Stirring Up Trouble (Inspiring the Greek Billionaire) (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Conceal me what I am; and be my aid

for such disguise as, haply, shall become

the form of my intent.

William Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night, act 1,
scene 2

A turned-on Lola fanned herself as she stared at Braden’s perfect backside as he droned on about the history of baklava and gathered some ingredients from the pantry.

It was as if every time he stood near, the temperature of the room spiked twenty degrees.

Balancing a bunch of containers in the crook of his arm, he carried them back to her and dropped them on the counter. His light green eyes darkened as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “They’re better than good. They’re large and meaty.”

Her pussy clenched as a visual of a naked Braden flashed in her vivid imagination. “Yeah?” Why did her voice sound so low and raspy?

“Yeah,” he said so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him. His head popped up and he straightened to full height, grinning down at her. “If you’d care to sample them, I’d be hap—”

She laughed and playfully punched his shoulder. “Perv.”

He grinned, flashing his perfectly straight white teeth. She’d bet he wore braces for years to get that smile. “What’s perverted about
walnuts?”

“You know darn well you weren’t talking about walnuts.”

“How would you know? You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? I saw the bored glaze over your eyes as I educated you on the fascinating history of
baklava
. I had to get your attention somehow.” He grabbed a couple of plastic bowls and measuring cups from the shelf above the counter and slid the food processor down the counter.

Bored? Not even close.
“Desserts have a history?”

“Of course. Like music, food tells a story.” He dumped the walnuts into the food processor and turned on the power. The blades whirred and pulsed loudly, grinding the nuts into smaller pieces. He spoke above the noise, “You only have to open your mind to the experience. For example,
baklava
. Greeks and Arabs both claimed to have created the first
baklava
, but in reality, it was the Assyrians in the eighth century B.C.”

“That’s an . . .” she shouted until he turned off the food processor, then returned to normal volume, “. . . old dessert.”

He added cinnamon and sugar to the nuts, but didn’t bother using measuring spoons. “Yes. The Greeks can take credit for inventing the thin, crisp phyllo dough. Before that, they used a thick Assyrian bread in the recipe. As merchants traveled the seas,
baklava
spread throughout the world and each region added their own touch, including the type of nuts they used.” He brushed melted butter to the bottom of a large pan and added layer after layer of phyllo, brushing each with butter then sprinkling the walnut mixture over it before adding more phyllo and sprinkling more walnuts. She lost count of how many layers of phyllo he used after he repeated the process a couple more times. When he’d run out of ingredients, he popped it in the oven.

Now she knew why he always smelled sweet. The baking he did at home lingered on his skin. She watched his hands as they moved effortlessly and mindlessly, mixing and sprinkling in a sensual and seductive rhythm which sparked a flame in her chest. She’d swear if she looked down, she’d see her heart pounding against her flesh.

She drew a ragged breath through her mouth and walked toward the refrigerator. “Hmm. I didn’t know there was such a variety of nuts . . . in
baklava
. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.” She opened the fridge, relieved to feel the cool air, and bent for a bottle of water.

“Most Americans use pistachios,” Braden said from right behind her, his voice tight and low. “Authentic Greek
baklava
calls solely for walnuts. Do you know why?”

“Because they’re yummier and easier to crack? Or because they’re large and meaty?” she quipped, still bent.

In this position, her ass was awfully close to his . . . nuts. The cool air turned hot and she twisted the cap of the water bottle. She took a long swig of the cold liquid, hoping it would ease the sexual burn heading south from her chest. Didn’t work. She needed a few minutes in the freezer. But first, she’d have to escape from the fridge.

She spun around and straightened, spilling a bit of water on her chest. That didn’t help either because now she was caged in by Braden, who had his hands on both sides of the appliance.

His eyes tracked the trickle of liquid running between her breasts. “And they have aphrodisiac powers.”

“No way. I don’t believe that,” she tried to say convincingly, but hell, she hadn’t even eaten one and the nuts were already working their magic.

He leaned in close. His gaze lifted from her breasts to her mouth and his eyes turned as dark as the churning sea she’d dreamed about last night. She moistened her lips and his head moved closer and closer. Her lids fluttered shut.

Then nothing.

She opened her eyes to see Braden had bent down and stuck his head in the fridge to her right. She wanted to slam the door on him. Instead, she bit her tongue and tried to remember he was a shameless flirt. His teasing meant nothing and it never did.

That’s why she preferred to date Jon. He was responsible, stable, and yeah, a bit boring most of the time. But at least he wouldn’t break her heart. She had no desire to allow a man to twist her into a pretzel or to watch him walk away from her. There was no threat of Jon doing either of those things.

Braden grabbed some orange juice and turned around to walk back to the counter as if nothing had happened between them. She shut the refrigerator and watched him move away, zooming in on his broad shoulders and the confidence in his step.

He flipped around and beckoned her with a crook of his finger. “Come back here. I want you to make the syrup.”

She didn’t have a choice. Her body floated to his side. “Me? Isn’t it complicated?”

“Something tells me you’re smarter than you like to let on,” he said without looking at her.

She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying his comment. “If you say so.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and slipped a hair net over her head. “We don’t want to add any of your hair to the dessert.”

“Hey, I’d taste great.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. She snuck a peek of his face to check out his reaction, and what she saw nearly knocked her bobby socks off.

His pupils had grown so large his eyes appeared black, his gaze ensnaring her with its dark hunger. And it was all for her. Her body shuddered.

“I bet you would,” he muttered as he snagged a hanging pot off the wall. He slammed it on the counter a bit forcefully making her jump. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Nothing scares me,” she responded, knowing he’d see through the lie and eagerly anticipating his reaction.

“Nothing?” he whispered, his lips quirking up in a grin.

He
scared her—his confidence, his sexy charm, his drive to succeed. But she’d never tell him the truth. “Nope.” She shook her head. “Okay, maybe cooking.”

He handed her a glass measuring cup with water. “Add this to the pot.”

She followed his instructions as he gave her each ingredient. His voice was commanding and steady, causing each of her nerve endings to fire into high gear. Her nipples actually beaded against her T-shirt despite the fact she was sweating. Her pulse raced and every time their hands brushed against one another, she had a mini-orgasm. She couldn’t begin to imagine what would happen to her body if she went to bed with him.

“Now I’m about to let you in on a secret,” he murmured close to her ear. “I add flowers to my
baklava
.”

“Flowers? What do you mean?”

“These bottles? One of them is rose water, one orange blossom water, and this holds lavender water. The recipe only requires a couple of teaspoons, so I’m leaving it up to you. What does your Muse tell you to use?” She raised a brow and he laughed. “Hypothetically speaking,” he added.

She didn’t need a Muse to know she wanted the lavender. It was her signature scent. She measured out a teaspoon of lavender water and a teaspoon of the orange blossom and mixed it into the pot, feeling the heat of his stare on her skin.

“Interesting choice,” he said, switching on the stove.

“I like lavender.”

“You smell of it all the time.”

She shuddered at the idea he’d noticed her scent. Each day she’d dab the tiniest bit of lavender essential oil at the pulse point of her wrists after her shower. “What next?”

“We boil the syrup over medium heat until it simmers. When it’s done, we’ll pour it over the
baklava
which should be done at the same time. I’ll let you do the honors. We’ll place it on our dessert list for the evening and make sure everyone knows you made it.”

“But I didn’t.
You
did. I just watched.”

He moved to the sinks and began filling them with water to clean up the mess. “You added the most important ingredient.”

“What’s that?” she asked, collecting the dirty dishes and carrying them to the sinks.

“Creativity.”

Together they cleaned, Braden washing and sanitizing and she drying the bowls and cups. When the timer buzzed, he put on two ridiculously large red oven mitts and pulled the tray of warm golden
baklava
from the oven while she removed the syrup from the flame. They moved in harmony as he placed the tray on the counter and she poured the sweet sticky syrup over the dessert. The air smelled of flowers and sugar, intoxicating and somehow familiar. Standing back to admire her work, she had to admit she wanted a bite, but she’d have to wait until it cooled. Besides, it was for customers.

While Braden cut the dessert into diamond-shaped pieces, she stuck her fingers in the pot, swiped some of the remaining stickiness from the sides, and licked her fingers, one at a time. She heard his sharp intake of breath and whipped her head around to find him staring at her with those same dark and hungry eyes he’d had earlier. She couldn’t deny him a taste.

She plunged her fingers back into the warm pot and coated them with the sticky icing then lifted them to the level of his mouth, offering him a taste. Of the syrup. Of her.

When he hesitated, she feared she’d made an error in judgment. But just as she began to withdraw her offer, he accepted with a firm grip of her wrist in his large hand. Their gazes locked.

He brought her hand closer to his mouth and slowly sucked her forefinger between his lips and grazed it from top to bottom with his hot tongue. Her heart banged against her chest in a wild staccato. She wanted
him
to be inside of
her
, albeit different body parts. The sweet torture of his mouth set her aflame as he leisurely explored each one of her fingers. She felt each swipe of his tongue as if it was exploring the folds between her thighs and she moaned, canting her hips up in a silent invitation. She suddenly needed to grind her pussy against him, needed to come.

Spurred on by her excitement and somehow reading her plea for help, he yanked her tight against the hardness between his legs and dipped his tongue into the webbing between her fingers. But she didn’t feel his tongue on her hand. It was directly on her clit. Sucking and licking and blowing.

She closed her eyes, tossed her head back, and exploded in climax. Her body shook so hard, she stumbled backwards. Braden caught her in his arms and held her against the solidness of his chest as she rode out the never-ending waves of orgasm.

When her body returned to something close to a normal state, she allowed her eyes to open. Braden whispered her name and rubbed her back, holding her tight. The rigid bulge poking into her reminded her he needed some attention as well. She let her fingers drift down his back—enjoying the contrast between his soft sweater and the hard muscles beneath it—bringing them to his ass where she softly squeezed. He removed the hair net from her head then cupped her chin, tilting it up and forcing her to look at him. His eyes darted from side to side, questioning; seeking permission. She hoped her eyes gave him her answer. He lowered his lips.

The overhead music system suddenly blared a Rhianna song, jarring them from their almost kiss. She jumped from his embrace just as Christopher entered the kitchen through the doors.

“Smells heavenly in here. You two have been busy this morning, huh?”

If he hadn’t interrupted, things would have gotten a whole lot busier. Saved by the proverbial Top-Forty hit.

CHAPTER 5

I see you what you are, you are too proud.

But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

William Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night
, act 1, scene 5

A few hours later, Braden watched Lola warm up with her band, her long, capable fingers stretched out on the nylon strings of her guitar. He leaned his forearms on the bar and dried a few shot glasses until he could practically see his reflection in them. She didn’t acknowledge him, but he sensed the magical connection still tethering the two of them. It glimmered and sparkled like the snow on a clear, sunny winter day. Her lavender fragrance drifted from the stage and swirled around him, reminding him of the
baklava
they’d baked and the syrup they’d consumed. As if he could ever forget.

Since Christopher had arrived, Braden hadn’t gotten a single minute alone with Lola. He wanted to finish what they’d started in the kitchen. But it was as if the world conspired to keep them apart, not to mention she ran out of the room whenever he stepped into it. She had shattered in his arms from the touch of his tongue on her hands. He’d never met a more responsive woman. He couldn’t wait to get her into his bed and show her what else he could do with his tongue. He wanted to tie her to his bedpost and drive her to climax over and over. She didn’t even need to touch him to get him hard and aching for her or to push him past the edge of no return. Although he hadn’t come quite as powerfully as she had, his dick had pulsed in release the moment he tasted her flesh on his tongue. If she’d caught on, she hadn’t mentioned it. He had a feeling she was too far gone to notice.

This getting her to fall in love with him wouldn’t just be easy, it would be as enjoyable as spending a lazy day on the beach of the Mediterranean—his favorite way to escape the pressures of his life. If this morning was any indication, he’d never need his vacation getaway again. All he’d need was a few minutes with his head between Lola’s legs.

When Lola finally looked up from her guitar, he snagged her gaze, feeling the magnetic pull. She ran her fingers through her hair then gave a quick wave of her hand in greeting. “Hey, guys, let’s take five.”

The three members of her band, aptly named Wicked Muse, murmured their assent as she set her guitar down and descended from the stage. She bit her lip and plopped down on a stool on the other side of the bar from him. “What’s up?”

Him.

“Nothing. I wanted to check on—”

Her phone played P!nk’s “So What,” and she slipped her cell from a clip on her skirt. She checked the display and held up a finger. “One second.”

He nodded. Curious, he stuck around to eavesdrop, still polishing the same three glasses.

“Hi. No, it’s fine, you caught me right before my first set,” she crooned in a tone he’d never heard her use before. Sickly sweet like cotton candy, it gave him an immediate toothache. It was the voice his mother used whenever she wanted something from her newest husband—usually something insanely expensive. “My last set ends at eleven,” she continued. “How can you miss me, Jon? We hung out a few days ago.” She giggled like a silly school girl. Made sense since Jon was old enough to be her father. Braden didn’t understand what she saw in the loser.

How could she have come apart in his arms this afternoon then make plans to go out with another man?

He watched her nibble on a nail as she listened to
Jon
. This wouldn’t do.

“Excuse me, Lola?” he said, taking her hand from her mouth. If she was going to nibble on anything, it was going to be him.

“Just a sec, Jon,” she said. She glared at him. “What?”

“We’ve got work to do after your last set. You were gone all day, wasting what precious time we have to teach you everything you need to know. I do the restaurant’s weekly ordering tonight, but if you’d rather go out on a date—”

She yanked her hand back and held it up in front of his face to stop him from talking. Instead, all he could think about was how he wanted a replay of this morning. His blood heated and rushed south. Her eyes widened and her pupils dilated, fixating on her hand. She quickly dropped it to her lap and the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her upper lip. He didn’t have to guess she was also thinking about this morning.

She remained gazing at him as she returned to her phone call. “Jon, I can’t make it. I’ve got a couple things to do here. Yeah, I agree, it’s not in my job description. Yep, the boss is an ass.”

He frowned at her and she stuck her pink tongue out at him. The woman better be more careful with that tongue because he was two seconds from sucking it into his mouth.

She hung up the call and stared at him. “I gotta get back to work.”

“Break a leg.”

She slid off the bar stool and walked back to the stage, her hips swaying back and forth and her skirt swishing at her ankles. It was winter, but you couldn’t tell by her clothes. Tonight, she was dressed in a gold and turquoise skirt and a gold tank which scooped low enough to give everyone a view of her lovely cleavage and part of the tattoo covering her right breast—a vine of some sort.

He continued his usual duties in the restaurant, checking on the kitchen and talking with the customers. Since it was Sunday, he didn’t have to worry about business calls, so he stayed out of his office, affording him the opportunity to keep an eye and ear on Lola.

The customers were typically a sedate crowd of married couples and dates rather than the Saturday night bar-hoppers. That’s why it shocked the hell out of him when one of his regular couples got up during one of Lola’s slow songs and started bumping and grinding against each other on the makeshift dance floor in front of the stage.

Lola kept on singing, apparently oblivious. A few of his wait staff stopped to watch, and two collided because they’d been watching the couple rather than where they were going. Dirty dishes crashed to the floor. It was loud enough that the amorous couple should have stopped, but they kept on, kissing frantically, their tongues dueling like swords. He hated to spoil their fun, but he ran a dignified establishment, and he didn’t want their public display of affection to offend the other patrons.

By the time he walked from the front of the restaurant to the dance floor, several other couples had joined them. It was like a scene out of
Dirty Dancing
. Even Braden could feel the sexual energy in the room. He looked up at Lola who made eye contact with him, shook her head, and shrugged.

Maybe he was overreacting. No one was getting hurt and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. He started to turn to go into the kitchen when a shirt hit him in the chest. A woman’s black blouse with silver buttons, to be more exact. Swirling around, he spotted one of his regular customers, Maura, shirtless and riding her husband’s thigh. His hands were on their way down her back toward the clasp on her bra.

He ran to them and tore Maura away from her spouse, slipping the shirt over the woman’s shoulders. Almost half of the customers in the place were now either kissing on the dance floor or making out at their tables. The other patrons laughed and a few wandered out the front door without paying. He didn’t blame them.

His lead waitress, Jenny, and his head bartender, Clyde, were circling the dining room, pleading with the amorous crowd to keep their clothes on. Suddenly, a shrill whistle followed by feedback from the sound system stopped everyone in their tracks. Lola stood at the edge of the stage with an expression of outrage on her face. “Ladies and gentlemen, while I’m honored you find my music so . . . moving, we must honor the health code which requires everyone to keep their clothes on their bodies. Also, public sex is illegal in the State of Michigan.” She dropped her microphone. “Right?” she mouthed to him.

He nodded and climbed the stairs to the stage then took the microphone from her. “Thank you. I didn’t think anything would get them to stop.”

“What the heck is wrong with them? I know you said walnuts were aphrodisiacs, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

His gaze swept the room. Sure enough, plates with remnants of nuts and syrup sat on the tables of all the amorous couples.

It had to be a coincidence.

“Good evening, everyone,” he said into the microphone. “I’m Braden Angelopoulos. Most of you know I’m the owner of
Acropolis
.” A few of the customers whistled. While they remained clothed, hands were certainly wandering in places he didn’t need to see. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, folks, but we’re going to have to close early tonight. We had a slight emergency in the kitchen. For those of you who have finished your meals, your wait staff will bring you the checks and we’ll be offering you a twenty percent discount. For those of you not finished, we’ll wrap up your meals and it’s on the house. We hope you’ll come back soon.”

The room fluttered with activity as the waiters handed out the checks and collected payment in a hurried manner. Lola and her band hung out on the stage talking amongst themselves. Braden was busy ringing up the customers, but he heard Lola assuring them they’d get paid for all their set. At least one good thing would come from this. He’d have more time alone with her tonight.

Twenty minutes later, he collapsed in a chair at the bar. “I’ll take my usual. But double it,” he told Clyde, who pulled out a tumbler rather than a shot glass, filled it with vodka, and placed it in front of him.

“Never seen the over-sixty crowd get so frisky. Think it was in the water?” Clyde asked.

He shook his head. “In the
baklava
.”

Clyde laughed, having no idea Braden was as serious as the final game of the World Series. The band members walked by him on their way out the door, holding their guitar cases and mumbling under their breath. A gold and turquoise skirt caught his eye as it passed, and he grabbed Lola before she could make her great escape.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He yanked her backward and she stumbled, ending up with her face in his lap.

“I thought I was done for the night,” she said, digging her fingers into his thighs and using his legs to lift herself off him. Pity.

“We may have closed early, but you and I still have work to do. Or are you trying to back out so that you can go on your date?”

“What date?” She tilted her head and looked baffled then she smiled. “Oh, Jon.”

He hated the way she said that name. All breathy-like. He had to drive that man from her mind and keep her busy for the month. By that time, the only name she’d pant would be his.

“Yes,
Jon
. I thought I told you I’d teach you the ordering tonight. Plus, since we have extra time, we can work on some of the bookkeeping.”

She sighed and took off her winter coat. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

He led her past his baffled staff to his office, ushered her inside and closed the door behind him. Lola plopped in his chair and kicked her feet up. “What happened earlier in the dining room? Did someone spike the food with drugs? I thought that one couple was going to have sex right there on the dance floor! I’ve never been to a sex club before. Is that even legal here in Michigan? They’re hard to find unless you know where to look. The guy in Florida who did my star tattoo, the one on my . . .” She paused and smiled, before continuing. “. . . well, anyway, he said they were all over down South and all you had to do was . . .”

She was babbling. He tried to keep up, but she went from one subject to the next and all he could do was watch as her skirt rode higher and higher up her leg. He pictured himself kneeling before her as she propped those feet on his desk and spread her legs wide open for his delight. To start, he’d push aside her panties and use his thumb to——

“Are you listening to me? Gee, usually I’m the one spacing out on people. Now I can see how annoying it is.”

“Sorry, my mind did wander. What did I miss?”

“What happened with the footloose and fancy feet crowd?”

Fancy feet?
Oh, right
. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say they reacted to something in the
baklava
.”

“See? I told you I’m not a good cook. One time and I give everyone food poisoning, only instead of vomiting they got horny.” Her feet dropped to the floor and she sat tall in his chair. “Hey, we could totally package it and rake in the dough. Get it?” She laughed and Braden couldn’t help but do the same.

He relaxed into the chair thinking of the possibilities. It wasn’t a bad idea to package the
baklava
and sell it to the local markets. He’d have to play around with the recipe at home and see if he could recreate the results. Next batch he’d test on the two of them.

“Before we do anymore baking, I want to teach you how I keep the books. Do you know anything about accounting?”

Her face screwed up tight as if she’d eaten a sour lemon. “No.”

“Computers?”

“Sure. I’m addicted to Twitter. That’s the only way to get the news.”

“I keep all the day’s receipts and everything you need on that computer in front of you.” He pointed to his laptop. “Go on and power it up.”

She opened it and pressed the ‘on’ button then twirled her chair in a circle. “I love this chair.”

Lola really got pleasure out of anything. To him that chair represented responsibility and success. He spent hours sitting in it while on the phone with suppliers, entering in the daily receipts, and doing countless and endless mundane tasks, and never once did he ever spin his chair around. It wasn’t his nature.

He rose from his chair and dragged it to the other side of the desk to sit next to her. After a few minutes of lecturing on the ins and outs of accounting, she exhaled. Loudly.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“Do you have a book?” She shifted in her chair, moving it back and forth as if she were nervous.

“A book?”

“Yes. On accounting.”

He kept his books above the credenza. He stood and opened the small cabinet door, finding the book on basic accounting he’d bought for his sister, hoping she might someday join him in running the restaurant. She’d handed back the book right before she informed him she was moving to attend film school in New York.