Chapter 1
Chapter One
RACHEL
“ Y ou sure you don’t want me to stay?” Bessie asks once more.
I draw in a deep breath, calming my nerves.
Or at least I try to.
Bessie means well. She was Mom’s best friend. She helps at the bakery twice a week and won’t take any compensation from me, which has been a godsend lately.
I’m so far in the red, it’s like seeing everything through blood.
And I may be seeing my own blood later this evening.
I had to let Sam and Carla go three months ago, and since then, I’ve been scrounging and scraping to save every penny I can.
Bessie thinks I’m staying late tonight to work on the books.
In truth, I’m staying because someone is coming.
Someone is coming to extract a payment from me.
A payment I don’t have.
The bell on the door clangs as Bessie turns the sign from “open” to “closed” and then leaves.
Alone.
I’m alone.
I draw in another breath, willing my heart to stop stampeding against my chest.
Bessie has tried to tell me that the downfall of the bakery isn’t my fault. That the economy—and the big-box supermarket with its own bakery that opened up six months after Mom died and offers baked goods for half of what I can offer them for—is to blame.
But Breads and Cakes and Tarts, Oh My was Mom’s dream. She was a master baker, and she taught me everything she knew. In fact, before she died, she admitted my cakes were even better than hers. She still had the edge with breads and tarts, though mine are pretty damned good.
I look over at the four-layer red velvet cake with cream cheese and pecan icing that I finished earlier.
When Malcolm comes, he’s not going to want the cake. He’s going to want his fifty thousand dollars. He’s going to want it in cash, with interest.
I slide my gaze over to the black pouch lying underneath the cash register. Inside is thirty grand in cash. A little over half of what I owe, but none of the interest.
It’s all I could come up with.
And my deadline is midnight tonight.
If I don’t deliver it by then, I can expect a visit from Malcolm. Or, more likely, his muscle.
They wouldn’t hurt a woman, would they?
No one knows about the loan I took out.
No banks would have me, and the little bit of cash that I inherited from Mom went into bringing the bakery up to code. Mom was a great baker, but she was an artist at heart. And artists don’t always concern themselves with keeping their equipment up to date.
The ovens were old and two of them needed replacing. The furnace needed replacing too, and unfortunately, I found hills of unpaid bills.
I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the place, of giving up on her dream. Besides, her dream had become my dream. I love baking as much as she did. Customers love my products—almond croissants, spiced peach tarts, and, of course, red velvet cake are my specialties. I expanded by opening for lunch, adding a few tables and a takeout menu. Fresh deli meats on fresh-baked white, rye, and sourdough.
Business was good at first…until that damned Big-Mart went up.
If Mom hadn’t left me with a pile of debt, I would’ve been able to see it through.
But I was starting underwater, and when Malcolm came in my bakery four months ago and ordered a ham and swiss on rye with dill pickle and salt-and-vinegar chips plus two red velvet cakes, he seemed like the answer to my prayers.
He turned out to be the devil in disguise.
Malcolm was a businessman—that much was clear from his tailored suit and his shiny cufflinks. He was charming too, or so he seemed. And of course my eyes were red from my recent cry over yet another unpaid invoice I’d discovered.
He was a lifeline, thrown to me just in time.
And I was na?ve.
Nah. I knew everything wasn’t as it seemed, but I was desperate. So desperate that I took what Malcolm offered. Signed his contract.
I may as well have signed it in my blood.
The hours pass slowly. Nine o’clock. Ten.
Then the jingle of the bell.
I walk to the door, my nerves on edge.
It’s not Malcolm, as I suspected.
Instead, a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes stares through the glass straight at me.
I gulp as I turn the deadbolt and open the door.
He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and his face…
God, he’s good-looking.
But as handsome as he is, there’s a coldness about him.
“Evening,” the stranger says, approaching the counter.
He doesn’t take off his leather jacket, and I can see a distinct bulge beneath it.
He’s packing, of course. What did I expect? Will he try to kill me when he finds out I don’t have enough money?
He glances around the bakery—the empty tables and chairs, the entry to the dark kitchen, the counter and glass cases where the remainder of today’s baked goods sit.
I swallow hard and try to keep my voice steady. “Good evening.”
“You’re Rachel?” he asks, though he clearly already knows the answer. He leans on the counter, his gaze unsettlingly intense.
I nod, gathering every ounce of courage I possess. “Yes. And you are?”
He chuckles. “Doesn’t matter who I am, sweetheart. I’m just the messenger.”
I walk behind the counter, reach under the cash register, and pull out the black pouch. It feels heavy in my hand. My last resort. I slide it across the counter toward him.
He raises his eyebrows. “For Malcolm?”
“Yes,” I gulp, gesturing to a white box next to the black pouch, “along with this red velvet cake. It’s my specialty…and his favorite.”
He raises an eyebrow. “There money hidden in the cake?”
“No,” I say. “The cake is a gesture of goodwill. It’s not every day someone bails you out of debt.” I try to force a smile, but the grim reality of my situation makes it difficult.
He stares at me for a moment before chuckling again. Though it’s technically a laugh, it sounds cold. Like ice crackling through his throat.
He grabs the pouch and unzips it, pulls out the money, counts.
“Only thirty,” he murmurs to himself, thumbing through the wads of cash. He returns his gaze to me. “That’s not nearly enough.”
I swallow hard again. “It’s all I have,” I say, meeting his icy stare with a steadiness that surprises even me.
He studies me for what feels like an eternity before zipping the bag closed and sliding it back toward me. “It’s all or nothing, and the deadline”—he checks his watch—“is in a little under two hours.”
“I understand,” I say, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “But this is all I have.”
He looks at the cake. “What did you say was in this again?”
“No money,” I say quickly. “Just cake. Red velvet with cream cheese and pecan icing. It’s Malcolm’s?—”
Before I can finish, the man grabs a nearby fork, opens the box, digs into the cake, and brings a forkful to his mouth. He closes his eyes while he chews. When he opens them again, I see a flicker of warmth against the chilly blue of his irises.
Or I could be seeing things.
“You made this?” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Everything sold here is made from scratch.”
“Delicious.” He takes another bite, chews, swallows. “Tell me, though. What do you have to offer that’s even sweeter?”
His eyes are burning into me.
“I… I don’t know what you mean…”
Except I’m pretty sure I do.
“You know what I’m supposed to do to you if you don’t pay up, right?” He leers at me lasciviously. “I mean, you look like a pretty intelligent woman.”
I swallow hard. “You’re supposed to break my legs?”
He rakes his gaze over me. “That’s the plan.”
A shiver crawls up my spine, and I force myself to keep my voice steady. “That won’t get you your money.”
He tilts his head. “True,” he admits. “But it might make you more eager to find the rest of what you owe.”
“I’m already doing everything I can.” Desperation creeps into my voice. “I’ve sold what little jewelry I had, and I’ve taken on extra catering jobs… There’s just no way I can get that much money by midnight.”
He stares at me.
Glares at me.
Something about the intensity of his gaze makes my heart beat even faster.
Finally, he moves away from the counter with a sigh. “That’s a damned shame, Rachel.” He pulls out his pistol.
I gasp and crouch down behind the counter.
Not like it will save me, but it’s all I can think to do.
Then he laughs. More of that icy chuckling.
Damn him. I’m fearing for my life, and he’s laughing!
I stand straight up, my cheeks burning. “Fuck you!” I yell.
He doesn’t point the gun at me. Instead, he rams it against the glass case. It shatters, shards falling into the leftover croissants and other delicacies from the day and clattering over the tiled floor.
“I really don’t want to break your legs, Rachel,” he says. “But I’m going to have to break something .”
I curl my hands into fists. “So you destroy my property? How the hell am I supposed to earn the money to pay my debt if I have to spend it on something you broke?”
He shrugs. “You’ve got insurance.”
I slam my hands on the counter. “Actually, I don’t. That’s one of the bills I haven’t been able to pay. So you’re just shooting yourself in the foot, Mister…”
He smirks. “Firestone. Bracken Firestone.”
Seriously? That can’t be a real name.
Before I can reply, he whams his gun into another glass case.
“Damn you!” I cry. “I hate you. I really hate you!”
“Maybe…” he begins, looking at me through half-lidded eyes, “you have other ways of making payment.”
“Other ways?”
He nods, walking around the counter to stand next to me. He’s close, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
“You could work it off,” he says, his voice like a growl.
“Work it off?” My mind races. I’m not sure if what he’s suggesting is better or worse than the alternative. “How?”
He grins. “Now that”—he moves closer, his voice a deep rumble that sends a shiver through me—“is up to you.”
“You mean…here? At the bakery?” I struggle to keep my voice steady while I grapple with the possible implications of his words.
He lets out another chuckle. “No. That’s not what I fucking mean at all.”