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THE BAKER'S MAN
No ISBN
Publisher: Newsite Web Services
Read an excerpt here.
Lena Korhonen and her sister Annie have finally started making it in the local catering world after years of hard work, only to have rival Jackson Portsmouth appear on the scene, threatening their livelihood—and Lena's heart. Circumstances throw Lena and Jackson together when Annie is injured, and Lena's cantankerousness requires Jackson to use, more than once, the old-fashioned cure of a good spanking to bring her to her senses. The two of them, well-matched in many respects, begin to fall in love with each other as they work a job together.
An overheard phone message after a night of spanking and making love convinces Lena that she's put her trust in the wrong man—again. She backs out of her commitment to a catering job that she was supposed to perform with Jackson. Without her help, Jackson is vulnerable to a sabotaging incident that jeopardizes his career and reputation. And, when the authorities clear him of any responsibility for poisoning those who ate his food, Jackson is hit with a civil suit. Now Lena must decide whether to obey her heart and stand with him, or obey her mind and stand with all the other caterers against him. And there's the question of whether Lena needs a really, really hard spanking for deserting Jackson at the last minute—only now, Jackson wants nothing to do with her.
Will these two stubborn people, made for each other, ever combine their hearts and lives and find a spanking-ever-after happiness? Read "The Baker's Man" and find out!
Excerpt from "The Baker's Man", © 2008 Barrie Abalard. All rights reserved.
Jackson Portsmouth's right foot shot out at his office's dented trashcan—and missed. Instead, he whacked his foot against a desk leg. While hopping on his good foot, he howled.
Great. Now I have a broken foot on top of everything. And it's my own damned fault.
His cell phone chirped, and he prayed for new business. He'd had to sell his cherry desk with matching file cabinet and executive chair last year to pay the bills. The newest thing in his office was the computer, and that was over three years old.
As he settled into his thrift-store chair, he forced his voice to sound smooth and professional.
"Yankee Elegance Catering. How may I help you?" Jerking his shoe off one-handed, he massaged his bruised toes.
"Mr. Portsmouth, I'm so glad I caught you. I know it's rather last-minute, but as it turns out, we're not going to need your services on Saturday after all."
"Oh. Have we done something wrong, Mrs. Jakes?" Jackson shot his glance skyward in disbelief. "Please let us make it up to you. Are you unhappy with the menu? Even at this late date, we could accommodate changes." His mind began calculating costs and time commitments. If he had to change what he would be serving, he could still turn a profit if he were careful.
"You've done nothing wrong. Tiffany has simply changed her mind, that's all, and is insisting we hire SweetKakes. She said all her classmates' parties are being catered by them. You know how teenagers are—they have to do what everyone else does."
"But, Mrs. Jakes, you know that you love our ham-and-asparagus tea sandwiches."
Yankee Elegance used to be the most popular caterer in town. Damned SweetKakes.
"Your presentations are exquisite, I agree. But Tiffany will throw a tantrum if I don't hire SweetKakes. She's quite firm on this and, after all, it is her party, not mine. Of course, we understand that you'll need to keep our deposit. I'm terribly sorry."
Upon hearing the click, Jackson's first impulse was to smash the phone against the wall. Instead, he turned it off and set it down gently. He couldn't afford a new one.
He raked his hands through his hair, thinking. Mrs. Jakes' deposit would barely cover the costs of the supplies he had already bought. He should start asking for more up front. A few hundred bucks was chump change for many of his clients. Or, should he say, former clients?
Jackson ground his teeth. SweetKakes was stealing all his business these days, it seemed. He wasn't buying this “Tiffany insists” stuff. He'd bet his competition had underbid him, because Mrs. Jakes had let the deposit go without a peep. It had to be money. Even the wealthy like a bargain.
He'd go see this SweetKakes upstart. After all, a man has to know his competition to learn how to beat them at their own game, and he didn't know much about them at all. In fact, he'd thought all they sold were desserts. His resolve hardened, he locked his office and unlocked his car.
I should revert to my old, ruthless self. I never cut anyone any slack back then, not even myself. It's time to bring back the good old days, even if I was miserable most of the time.
By parking across the street from SweetKakes after business hours, Jackson figured he wouldn't see anyone. Indeed, he didn't want to meet anyone connected with them, not yet. He was conducting industrial espionage and fighting for the survival of his business. That was why he'd driven his anonymous sedan rather than his well-marked delivery van to 85 Front Street.
A woman was repainting the trim on the Victorian triple-decker marked 85, the blue of it matching the late May sky. He squinted, inwardly shuddering at the colors on the old “painted lady”.
Give me a traditional New England house any day, white with black trim, or maybe dark green, if you were daring. This damned thing looks like a sunset—blue trim with purpley-pink on the rest of the house, the color Tess had called mauve.
Tess.
A stab of anger at her betrayal punched him in the chest, but he tried to ignore it. He needed to keep his mind on the problem at hand, which was that 85 Front Street looked more like a residence than a business. He powered down his window to take a better look. The female painter's sculpted calves started at the top of her work boots. He ran his gaze up her long legs to her curvy thighs. Here she blossomed, filling her brief denim cutoffs and making Jackson think, inexplicably, of cream puffs. Nice, fully-packed cream puffs, pale, soft, and delicious.
He swallowed hard, not willing to quit staring.
Her denim-clad lower half nipped in sharply at the waist, then expanded slightly outward, with her white tank top revealing muscle definition in her back and shoulders. His eyes widened when he realized the thin cotton top hid no bra.
Oh, man. Turn around. Please.
But she continued painting, oblivious to his gaze. Her long, straight hair, caught in a simple ponytail, resembled a swirl of caramel—or maybe butterscotch.
She turned toward him. He jerked his gaze away, pretending to look at the dilapidated property on his side of the street. He gulped the bottled water he brought with him and worked at ignoring his fierce erection. Obviously, it had been way too long since he'd had sex.
Excerpt from "The Baker's Man", © 2008 Barrie Abalard. All rights reserved.
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