The Secret Ingredient

by Nina Harrington

  She desperately wanted to look at him but her mind was too busy trying to process the tsunami of feelings that just sitting in the same room had washed over her. It staggered her that one human being could be responsible for sending her senses into such stomach-clenching, mind-reeling chaos.

  ‘Lottie. Nice to see you again.’

  ‘I thought you’d already left for California, so you can imagine my surprise at seeing you this evening.’

  A muscular arm extended across the table towards her. It was covered in a dark grey silky fabric and she knew that the tip of the tattoo that peeked out from below the pristine pale grey shirt ended in a curving blade design across his left shoulder where her fingers had caressed his skin only a few days earlier.

  And her heart broke so badly at the memory that she had to blink away the sharp sting of tears.

  She wanted to hold him close and relive those precious moments in his arms and feel the heat of his mouth on hers once more before they were finally separated by thousands of miles of ocean.

  Instead she had to lift her chin and pretend that she was uninterested and cool to the point of ice.

  ‘Work. Sean needed some help at the hotel. I could have phoned and made an appointment but I had a sneaky suspicion that you would have put the phone down on me so here I am, in person, ready to take it in the chest. So fire away, Lottie. Let me have it with both barrels. Because the sooner we get this over with and start working together, the better.’

  ‘Working together!’ Lottie shot up out of her chair, fingers tented on the table, and stared at him, wide-eyed with disbelief. ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘Apparently my brother is marrying the magnificent Miss Dervla Flynn. I am in charge of the reception but you, my lovely, are making the wedding cake for one of the most prestigious weddings that the Beresford clan have ever seen. You and me, rocking the food. It’s going to be outstanding.’

  Somebody in the Bake and Bitch club laughed out loud, probably Gloria, and the sound of the London traffic echoed through the glass and made the floor shake a little. But Lottie did not hear a thing. She was way too busy trying to process what she had just heard. And failing.

  ‘Dee wants me to make her wedding cake?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘She’s ringing you tonight from Beijing.’

  ‘Beijing. Right. Oh, my.’

  Suddenly her legs felt like jelly and Lottie sat back down in her chair.

  Rob pulled his chair around a little closer to hers and stretched out his arms so that his fingers were only inches from hers.

  ‘What do you say, Lottie?’ There was just enough hesitation in his voice to make her pay attention. ‘Do you think you could put up with me for a few weeks while we work out how to make this wedding the best it can be?’

  He tilted his head and smiled one of those sweet, heartbreaking smiles.

  ‘Sean is important to me and I know that Dee thinks the world of you. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you already know what kind of wedding cake she wants for her big day. Was that a nod?’

  ‘Two stacks of individual cakes with the name of each guest piped on. Every one different and totally, totally delicious. It’s going to be the most important order of my life.’

  She exhaled slowly and swallowed down an egg-sized lump of emotion. ‘They’re really getting married?’ she whispered.

  Rob nodded his head up and down. Very slowly. ‘They really are. According to Sean I’m his best man and you are the head bridesmaid. Full details to follow the minute she gets back.’

  ‘Wow,’ Lottie choked and lifted one hand. ‘I’m going to need a moment here. And what’s in that cake box?’

  ‘I made a courting cake. For you. It’s a bit of a northern tradition but I thought I would give it a twist.’

  ‘A courting cake? You march away from me in the middle of an argument just to prove a point and then you have the nerve to turn up with a courting cake? What are you trying to say, Rob? That you expect me to forgive you for treating me as a poor second best when it comes to deciding where your priorities lie? Well, newsflash. I’ve had enough of being told what to do and what to say and being generally lied to and pushed around as though my feelings don’t matter. I’m not putting up with any of that behaviour. Not any more, and especially not from you. So you can take your cake and give it to someone who has such a low opinion of herself that she’s willing to put up with you. And good luck to her because she’s going to need it. Goodbye and goodnight.’

  ‘Finished yet?’ he asked in a semi-serious voice.

  She took a couple of breaths. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good,’ Rob replied and slid the cake box across the table in front of her. ‘Because it sounds to me like you need some sugar. Try the cake. You might even like it.’

  Lottie reached for the box and then whipped her hand back.

  ‘Wait a minute. If I eat this cake it means that we are officially dating! You scoundrel! Keep that cake well away from me. No way. You heard what I said the other day.’

  Rob grinned, opened up the lid, and wafted the box under Lottie’s nose, pushed it even closer and then sat back in his chair.

  ‘It’s lemon drizzle.’

  She pushed it back towards him. ‘You cheat. That’s wicked.’

  ‘I know.’ And he pushed it towards her again. ‘But my mum suggested you might like it. Right after she told me in no uncertain terms that she had been taking her medication since the last painting was complete and that Ian has asked her to dinner and she has said yes. Don’t look at me like that. I like him and Ian is a remarkable photographer. He would love California and my mum cannot wait to show it to him. On her own. Apparently three is a crowd.’

  ‘Ian and Adele? Oh, I’m so pleased.’ Lottie grinned and reached out to take Rob’s hand and then pulled it back again. ‘Are you going to sabotage them?’

  ‘No. He cares about her. Good and bad days don’t matter. I think they will be happy together. In fact, I am relying on it. You see, my mother fired me. I am now officially redundant. My services as a full-time minder are no longer required. Apparently I have looked out for her long enough and it’s time for me to start enjoying myself in a totally selfish manner.’

  ‘Wow. How are you coping with that?’ Lottie whispered. And it was her Rob who grinned back in reply. ‘I’m getting used to the idea that it would break her heart if I let my chance of love pass me by. Just because I’m too scared of letting a woman see me for the man that I have become.’

  Tears pricked the backs of Lottie’s eyes as she watched in astonishment as Rob Beresford slid off his chair and onto his knees in front of her on the floor of the cake shop.

  And her heart felt as though it was going to explode with happiness.

  He didn’t care that the girls from the Bake and Bitch club had sneaked out and were peeking at them from behind the counter, or that a lady with a toddler in her arms was staring at them in disbelief from the back of the tea rooms.

  ‘That’s why I stayed up last night working on this recipe. Just for you, only for you. Always and for ever, my love. I know I don’t deserve you, but if you give me a chance I’ll show you what real love is like. Will you take a chance, Lottie? Will you take a chance on us?’

  The whole room went completely silent. No one moved, not even the toddler. Lottie felt that every eye followed the movement of her hand as she slowly picked up a spoon, waved it in the air for a millisecond.

  And then plunged it into the lemon drizzle courting cake, picked up a huge piece from the very centre and brought it to her lips.

  Rob was smiling at her all the way as she carefully closed her mouth around the spoon and slid the moist, succulent cake onto her tongue.

  An explosion of flavour made her groan out loud and her eyelids fluttered closed as she savoured every mo
rsel. It was the most delicous thing that she had ever eaten. No way was Rob going to make this cake for any other girl. A huge round of applause and cheering burst out in the room and when she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was the expression in Rob’s eyes.

  And in that instant she knew what it felt like to be the most beautiful woman in the room. She was loved and loved in return.

  ‘Good cake.’ She grinned. ‘You can get up now. Because my answer is yes, yes, yes.’ And she fell into his arms, laughing and crying and laughing again, and knew that her heart had found the only home she would ever want.

  There was a lot to be said for the perfect recipe for seduction.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HER CLIENT FROM HELL by Louisa George.

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  ONE

  Sweet Treats Website Contact Form, 10th August, 9.55p.m.

  Hi! How can Sweet Treats help you?

  Contact from: JB@zoom.co.uk

  I need catering for a wedding party of 50 (fifty) adults (no children) on 6th September. Better include some vegan options. Nothing too ‘out there’. (Neither too trendy nor endangered).

  Send menu suggestions ASAP.

  I hope your food is better than your website.

  JB

  * * *

  Whoa, someone was in serious need of a happy pill.

  Cassie Sweet squeezed the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and wondered what the hell she’d done that was so bad she had to endure this.

  Impossible clients. 1: Like JB@zoom. At way too late o’clock, making rude comments about her business. 2: People who said things and then explained them in brackets.

  Impossible choices. Her regular no-holds-barred mojito night with the girls struck out for a mind-distorting evening in front of the laptop trying to magic her business out of financial chaos.

  And impossible decisions. Instead of telling JB where to stick their rude comments, she’d have to smile sweetly and reply positively. It was a job and, even though her work schedule was overflowing, one glance at her bank statement told her there were far too many minus signs. Looked as if she didn’t have a choice.

  Email to: JB@zoom.co.uk

  Well, hi, JB. Are you Mr? Miss? Dr? Rev? Lord?

  Cassie resisted the temptation to add Sith?

  Congratulations on your upcoming wedding!

  Sweet Treats would be happy to help. Please find enclosed a copy of our specials menu and suggested vegan options for three, four and five courses. Please don’t hesitate to contact me for further info. I’m more than happy to talk things over.

  Cassie

  For Sweet Treats

  She looked back down at the spreadsheet and willed the red numbers to be black. Damn her stupid trusting genes. She was way too much like her father; there was no doubt that William Sweet’s too-trusting blood definitely ran through her veins.

  The figures swam in and out of focus. One day she’d been financially stable and then...wham! Sucker-punched by betrayal. She would never trust a man again.

  Except, perhaps, for her bank manager, who she would not only trust but would love for ever if he could help her work a way out of this. Or maybe the bank manager was a woman? Who knew?

  Her ex, actually. He’d set up the accounts with Cassie’s signature and apparent blessing. She, meanwhile, had focused on the catering side, giving little attention to running the business.

  Well, hell, she was paying attention now. And oh, it would be so easy to run to her family and ask for help, but this time—this time—she was going to prove them all wrong. She did have stickability. She could cope without them.

  Unlike her failed dog-walking business...her brief foray as a children’s entertainer...or the blip that was her disastrous market stall—why the hell they had to have them so early in the morning she didn’t know. This time she was going alone and this time she would succeed.

  Her mobile rang. Blocked number.

  Glancing at the clock, she breathed in, fists curling in anticipation. What time was it in deepest, conveniently out of killing distance, South America? By the time she’d finished with him, his number wouldn’t be the only thing that was blocked.

  Picking up, she kept her voice steady. ‘Patrick, if that’s you I swear I’m going to take out my paring knife and chop your—’

  ‘Hey, hey. Steady, lady. Put. The. Knife. Down.’ The voice, so not her ex’s, was deep and dusky, a little tired at the edges. Like her. It wasn’t a posh accent per se—definitely London. Did she mention dusky?

  ‘I’m not Patrick. And even if I were I wouldn’t admit to it now.’

  ‘Believe me, if you were Patrick you wouldn’t have a breath left in your body.’ Although, three months down the line, she’d given up hope of seeing him or her money again. Case closed, they’d said.

  ‘Oh? A woman scorned?’

  She supposed she was. Her ex hadn’t so much broken her heart as completely stamped on every trusting fibre in her body. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Jack Brennan. I just got your email with suggestions.’

  Not the ones she was really thinking. Such an unexpectedly warm voice for one so rude.

  ‘Oh, hello. Yes. My food is great; I come highly recommended. You saw the testimonial page?’

  ‘Eventually. Does it need to be so busy? I couldn’t find anything; it’s definitely not user-friendly. There are too many tabs. Too many options.’

  Well, really? Mr Sexy Voice had become Mr Cocky and Irritating in the blink of an eye. Maybe she wasn’t so desperate that she needed to add his job to her already overflowing schedule.

  Yes, she was. ‘Thanks for the feedback. I’ll make a note and consider a re-jig of my website next time I have an advertising budget.’ Like never. Raising her head above the cyberworld parapet and reminding the webmaster of her existence, and therefore her unpaid overdue bill, would only cause more trouble. ‘I guess it could do with a spruce.’

  ‘It needs a deforestation.’

  Like your manners. ‘As it happens, the website detail belonged to my...er...ex-business partner. I’m making changes. It takes time.’

  ‘Your ex-partner and Patrick—I presume they’re the same person?’

  ‘Yes, he was the brains behind the business, allegedly. I’m the chef.’

  ‘Private party? Personal chef. Yes—’

  ‘Please don’t make any comments about that byline. I came up with it, and I like it.’ It was about the only thing she had left. Apart from my dignity, and that was starting to sag a little round the edges too.

  But that voice... How could someone so rude sound so hot? It was like chocolate velvet, wrapping her up and making parts of her warm that hadn’t been warm in quite a while.

  Which was a stark enough reminder that this was business. Hadn’t she learnt already never to
mix that with pleasure?

  And she was not that desperate to flirt with a client who was getting married. It was just a voice.

  ‘So, considering your late call, I presume you are interested in using Sweet Treats for the wedding? Have you had a look at the menu options? I’m happy to juggle things around if you want to mix and match.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s complicated. We need to meet and discuss this further. And time’s running out.’ She wondered how easy it was for him to speak without the aid of brackets to explain everything in duplicate. A hum of traffic buzzed in the background. He raised his voice. ‘How about tomorrow? Afternoon? Evening?’

  ‘I’ll just check.’ Looking at her diary, she worked out she could fit him in between Zorb’s regular Friday Feast lunch order, little Hannah’s third birthday party and the carnival meeting early Saturday morning. Couldn’t she? Sleep was seriously overrated. As was a social life.

  As for a sex life? She literally laughed. Out loud. Sex was something she remembered from her dim and distant past. Vaguely. Hell, twenty-six and sex was just a memory? If she planned right, she could fit in a quickie between the hours of three and four in the morning. Next Wednesday week. But, in her experience, most guys weren’t particularly happy with that. Well, not the kind of guys she wanted to spend that special hour with, anyway.

  Better make that two people in need of a happy pill. ‘I can fit you in at around six-thirty. Would that work? Where are you based?’ She jotted down the details. ‘Actually, you’re just down the road from me; I’m in Notting Hill too. When the business started to take off we decided to move—’

  He sighed. ‘Look, I’m in a cab; it’s hard to hear. I don’t need your life story. I just need food.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Tetchy. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of managing her thoughts in silence. Or managing anything at all, really, outside the kitchen. But she was trying hard. ‘I usually meet my clients at Bean in Notting Hill Gate, just a few shops down from the cinema. It’s a sort of café-bar, open office space for independent professionals. I’ll hire a meeting room so we can chat in relative privacy. There are also office facilities there in case we need any photocopying et cetera. If that suits your requirements, Mr Brennan?’