Cake Read online

  She won’t be satisfied with just one bite….

  Art student–slash–bike messenger Wren Davis pursues what she wants. And what she wants now is Gregori Ivanov, rock star of the Seattle art scene. With his tattoos, piercings and sensual sneer, Gregori is the ultimate bad boy. Wren’s gotten to know the man beneath the body art, too—and it only makes her crave him more.

  But Gregori loves women like he loves cake and champagne—intensely, but only for the moment. And after Wren experiences just how scorching sex with Gregori is, she’s determined to show him that just one taste won’t be enough….

  To my lovelies on the Loop That Shall Not Be Named for a trip to Vegas complete with inspiration via a red Mohawk and leather pants.

  Dear Readers,

  Cake started out with a sentence in my head—he loved women like he loved cake. I loved Gregori, this hard-edged artist with tattoos, piercings and a bright red Mohawk, and I loved that he had a thing for champagne and sweets.

  What was the most fun was putting him through the paces my heroine had in store for him. Wren is a strong-willed, intelligent, independent artist in her own right. She wants him and she absolutely has no plans to let him wall her out. Especially once they manage to break past all his reservations and they end up in bed.

  Wren isn’t a pushover. She’s not a doormat. She doesn’t let him push her away with all the exterior stuff he’d used to keep everyone thinking he was a shallow, selfish hedonist.

  Now, she does enjoy those aspects of Gregori’s personality. The leather pants, the lines of Cyrillic winding up his body. The way he knows just exactly what to do with a woman’s best parts. They have smoking-hot sexual chemistry from the start. But Wren knows there’s more between them. He’s worth knowing, and she’s worth being loved, and they have to struggle some to find a way to make the pieces fit.

  There is cake in the story. And champagne, and Ladurée macarons (admittedly, Gregori and I share a weakness for these things—write what you know!). But at its heart, Cake is a story about two people who seem like opposites on the outside but who connect in a way no one else possibly could.

  Happy reading!

  Lauren

  CAKE

  Lauren Dane

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  She heard the music as she ascended the stairs and knew he’d be working. Her heart sped as she hastened her pace. Watching Gregori Ivanov work was a sensual treat. He tended to fall deeply into his work. The building could fall down around him and he wouldn’t notice.

  There was something incredibly sexy about that. His intensity was a little overwhelming, but in the best sort of way.

  Once she got to his floor, she didn’t bother ringing the bell—Gary Clark, Jr. was playing so loud Gregori wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

  She let herself into the front entry of the massive space Gregori occupied. Three stories of windows washed the place in light. He took up a corner of the old building in Pioneer Square. Depending on where you stood, you could see Puget Sound or the redbrick buildings lining First Avenue.

  She dropped the envelopes and the box she’d been delivering on the counter and wandered into his studio, leaning against one of his worktables to watch him.

  Pale winter sun gleamed against his bare back. Ink trailed along his spine, over lean muscle. Lines of poetry, mainly in Cyrillic, wrapped around his forearms. Barbed wire marked his ribs, interspersed with more words. When he went shirtless, she’d discovered both his nipples bore silver hoops. He wore fingerless leather gloves, one hand grasping some sort of tool as he prowled around a large metal sculpture he’d been creating for the better part of the past three weeks.

  His hair, currently scarlet red, stood up in liberty spikes, but other days he didn’t bother with the full Mohawk effect and he put it in a ponytail to keep it from his eyes. On many it would have looked ridiculous. But on Gregori? It worked. Like really, really worked.

  He wore eye protection, but she knew beneath the goggles his eyes were hazel, fringed with sooty lashes usually at half-mast like he was thinking of something particularly dirty.

  He worked in jeans so old they bore threadbare spots in all the right places and, though he often went barefoot around the loft, today he wore work boots.

  In short, he was a visual buffet. And she was really hungry.

  He stalked and paused. Bending to tug on something. Or to grab more tools and sharpen a piece. Wren just watched. Fascinated by the way he created.

  It went on this way for another twenty minutes until he finally looked up and noticed her there.

  He slid the goggles up, a smile marking his mouth. “Wren. How long have you been here?”

  His accent was jagged. Like he was. He spoke in staccato bursts, the sharp twists of his words sliding through the air between them.

  “I don’t know. Twenty minutes maybe. Half an hour? I brought some paperwork by and a box. Kelsey says you need to sign the papers in the red envelope and get them back to her.” Kelsey was Wren’s cousin and Gregori’s personal assistant.

  He often proclaimed to hate signing things and attending to the business side of his art so she wasn’t surprised when he sighed, taking the goggles and gloves off.

  Ignoring the sigh, she stepped closer. “Can I?” Wren tipped her chin toward the sculpture.

  He shrugged, pleasure mixing through his annoyance. “Sure.”

  She took it in. A man, crouched in the grip of briars and something else she couldn’t make out. The metal was polished in some places, hammered in others. Sharp edges fanned out here and there. “Like flames,” she murmured.

  “Yes. Exactly.” He moved closer and his scent caught her attention. Sweat, soap, the product he used in his hair. The fuel from the welding stuff he used. It all married together and became essentially Gregori.

  “This is brilliant.” Wren wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t a lie. He was a genius. One of those rare few who not only made a living at what he did, but had ascended to art celebrity.

  He made a sound. A growl of sorts. “It’s missing something.” They both looked at it for some time longer until he sighed. “Come have tea with me.”

  He issued the invitation like a command. He tended to be imperious at times. But she rarely took him seriously, so she let it wash over her and perhaps might even have liked it. A little bit.

  “While the water is boiling, sign that stuff or Kelsey will only send me back here.”

  They’d known each other for a year or so by that point, she having met him by bringing things to his loft several times a week. Over that time they’d developed a flirty back-and-forth and the more often she came to his place, the deeper the sexual undertones began to dig.

  He looked up from where he’d been spooning the loose tea into a pot. “Do you have other things to do instead?”

  “Are you asking if I have anything else but bringing papers, checks and doodads to Gregori Ivanov in my life?”

  He laughed. “Do you?”

  “I do. Shocking, I know, to imagine a world outside running errands for an eccentric artist, but there it is.”

  He sniffed, his lids falling as he took in the scent of the tea. “Bergamot. I love it.” His eyes snapped open, gaze homing in on Wren, who’d perched at the nearby table. “What’s a doodad?”

  “Little bits of this and that.” At his puzzled look, she got up and moved into the main room. He had a collection of what looked like gears scattered across a shelf. She
pointed. “Like this. A generic term for bits of stuff. One of my moms says doohickey or thingamabob.”

  “Hmm. I like those terms. I do suppose you bring me all manner of little bits on a regular basis.” The teapot whistled and he turned to deal with it. “There may be something to eat in the fridge.”

  She moved to the sleek, stainless-steel work of art that filled her with refrigerator envy every time she saw it, peeking inside. For a supposed wild bachelor, he had a lot of really good things to eat. “Cheese, honey and nuts?”

  “Hmm, yes. There are crackers in the cabinet.”

  She began to pull things out, pouring nuts into small bowls, hunting down the honey.

  “How’s school?”

  Wren was going to art school at Palomar, an arts college. Her messenger job paid part of her bills and had the benefit of being flexible around her classes. She was also working on her newest graphic novel and a few digital side projects. It kept her ridiculously busy, but she was never bored.

  “Fine. I’m really digging my autobiographical comics course. I’ve got a digital-imaging class I’m learning a lot from.” She shrugged.

  “You should bring more for me to look at. You haven’t in a while.”

  It made her uncomfortable. Not to seek his opinion. She respected him as an artist. But she knew others took advantage and she never wanted him to think of her that way.

  He had a hot button about it. Being used. It was part of the reason he always wore his reputation as the chain-smoking, hard-drinking, inked-up wild man in bed to keep people back. He shared part of himself with others, but he controlled just how much. She’d rather have this connection, sitting, drinking tea and eating cheese and crackers, than the bored celebrity with the big dick.

  “Maybe next time.”

  He took the tea to the breakfast nook and sat. She joined him, nibbling on the cheese and crackers while her tea cooled.

  “What’s this piece for anyway?”

  “A commissioned piece. Rich guy wants it for the front of his office building.” He shrugged.

  He always acted like it wasn’t a big deal.

  “Nice. That piece will absolutely make the front of any building look amazing.”

  He ducked his head a moment, sipping his tea until he looked up again, gaze locking on hers. “Tell me about your work. You don’t only do what you’re told to in class. You had a graphic novel. What’s the status with that?” His tone, to an outsider, would have been imperious. An order given to an underling. Even a slight emphasis on the what you’re told to that made it clear what he thought of her need for school. It was partly the Russian in him, partly the artist thing and partly because he was one of the most supremely self-assured people she’d ever met.

  At first, when she’d started delivering things to him and he’d addressed her in such a way she’d thought he hated her. Or that he was a rude asshole. Or both. But after a while she realized it was just his delivery.

  When it came to his perception of art school he was most definitely abrupt. He was old school and in his opinion you had it or you didn’t so why waste time in classes? Given his path—self-taught, sold his first piece at fifteen and now routinely sold pieces for six figures—it would have been a waste of time.

  But she’d been exposed to so many things in her program. So many paths she could take. She’d learned about types of art and design totally out of her major, but that would serve her anyway. What she did was different from what he did. How she took in information was part of her process.

  “I’m still working on it. I’ll have it finished in a few weeks I think.”

  “I want to see it. You’re very stingy with it, Wren. Didn’t I just show you mine?”

  “Are you offering to show me yours if I show you mine?”

  He paused, thinking over what she’d said until his mouth curved into a slow grin. “Ahh, well.” He shrugged but managed to make it dirty and suggestive. “But I did show you mine, didn’t I? Unless there’s something else you’d like to see?”

  She blushed straight down to her toes. Flirting with him was big league. “Maybe so. I’ll bring it by sometime.”

  “Bring it next time you come. Kelsey always has something else to make me sign so it will be soon enough.”

  “All right.” She finished her tea and dusted her hands off. She didn’t want to rush off, but she’d been there nearly an hour and she had work to do. He kept getting a faraway look on his face and she knew he was thinking about his own work.

  She carried the dishes back to his kitchen. “Thanks for the tea.” She moved to the entry counter and indicated the envelopes. “I need to run and you need to sign these papers.”

  He frowned. “Always with the signing.”

  “Poor you.”

  “You have no sympathy. A hard, hard woman.” One of his brows rose as she snorted.

  “Kelsey will kill me if I don’t return with these. And, if I have to come back, you have to pay a delivery fee the second time. You sign the papers, she takes care of things and makes your life easier. Seems to me, buster, you need to stop crying and pick up a pen.”

  “Other people are nice to me.” He read through the papers, signing where he was supposed to.

  “Meh. Stop pretending you’re not business savvy. I know you and your game. As for other people?” She rolled her eyes. “Other people want things from you. I just want your tea.”

  “I have better things to offer besides tea, you know.” He waggled his brows and she laughed, though she couldn’t fight the flush building through her belly.

  “Yeah? You offering any of that up?”

  He signed the last sheet, tucked all the papers back into the envelope and turned to face her. “I’m not sure you have enough time for all I have to offer.”

  She stepped close enough to touch the envelopes, which put her just an inch or two away from his body. “Try me.”

  The moment stretched taut between them, heating slowly, deliciously. Until he stepped back with a raised brow and a harrumph. “Go on then, Wren. Bring me something more fun next time.”

  She took the envelope, tucking it into her bag. “I already bring myself. Nothing is more fun than that.”

  One corner of his mouth rose. “I bet.”

  She turned, heading out, but paused at the door. “One of these days, you should see for yourself.”

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t until she’d gone that he realized he’d forgotten to give her the tickets for his show. Or even let her know he had a show coming up.

  He stalked back to his workroom, pausing for a cigarette after he was sure all his welding supplies were shut off.

  French. One of his small indulgences. He slid one from the pack and the scent of the Turkish tobacco rose. Distinctive. Connected to his work.

  He loved the act of tapping the edge against his lighter. The ritual of putting it between his lips, the flick of the lighter and that first rush of nicotine into his system.

  Yes. He knew they were bad for him. His dentist told him so every six months. His doctor told him so. He’d cut back to two or three a day. Almost always while he worked.

  The light was good, he thought as he smoked, looking at the flames of metal. The color was also just right. Nearly bronze in places.

  He smiled as he thought of how Wren had understood nearly immediately that he’d been creating flames. Intuitive, that one.

  He really didn’t need to have tea. He’d known exactly what needed to be done next. But more and more often as their friendship had grown, he found himself delaying her departure to spend time with her.

  Gregori picked up one of his hammers and moved to his worktable where several sheets of metal he’d cut earlier that day sat. He worked, still thinking of her, of the way she’d teased him and of how he’d teased her back.

  It wasn’t that he never flirted. He was rather shameless about flirting, as it happened. He loved women. Came by that love honestly as he got it from his father. He flirt
ed as easily as he breathed.

  But with her it was different. She wasn’t world-weary. Wasn’t a social climber. She flirted back but it was…not pure, no, he was quite sure Wren Davis knew what she was doing. It lacked artifice. Which made her dangerous.

  The artist, named after a bird, who delivered packages and envelopes to pay for art school. He stubbed the cigarette out, exhaling the last of the smoke from his body as he thought of her.

  Long and tall. She moved as if she knew exactly where she was going and what she planned to do once she arrived. She often had her hair braided, held back from her face, exposing that beauty so easily.

  Freckles danced over the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, bold and bright blue, took in the world all around her. Gregori always got the feeling she weighed, accepted, approved or rejected things as she went.

  She wore jeans a lot, though in the summer she’d worn shorts. She had lovely legs. Powerful, probably from bicycling up and down the hills in downtown. He liked the warm days because she wore T-shirts and tank tops, exposing the outline of some seriously gorgeous breasts.

  Glasses often perched on her nose. He wondered why she hadn’t gotten the surgery to fix her eyesight. Glasses worked for her in any case, though he wondered how they affected her when she worked on her animation for long hours at a time.

  Art school. He scoffed as he began to pound the metal, shaping it, giving it texture. He’d gotten a few peeks at her work. She had a lot of talent. She didn’t need art school.

  Wren was vibrant and clever and certainly one of the best parts of his day when she stopped in. A constant in a world he knew was filled with mostly temporary people and experiences.

  He blew out a breath and fell back into his work. He’d deal with the tickets the next day.

  Wren found her friends already seated in a booth near the back windows of the tavern. They waved, calling her name as she made her way through the already burgeoning Friday night crowd.

  The music was loud, but not so loud she couldn’t hear Kelsey tell her they’d just ordered her a margarita.