by Nancy Warren
She snuggled up against him. Loving the feel of his body against hers, the way his heart pounded still, which she’d caused.
Today had ended up being a surprisingly good day – the best she’d had in ages. Also, exhausting, she realized, as she began to drift.
She jerked herself awake.
“I should get going,” she said, after a minute.
His arm tightened around her. “Don’t go. Not yet.”
She stared at his profile, shadowy in the dark. He had a strong, almost beaky nose and a no-nonsense jut of a chin. She wished she could read his mind. She wished she knew her own. To stay or not to stay.
So many things urged her to stay. Her body, replete and satisfied, but not so satisfied that she couldn’t imagine waking in the middle of the night to another bout of amazing sex. But then, what if Maxine was up early? Or George or, God forbid, Wiggins.
“Let me think about it for a minute,” she said.
“Is there anything I could do to convince you to stay?” he asked, skimming his hand down her front, bringing her tired body suddenly back to aching life.
“Yes,” she said, pushing up against his hand. “You could definitely convince me.”
He rolled her over and she found she could care less about what her sister or George or even Wiggins might think when she stumbled back to her room tomorrow morning.
He had her peaking before she’d even thought about it. She cried out an almost obscene number of times before they’d finally exhausted themselves and each other.
As they lay snuggled together, her head comfortably resting on his chest, his hand making idle patterns on her back, he said, “You are, without doubt, the most amazingly responsive woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of taking to bed.”
“I got a little carried away,” she admitted, turning her face into his chest.
“My dear, you have a body that was made for pleasure.”
“I wish you could have seen it a year ago.”
“Why?”
“A year ago I was running. I was more toned, more trim. Not so flabby.”
“Flabby?” He raised his head so he could look into her face. “I’ve never known a woman who couldn’t find something wrong with herself. You are perfect. I think you’re the most truly sensuous woman I’ve ever known. You make art out of food, you take pleasure in eating, in touch, in your body and in your partner’s. You are a rare and special woman.”
She wanted to believe him, she did, but she’d had a crappy year and her self-confidence wasn’t exactly hitting an all-time high. “You don’t think I’m fat?”
He shook his head. “I think you are perfect.”
Well, she was far, far, far from perfect, but if he wanted to think that, hell if he wanted to claim he thought she was perfect while they were lying here together naked, she was not in the mood to stop him.
With a sigh, she snuggled against him and closed her eyes, her lips still curved in a smile of satisfaction.
She awoke in the cold, gray light of dawn. She wouldn’t have woken at all had she not felt cold, for which she realized, she could blame Jack for leaving the bed. So long as she’d been curled against him, warm and occasionally very, very hot, she’d been content. Now, she found herself alone under crisp white sheets. She not only felt cold, but extremely naked.
The shower was running. By squinting her eyes at the clock she saw that it wasn’t even six. She could roll over and go back to sleep, and chance that Jack would catch her drooling on her pillow, or that the housekeeper would find her here when she came to do the room. No. Better to haul herself out of bed now, at once.
Rachel had never been a morning person. Working in the restaurant business hadn’t made her any less nocturnal, but she managed to heave herself out of bed and shove herself back into her clothes before the shower turned off.
Jack crept out of the bathroom a few minutes later with a furtive glance toward the bed. “You don’t have to worry about not waking me,” she assured him. “I’m up.”
“Ah,” he said, looking as good in a towel as he had in nothing at all. “Sorry to disturb.”
“It’s okay. I should get back to my room. Before, you know…”
He nodded. He glanced at the clock and shed the towel with no embarrassment, dressing with speed. He didn’t even kiss her good morning. Obviously, his thoughts were already in London.
“Well,” she said, “I’d better get going.” She took a step toward the door. It had been fabulous, amazing. The best night of her life. She wasn’t going to spoil it by wishing for more.
“Rachel, wait,” he said, before she’d taken more than a step. “I want to see you again.”
Her heart leapt. Oh, thank God. “I’d like that,” she said.
“Why don’t you come up to London?” He slipped into a clean shirt. “I’ll take you to dinner and the theatre.”
She sighed in pure bliss. “Sounds good.”
“All right. I’ll give you a ring. Have you got a mobile?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a California number.” And she reeled off her cell phone number. He pulled out his and programmed her into memory. Cool.
“I could make you breakfast,” she said, suddenly not wanting him to go.
He shook his head, buckling the belt on his trousers. “No time. The M5 will be murder if I don’t get away soon.”
She felt very unhappy with the M5. But Jack wanted to see her again. That was something.
“I never gave you a menu for your sister’s wedding,” she said, suddenly feeling like the worst caterer in the British Isles.
“Believe me, anything you make will be brilliant. You’re a genius with food.”
He came over and kissed her soundly, then grabbed his bag, which she now saw was neatly and completely packed, slipped into his shoes and left.
It was six o’clock in the morning, and she was the only person awake in Hart House.
She didn’t feel like sleeping, but she didn’t feel like hanging around here, either.
She made sure any trace of her was gone, including tucking in all the blankets and remaking the bed so it looked like only one side of the bed had been used. Satisfied, she crept out of the door and stealthily made her way back to her own room where she changed out of Maxine’s clothes once more, showered, and hauled on her usual jeans and a favorite black cotton shirt.
She let her hair hang free and put on a little makeup. Nothing like a night of great sex to put a person in a good mood, she thought, as she realized she was feeling better than she’d felt for months.
So, the restaurant had closed, so she’d failed at marriage. Her life wasn’t over. She was young, talented, attractive enough that a man like Jack Flynt could spend the night making love and paying her extravagant compliments.
Life was good.
Feeling grateful to Maxine and George for putting up with her for the past few miserable weeks, she decided to surprise them with breakfast.
Max, annoyingly, was right. She’d needed to get back to cooking. Now she couldn’t seem to stop. Something simple, she decided. An omelet with fresh herbs from the garden.
`
Chapter 7
Rachel told herself repeatedly she wouldn’t expect Jack to call. Wouldn’t expect anything. Just because he’d said he wanted to see her again did not mean that he was obsessively going over every detail of their night together the way she was, or even that he did, in fact, want to see her again.
Phrases like that should come with subtitles like in a foreign movie. “I’d like to see you again,” he’d say. Translation: I’m really not that into you. Don’t expect more. “I’ll call you,” meant You’ll never hear from me again. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.” I’ve already forgotten your name.
It didn’t matter. Hadn’t she hooked up with him exactly with a casual affair in mind? All she wanted was some uncomplicated fun. A chance to prove to herself and her battered ego that she was still a contender.
S
o, even as she rolled her eyes and scoffed when Max made some comment about how well she and Jack had hit it off, she felt warm all over.
And if she carried her cell phone with her everywhere, never let it out of her sight for a second, no one had to know why.
Somehow, she’d fallen into the business of the estate. Well, with Max for a sister, it was impossible not to. The woman was so full of energy and plans for raising revenue – a surprising number of which seemed to include food, and therefore Rachel’s input – that she kept busy. Too busy to mope and feel sorry for herself. Even better, she was appreciated. George had appeared horrified at first to find Rachel was the chief caterer on the estate, but she hazarded a shrewd guess that Max had informed him that work would be good for her poor, depressed sister, because he never argued again. What he did, was thank her. Repeatedly and sincerely for all her help.
It had been a long time since anyone had taken the time to thank her.
And he did it so charmingly. If his charm was inherited, no wonder his family had managed to thrive through centuries of turbulent history. Her sister, she had to admit, had chosen herself a great guy. How nice to know they were still out there.
Max had hinted that she and George weren’t getting married until Hart House was operating in the black. How could she not want her sister to be happy? So, she cooked, she catered, she sourced local suppliers, she planned.
She was in the old stables with Maxine, working out details of a corporate retreat for a big computer manufacturer who wanted to put on a medieval fair, with team building exercises that had to be authentic to the period. Her job was to create a menu of medieval food, then figure out how to feed it to three hundred workers who’d no doubt be exhausted from building a wall, fencing, archery, barging on the river and learning to party like it was 1399.
“It’s going to be simple fare, obviously,” she said to Max. “Back then, they’d roast whatever animals they’d raised or hunted, eat local produce. No potatoes, obviously, since they hadn’t discovered America yet. Honey for sweetening, I imagine. I wonder what spices were imported then? I’ll check.” She was scribbling notes to herself when her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Jack Flynt here.” He had a business voice on, she noted. “Did I ring you at a good time?”
Since he sounded so businesslike, and she was so happy to hear from him, she felt flirtatious. Turning away from Max she took a few steps toward the open door, hoping her nosy sib would assume she was searching out better reception. “It depends what you have in mind,” she said.
A short pause. “Naturally, I rang you to make lewd, filthy suggestions.”
“Then you picked the perfect time,” she said.
He laughed. “I may not say them,” he dropped his voice, “since I’m about to go into a meeting with the Italian trade commissioner, but I’m definitely thinking them.”
“Me, too,” she admitted.
“Can you come up to town on Saturday? We’ll poke around and I’ll take you to dinner.”
He’d called. And when he’d said he wanted to see her again he’d actually meant he wanted to see her again. She wanted to throw her phone in the air and scream with excitement. “Yes, I’d love it.”
“Great. Bring your toothbrush. I’ll drive you back down on Sunday.”
“A whole weekend? That sounds serious.”
“Once I get you naked, my sweet, I’ll show you serious.” He raised his voice. “Yes, I’ll be right there,” and then a few phrases in Italian. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Ciao.”
She turned to find Max standing much closer than was even remotely polite. “Was that Jack?”
“You have no subtlety whatsoever, do you?”
“Too many years in television. Well?”
She nodded, wondering if she looked as pleased with herself as she felt. “He’s invited me up to London for the weekend.”
“Oh, my God. I knew it. You slept with him, didn’t you?”
She nodded, unable to stop the smile that bloomed.
“And?”
“It was fantastic.”
“Best ever?”
The grin widened. “No contest. I swear one more orgasm would have killed me.” She sighed, already thinking ahead. “A whole weekend.”
Max’s delight dimmed a notch and a worried frown creased her forehead. “You know his reputation, don’t you?”
“Yes, sister dear, you warned me about him. I get it. But, you know what? I don’t care. He wants a casual, no-strings-attached affair and so do I.” She stuck her phone back on the clip at her waist. “You were right to manipulate me into coming here.”
“I didn’t—“
She silenced her with a look.
“It was for your own good,” Max mumbled.
“I know. And I’ve finally had a chance to get over myself enough to see that I’m free. Free of a man who didn’t deserve me and a restaurant that wasn’t mine. So, maybe I’m not such a failure after all.”
“Hallelujah. She gets it,” Max said, throwing up her hands.
“Maybe I can take some time for myself for a while. Time to have fun and hang out with unsuitable men who are great in bed. I can find another job. One day, I still hope to open my own restaurant. Until then, I can learn from better chefs. Maybe take some management training, so I won’t make the same mistakes I’ve witnessed.”
“Wow, three weeks in England and you’re a changed woman.”
“I really needed this, Max.” She felt her eyes go misty as she walked up to her sister. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
Maxine’s eyes filled, too. “Always.”
Rachel had been to London before. Once to take a course from a renowned chef and once she’d come to visit her sister when she was on location. But she’d never looked forward to London quite so much. She’d never had an amazing lover waiting.
Her train arrived at Victoria Station Saturday at noon. And there he was.
At a conservative estimate, there were three gazillion people in the station, rushing here and there, or loitering waiting for their train, eating at one of the cafes, or yacking on phones in every language ever spoken.
Among all that flow of humanity, she spotted him almost immediately. For a moment it was as though there was a hiccup in time. There was silence, the world stilled, all those cell phone talkers were muted, all the rush of motion halted. There was only her and the man who had so easily helped her find her way back to herself.
She walked forward, so did he, and time was allowed to do the same.
Would he kiss her in front of all these people? Did she want him to?
He did. And she did. And as their lips met, she leaned into him. Oh, he was already so familiar, and her body wanted to get as close as it could to him.
“Hi,” he said. Taking her weekender bag in one hand and linking his fingers in hers with his other. “What do you want to do today? See the changing of the guard? Visit the Tower? Madame Tussaud’s?”
“We could, but I saw all that last time I was here.”
“What about Notting Hill then? Excellent shops, interesting architecture, good places to eat.”
“In what part of London do you live?”
He grinned down at her. “Notting Hill.”
She grinned back. “Excellent choice.”
“Good. We can drop your bag off and then go out and see the sights.”
She gawked like a tourist as they drove through London traffic. She loved the excitement of the city. The splendid old buildings, the surprising green spaces, the monuments, the tube stations, the black cabs.
His home was a brick townhouse in a row of same, all looking Victorian and genteel. Inside, his décor tended to modern, sleek and much more neat than any other man she’d ever come across. This was the kind of place where she knew she wouldn’t have to shut her eyes before venturing into the bathroom, or do some Yogic, centering breathing before opening the refrigerator.
> “Do you want anything before we venture out?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen.
If a woman was launched on a short-term affair that centered around sex, then she wasn’t going to waste her time on salmon sandwiches and tea. She stepped closer. Looked him in the eye. “I want you.”
“Thank God,” he said, and swept her into his arms. “I thought you might think I was a randy bloke who wanted nothing but a shag.”
She laughed, half breathless as he pushed her coat off her shoulders and pulled her sweater over her head. “Aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. But I didn’t want you seeing through me quite so quickly.”
There was a pool of sunlight splashing on the floor of the living area. It made the hardwood gleam and brought out the rich reds and blues in a Turkish rug. There he led her, pausing to flip a quilt she hadn’t noticed from the back of a grey couch. With one flick he had it open and floating to the ground like a picnic blanket.
The thought flashed through her mind that it was a familiar move. And the quilt was washable. Very practical for a quickie in the living room. One of the intricate wooden boxes arranged on a nearby shelf no doubt contained condoms and there was a handy box of tissues tucked in behind.
A flicker of … something: sadness? Regret? She banished. She’d gone into this with her eyes open. She knew what he was. He was a good-time guy, a charming rogue who’d love her and leave her unless she left him first. Which, she reminded herself, was exactly what she wanted. Some fun, some great sex, some laughs, no tears or recriminations when it was over.
And a man who had a sex station, likely in every room of his home, was a man you could trust to run an affair smoothly.
She helped herself to a cushion off the couch, in a pattern that harmonized with the rug. Stepped out of the rest of her clothes and sank cross-legged to the cushion, watching with pleasure as he stripped.
