by Nancy Warren
No lurking teachers or, in fact, anyone appeared to impede his progress and he found himself in good time for before dinner cocktails.
George and Max were the only ones in the room.
“You’re looking gorgeous, Maxine,” he said, stepping forward to give her a light kiss. She did, too, in a sleek black dress and heels.
“Thank you. Rachel’s checking on dinner. She doesn’t trust Mrs. Brimacombe,” Maxine told him and then glared at George. “Which is all your fault.”
“All I did was tell her that Mrs. B’s style of cooking is to boil everything to buggery.”
“Quite right,” Jack said. “The foundation of British cuisine, in fact.”
“I thought that was fish and chips.”
“No, darling. You’re thinking of sausages and mash.”
Maxine said, “I’m still waiting to try toad in the hole.”
“And wait til you’ve tried Mrs. B’s Bubble and Squeak,” George said. “Which, believe me, you will. And that’s not as bad as … Ah, here she is now.” They all turned to the doorway.
Jack had expected that Rachel would clean up quite nicely, but he’d had no idea how well. He was fairly gobsmacked. The surly chef was stunning, with voluptuous curves in all the right places, sparkling eyes and a mouth made for temptation. Her hair was pinned up, but a few wild curls played around her face and neck. He itched to get his hands into that thick, lustrous hair.
Whatever mysterious thing she’d done with makeup brought out her eyes and accentuated those full and extremely kissable lips.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
She seemed to grow even prettier with the compliment, and glanced, half laughing at her sister.
A tiny pause was filled by George, ever the consummate host who said, “Dry sherry as usual, Rachel?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Everything all right with dinner?” Max inquired.
“Your helper didn’t throw everything in a pot and put it on to boil?” George added.
“No. There was a little muttering, but no mutiny.”
Voices could be heard in the hall and then Arthur Denby entered, followed by an elegant, fine-boned woman. They’d never met, but he knew from George that she was a relatively famous American writer of terrifying thrillers. He didn’t know what he’d expected, wild eyes and witch-like hair, he supposed, and that she’d be dressed all in black. But this woman, wearing a cashmere sweater and slim camel-colored trousers could be a solicitor or a banker. She had that calm, capable and intelligent look about her.
He was introduced, shook hands with her and Arthur, whom he hadn’t seen in months, and then chose a seat beside Rachel.
What would this odd lot find to talk about? he wondered.
It turned out that Rachel was a fan of the writer, and the writer had twice eaten in Rachel’s restaurant when she’d visited Los Angeles.
“Your cooking is amazing.”
“Not as amazing as your books. I couldn’t go into the meat freezer for weeks after I read Gristle and Bone. Honest.”
Meg Stanton chuckled, obviously delighted to have terrified someone who’d paid good money for her book. And people thought his business was cutthroat.
“When’s your next thriller out?” Max wanted to know.
“Next week.” She glanced at Arthur and a look passed between them that had Jack betting on yet another wedding before he’d had time to get his tux back from the dry-cleaners. “I’m leaving for a book tour next week. Arthur’s coming with me.”
Rachel sat forward in her chair, so thrilled to be talking to a favorite author that she was unaware of his scrutiny. He knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. With the animation in her expression, the hair, the makeup, the clothes, she was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, in a real way.
He needn’t have worried they’d all have nothing in common. They were talking and laughing as though the six of them had known each other forever.
Wiggins, who Jack always thought had learned his butlering from watching too many Noel Coward plays in summer rep at Brighton and Newcastle upon Tyne, stepped into the room.
“Dinner is served, Miss Maxine.”
There was a half-glance, almost of apology at Maxine. He wondered how soon it would be before Wiggins was announcing, “Dinner is served, your ladyship.” From the way George and Maxine acted around each other, Jack -- who considered himself an expert having been involved in so very many weddings in the last few years -- suspected Wiggins wouldn’t have long to wait.
Another wedding.
Soon, he’d be the last of the old guard. Well, except for Haverstock who’d last been heard of in a submarine off Antarctica. Unless he hooked up with a polar bear or a penguin, Jack felt safe. Though Havers was just mad enough that he might yet surprise them.
They adjourned to the small dining room and he was seated beside the writer, and across from Rachel. If she was nervous about her food, she didn’t show it. He was curious to see if a woman who included neutering men with fresh produce from five yards in her talents, could also cook.
He wasn’t going to be critical. He’d eat and find something to admire even if the entree tasted like dung cakes.
It didn’t.
The first course told him that she could indeed cook.
Carrot soup you could get anywhere, but then he tasted it. She’d flavored it in a way that made his tongue weep with joy. She mentioned the herbs in the kitchen garden and he wondered how she’d turned those weedy looking clumps into magic.
“Oh, mmm. This is fantastic,” the author moaned. “I remember reading that in your restaurant you only used organic ingredients and they had to be grown or produced within a certain radius.”
“That’s right. Fifty miles was my limit. I believe everything tastes better when it’s fresh and local.” She gestured to the plates. “Everything on tonight’s menu is made from local produce. It was fun trying different things.”
Max looked at George. “This is a great marketing hook, too, you know. If we always try and serve local it supports our farmers and growers.”
“Probably more expensive, though,” Jack felt somebody should mention it.
“Can you put a price on better flavor? Vitamin retention? Local goodwill?” Rachel asked.
In fact, it was his job to do just that, but when he put her food in his mouth he felt churlish arguing with her. The woman was a bloody genius.
The lamb was done with a sauce he didn’t recognize, but which she informed them had quince in it. He wanted to lick the plate when he was done. Dessert was a tarte tatin made, she hastened to assure him, with apples that grew right here on the property, and even the soft cheese was local, served with pears and a sauterne from the cellars that, like all the wine George had chosen was not local. Some of the bottles were older than the six of them sitting here drinking them.
Conversation and laughter flowed until the candles were low, coffee drunk and one of the most pleasant evenings Jack had spent in a long while wound down.
It wasn’t only the food and the conversation that had made the evening exceptional. There was an energy flowing between him and the sexy chef across from him that kept things interesting. He’d catch her eye and see speculation. When he spoke, she listened intently. He found himself doing the same, though, in truth, he learned everything he needed to about her from her food.
Bold, sensuous, creative. He wanted very much to know her better.
Tonight, if her teasing, and increasingly bold glances were any indication, he would.
Chapter 5
Meg and Arthur left soon after coffee, promising to stay in touch from the States. Rachel could see that George and Maxine were dying to go up to bed, too. Probably, they were being polite and waiting for her and Jack to go up, but she wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight to the man with whom she’d been secretly – or maybe not so secretly – flirting with all evening.
Finally, she said, “I think I’ll check o
n the kitchen. Make sure Mrs. Brimacombe left everything in good order.”
“I’m sure she will have,” said George.
“I like to make a final check of my kitchen. Occupational hazard,” she said. Then as she rose said, as though it was an afterthought, “Jack, would you like to come with me? I can show you that local cheese you were so interested in.” Okay, it wasn’t the smoothest line she’d ever thought up, but it worked.
He was on his feet before she finished speaking. “I’d love to. I’ll say goodnight then, George, Maxine. Thanks for a great evening.”
“Pleasure. See you tomorrow.”
“Probably not. I’ll head out early to miss the traffic.”
“Right. Give us a ring, then, if there’s anything more on the wedding.”
“Will do.”
Max said goodnight, but her attention was on Rachel, who sent her sister a tiny wink and hoped she’d mind her own business. Amazingly, for once she did and suddenly Rachel found herself outside with Jack. Alone. The quickest way to the kitchen was obviously through the house, but they both knew it wasn’t local cheese they were interested in.
The evening was cool, fall slowly fading.
The full moon looked like an ancient gold coin; the sky was haphazardly dotted with stars where the clouds hadn’t obscured them. The air carried the scent of the river, trees and grass. Their footsteps crunched on the pea gravel.
She tipped her head back and breathed in. “I love it here,” she admitted.
“It’s so quiet after London.”
“And L.A,” she agreed.
“Do you miss it?”
“L.A. or the restaurant?”
“Both, I suppose.” From the conversation this evening, he’d learned the sad history of her not-so-brilliant career.
She thought about his question. Tried to answer honestly. “Yes. And no. I miss the work. I loved what I was doing, but I didn’t like the people running the place. So I guess my feelings were mixed. I miss some things about L.A. Being near the ocean is great, and I don’t know, there’s an energy there that’s kind of nuts but invigorating, you know?”
“Sure.”
“I really needed to get away, though. I was in a bad place.” She caught herself and laughed. “And if that isn’t a California expression, I don’t know what is.”
She could see his lips curve in the moonlight. She was aware of him in every cell of her body. Felt him looking at her when her gaze slipped away, tingled when his arm brushed hers. “What does it mean exactly?”
“Me being in a bad place?” She sighed. “You really want to know?”
“Of course. I’m…curious about you.”
The notion warmed her blood. Nobody was curious about her these days but her mother and Max. And really, the term she’d use for them would be nosy …. Interfering … bossy! Curious was a balm to a bludgeoned ego.
“My restaurant closing kind of kicked the teeth down my throat. I guess I’d forgotten it wasn’t really mine. I worked so hard it’s like I was obsessed, and when things got bad I worked harder. I’m so tired.”
“There was more to it than that, though, wasn’t there.” His words were soft, encouraging her to blurt more than she’d intended.
“Are you really this perceptive or has my beloved sister been spilling my secrets?”
“Your sister warned me away from you, it’s the only clue she gave me that there’s some mystery. I got my biggest clue from the way you acted with me in the kitchen. You seemed violently anti-marriage, which, naturally made me curious as to why.”
“I’m sorry about that, by the way. If you hadn’t startled me, and I hadn’t thought you were the cat—”
“No, really. Perfectly understandable mistake,” he said in that smooth, well-bred way that for some reason made her want to laugh.
“I got divorced,” she finally admitted. “It came through a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was a rat. It’s only that having two such spectacular failures so close together kind of screwed me up. You know?”
“Of course. So, now, due to disappointments both personal and professional, you’ve pledged yourself to a life of celibacy, from which all men are excluded and you will only use your considerable cooking talents as a chef for private parties.”
She laughed, delighted with him.
“No,” she said, turning to him. “I’m not giving up on the idea of another restaurant, and I am certainly not giving up on sex.” What the hell? If there was ever a moment to take the initiative it was this one. What did she care what he thought of her? This wasn’t about courtship or love or any of those old-fashioned notions she’d once believed in. This was about admitting that the blood flowing through her veins was hot, and that she was still a young woman with needs.
The man beside her, drawing her in with the intimate message in his eyes, was reminding her urgently of how much she was a woman with needs.
“I have not taken a vow of celibacy,” she promised him.
“Really?” He sounded as interested as she could have hoped. He moved closer until they were almost touching.
“Really,” she said, and taking his face in her hands, leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him.
She brushed his lips softly with her own. She meant it to be a not-so-subtle message saying, I’m available if you’re interested. But the second their mouths met, something happened. Shocks, sparks, shooting stars. All that stuff she no longer believed in showered around her, in her.
He made a surprised sound and pulled her forward, hard enough that she was snapped against him, body to body. He took over the kiss.
Whoo-wee, did he ever. She felt almost lifted off her feet by the impact. His mouth was warm, firm, sexy and delicious.
Standing there in the golden glow of a harvest moon, in the shadow of a castle, wearing her borrowed finery of velvet and gold and lace, she felt as much a fairy tale princess as any woman ever has.
Why not be swept off her feet? For a few days or weeks, even a few hours? What was the harm? What could it hurt?
So she let herself go, melting against him, the way the beetroot aioli had melted over her medley of autumn vegetables. Opening her mouth to him, to taste the flavor and texture.
Her heart stuttered, her blood pounded, she’d forgotten she could feel so alive.
“I want you,” he mumbled against her skin. “God, I want you.”
“I know. I want you, too,” she admitted, wondering if she’d ever in her life felt this urgent. This desperate. His hands ran up and down her back, over her hips. His mouth plundered and feasted.
She clutched his shoulders, then ran her hands through his short hair. His scalp was hot and she knew he was as feverish for this as she. When his hand cupped her breast she leaned into his warmth and touch. Wanting more.
“Where’s your room?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Too close to my sister’s. Yours?”
“In the guest wing. We’ll go there.”
“Yes. Okay, yes.”
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, as they continued walking in the opposite direction of the massive front door, “The servant’s entrance?”
“The kitchen.”
“Right, of course.”
She’d told Maxine and George she was checking out the kitchen and, though she suspected they knew it was a ruse, she tried to be a woman who told the truth. Besides, the kitchen drew her, she realized as she walked into the restored order of a clean kitchen between meals.
If the body had a core, as her Pilates instructor insisted, then so, she reasoned, did a house. Or even a castle. To her, that core was the kitchen. Somehow, walking in to the order and efficiency of this place where she created both art and nourishment, fed her in some indefinable emotional way.
She liked that she’d met Jack in her kitchen. She liked that he was here with her as she walked around, making sure the sink sparkled, putting the basket of eggs
in the refrigerator. She and Mrs. Brimacombe were going to come to blows, she suspected, over eggs.
Jack watched her, this elegant, voluptuous woman at her homely tasks. She’d changed subtly, when she entered her kitchen. She moved with a sense of purpose and control. Pride, he realized, when she ran a hand across the counter, as though patting it goodnight.
Arousal is a funny thing, he’d found. The older he got the more he’d learned to appreciate the finer aspects. More than the blood-pounding urge to take and conquer, he’d discovered the slower, softer pleasures of desire. The subtle shifts in feeling, the myriad ways one woman is so wonderfully different from another. So, he could watch Rachel with the fever of impatience to have her, and at the same time, hang onto his ability to appreciate all the tiny things about her that added to her appeal.
She was a mystery, this woman he’d known only a few hours. Such a mystery. On the one hand he wanted to treasure the moments she remained a mystery and yet he was as anxious to discover all her secrets as a boy on Christmas morning, holding that special package from Father Christmas.
The urge to rush forward now, quickly, pulled against the desire to go slowly, take his time, savor, so there was a fine tension inside him.
When she was done with her checking and rearranging, she flipped off the lights, plunging them into darkness.
Wordlessly, they slipped through the door that led from the kitchen into the main house.
It was quiet. The soft night lights that George had installed illuminating the way for visitors who might otherwise end up lost and wandering the old pile until daybreak.
They crept by the marble bust of a Roman emperor, watched on their way by five hundred year old ancestors of George’s looking down on them in various aspects from virtuous nobility to licentiousness. He imagined the naughty ninth earl giving him a nudge-nudge-wink-wink as he made his way, with Rachel’s hand in his, through the long gallery to the guest wing.
