by Nancy Warren
“Which little box holds the condoms?” she asked him.
If he was surprised that she’d guessed, he showed it only by the slightest flicker of an eyelid. “The middle one.”
“What’s in the others?”
“Why don’t you have a look?”
Knowing a dare when she heard one, she rose, as gracefully as a naked, not in very good shape woman can rise from a cross-legged position, and walked to the three boxes, knowing he was watching her, feeling his eyes on her larger-than-necessary ass. She went for the middle box first and, based on their last encounter, removed two condoms. Then, she opened the second box, wondering if, like Pandora, she might end up wishing she hadn’t peeked.
But there was nothing more threatening than a vibrator with a variety of attachments. She glanced at him over her shoulder with her eyebrows raised.
He grinned at her. “Definitely not something you need,” he said.
She lifted the lid of the third box and found a selection of flavored and scented lubricants and massage oils.
“Not bad for living room décor,” she said, feeling happy that he didn’t have anything that went beyond her comfort zone.
“Bring over whatever you like the look of.”
“Maybe later,” she said and launched herself at him.
This sex did not need any aides.
His hands were all over her, hers all over him. He pushed her into the sunlight, so she was utterly exposed to him and he seemed to glory in her.
Never had she felt so beautiful or delighted that her body responded so quickly. He kissed her deeply, running his hands over and over her breasts and belly. When he reached between her thighs she opened for him, sighing at his touch, blooming beneath his fingers. Her first orgasm took the edge off but also dropped her to a deeper level of sensation. Her skin was ultra-sensitive, so she was aware of the subtle heat of the sun coming through the window, of the soft cotton of the quilt beneath her, aware of each quivering inch of her body as he touched her.
He didn’t take the time to play as he had before; she sensed that his urgency was too keen. He took her, straight on, pushing in and up, filling her, reaching so deep inside that he began to feel like a part of her.
She watched his face change as his passion built, the way his eyes darkened and seemed to look inside her. Tiny sounds were coming from her throat, little sighs and helpless moans. She was climbing, trying to wait for him, but so excited she wasn’t sure she could.
“Let go,” he panted, kissing her, licking into her mouth. “Let go.”
As he said it he changed the angle, so he was rubbing her clit and nudging her G-spot and it didn’t take anything else to send her over the edge with a wild cry. Her body went crazy, bucking and rolling, pushing up, up, even as he thrust. She was clinging to him, feeling her body spasm around him, and then the motion grew even more frenzied as he threw back his head and groaned, spilling deep inside of her.
She wrapped her legs around him and held him tight against her. “Don’t leave,” she whispered, and he seemed to understand what she needed, continuing to move until she cried out once more against his shoulder.
“Any more waiting in the wings?” he asked.
She snorted. Then started to laugh. “I can’t help it.”
“Darling, don’t ever change.”
“I was a little … uh, needy, I guess.”
“I was fairly needy myself.” He sighed. “Now I’ve got a few of my wits back, I can kiss you properly.” And he did. So properly that it was another hour before they were ready to leave.
“Should I dress for dinner?” she called out to him from the bathroom upstairs. It was ensuite to his bedroom, which was as sleek, masculine and neat as the other rooms.
“Yes.”
She had no idea how fancy dinner would be, so she’d packed a classic little black dress and borrowed a red Pashmina shawl from Maxine. Her quick shower had caused her hair to bush out, of course, but she was used to that, and pinned it back with quick efficiency.
She felt well-sexed, as attractive as it was possible for her to look, and excited about the rest of the weekend. She had no idea what the rules were for this kind of casual relationship, but a whole weekend with Jack seemed like an enormous treat and one she wasn’t going to waste a moment of. By next weekend, she might well have been supplanted by an acting student from RADA or a European banking colleague.
When she emerged downstairs, he was talking on his cell phone. He waved to her and kissed his fingers to his mouth to her, Italian style.
“No, of course I understand.”
She could tell it was a woman he was talking to and turned away to examine the books in his bookcase. She couldn’t have said, afterward, whether he read philosophy or Manga, all her attention was on eavesdropping.
Instead of furtively skulking around the corner, Jack followed her into the room, phone still glued to his ear. He seemed to be doing a lot of reassuring and calming. Finally, he said, “Look. Everything’s going to be fine. Try not to worry so much. All right. Love you, too. Goodbye, darling.”
Her spine stiffened. Every muscle in her body stiffened. Darling? Were these the rules of casual dating in Notting Hill? You banged one woman and within the hour were calling somebody else darling?
When he clicked off the phone, she smiled brightly. “I hope I’m not overdressed.”
He’d opened his mouth to speak and now closed it. Blinking at her. “Don’t you want to know who that was?”
She kept her face carefully neutral. “I don’t think so.”
He still looked at her oddly. “Well, you should. It was my sister.” He grimaced. “She’s having second thoughts.”
“Second thoughts?” It was his sister. Yeah, sure it was. But what if it was his sister? Wouldn’t she feel like a suspicious fool? “What do you mean she’s having second thoughts?”
“The wedding. The one you’re catering? She’s having second thoughts about getting married.”
“Oh. That sister.” Okay, so it really was his sister, and he was right. If the wedding was off, Maxine was going to be seriously peeved. A lot of work had gone into that catering plan and the arrangements. The wedding, which would naturally be heavily featured in the society pages, was going to be a real showstopper, the kind of event that could set a trend. Maxine had hoped to see a lot of big, expensive weddings grace the grounds of Hart House. If Jack’s sister cancelled….
“How serious do you think she is? Would she actually cancel the wedding?”
“Hard to tell with Chloe. She’s chucked a wobbly in front of Mario, her fiancé. If he didn’t bend to her will, she’ll be in a right snit.”
“Wow. I hope for George and Maxine’s sake she goes ahead with her wedding.” Rachel wasn’t entirely sure what wobblies were, but felt confident Max wouldn’t want them chucked at Hart House.
“Let’s not worry about it now. She and the fiancé have had a row. Most likely they’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”
She probably ought to be worried for Hart House’s sake, but she was too glad to find that the woman he called darling was, in fact, his sister.
Not that she was in any doubt about his lifestyle, or under any illusions about the future, but it was nice to know he had more class than to talk to one lover in the presence of another.
“Right, we can catch a few shops, and then we’ll go to dinner.”
“Sounds good. I worked up quite an appetite.”
“Do you fancy walking? You’ll see a bit of the area, that way.”
“Oh, yeah. That would be great.” The street was busy with Smart Cars and Mini Coopers and cabs. They passed bakeries, independent record shops, tiny restaurants, and a sea of very trendy pedestrians.
“I thought you might be interested in that shop over there.”
She followed his pointing finger. A store selling nothing but cookbooks. “Oh, how cool.” She ran forward and peered into the window. “They’re closed.”
She pressed her nose against the window a little longer, seeing cookbooks she’d never heard of. Mostly European and British ones. “I think I could spend days in there.”
“If I hadn’t ravished you all afternoon, we’d have got there before closing. Oh, well, at least we haven’t missed our dinner reservation.”
“Where are we going?”
“Fleur de Lys.”
She stopped dead, so quickly that a man running in the opposite direction with a bouquet of flowers almost crashed into her. “Fleur de Lys? Are you kidding me?” She was so excited she was squeaking.
He allowed himself a tiny smirk. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased? I’m floored. Flabbergasted. You can’t get a reservation there for months. I know, because I emailed them from the States. The chef, Jerome Smollet, is the most amazing chef in Europe.” She was so excited she was talking faster and faster and her words were running together. Finally, she dragged in a quick breath. “Are we talking about the same Fleur de Lys?”
“I helped with the financing,” he said. As though that answered it all. Which, she supposed, it did.
She didn’t care that they were in the middle of the street and that this was a casual, short-term relationship. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“This is a great surprise. It’s the best surprise ever.” Her heart was pounding.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. “You’re a lot of fun, Rachel, do you know that?”
Everything about Fleur de Lys thrilled her. She loved the blue and gold door, the black and white entrance hall, the air of laid-back, trendy elegance. The hushed atmosphere of diners who appreciate food and knew they were about to have their palates pampered. The maitre d’ recognized Jack and welcomed him.
This was one of the top five restaurants in the world and the maitre d’ knew Jack by name. Okay, she was impressed.
They were led to a wonderful, intimate table for two in a corner that still gave her a good view of the room.
In a minute a waiter appeared with a silver tray on which sat two flutes of champagne. They hadn’t even seen a menu and she hadn’t heard Jack order anything, so she raised her brows.
“I told Jerome about you,” said Jack.
“You did?”
“Of course. I asked him to make us a meal. He’ll send out whatever he thinks we should eat along with the wines to go with each course. Are you willing?”
She leaned closer. “Other than the six orgasms you already gave me today, you could not have done anything that would thrill me more.”
He reached across the table for her hand. They clicked glasses and drank. “To the most amazing woman I have ever met.”
She nearly snorted French champagne through her nose. Her gaze darted to his and she was shocked at the expression she read. His eyes glowed and for a second she was shaken by the power of the connection she felt.
Tiny nibbles began to arrive. Always Jack had something different than she did so they shared. The sensuality of the food, of sharing with a man who got food in the way she did was exquisite. With no menu choices to worry about, they were free to concentrate on each other and on the surprises coming out of the kitchen.
They sat long over their food and wine and the coffee. It felt like she’d known him forever, and yet, because she hadn’t known him more than a week, there were all her stories to tell. All his stories to hear.
When the restaurant had begun to clear, she was about to suggest they leave, when yet another tray came up with a three cognacs. Three?
And there was Jerome Smollet. Even if she hadn’t read about him in Chef Magazine and recognized him from his picture in various publications, she’d have known him from the way dining patrons oohed and aahed as he stopped to chat. He made his slow way across the room, working it like a pro, in a manner she had to admire. He didn’t seem to hurry, but he didn’t spend more than a minute or two at each table.
When he got to theirs, she saw that he was younger than she’d realized. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He shook hands with Jack, who’d risen at his approach.
“Jerome, I’d like you to meet Rachel Larraby.”
“It is such an honor to meet you,” she said, feeling quivery and girlish.
“I’m a big fan of yours, too. I ate in your restaurant in L.A. a couple of years ago.”
“You did?”
“I wanted to send a message to the kitchen, but I lacked courage. You were so famous and I was virtually unknown.”
“I knew who you were. I wish you’d sent a message back.”
He nodded his head graciously. “Well, we meet at last.”
“Okay, I have to know, was there Sake in the sauce you served with the black prawns?”
And they were off. Two foodies talking about their passion.
Jack sat back, listening to the conversation but taking little part, watching her with that look. The one that warmed and chilled her at the same time.
On another man, that expression would be love sickness. But on Union Jack? The one who was always a groomsmen, never a groom?
Couldn’t be.
Chapter 8
Jack ought to have been bored rigid. He loved food. Loved good restaurants, enjoyed eating and tasting what he ate, but he wasn’t passionate about how every mouthful was constructed. He didn’t want the magic spoiled by seeing how the trick was done. But watching the two consummate chefs sharing their art was an education in itself. And he had the opportunity to sit back and watch Rachel. Did she even realize how special she was?
She had one of Europe’s star chefs at her feet.
And she completely had him at her feet. She’d looked startled when he’d made the toast. Was she really so unwilling to accept what had happened between them?
He’d been waiting his whole adult life for the woman who would do this to him. He hadn’t remotely wanted to drive down to Hart House on wedding business for his flighty sister. And look what had happened? He’d been attacked by the temperamental chef in the kitchen and within hours it seemed had fallen in love with her.
Love at almost first sight was corny, mildly embarrassing, but his one consolation was that the woman he’d fallen for was someone who lived with passion. Who connected with him so immediately, so intimately, that he knew she was feeling everything he was feeling.
It was amazing to find, after all these years, that the popular songwriters had it nailed. Love really was a lightning bolt out of the blue, love was all he needed, it was every song, every poem every greeting card message. He looked at Rachel and his whole being said, Yes.
Jack believed in marriage and he was ready, at thirty-four, to settle. To spend less time away and a little of his hefty savings on holidays with the woman he loved, on a larger home, perhaps, or a holiday home. Even, he thought, as he looked at Rachel with her generous spirit and loving ways, on a nursery.
He’d be terrified, but he could see Rachel with a baby in her arms. Their baby. And the notion filled him with pride.
He’d waited a long time, longer than any of the lads. But she’d been worth waiting for.
When they finally got out of there, they were the last patrons to leave and he honestly thought Jerome and Rachel would have talked right through to breakfast if he hadn’t broken up the party.
He bundled Rachel into a cab for the short ride home and settled back, already trying to decide what he wanted to do first when he got her naked.
“He offered me a job.” Rachel whispered the news as though if she spoke it aloud the offer might disappear.
“I know. I heard him.”
“You did?” She turned to him in the cab, all eagerness and uncertainty. “You actually heard him offer me a job?”
“Yes. Jerome thinks you’re brilliant. He wants you in his kitchen.”
“So, I didn’t dream it.” Suddenly she turned to him, suspicious. “You didn’t put him up to th
is, did you?”
“Hey.” He held up his hands. “I can get a dinner reservation. That’s all. I had no idea he even knew who you were.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Believe me. If he offered you a job, he was sincere. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to work with him?”
“Me, for one.”
She settled her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, “For the most amazing day and night of my life.”
“You’re welcome.” He put an arm around her, inhaling the smell of her, enjoying the feel of her hair tickling his chin. He couldn’t wait to get home and let that hair down, slip off her clothes and get at that glorious body. Deep down, underneath the fierce desire that was pumping through his veins was an unfamiliar feeling, but one he recognized all the same. Tenderness. He’d given her something special, and her excitement was palpable. But she’d given him something too. He’d forgotten what it was like to have that enthusiasm for work. That passion for life.
He had a feeling that life with Rachel would be a constant banquet. A never ending tasting menu.
“Are you tempted?”
She slipped a hand between his legs, rubbing significantly. “Yes, I’m tempted.”
“The job,” he said, moving his hands up her side so his fingers brushed the underside of her breast. “I’m talking about the job.”
“I’d need a work permit or something before I could stay.”
“Or you could always marry an Englishman,” he said cheerfully.
She glanced at him sharply and removed her hand from his crotch. “Maybe.”
What was that all about? He’d have liked to ask her, but his head was fuzzy from good food, good wine and the fact that she’d caused most of the blood to drain from his head, thereby impeding his mental function.
Surely, she’d felt, as he had, the clobber of destiny, the absolute knowledge that they were each other’s future?
He reminded himself of two things. One, he’d known the woman one single week. Only a madman declared his love so soon. Two, the woman was skittish about men in general and love in particular.
