Sweet Seduction Read online

  Sweet Seduction

  A BWWM Interracial Romance

  Camilla Stevens

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Camilla Stevens

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Camilla Stevens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About the Author

  Camilla Stevens is a New York transplant from Los Angeles. At night you can find her typing away, usually with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page. You can usually find tulips, her favorite flower, making an appearance in most of her novels.

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  Also by Camilla Stevens

  NEW YORK NOVELS

  Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong

  Mr. & Mrs. Wright

  CALIFORNIA NOVELS

  One Night

  Sweet Seduction

  Introduction

  This book includes an appearance of Jake and Natalie from One Night, with a nice little insight to their life.

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  1

  L.A. traffic.

  Patrick Fitzgerald closed his eyes and counted to five, breathing deeply. When he opened them, the car in front of him hadn’t budged an inch.

  So much for getting up early to make a go of it. He was on the I-10 freeway at 7 a.m. on Friday morning. He could see the Ocean Avenue overpass taunting him less than half a mile away. In Los Angeles, half a mile could mean half an hour, even going against traffic.

  Lion Studios had at first suggested some low level attorney go up to Napa Valley to handle this minor business.

  Patrick had very politely told them exactly what orifice they could shove that idea in. What good was being Senior General Counsel if you couldn’t take advantage of opportunities like this?

  Then they had offered to send him up on the company jet.

  Again, he had oh so kindly encouraged them to have sexual relations with themselves if they thought he would be going that route.

  After all, it was the perfect opportunity to use his precious BMW Z8 convertible in exactly the way it was meant to be used: for speed. He was already dressed for it in a pair of jeans and boots with a light blue, dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and, blessedly, no tie. Patrick could already feel the grip of the wheel under his hands as the car hugged the curves along the cliff sides of the Pacific Coast Highway.

  First, he had to make it past this damn L.A. traffic.

  As if picking up on his irritated state, his phone dinged with a text message. Since he was at a literal stand-still he stole a glance at the screen of his iPhone lying in the center console.

  The caller I.D. simply read: Blow Job Girl.

  Had great time last Friday. Up for a repeat tonight?

  He gave a sigh of irritation. Unfortunately, the nickname he’d given her was not as literal as it sounded. In fact, it was a signal that she was a “do not answer.”

  Stephanie…Something, a.k.a. “Blow Job Girl,” was just a tiny nibble in the smorgasbord of the many eager, young ingénues that found their way to Lion Studios. Who needed to “swipe left” on Tinder when you had a very important Hollywood job to do the work for you?

  Patrick already had the basics down.

  Over six feet? By a good 3 inches.

  Full head of hair? A rather ordinary shade of sandy brown, but still thick and full without even a hint of balding.

  Add in a nice set of baby blues and a chiseled jawline, not to mention a body that reflected his intense workout regimen and he was pretty well set.

  From there it was just a game of cat and mouse.

  A nice, expensive suit worn while walking across the studio lot.

  A tight, little, red dress headed the opposite direction.

  A double-take and a charming smile.

  A few big names dropped.

  Next thing Patrick knew he was at a restaurant wining and dining Ms. Blow Job. It was during the “wining” portion of the evening, when she got carded, that he had learned she was a mere 22 to his own 36. Jesus, he’d been in high school when she was born!

  That had only been the beginning of the disastrous date. After a dinner of lobster, multiple appletinis, and creme brûlée for dessert—not to mention the bill that had accompanied it all—she’d dragged him to the club Ménage and ordered far too many Blow Jobs; the shot not the act, hence the nickname.

  By the time he’d driven her back to her place, address obtained from her ID, she’d been too passed-out drunk to even perform the activity that the drink was named after; not that he would have even bothered suggesting it in the state that she had been in. Instead he’d half carried her up to her apartment and handed her off to a roommate who did not appreciate being woken up at 2 a.m.

  As the line went: he was getting too old for this shit.

  Patrick hit “delete” then smiled with satisfaction as the car in front of him finally moved…only to stop after two feet.

  God, he couldn’t wait to get out of this city.

  “You didn’t have to wake up early today, Di,” Layla Brown said as she tucked a lock of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. She was wearing her unofficial uniform of polo shirt, in pink today, and tan shorts with white tennis shoes. Sometimes she switched out the polo for a white blouse but otherwise she preferred the practical and professional over the cute or sexy, at least when it came to work.

  “Sweetheart, I haven’t slept past 8 a.m. since I was your age,” Di-Anne chuckled in response. Unlike Layla, Di-Anne was pure femininity in a floral sheath dress and a face like Diahann Carroll’s.

  Layla looked at the older woman who had warm brown eyes and a smile that always hinted that she knew all your little secrets, but promised to keep them to herself. This was the smile that had got Layla through childhood. Di-Anne Merriweather had pretty much raised Layla.

  Although they were both about 5’4” and had a similar petite-on-top-curvy-on-bottom build, they weren’t related. Layla’s eyes were more of a whiskey color and her skin a few shades darker than Di-Anne’s cafe au lait hue.

  “Well, the wedding is not until tonight, and
Mario, Bree, and I don’t even have to start packing up until mid-afternoon.” Layla came around the counter, putting on her own apron. “So it looks like you’re stuck with me until then.”

  They both turned at the sound of the quaint, little bell above the door to Di-vine Delectables, named after the former owner of the bakery. That former owner was now smoothing down her hair, which had yet to turn fully gray despite the 30 years she had on the new owner, Layla standing beside her at the counter. This, along with her still quite wrinkle-free face made her appear younger than her 59 years.

  The gesture wasn’t lost on Layla, as she gave Di-Anne her own smile full of little secrets that she kept to herself.

  Saul Weinstein was the unofficial town lawyer for Olla, California, nestled in a less touristy pocket of Napa Valley. In a former life he’d been a senior partner at a large Los Angeles law firm. These days he mostly handled local disputes and the occasional major case involving a winery. It was his version of retirement.

  “Good morning, Saul,” Layla said, heading over to the urn of freshly brewed coffee. She grabbed a cup and filled it: black, two sugars.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Saul said in his usual cheerful voice. “Ah, yes, coffee! Madeline Blache is on the warpath again about the Dickerson’s dogs. I fear it’s going to be a long day.”

  “Why doesn’t she just keep that damn cat indoors?” Layla complained, handing him his coffee. “Everyone knows that’s what sets them off. Pretty soon the Dickerson’s fence is going to give, then that cat will get what’s coming to it.”

  “Part of me thinks Madeline just enjoys the attention,” he said.

  Layla watched him turn to Di-Anne and bow deferentially. It was greeted with pursed lips and a no-nonsense gaze. As usual, Saul took it with good humor.

  “And how is the lovely Miss Di-Anne this morning?”

  “Ms. Merriweather is working this morning,” she said matter-of-factly. “Will it be your usual almond croissant today?”

  Di-Anne made a point of eyeing Saul’s round stomach pointedly. To Layla, Saul was the epitome of St. Nick with his balding, white head of hair and trimmed, white beard. He even wore suspenders every day. Despite his Jewish heritage he happily played Santa at the local school every winter.

  Saul gave a long and rueful sigh. “You’ve convinced me,” he said, as he did every day.

  “I don’t know how you maintain such a trim and lovely figure with all these delightful temptations,” he said, leaving no doubt to anyone in the bakery that the pastries on display weren’t the only things tempting him.

  That one earned him a full blown scowl.

  “My figure is my business, thank you very much. And any temptation one might have regarding what is available for purchase in this shop might end up with a certain someone getting a slap in the face.”

  Rather than be offended, Saul just gave a hearty, belly-shaking laugh. “Oh, you do know how to torture a man, Di-Anne,” he said with a wink.

  This only caused Di-Anne’s face to glow in anger.

  Layla watched the back-and-forth with amused delight. Finally, she came to the woman’s rescue.

  “Stop teasing her, Saul,” she said with an almost-convincing frown as she handed him his coffee.

  “Yes, of course you’re right, my dear,” he said, giving his own almost-convincing look of regret. He turned back to Di-Anne, giving another exaggerated bow. “I apologize for my lewd and lascivious behavior, Miss Di-Anne.”

  Layla almost broke out in a laugh, especially at the way Di-Anne struggled to keep a look of indignation on her face.

  Di-Anne pursed her lips again and handed him his almond croissant, taking his cash in exchange as she rang up his order. When she handed him his change he held up a hand.

  “No, no, consider it a tithe in atonement for succumbing to temptation,” he said, again leaving no room for doubt about exactly what was tempting him in this shop…and it wasn’t the almond croissants.

  Before Di-Anne could offer another terse response, he was out the door.

  Di-Anne stared after him while Layla watched her with a bemused expression. The stare was just long enough for Layla to confirm what she had long suspected.

  Di-Anne had never married, which Layla always thought was a shame. Maybe having gone so long without someone special in her life was why she was so resistant to Saul’s charms.

  “I don’t know why you tease him so,” she finally said. “He’s a sweet man.”

  “With a saucy mouth on him. I don’t know where he gets off—”

  “Oh come off it, Di,” Layla laughed. “You know you love it.”

  “Speaking of love,” D-Anne said, turning to Layla with a sly look, “when exactly are you going to get back out there, young lady? It’s been almost two years now and you are far too smart, and pretty, and sweet to be alone.”

  The woman knew how to shut her up, Layla would give her that much.

  “Who exactly am I going to date in this tiny town? Mr. Izzo at the hardware store?” she said referring to the man who was at least 20 years older than her.

  “So get out of Olla! Take a weekend trip somewhere. It’s not going to fall in your lap, Missy. You have to open yourself up to it. Who knows? With this wedding, today might be the day you meet someone.”

  “Uh, no…I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  “That’s only because you haven’t even tried,” Di-Anne scolded. “I just want you to find happiness, real happiness this time. Don’t give up on love just yet, dear,” she said, stroking Layla’s cheek.

  Then she surprised her by adding, “At the very least, get laid.”

  Layla’s mouth fell open. What in the world had gotten into the woman?

  2

  Layla was giving her usual spiel before a wedding cake delivery about how important this day was for the newly married couple. Despite not having her own happy ending, she was still fairly sentimental about it when it came to others.

  She watched as Mario’s eyes flitted over her shoulder distractedly. He bit his lip to keep his expression in check.

  “I know you’re mimicking me, Bree,” Layla said, not even looking over her shoulder at the girl. It was a good thing the 20-year-old artist, complete with tiny dreads, was such a valuable asset to the bakery. Otherwise, Layla would be giving the girl a good what’s what, even if she was Di-Anne’s grandniece.

  Layla looked over her shoulder at Bree, who looked like a young Lisa Bonet, perhaps one or two shades darker. “When you get married you’ll understand.”

  “You say that like you speak from experience Ms. B,” Mario said as he shot a grin to Bree.

  Layla gave the young man a look that said nice try.

  Mario Gonzalez was pretty much the exact opposite of Bree Cunningham, with his clean-cut, wavy, dark hair and polo shirts. He towered over both Bree and Layla at about 6 feet tall and looked a lot like Michael Trevino.

  Layla often wondered why the handsome boy, who was in his final year at UC Berkeley, and about to start law school there as well, spent his weekends and summers in the small, quiet little town of Olla staying with his grandmother. She suspected it had a little something to do with the source of the giggle she heard behind her.

  The two of them had been trying to get Layla to reveal her past since she had bought this place almost two years ago.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, amigo,” Layla said with a smirk. “Okay, so by now you two know the routine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they both said in unison. Layla suspected there was an undertone of mockery in the reply but she let it slide. Despite their age, and tendency to make jokes at her expense, they were true professionals when it came time to actually perform their duties.

  “Okay, now up on three, two, one.” She and Mario lifted the bottom tier of the cake for today.

  “Careful, careful.”

  “Ms. B, how many cakes have I helped you deliver? I got this,” Mario complained.

  It was yet anoth
er beautiful creation she’d spent countless hours on. Five perfect ivory squares each with a different geometrical pattern piped onto it. Thankfully, this design incorporated bases on each level so they didn’t have to transport it as a single unit, which always set Layla on edge. All the same, she was taking no chances.

  Bree was in the back of the van handling the switch off. The entire process took half an hour. Once Layla had double and triple checked to make sure that everything was secure, she breathed a final sigh of relief.

  Now the real anxiety set in. Layla had yet to lose a cake during transport, and she had no intention of breaking that record today.

  “Okay, let’s get going.”

  Mario jogged over to the driver’s side of the van and Bree squeezed through the front seats to get out on the passenger side and head out of the alley. From there, she would direct him out of the little alleyway onto the oh so creatively named, Main Street. Layla got in on the passenger side.

  She had switched out the polo shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes for a nice blouse and black slacks with black velvet flats.

  “On your mark,” Mario said, putting the key into the ignition.

  “Get set,” he said turning it.

  “Go!” He revved the engine while it was still in park.

  “Boy, if you don’t stop giving me a heart attack,” Layla said, slapping him on the shoulder.

  He just laughed as he shifted the van out of park and ever so slowly backed up until he reached Main Street. From there, he reversed the van gradually while Bree kept watch for cars, not that there would be many in this small town.

  Olla wasn’t a stop on most Napa Valley tourists’ maps. The town mostly housed residents who worked on various wineries located in the region.