seen him before Mia.  Friends they were, but wow, he would be hard to be friendly about.                       
       
           



       

When they reached the table, she felt the tip of his finger skim her shoulder. "I like the butterfly," he said.

The warmth of his touch lingered on her skin, and she shivered as she  glanced back at him. "Glad somebody does. My mother-" She had not just  brought her mother into a discussion with Mr. Delectable. Mortification  burned her face.

Those wicked green eyes twinkled. "Mine, too."

"You have a tattoo? I thought Rolex cross-checked that sort of behavior  before they let just anybody waltz around with their goods."

He raised his eyebrows. "The tattoo came first."

Damn. Another flub. He probably thought she was one of those  gold-digging chicks who checked out the labels in a guy's clothes before  she tried to hook her claws into him. "What is it?" she asked in an  attempt to recover.