He dragged her flush to his frame, where she could feel every hard bit of him against her body. “Good, because I believe we will be spending a lot of time in my office going over details.”

Desire unwound in her belly at his husky promise, and she shivered as she thought about all the things he had left to teach her.

“Are you cold?” he asked, drawing away slightly.

“Not in the least. Just considering how we will fill all those long nights ahead, Professor Ward.”

His grin turned positively predatory. “I’m certain we’ll come up with something. You always were a very diligent student.”

Rising up on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I do like to impress the teacher.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gotham Supper Club

One Year Later

Kit pushed through the swinging door that led into his wife’s domain. In other words, the kitchen. He found her at the range, sprinkling something green into a cream sauce. “My love, the ladies are growing restless. I am slightly afraid to go back out there.”

Alice’s mouth curved. “They adore you.”

“And who could blame them? However, they do get quite rowdy when they are hungry.”

Each month, Alice cooked a five-course luncheon for ladies only. This was the single day of the month when just women were allowed in the supper club, and Alice invited various groups to come and dine. Suffragettes, radicals, political wives and actresses, women of every color and social status, all sitting side by side to enjoy Alice’s cooking. His wife often said that nothing could bring people together better than food.

He loved to watch her work in here, in total command and so very smart. Thanks to her innovation and talent, the supper club had sold all its memberships, despite some early grumblings about a woman chef. Kit hadn’t paid them any attention. Alice’s food spoke for itself and, as he predicted, the brouhaha died down once people tasted her creations. There wasn’t an empty seat to be had in the dining room when the place was open.

“Where are you with plating?” Alice asked over her shoulder.

Her first assistant and Mrs. Henry’s daughter, Opal, was busy preparing the tiny plates of oyster vol-au-vent. “Nearly ready, Mère Ward.”

Kit hid his grin. The title of mère was used in France for female professional cooks, and Alice’s staff had adopted it because she refused to let them call her “chef.”