“Go back upstairs,” I say, exasperated.

He chuckles, a deep sound that presses straight between my legs.

He’s from the Constantine family, strictly speaking. His mother is Caroline Constantine’s sister. Geneva married into the infamous Hughes family. Which is why he’s always been invited to the Christmas Gala, even before this year. My mother isn’t going to snub the Vanderbilts. She isn’t going to snub the Kennedys. And she’s not going to snub the Hugheses—regardless of longstanding feuds.

“I’ll help you,” he says.

“Absolutely not.” My voice sounds breathless. I have to tilt my head up to look at him. When did he get so close? We’re only inches away. If I leaned forward our bodies would be touching.

“Why not?”

“Because my mother would freak out if she found you down here.”

“I’ll tell her I insisted,” he says with his megawatt grin that has probably gotten him out of trouble more times than I can imagine. Between his irresistible charm, his gorgeous silhouette, and a massive trust fund, this is not a man who’s been told no many times. “I’ll tell her that I want to learn how to bake after watching the Great British Bake Off. And you’re tutoring me.”

He’s teasing me, and I want to be stern, but I can’t keep a smile from teasing my lips. If I give him actual work to do, he’ll probably disappear. “Fine. You can pipe this while I make more.”

“Show me how.”

I lean over the counter to pipe a circle of cream in a simple design on a small mince pie. When I lean back I see that he’s been checking out my backside. Heat flashes through my body. I clear my throat and hand over the piping bag, aiming for an imperious expression I’ve seen my mother employ. “Your turn.”

His hair is brown, but his lashes gleam almost blonde against his tanned cheeks. He takes the piping bag from me and makes a clumsy circle around a mince pie. A little whipped cream ends up on the side of his hand. He meets my eyes and licks it off. I can read every dirty thought in those mischievous brown eyes. Every promise. Every position that he thinks about when he’s using his tongue.

My eyes widen. I speak past the knot in my throat. “Right. You can do the rest of the pies now.”

I whirl back around to face the mixer, my body alight. My nipples must be pressing against the silk lining my dress. Warmth pools between my legs. A husky laugh follows me.

I’m not sure I could speak again if my life depended on it.

I busy myself preparing another mixture. I keep my gaze straight ahead, but inside I’m listening behind me. I’m expecting to hear footsteps wander away.

Instead there’s only a concentrated quiet.