Chapter 7

CHAPTER7

Diego kept glancing at his cell phone while he and Marin put the finishing touches on the last few centerpieces.

“If you need to be somewhere, I can handle the rest of this,” Marin told him. “You did beat me in by an hour this morning.”

“I’m good.”

His tone told Marin he wasn’t good, but she let it go. The sous chef had been edgy and distracted since the fire. Of course, the frenetic pace they were working under didn’t help anyone’s disposition.

Marin carefully set the nest of marzipan flowers and sugar hydrangeas onto a cart. “These are the last three. Once we have finished here, you can take them down to the refrigerator room and then skedaddle. I don’t want to see you back here until six a.m. on Monday.”

“We still have to make the pies for the Manning’s party tomorrow. I don’t know why they couldn’t just stay up at Camp David for Easter dinner,” Diego grumbled.

“I’ll take care of those,” Marin said.

The First Family would arrive midmorning tomorrow to attend Easter services at St. John’s. Afterward, they were hosting dinner for twenty friends and family. Marin had already volunteered to work in the main kitchen so the culinary staff with families could have the holiday off. Tonight, she would make the desserts. Unlike the stressful task of creating delicate, edible artwork, baking was relaxing. She was looking forward to a quiet night of losing herself in her craft, concocting delicious treats for the Mannings and their guests.

She was also looking forward to her “date” with Griffin. And, as much as she loved, Diego, she wasn’t sure she wanted him chaperoning their dinner here in the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, Diego was carefully wheeling the cart to the service elevator.

“G’night, Boss,” he called over his shoulder.

“See you Monday, Diego.”

Marin quickly tidied up the kitchen in anticipation of Griffin’s arrival. He hadn’t said what time he was bringing dinner, but when she looked up from the list she was creating of ingredients she needed to bring up from the main kitchen, Griffin was casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, quietly studying her.

“You’re very stealthy,” she quipped. “Do they teach that in Secret Service agent school?”

“Nope. I perfected that skill in the army when I was part of special forces.” He grinned slyly. “Of course, years of spying on my older sister and her boyfriends gave me a good head start.”

Marin returned his smile.

“Are you ready for dinner?” he asked.

She glanced at his empty hands. “Sure, but it looks like dinner is going to be a little sparse.”

He stepped away from the wall, that sly grin still firmly in place. “Oh, I guarantee you won’t go hungry. I just thought you might like a change of venue after being in the kitchen all day.”

“I meant it when I said I couldn’t take much of a break, Griffin. I don’t have time to leave the House and still finish what I need to finish tonight.”

“Who said anything about leaving the House?”

He extended his hand. When Marin didn’t immediately take it, he arched an eyebrow, issuing a challenge. Marin reluctantly placed her fingers in his. Griffin drew in a quick breath at the contact of their skin before tugging her forward. Was he feeling the same something she’d been feeling for days? Marin’s heart sped up at the thought.

Griffin led her out into the center hallway before turning to enter the Yellow Oval Room. Marin glanced reverently at the beautiful china housed in the display cases. Like the rest of the White House, the artwork in this room was stunning. She was so busy taking it all in, she didn’t realize he was guiding her out onto the Truman Balcony until she felt the cool evening air brush her cheek. A table for two was set on the patio overlooking the South Lawn and the Washington Monument.

Ernie, one of the White House butlers, pulled out a chair for Marin. “Evening, Chef Marin,” he said, wearing a cat-ate-the-canary grin when Marin took her seat.

Griffin sat down across from her. He was once again studying her closely while the flame of the candle between them danced in the breeze.

“When you said you’d get takeout, I assumed we’d be eating in the kitchen. On paper plates. Not”—Marin gestured to the plate and goblet in front of her—“White House china and crystal. I’m pretty sure this is probably illegal.”

He had the nerve to chuckle. “My go-to takeout meal is pizza, but everyone I called hung up when I said I wanted it delivered to sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. So I asked Terrie to help me out. This”—he gestured to the table between them—“was all her idea.”

Ernie came back out onto the balcony carrying salad dishes, setting one in front of each of them. Marin leaned back in her chair, not surprised the head housekeeper had had a hand in the dinner. Now, staff throughout the House would be gossiping about her. Marin wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

“You do realize that the entire kitchen staff is working around the clock to prepare the food for Monday. I can’t imagine they’re very happy with me right now.”

“Precisely why I ordered from Old Ebbitt Grill. Relax, Marin. No one here begrudges you a dinner break. Especially after the week you’ve had.”

“You went across the street to get dinner?” she asked as she picked up her salad fork. The chef at Old Ebbitt Grill once worked in the Chevalier hotel in San Francisco. Marin’s stomach growled, making her suddenly realize how hungry she was. “They have the best butternut squash ravioli.”

“The maître d’ was right then. He said it was your favorite dish, insisting that I come back with nothing else but that.”

She sighed with delight in anticipation of the meal. Griffin laughed out loud. They were quiet for a few moments as both enjoyed their salad.

“So, we’ve established that you love butternut squash ravioli, Belgian Malinois dogs, and artwork,” Griffin ticked off on his fingers. “I’ll make up my mind about the ravioli. And I do agree that dogs are much better pets than cats.” He made a face that had Marin smiling. “But you don’t see too many twenty-somethings with such extensive art collections as yours. You must have started acquiring pieces when you were young.”

Marin glanced out toward the Washington Monument, unsure why this line of questioning always bothered her. She was used to men dating her because they were interested in her money or family. Griffin had been honest about that being the reason he’d agreed to be her wedding date. Still, she felt uncomfortable having to always justify her wealth; as though it was a crime for her to like nice things.

She fiddled with her napkin. “My mother is an interior designer for the hotels. My grandfather hired her on the spot after he saw her outmaneuver a museum curator at an estate sale auction. He always said her eye for treasure is impeccable. My grandmother used to joke that my grandfather made my dad marry my mom to keep her from going to the competition. Growing up, my brothers and my cousins hated my grandfather’s art history lessons, but to me, they were like fairy tales. Every piece has a story. Some happy. Some tragic. I love finding out the legend behind a particular piece of art almost as much as I love the art itself.”

He was studying her intently again, causing Marin to shift in her chair, uncomfortable with his perusal.

“My mom talks about art the same way.”

Griffin’s quiet admission surprised her. “Your mom is into art?”

He winced. “Way into art. She’s an art teacher at a high school in Boston. I’m afraid my sister and I were a lot like your siblings and cousins when we were kids. She would adore you, though,” he added wistfully.

Marin felt a warm flush spread over her cheeks. Ernie arrived at that moment with their ravioli. The aroma made her mouth water. Griffin took a bite and closed his eyes. A reverent look passed over his face.

“Mmm,” he said. “Okay, this deserves some serious praise.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” She smiled at his pleasure before digging into her own plate.

They ate in companionable silence. Serenaded by the sounds of the nation’s capital at night.

“What about the rest of your family?” she asked once they had put their forks down. “You mentioned an older sister. Does she live in Boston?”

He nodded. “She’s married to a guy she met while working for a software company. They’re expecting their first child in August. My dad owns an insurance agency. He loves it because he gets to play golf with his clients.”

“Sounds idyllic.”

Griffin shrugged. “Pretty boring typical family compared to yours. I’m surprised you’d choose working in the White House over one of your family’s hotels. You certainly wouldn’t be slaving at the oven on a Saturday night if your name was on the door.”

“You don’t know my grandfather. Most of my family are the first ones in and the last ones to leave every day. If the Chevalier name is ‘on the door,’ it means we have to work harder than anyone else.”

“Still, I don’t see the White House as a place where you come to rest on your laurels.”

Marin rubbed a finger over the rim of her water glass. “Especially when your oven catches fire and you have to improvise during crunch time. But when Aunt Harriett—Mrs. Manning—asked me to come work for her, I couldn’t say no. I told you before, just the history of this place alone was intriguing to me. Besides, it’s nice to be one among a team of chefs. No one here cares what my last name is. I’m glad I took the job.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “So am I, Marin. So am I.”

Dusk had faded into night. Marin was grateful for the darkness so Griffin couldn’t see how brightly she was blushing. Ernie emerged from the Yellow Oval Room and began to load their dinner plates onto one of the carts.

“Just take them into the kitchen up here, Ernie,” she said. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

“No can do, ma’am. Ms. Bloodworth said we weren’t to disturb your work so that you can leave at a decent hour. I’ll take these down to the big kitchen.”

Marin huffed in exasperation. “In that case, I’d better get back to work.” She stood from the table and Griffin did as well. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. I’d say you shouldn’t have, but it was too delicious.”

“It certainly beat pizza in my hotel room,” he agreed as they passed through the Yellow Oval Room.

His remark reminded Marin that he was only in Washington temporarily while he worked on a case. She wondered about his life. Where he lived. He’d been evasive when she asked before. But he’d have to tell her so she could book his airline ticket, wouldn’t he?

“I’ll have my grandfather’s assistant make the travel arrangements to the wedding. What city will you need to fly out of?”

Griffin didn’t so much as twitch. “I’ll make my way to DC and we can fly out of here. It’s just easier.”

Well, that was a swing and a miss. His secrecy seemed a little over the top, but Marin figured his job likely required it. He put his life on the line every day, which had to be stressful not only for him, but to everyone he cared about. She wondered if that was the reason he wanted to get out of the Secret Service. Marin felt an unbidden sense of relief knowing Griffin would be safer once he changed jobs.

“Thank you again,” she said when they reached the kitchen. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He grimaced. “I still have a few hours of work to do myself tonight.” His mouth then curved up into that slow grin that had the power to make her knees buckle. “But at least I enjoyed part of my evening.”

Marin hurried into the kitchen so he wouldn’t see her ridiculous glow.

* * *

“Pillsbury is onthe move.”

Griffin glanced at the text on his phone, shaking his head at the ridiculous code name Agent Todd had dubbed Marin. He’d asked his friend to give him a heads-up when Marin was leaving the kitchen so he could intercept her on her way out of the House. After last night’s incident on the Metro, he didn’t want her traveling home alone. He wasn’t usually so chivalrous with women he suspected of grand theft, but in this case, he was playing a part. Besides, he wanted a second look around her penthouse.

Their dinner earlier had been part of the act, too; a ruse to fish for information. The fact that he had enjoyed the meal was a bonus. The food had been delicious and how many guys could say they’d had dinner with a beautiful woman on the Truman Balcony of the White House? So far, everything was going according to plan.

As long as he didn’t touch her.

He swore under his breath as he pulled on his suit jacket and headed out of the Secret Service office. Griffin had always thought that whole bullshit about sparks flying when people touched someone happened in chick flicks and his mother’s romance novels. But when he’d taken Marin’s hand earlier, shock waves had reverberated up his arm. And yet, the last thing he’d wanted to do at that moment was let go of her.

“This case is messing with my head,” he mumbled as he made his way up the stairs to the north lobby.

“Talking to yourself?”

Griffin had to brace a hand on the wall to keep from mowing Marin down. Or from touching her.

“Still here?” he asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I’m headed home now.”

Dark shadows had begun to form beneath her eyes, and her body looked weary from the long day on her feet. She was making his plan way too easy to execute.

“I’ve got an Uber coming to take me to my hotel. It’s two blocks from your place,” he said. “Let me give you a lift.”

She studied him thoughtfully. “You always seem to be around to rescue people. Me in particular. I’d love a ride home. Thank you.”

They made their way out of the White House into the warm spring night. The Uber was waiting at the northeast gate. Marin closed her eyes as soon as she hit the seat and Griffin did his best to snuff out that feeling of tenderness she kept stirring up inside of him. Reminding himself for the hundredth damn time she was a suspect, he focused his gaze out the window as the car began to move.

“Sitting may have been a bad idea,” she murmured. “I don’t know if I can make it up to my apartment.”

He smiled smugly to himself. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry you up if I have to.”

When they reached Dupont Circle, however, Marin was able to walk into her apartment building without any help. Griffin followed her into the somber lobby. Apparently, most of the residents called it a night early on Saturdays.

“Chef Marin,” the guy at the concierge desk called as she blindly walked past him.

It wasn’t the same boisterous doorman who’d greeted them last night. In fact, this guy wore a gray uniform of one of the maintenance staff rather than the bright doorman’s uniform.

“You have a package,” the guy told her.

Marin blinked twice seemingly trying to orient herself. “Oh. Hey there, Seth. What are you doing working the desk tonight? Where’s Arnold?”

“You haven’t heard?” The guy at the desk looked down at his lap. He struggled to swallow. “He—he, uh, he had a heart attack earlier this evening.”

Griffin caught Marin just as her knees began to buckle. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay,” she cried.

Maintenance guy’s eyes drifted away again. He shook his head. Marin let out a sob.

Griffin gathered her up in his arms, taking the package from her hands and shoving it in her backpack as he steered her to the elevator. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She clung to him, silently crying, as they rode up to the penthouse. Griffin pulled her key out of the pocket of her backpack and opened the door. Marin hurried over to a side table and grabbed a tissue while he dropped her backpack on the same chair where she had put it the night before.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her back to him. “I don’t know what has come over me. But this week—Wes. The fire. Anika. And now this. I’m not sure how much more I can take.” She turned around and gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, again, for being here when I needed someone. You’ve been so kind to me. And dinner, it was amazing and so sweet.”

Tears began streaming down her cheeks again.

Griffin’s head was telling him to say “you’re welcome” and get the hell out of Dodge, but his feet weren’t listening. Instead, they seemed to be moving toward her as though there was an invisible tether connecting them.

She drew in another ragged breath when he stopped inches from her. “I’m usually not one of those women who dissolve into hysterics.”

“Shh. Like you said, it’s been a pretty shitty week.” He reached up and fanned his fingers on the sides of her face, gently pulling her body closer to his.

Her hands seemed to float between them, hesitating briefly, before they landed softly on his chest. He stifled a groan at the contact.

“Arnold was going to take his grandchildren to the White House on Monday,” she whispered through her tears. “It’s so unfair.”

“I know,” he said as he bent down to brush his lips over her forehead.

This is all part of the role I’m playing, Griffin silently reminded himself. Any self-respecting guy would do the same to provide comfort to a woman he was interested in. He’d just kiss her on the head, pat her on the back, and send her off to bed.

Alone.

So why the hell had his lips found their way to the corner of her mouth? She tasted so damn good. Like sugar and lemons. He’d just take a taste of the other side of her mouth, then he could walk away.

Marin’s lips parted with a breathy sigh and, just like that, Griffin was a goner. He sealed his mouth over hers, swallowing up the keening sound of need that rose in the back of her throat. A wave of reckless desire spurred him on as he explored her mouth with a tactical thoroughness. She slid her tongue against his seductively causing his control to slip a notch more. When she shifted her body closer so she was practically his second skin, he gave up the game altogether and let his libido take control.

Griffin’s hands left her face to explore the voluptuous curves that had haunted his dreams—and his showers—for the past few days. Trailing his fingers down her back, he groaned into her mouth when he finally filled his hands with her sexy ass. Marin nipped at his lip in response. He slipped his hands beneath the fabric of her T-shirt, grazing his fingers along her soft, warm skin.

She tore her mouth away from his, threw her head back, and sighed his name. The sound made him hard enough to pound diamonds. His lips took advantage of their change in position to explore the tender skin of her neck. Marin scored her fingernails along his chest, seeming to demand more.

Far be it for Griffin to disappoint her.

He wedged his thigh between hers while he unclasped her bra at the same time. Marin’s eyes were wide and wild when they met his. They were still for a long moment before she oh-so-slowly ground down on his thigh, her eyes never leaving his. His breathing fractured when she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, closed her eyes, and with an erotic moan, began to rub against him.

Mesmerized, Griffin watched her pleasure herself. But only for a moment. If there was pleasure to be had, he was damn well going to provide it. Gripping her waist, he lifted her to the sofa. He yanked her T-shirt and bra over her head, tossing them across the room. Then, he laid her down, spreading her out on the cushions like a veritable feast for his out of control sex drive. Marin was breathing heavily, panting in fact, making those gorgeous breasts of hers quiver tantalizingly.

“Damn, but you’re beautiful, Marin.”

His fingers worshipfully skimmed the delicate skin around her nipples. At his touch, she gasped his name. Desire shot to his groin at the breathy sound. His touch became firmer. She sighed deeply as her head began drifting from side to side. Marin’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, gripping him with a determined strength. He could feel the heat of her fingers through his suit jacket as she tugged his body closer.

Griffin didn’t bother resisting. Not when his lips were on a collision course with her amazing breasts. He blew gently on the aroused tip. Marin’s fingers began clawing frantically at the fabric of his clothing.

“Easy, babe.” He trailed his lips over her flushed skin.

She let out a frustrated cry making Griffin chuckle before he put her out of her misery.

* * *

Marin arched her back, pleasure pooling at her core when Griffin finally—finally—put his lips to her skin. Another gasp escaped her throat when he blew on her nipple before trailing a row of kisses on the underside of her breast. Threading her fingers through his thick hair, she tried to guide his head to where she wanted him—needed him—most. She felt him smile against her skin. But then he was there, his wet mouth closing over her nipple, bringing her both pain and pleasure at the same time.

Her pulse throbbed wildly throughout her body. An agonizing tension was building between her thighs. She needed relief. But when she tried to move her hips, she couldn’t; his hard body had her pinned to the sofa. She tugged on his hair, but Griffin ignored her, too busy enjoying the banquet that was her breasts.

“Please, Griffin,” she cried.

This time he laughed out loud. Marin couldn’t decide between punching him or kissing him, the arrogant jerk. But then he shifted his torso upward allowing just enough room for his wicked hand to pass between their bodies.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered seductively just as his finger found her sweet spot. Slowly, he stroked her through her clothing, the silk of her panties dragging against the over-sensitized skin had her seeing stars.

“Does that feel good, Marin?” he murmured against her ear just before taking her earlobe between his lips.

“Oh, God, yes!” Marin panted.

Griffin chuckled again before sinking his teeth into her collarbone. His finger was still working its magic at her core. “What else do you want, Marin? Tell me. Tonight, I’m going to give you whatever you want. As often as you want it.”

She nearly came at his words. But she needed more. Wanted more. She worked her hand between them, her fingers finding the hard ridge of his desire. Now it was her turn to torture him. She cupped him through his trousers, taking great pleasure when he hissed against her shoulder.

“I want you,” she demanded. “Inside me. Now.”

He pushed up on his forearms so he was looking down on her. She shivered without his body to warm her. His eyes were as dark as the ocean in a storm. And they were full of so much desire her breath caught in her throat.

Marin reached up and brushed her thumb over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. “Make love to me, Griffin. Please.”

His lips slowly turned up in that devastating grin of his. “As often as you want.”

“You’re a little overdressed, though.”

She pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders. It got stuck at his elbows, but Griffin was too intent on kissing her to slide it off himself. While he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, she yanked at his tie and then the buttons of his shirt until she could feel bare skin beneath her fingertips. He moaned into her mouth when she dragged her fingernail over the flat pebble of his nipple.

Griffin’s kisses became more frenzied further stoking the fever that was raging within Marin. She tugged his shirt free from his pants. Reaching beneath the fabric to touch his flat stomach, her hand hit something hard on his side. With a start, she realized his gun was in a holster at his waist. A second later, she realized that Griffin’s body had frozen.

He pushed off of her with a jerk, his gaze moving erratically around the room as if he was seeing it for the first time.

“Shit!” He jumped off the couch. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Pulling on his clothing, he spun in a circle, one hand gripping the back of his neck.

“How could I let this happen?” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Marin didn’t move. She couldn’t. It felt as if she’d been doused with a bucket of water. Griffin looked everywhere in the room except at her. The icy fingers of rejection began to claw at Marin’s belly. He turned for the door.

“Griffin?” She managed to push the word out around the boulder in her throat.

He hesitated ever so briefly, his hand on the doorknob. Marin’s breath stilled in her lungs. But then he was gone. Without looking back. She heard the chime of the elevator and then its door closing, but still, she didn’t move. It wasn’t until her teeth were chattering that she pulled the cashmere blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped her body in it. Marin took some solace in the warmth it provided. Too bad the blanket didn’t help alleviate the shame she felt.