And he was covered in flour.

What on earth . . . ?

She blinked, certain she was hallucinating. The kitchen grew quiet, but she could only focus on Kit, who froze at the workbench, a pastry brush in his hand. “Damn. You’re early,” was all he said.

“What are you doing here?”

The side of his mouth hitched sheepishly. “Making you babka.” He held up the brush and a small dish. “I was just glazing it now.”

The kitchen staff trickled out of the room until only she and Kit remained. Alice drew closer to the workbench. “Yes, but why? And how?”

“I cabled Mrs. Berman and she sent instructions. Chef Point helped me locate all the ingredients.”

She peeked into the bread tins. A bit flat, but otherwise two perfectly shaped loaves. “But this takes hours. How long have you been here?”

“I took the first train up from New York City. I arrived around nine-thirty.”

“Does my father know you are here?”

“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate, and the questions multiplied inside her mind. Was this why her father had sent her downstairs upon her arrival? What had Daddy and Kit discussed?

“And my father didn’t have a problem with you coming to bake in our kitchen?”

“No. He seemed quite entertained by the prospect.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I still don’t understand why you’re here and . . . baking.”

He set the brush down. “You once said that food makes memories. That it’s like love on a plate. And I believe it because I remember this bread, that particular evening, as the moment I fell in love with you. I saw you in a completely different light, as this competent and bossy—and incredibly alluring—woman. I’ve never wanted anyone more than when you sucked sugar off your finger. I tried to run, tried to deny what was happening, but that was the instant I was gone for you, Alice Lusk.”

She gripped the thick wooden top of the table, her mouth dry. Words eluded her. “Kit . . .”

For a brief second, he appeared insecure, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A chink in his rakish armor. “So what better way to prove I love you than to make this bread for you?” He slid one of the tins forward. “Why don’t you cut a slice?”

“It’s too hot. It needs to cool for at least twenty minutes.”

“I really can’t wait that long.” Holding the tin with a cloth, he tipped the hot loaf onto the tabletop and reached for the bread knife.

“Wait.” She came around to his side of the workbench and put a hand out to stop him. “You’ll ruin that bread if you cut it now.”

He sighed and placed the knife down. “Alice, there’s something in the bread.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“There’s something in the bread.”

“Repeating the words doesn’t make the meaning any clearer, unfortunately.”