Sweet Seduction. Daire St. Denis

it ‘sinfully delicious.’” God, how she hated herself. But Colin’s cold tone and demeanor had awoken the insecure child in her. She suddenly felt annoying, inadequate and unattractive.

      He blinked once then twice and then slowly—as if he had to make himself do it—smiled. It bore no resemblance to the crooked, wolfish smile he’d worn indiscriminately in her kitchen just a few days ago.

      “Ah, yes. Now I remember. Nana Sin’s Bakery.” Colin tapped his pencil against his notepad and then pointed it at her. “Rose, isn’t it?”

      “Daisy.”

      “Right. Daisy Sinclair.” He nodded while smiling politely. “I’m glad you liked it.”

      Bile rose in Daisy’s throat as she realized with horror that she’d been duped. Colin Forsythe had not only forgotten her name but also played her for a fool in the worst possible way. How could he?

      “You never meant those things you said, did you?”

      “What things?”

      “You know, after you saw me naked.” Her lip quivered and she prayed that the anger growing in her belly would sustain her long enough to keep the stupid tears at bay. “The stuff about me being delicious and curvy and perfect. It was all a load of crap, wasn’t it?”

      Colin stared at her with his mouth hanging slightly open. It was the same expression he’d worn when he walked in on her. Only this time his eyes didn’t twinkle.

      “I suppose asking me out to the gala was all a ruse, too. Well, you know what? I don’t need a pity date. I...” She had to stop talking because her chin was trembling, which meant only one thing. Tears were right behind.

      Damn him!

      Colin dropped his pencil. “I would never ask you out on a pity date.”

      “No? Then what was it?”

      “A mistake.”

      “A mistake?” Daisy had had enough. If she’d thought Colin catching her in the raw was the worst humiliation she’d suffered, she was wrong. His snub was worse. Much worse.

      * * *

      JAMIE FORSYTHE PORED over the documents from his latest client. The woman had no idea what she was entitled to in a divorce. She was just eager for it to be over because of her asshole husband. Reading between the lines, Jamie had to wonder why she was in such a hurry to get out. His gut told him there was more going on. Some reason for her to want to up and leave, asking for nothing, just needing out. His mind automatically went to domestic violence.

      Shit. These were the worst files, and Jamie hated them. Yet these were also the cases that gave his job meaning: the quicker Jamie could help his client leave an abusive relationship, the better.

      His stomach growled, alerting him to the fact that he’d worked through dinner. Again. He put the file aside, stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders. He’d grab a slice of pizza on the way to the gym. Jamie couldn’t decide which need was more pressing: his hunger, which would be sated by a couple of slices of thin-crust pepperoni from his favorite pizzeria, or overcoming the restlessness he’d been feeling all week, which an hour with the speed bag before a good sparring match would hopefully alleviate. Not that it’d done the trick yet. This was going to be the fourth night in a row he’d tried.

      He grabbed his leather jacket and helmet from the cupboard in his office and was on his way out the door when his cell phone rang.

      “What the hell have you done?” Jamie’s brother, Colin, was on the other line. Shouting.

      Surprise, surprise.

      The fact that Colin was five minutes older than Jamie had always made Colin feel superior.

      Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jamie paused, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

      “I just had the pleasure of meeting Daisy Sinclair.”

      A delicious memory of the dark-haired beauty from the bakery came to mind. “She’s mine. Back off.”

      “Tell me, at what point in the interview did you manage to get her clothes off?”

      The image of Daisy standing in her skimpy underwear, looking like some goddess from a Raphael painting about to throttle a mere mortal to death with a scale, made Jamie bark with laughter.

      “One task, Jamie. One tiny, insignificant task. All you had to do was write a couple of paragraphs about a little out-of-the-way bakery. That was it. That’s all I asked.”

      “You asked me—no, begged me—to do your job. I did it. Pretty damn well. So stop complaining.”

      “I didn’t have a choice.”

      “Until you tell me why you didn’t have a choice, I don’t care. You asked. I helped. It’s the last time. Right?”

      Silence. Jamie could picture his twin brother. His head would be hanging, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose—the mirror image of himself from only seconds ago. Even in their early thirties, they were still pretty much identical. In looks, anyway, and in the fact that they both enjoyed food—but then, who didn’t?

      That was where the similarity ended.

      “If you’re accusing me of being unprofessional—”

      “I’m not accusing you of anything,” Jamie said. “You’re the one who called me, accusing me of something. What it is, I have no idea.”

      “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

      “Please.”

      “You screwed my assignment.”

      “What are you talking about? The piece was good. Maybe a little more engaging than your stiff, pretentious drivel, but passable as your work.”

      “No. I mean you literally screwed my assignment.”

      “For God’s sake, I didn’t sleep with the woman, if that’s what you’re implying. Give me a little credit.”

      “So you didn’t call her curvy and perfect?”

      “Well, that part’s true.”

      “Tell me you didn’t invite her to the celebrity gala on Saturday.”

      “Actually, I did invite her.”

      “As me?”

      “Well...” Jamie hesitated. He hadn’t had the chance to explain to Daisy. Yet. He thought she’d have phoned by now—he’d given her his cell number before leaving and he’d planned on telling her the first chance they had to talk. When she didn’t call, his plan had changed a bit. He was going to pick her up tomorrow, tell her who he really was, take her to the gala and point out the fact that he was the better-looking, more interesting, infinitely funnier version of Colin Forsythe. Or that Colin was the less attractive, uptight, far duller version of Jamie Forsythe. Either way, it was the first thing on his agenda, and he planned to get it out of the way so they could move on to more pleasurable activities.

      “I’m hosting the gala. I can’t have you there, masquerading as me.”

      “I won’t be masquerading as you. You know how much I hate that whole stick-up-the-ass feeling I get pretending to be you.”

      “She can’t know about the switch, Jamie. She could blow it for me.”

      “That’s not my problem.”

      When his brother spoke next, his voice sounded tired—no, more than tired. Colin sounded exhausted and worried. “You don’t understand.”

      “Fill me in. Then maybe I will.”

      “I’ve been offered a job as one of the hosts on The Chicago Gourmet. The producers are going to be at the gala.”

      “Congratulations,”