Tycoon's Unexpected Caribbean Fling

by Ella Hayes

  He took a deep breath and dropped his shoes on to the floor, working his feet into them slowly. He’d focused on Emilie, though, hadn’t he? Shamelessly, he allowed his gaze to travel over her body while she’d been busy with the sail. Hard not to. He was only human and Emilie was utterly desirable, but what did it say about him, or about his feelings for Astrid? Feeling such a raw attraction for someone just weeks after losing the love of his life couldn’t be right. There was obviously something deeply wrong with him.

  He sighed, staring at a patch of sunlight on the floor until it was a blur. Emilie! Her eyes, her smile, the way her sarong had hugged her hips... He felt his insides tightening, heat rising. Surely this craving had to be a rebound kind of thing, just the numb, dead part of himself needing to feel something primal, like simple, unadulterated lust. He forced himself to his feet. That had to be it! On the beach, she’d taken him by surprise, like that Bond girl in Doctor No. She was a fantasy, that was all, and the spark he’d felt shuttling between them, the fire it had ignited inside him, would just have to burn itself out, because he wasn’t a holiday fling kind of guy, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind for anything more than that.

  Emilie was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. He’d come to the island to take stock of his life, to get his head straight again and, since just looking at her bent his head—and everything else—out of shape, giving her a wide berth was his only option.

  He moved to the door. Maybe keeping out of her way wouldn’t be so hard. She was the chef, so as long as he kept himself away from the kitchen, he’d be fine. He raked his hands through his hair, then reached for the door handle. Melinda had said something about drinks on the terrace and, after the day’s shocks and surprises, a drink suddenly seemed like a great idea.

  * * *

  ‘What are you making?’ Melinda was eyeing the mound of floury dough on the work surface suspiciously, her eyebrows arching all the way into the furrows on her forehead.

  Emilie smiled. ‘Dinner rolls.’

  ‘You haven’t made those before.’ For some reason, Melinda’s lips were pursing.

  ‘No, I haven’t, not here anyway...’ She kneaded the dough steadily, turning it round by degrees, stretching it, enjoying the elastic feel of it in her fingers. It was her grandmother who’d first introduced her to baking when she was about ten. They’d spent many a rainy afternoon making gingerbread men and cupcakes, then later, at home, after her sisters had left to go to university, she’d tried her hand at other things, discovered that she really did have a knack. Back then, she’d made bread all the time, especially on Sunday mornings. She looked up, catching Melinda’s eye. ‘I just had a notion...’

  ‘Hmm.’

  The small utterance carried a weight that belied its size. It was hard not to smile. ‘Don’t you approve of dinner rolls?’

  ‘Of course!’ Melinda’s eyes widened, then narrowed a little. ‘I was just looking at the time, that’s all...’

  ‘There’s time.’ She glanced at the wall clock. ‘These are quick to make. Fifteen minutes proving, twelve minutes baking, five minutes cooling. They can go to the table warm...they’re nicer that way.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  That was a loaded tone if ever there was one! She looked up, shrugging. ‘What...?’

  Melinda smiled slowly, her voice lilting with implication. ‘I always think of bread as a lovely, nurturing kind of comfort food...’

  ‘Maybe it is—for some people!’ She picked up her knife, started dividing the dough into pieces. She had no idea what Melinda was driving at, but she didn’t mind talking about comfort food. Recent events had turned her into something of an expert. ‘My favourite comfort food is chocolate cake—’ she looked up ‘—with a thick chocolate ganache.’

  ‘Mmm. Sounds heavenly.’ Melinda took a single, pristine napkin out of a drawer, bumping it shut with her hip. ‘Talking of heavenly, Mr Larsson is very handsome and very sexy, don’t you think?’

  Oh, God! Was Melinda matchmaking? She felt heat creeping up her throat towards her cheeks. She took a careful breath. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  Melinda laughed roundly. ‘Then why are you blushing?’

  ‘I’m not!’ She looked down, carried on carving up the dough. ‘I’m just hot from kneading the dough, that’s all.’ Her pulse was fluttering. If only she hadn’t poured out her heartbreak over Tom to Melinda and Erris in that first week, she’d have been able to pretend that she had a boyfriend in England and was therefore uninterested in handsome, sexy guests. If she hadn’t told Melinda that she’d ‘bumped’ into Joel on the beach, she would have been able to pretend that she didn’t know what he looked like, but it was too late now. Melinda knew everything and, from the look on her face, she was only getting started.

  ‘Are you trying to nurture handsome Mr Larsson with your soft...warm...’ Melinda was purring out the adjectives ‘...delicious...dinner rolls?’

  ‘What?’ Her cheeks were prickling. ‘No! Of course not! That’s ridiculous!’ What was more ridiculous was that her heart was thumping hard. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if Melinda was right! Joel hadn’t been in her mind at all when she’d added sugar and water to the yeast, or when she’d taken the flour canister from the larder, but somehow Melinda had struck a nerve and struck it hard.

  She looked down, staring at the dough, breathing in the sweet-sour smell of yeast until she could taste it in the back of her throat, and it was rowing her back to her parents’ kitchen on a long-ago Sunday morning... It was taking her freshly baked bread rolls from the oven. It was hot quick fingers lifting them off the tray. It was breathing in that heavenly aroma, heart racing with anticipation, waiting for her parents to appear. It was that moment when they’d turned to look at her with warm, delighted smiles...

  Melinda’s voice jerked her back. ‘I was only playing with you.’

  She blinked, then met Melinda’s gaze. ‘I know.’ Melinda was mischievous, but she was also wise and warm, and wonderful. She felt a smile edging on to her lips. ‘But we should probably talk about this...’ She put the knife aside and scooped up a piece of dough, rolling in her hands. ‘Does Erris know that you’ve got the feels for our guest?’

  ‘Feels?’ Melinda’s mouth fell open and then she was laughing. ‘Don’t you be telling him any such thing—’ she waggled her eyebrows ‘—he’s a very jealous man.’

  ‘Who’s a very jealous man?’ Erris’s voice ballooned into the kitchen by way of the scullery, then the man himself appeared, his blue checked shirt buttoned tightly over his ample girth, his smile every bit as wide and as white as Melinda’s.

  ‘It’s a private conversation—’ Melinda tipped her a wink, then turned to her husband ‘—nothing to do with you, my love.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Erris folded his arms. ‘Well, if we’re keeping secrets, then I’m not telling you mine...’ He jammed his lips together, eyes twinkling.

  ‘What secret?’ She caught Melinda’s eye, laughing because they’d blurted it out together.

  Erris chuckled, his eyebrows lifting by degrees. ‘I just got a call...’

  ‘What call?’ Melinda was advancing towards him, scrutinising his face.

  ‘From Kesney...’

  For half a beat Melinda’s face stiffened and then her mouth fell open. ‘What? Is she—?’

  ‘Her water broke...’

  ‘Ooh!’ Melinda seemed to inflate, then she was collapsing into Erris’s arms. For a moment they stood, crooning to one another, and then Melinda was stepping back, wiping her face with her hands, fidgeting with her hair and her blouse. ‘We’ve got to go! My baby girl needs me.’

  Emilie’s stomach lurched. If Melinda and Erris left, it meant that she would be solely responsible for looking after Joel.

  ‘You don’t mind, Emilie...?’ Melinda’s eyes were glistening.

  Oh, God! She couldn�
�t refuse, she just couldn’t, even if it meant she was going to have to wait on Joel at dinner, as well as cooking. She sucked in a breath, shaping it into a smile as she let it go. ‘Of course I don’t mind. I mean...hello? You’re having a grandbaby!’ She gave Melinda a mighty hug, then turned her around and propelled her towards Erris. ‘Go! Right now! Just make sure you text me when the baby comes.’ She smiled. ‘I want to know if it’s a boy or a girl.’

  ‘I will.’ Melinda’s hand found hers, gave it a little squeeze ‘Erris will be back in the morning. Until then, look after yourself...and look after Mr Larsson too.’

  * * *

  She managed to smile, even though the hot dinner plate was burning her fingers through the cloth. ‘Here you are...your main course of grilled sea bass on a bed of crushed baby potatoes and creamed spinach with a mustard honey jus and a black pudding crumb.’ She set the plate down smartly, covertly frisking her fingertips against her tunic.

  ‘Thank you.’ Joel’s eyes met hers. ‘It looks...wonderful.’

  ‘Can I top up your wine...?’ Even to her own ears she sounded tentative. This was beyond awkward. She was not a sommelier, she was not a silver service waitress, she was a cook. She could strip and slice an onion in seconds, but for some reason placing a plate of food in front of Joel Larsson was making her knees tremble. The whole thing was feeling like a silly charade. Fine dining for one! Linen, silver, crystal. It seemed excessive, especially since he hadn’t even dressed for dinner. He was wearing a tee shirt and faded jeans, no socks, and his loafers had definitely seen better days. He looked like a fish out of water and she certainly felt like one.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m good...thank you.’

  ‘Okay.’ She took a little step back. ‘Enjoy.’

  She walked towards the door, heart racing. Were his eyes boring into her back or was it just her overactive imagination? She had no idea; two courses down and her senses were shot to pieces.

  In the kitchen, she took a ramekin of crème brûlée from the fridge, then leaned over the work surface. On the beach that afternoon they’d had a few laughs, but from the moment she’d approached him on the terrace to present the menu, things had taken a different turn. For some reason he’d seemed shocked to see her, disappointed even, which had stung a bit. When she’d explained that she wouldn’t usually be cooking and serving the food, that it was all because of Erris and Melinda’s imminent grandbaby, he’d seemed to rally. He’d even smiled. But the smile hadn’t quite touched his eyes and, ever since then, she’d felt decidedly out of sorts.

  Out of sorts and full of self-doubt. She wasn’t convinced that he’d liked her starter: hot smoked breast of pigeon on a bed of endive and rocket leaves, garnished with a red onion and beetroot jelly cube, and a port and damson jus. He’d eaten it all, and three bread rolls, but his face hadn’t exactly been the picture of satisfaction when she’d gone in to lift his plate, and when she’d presented him with the main, he’d looked similarly neutral.

  She stood up, rotating the tension out of her shoulders. What was his problem? She’d got top grades at catering college. Her training with Michel Lefevre had been second to none and at twenty-seven she’d started her own restaurant with Tom. She knew her way around a kitchen better than anyone! She’d double-checked her seasonings, taken great care not to overdo any single flavour, or to over or undercook anything. She knew for certain that the dishes she’d presented were excellent...so why hadn’t there been a single spark of joy in his eyes?

  ‘Knock knock...?’

  Joel?

  She drew a slow breath and turned around.

  He was standing in the doorway, holding his empty plate in one hand and the wine bottle in the other. His eyebrows twitched up. ‘Can I come in?’

  She felt her neck prickling, her mouth going dry and suddenly it wasn’t Joel standing there, but Tom, his face taut, his eyes glittering...

  ‘Two stars! Two bloody stars from Raoul Danson! I told you the menu was wrong, but you never listen! We’re meant to be doing bistro food, not second-rate Lefevre! The restaurant’s finished and it’s all your fault!’

  Second-rate Lefevre! Tom had certainly known how to twist the knife and now there was Joel, standing in the doorway. Was he about to do the same? She ran her tongue over her lower lip. ‘Yes, of course. What can I do for you?’

  He seemed to hesitate and then came forward, setting the plate and the bottle down on the island unit carefully. When he turned to her again, she felt a wash of relief. There was no reprimand in his gaze, just a trace of uncertainty. ‘It’s not about what you can do for me. It’s about what I can do...’ Blue-grey eyes held hers. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’

  Definitely not what she’d been expecting! She swallowed. ‘For what?’

  ‘For being—’ his shoulders slid upwards ‘—weird.’

  She jammed her tongue against her teeth. Staying silent seemed wise.

  He motioned to the wine bottle, gave another little shrug. ‘I was thinking...wondering if you’d join me for a glass of wine while I explain...’ A corner of his mouth twitched up and it seemed to switch on a light in his eyes, a warm magnetic sort of light.

  She glanced at the ramekin dish: a variation of Lefevre’s famous pineapple crème brûlée. The sugar topping needed caramelising, but Joel didn’t seem to be thinking about dessert, and anyway, she was curious. If talking was going to eliminate the awkwardness between them, then she was all for it. It would make the next three weeks easier.

  ‘Okay.’ She fetched two wine glasses from the dresser, then pulled out a stool and sat down.

  He picked up the bottle, one eyebrow arching. ‘Does madame wish to taste it?’

  His fake French accent was excruciating, but it was good to see that lighter side of him again, the side she’d seen on the beach. She felt all her edges smoothing out, a real smile lifting her cheeks. ‘No thank you. Madame wishes you to crack on!’

  He laughed. ‘Say no more.’

  Laughing Joel was so different to serious Joel. Laughing Joel was dangerously disarming. She lowered her gaze, watching the red wine sloshing into her glass, then into his. His hand around the wine bottle looked manly. It was easy to imagine where that hand might fit, how that hand would feel—

  ‘Cheers!’ He was looking at her, glass raised.

  She hadn’t noticed him sit down. Too busy fantasising about manly hands. What was wrong with her? Focus! She touched her glass to his, took a long steadying sip, then met his gaze. ‘So...?’

  ‘So...’ His teeth caught on his lower lip and then he sighed. ‘Okay, the first thing I want to say is that I’m not weird, at least no more than anyone else, but I know I’ve probably seemed that way...?’

  ‘Erm—’

  ‘Never mind.’ He smiled, took a sip of his wine, then his smile faded. ‘So, the thing is, I didn’t book this trip—it was a gift, from a friend.’

  ‘Nice!’

  ‘Yes, it was... It is! It’s amazing.’ His eyes clouded. ‘But it’s...not what I was expecting.’

  Her heart dipped. ‘What do you mean—is there something wrong...?’

  ‘No!’ He shook his head. ‘It’s my bad—totally. I didn’t look at the brochure...just the front cover...the photo of the island...’ He was toying with the stem of his glass. ‘I thought I was going to be alone here so when you met me on the beach, I was—’ he blew out a sigh ‘—very surprised.’

  She felt a smile edging on to her lips. ‘I think I got that...’

  Amusement coloured his eyes, but only briefly. ‘And when you said that you were the chef, I was, frankly, shocked...’

  ‘Right!’ She bit her lip, trying to make sense of it. His friend had booked the trip for him, but for some reason he hadn’t read the brochure. Why? That was definitely weird. But it also explained a lot. ‘So, just to be clear, when you say you were expecting to be alone, yo
u mean alone as in Robinson Crusoe?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘You weren’t expecting a chef?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay...’ She took a small sip of wine, felt a flicker of unease bursting into a flame. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want me to cook for you?’

  His hands went up. ‘No! I’m definitely not saying that.’ He was frowning. ‘I’m just trying to explain why I seem so...’ He sighed. ‘Look, Emilie, your food is delicious...and I’m not complaining about anything...but I thought I was going to be staying in a little house on a little island, doing my own thing, and instead it’s—’ he was juggling the air ‘—service and silverware and it’s all too much. I don’t want to be waited on. I’d rather things were more casual...’ His eyes swept over the kitchen, then settled on her face. ‘To be honest, if you’d be okay with it, I’d rather eat in here.’

  She took another sip of wine. How would it feel with him sitting in the kitchen while she cooked? Weird, definitely, but there was something endearing about the way he was looking at her with hopeful eyes. If he’d been anticipating something low key, the house and the whole catering set-up must have been a shock. What would Melinda think?

  She sipped her wine again, swallowing slowly. Probably Melinda was going to be too busy with Kesney and the new baby to care about where Joel wanted to take his meals...and there was nothing to say that he couldn’t dine in the kitchen if that was what he wanted to do. He was the guest, after all, and, bottom line, her job was to look after him. It might even be nice. She smiled. ‘I’m fine with that.’ She put her glass down. ‘Now, are you ready for dessert?’