Sizzle in the City. Wendy Etherington

so fast, my boy.

      Even after he’d left for America in his early twenties, he’d been dragged into Max’s troubles. He made excuses. He’d reasoned with his brother. Apparently, no one else could. When his business became financially successful, he’d bailed out Max of several money crises.

      Trevor had always understood his actions reflected on the rest of his family, on the ancestry to which he was forever linked by blood. Max loved parties, women and being important.

      There were whispers that Trevor was the better successor to the title. That Max would never grow up. Yet, unless the line of succession was somehow eradicated, they were stuck.

      Max was more like their mother—flighty and unpredictable. But while she was kind and generous, Max was inherently selfish. He expected others to pick him up when he fell down. Even at an early age, he managed to blame the crayons on the wall or the snags in the tapestries on his “energetic” little brother.

      Yet Trevor and Max were bonded by a single truth—neither of them wanted to become their father. The stoic earl. Distant, but devastated by his divorce.

      So Trevor had learned discretion and discipline at the stable hand of Florence. Nobody had to explain his partying the night away with hot women, too many cocktails and getting his picture printed in some trashy rag as a result.

      Thirty odd years after their home life had imploded, Max had never learned that lesson.

      Maybe they all should have realized that the crayons on the wall would lead to lousy financial and business management, gambling debts and embarrassing questions by peers and friends.

      Trevor used to be proud that his father looked to him to help his brother, to coach him out of whatever ridiculous mess he’d landed in. There was no real harm in him—other than to his own family. But wasn’t there a time to push the baby bird from the nest?

      The intercom buzzed, and Florence’s voice floated out. “Your father’s on the phone.”

      “Brilliant,” Trevor said sarcastically.

       Project Robin Hood, Day Four

       The Crown Jewel Hotel

      A HOTEL SUITE’S BEDROOM wasn’t the strangest place Shelby had used as a temporary kitchen and prep area, but it was damn close.

      With a metaphorical shrug for the oddities of her job and praying the health inspector didn’t make a surprise visit, she removed another tray of mini crab cakes from her warming ovens as the door swung open.

      “I’m in with Banfield,” Calla said, poking her head around the door.

      Shelby set the hot tray on a trivet. “That was fast. You’ve barely been here fifteen minutes.”

      Calla grinned. “I’m pretty impressed myself.” She pursed her lips. “‘Course it helps that he’s a dense and raving egomaniac.”

      “It sure can’t hurt. Is Victoria here yet?”

      “Just walked in.”

      “Make sure she stows her sharklike tendencies. She might scare him off.”

      “He seems pretty much dazzled by boobs, a heartbeat and a smile. V could manage him in her sleep.”

      Transferring crab cakes to a serving platter, Shelby felt a rush of excitement. This crazy Robin Hood plan might actually work.

      Asking questions of the well-connected crowd, Shelby and her friends had learned Max was throwing a cocktail party in his suite to celebrate the “Under New Management” kickoff of the hotel. Victoria managed to get invited under the guise of offering PR services and promising to bring the press—aka Calla. She’d also suggested Shelby as the caterer, which Max had jumped on, presumably because his kitchen was currently understaffed, though Shelby suspected her undercut rates had pushed her to the top of the list.

      She and her friends were going to mingle and listen, hopefully instigating themselves in Max’s life and business, which would, presumably, lead to proof of his financial schemes. Or at least give them a new angle to take to the police.

      Know thy enemy as thyself, right?

      Calla was going to offer to interview him for a piece in City Magazine, one of her regular clients. The fact that she’d already secured their quarry’s cooperation made Shelby all the more grateful for her friends’ support.

      “You’re the best,” she said to Calla as she added sprigs of lettuce and lemon wedges to decorate the platter.

      “Remember this was all my idea,” her friend said saucily as she flipped her wheat-colored ponytail over her shoulder and turned to leave.

      Moving to follow, Shelby caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall. She’d made an effort to tame her wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair into artful curls. Only to have the thick mess turn frizzy beneath the heat of the ovens and the sweaty job of hauling all her equipment from her delivery van to the penthouse suite.

      Oh, well. She had Calla and Victoria to dazzle Banfield. As long as she kept him and his guests fed, she’d done her job for the night.

      Balancing the serving tray in one hand, she managed to open the door and ease her way into the main room without dropping anything.

      At least until she hit what felt like a solid wall. With a grunt of frustration, she watched two precious crab cakes tumble toward the floor.

      She was going to go broke saving her parents from financial ruin.

      “Pardon me,” said a silky, English-accented voice.

      “No, problem,” Shelby said, quickly glancing up, “I’ll—”

      She nearly dropped the entire tray as she got a look at the man attached to the exquisite voice.

      Wavy black hair, blue eyes like the depths of the deepest sea and a trim physique encased in a meticulously tailored charcoal-colored suit.

      Damn. Why doesn’t my hair look better? was the only thought she could manage.

      “I’ll keep this one if you don’t mind,” he said.

      Which one? Me? She was nodding before she’d even completed the thought.

      As he straightened, she noticed the crab cake he was raising toward his mouth.

       Wow, he has a great mouth, too.

      Raising her gaze to his eyes, a jolt of sheer pleasure shot through her. She got the sense that he understood the effect he had on her. Or else he really liked crab cakes.

      After chewing and swallowing, he sipped his cocktail—a martini with two olives—then smiled.

      Though his eyes were steady as a rock, there was something fun and alluring about his smile. As if the rest of his perfection was hard-won. As if rebellion was natural and refinement a birthright he’d reluctantly accepted.

      “You’re the chef?” he asked.

      “Yes,” she managed to answer without stuttering.

      “More crab than fluff,” he commented. “Rare at these gatherings.”

      “I grew up in Savannah. It’s a Southern-pride thing.”

      “Well deserved.” He angled his head. “And the accent fits. I got the sense you weren’t from here.”

      “You, either.”

      He nodded. “I was raised in London.”

      “That fits.” Given the nature of her undercover plan, she wondered at the quirk of fate that had presented her with a flesh and blood James Bond in the middle of her investigative adventure. “Shelby Dixon,” she said, holding out her hand.

      “Trevor,” the man said as he enveloped her small hand in his elegant, long-fingered one.