‘Morgan’s Landing? Oh, I see, your camping trip. Look, if there’s any way I can help—with equipment or anything…’ he added, quickly qualifying his over-hasty offer. Then rather wished he hadn’t. Which was ridiculous.
‘Equipment isn’t a problem, Nick. My brother-in-law has everything we’re likely to need.’ Most of it relics from his own camping days. Heavy, old-fashioned, durable, weighing a ton—but she didn’t want Nick thinking she was trying to get him involved with her trip. In any way.
‘Oh, right.’ Nick had the uncomfortable feeling that she had seen right through him.
‘If you’ve finished your shopping perhaps we should get out of here,’ Cassie said. She abandoned the limp dill-weed on the cornflake mountain. ‘If you can wait while I see this load through the check-out and follow me home, I’ll get you those fresh herbs.’
Nick had a niggling feeling at the back of his neck that it would be more sensible to grab the pack she had abandoned on the cornflake stack and make do. But that would be settling for second best and he had never, in his entire life, settled for second anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
NICK didn’t know quite what he had expected—a small neat apartment in one of the new blocks overlooking the river, perhaps. They were the kind of places successful businesswomen seemed to be buying. And he supposed she must be successful. With a television series under her belt. And he knew that cookery books regularly topped the best-seller lists.
But she was obviously a great deal more successful than he had anticipated if her home was anything to go by. Not that it was large. But it was lovely. One of those narrow town houses built around the Cathedral close about three hundred years ago. They rarely came on the market and when they did they were snapped up.
The brick was aged and mellow, the door gleaming with fresh black paint and polished brass door furniture, and there were tubs of bright sunshine-yellow pansies on either side of the top step.
‘This is nice,’ he said as she ran up the steps to the door.
‘I like it.’ She unlocked the door, propped it open and turned back to unload her shopping.
‘Big for one, though.’
‘I need a lot of space.’
He had been probing and he was pleased with her answer, the ‘I’ rather than a ‘we’. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘It was my family home. My father was a clergyman. A canon. At the cathedral. It’s been rented out for the last few years.’
‘I remember Beth said you’d been away.’
‘Yes, I’ve been living in London. It’s where the work is, in catering.’ She wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, he noticed. So there was some other reason. A man?
‘And television?’ he suggested.
‘And television,’ she agreed.
‘So why have you come back?’
Because some things had to be faced, lived with. Because it was either that, or sell the house she loved and allow Jonathan to take even this away from her.
‘Because I don’t do catering any more,’ Cassie said. ‘And television just means a few weeks filming for a series. I don’t need to stay in London for that.’
‘And this is home.’ Nick looked around the elegant hall with its pale yellow walls and white mouldings. ‘I can see why you’d hurry back the first moment you could.’ But she wasn’t listening, more intent on collecting her groceries from the car. ‘Leave those,’ he said, following her back down the steps. ‘I’ll bring your bags inside.’
Cassie had used the retrieval of her shopping to cut short a dangerous conversation. She turned, about to tell Nick that she wasn’t some feeble bimbo who needed a man to carry her shopping, then changed her mind. It would sound so ungrateful, after all. And he was hardly to blame for Jonathan’s shortcomings as a husband. As a man.
‘Thank you,’ she said, handing over her car keys. ‘The kitchen’s down in the basement.’
It took two trips to empty her car and Nick left the bags inside the hall before going back to lock it. The sleek white Italian sports car had been as much a surprise as her home. If he had thought about it, he would have expected something roomy to transport food and equipment.
And yet the car did match the unexpected spark of passion that had lit up the back of Cassie’s golden brown eyes when he’d kissed her. It was something she went out of her way to hide beneath that lively tongue, but it was there.
‘Something smells good,’ he said as he ducked his head below a beam and looked with satisfaction around the basement kitchen. It was nothing like a hospital operating room, in fact it lived up to all his best fantasies. It was a room to be lived in and worked in. A place where friends and family could gather and eat informally.
A built-in dresser taking up one wall was lined with plates and dishes in all shapes and sizes that must have taken years to accumulate. There was an Aga and a large modern built-in oven and two hobs. And the stone-flagged floor was softened with woven grass matting.
In a roomy alcove, emphasising that this was the domain of a professional cook, there was a small desk on which there stood, amidst a clutter of papers and notebooks, a very workmanlike computer, along with the same combined telephone answering machine and fax that he had in his own home. He automatically logged the number in his memory.
In contrast, against the wall was the oldest, squashiest sofa he had ever seen. It was occupied by an equally squashy-looking ginger cat whose vast golden curves spilled over the velvet cushion on which he was sleeping. As if sensing Nick’s presence the cat opened one eye and glared balefully at him, daring him to do anything as condescending as tickle his ear.
‘I’ve been experimenting with a new recipe.’ Cassie, unloading chilled food into the fridge, turned in time to witness her cat’s silent snub. ‘Don’t mind Dem, he’s not very keen on men,’ she said, apologising for her unsociable feline. Nick would have liked to ask why, but some instinct warned him that it would be tactless. ‘Just dump all those bags on the table, Nick; I’ll sort them out later.’
‘Right.’ He tried to identify the appetising mixture of scents. There was the unmistakably yeasty aroma of newly baked bread. And cakes. She’d been baking cakes. The smell sent him straight back to his mother’s kitchen and the childhood pleasure of scooping the last of the mixture from the bowl.
But there was more. The earthier scents of herbs and tomatoes mingled with the faintest suggestion of garlic that had been gently simmering to perfection. It was the kind of smell, Nick thought as he went back upstairs to the hall to collect the remainder of the bags, that filled a man with dangerous longings to be invited to stay for supper.
‘Have you got time for coffee?’ she asked. ‘Or do you want to cut and run?’
Obviously supper was not on offer. ‘Cut and run?’ he repeated.
Cassie waved towards a pair of French doors that opened out onto a walled courtyard crowded with pots of herbs and brightly coloured flowers before turning away to fill the kettle. ‘The scissors are on the hook by the door. Help yourself.’
‘Oh, right.’ He unhooked the scissors. ‘Er… what does rosemary look like?’
‘It’s the grey spiky…’ Then she glanced at him, uncertain whether he was teasing.
‘It might be safer if I make the coffee while you cut the herbs,’ he suggested, a smile etching deep lines into his cheeks.
‘Safe’ was not a word Cassie would have used in conjunction with Nick Jefferson under any circumstances. However, in this instance he was probably right and she wasn’t prepared to have her precious herbs massacred by some ignorant novice. ‘You’ll find the coffee in the fridge,’ she said, surrendering the kettle and waving in the general direction of the huge double-doored monster in the corner.
Nick plugged in the kettle and turned to the fridge. Opening a door, he found himself confronted by a bowl of chunky vegetables bathed in the tomato and herb sauce that had filled the air with such a delicious, stomach-wrenching aroma. Her experiment. He wondered if she ha
d any vacancies for guinea pigs.
He found the coffee beans and looked around for a grinder. It was an old wooden machine, worked by hand, that went perfectly with the kitchen. It took a lot longer than his electric job, but he found the slow turning of the handle and the sharp, satisfying build-up of the scent of fresh coffee a whole lot more satisfying than pressing a button.
He spooned the resulting ground coffee into a cafetière and then looked round for sugar, opening an array of tall cupboards. He didn’t find the sugar, but since the cupboards were half empty he thought he might as well repay Cassie for the herbs by putting the groceries away.
‘That’s terribly kind of you, Nick.’ He turned to see Cassie watching him from the doorway, a spray of herbs held lightly in her slender little hands. But there was something about the way she was looking at him that suggested he’d just made a rather stupid mistake.
‘I thought I’d help. While I was waiting.’
‘Did you? Well, in future I suggest you stick to making the coffee and leave the thinking to me.’
He frowned, not sure what he’d done to annoy her. He’d only been trying to help. ‘Why? Do you usually keep your groceries on the kitchen table?’
‘No, I keep them where I can reach them. And unless you plan on sticking around to hand me down anything I happen to need…’ She left him to draw his own conclusions.
‘You mean you left the top shelf bare on purpose?’ She didn’t bother to reply, since the answer was obvious. To anyone with half a brain. ‘Because you can’t reach it?’ He was grinning broadly now, not in the least apologetic.
‘Those cupboards are ridiculously high,’ Cassie protested.
‘Too high for you,’ he conceded.
‘Well, life would be desperately boring if we were all built like telegraph poles,’ she said. ‘Blonde telegraph poles,’ she added, unwisely.
‘Desperately,’ he agreed, unforgivably amused.
Blushing furiously, she turned away to take two mugs down from their hooks and as the kettle began to boil she reached for it. Nick beat her to it.
‘I’m making the coffee,’ he reminded her. ‘I may be thick, but I do know how to make coffee.’
‘One should be good at something.’ And she glared at him, daring him to top that. For a moment their eyes locked, then from somewhere deep inside Cassie felt a desperate urge to giggle. She had to resist it, she simply had to… ‘The trouble with you, Nick Jefferson, is that you’re good at too damned much,’ she added.
‘Is that right?’ He cocked an impudent brow. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘No.’
‘But it wasn’t a compliment?’
‘No.’
‘Somehow I didn’t think it was.’ She hadn’t forgiven him for kissing her. Or forgiven herself for enjoying the experience. And she had enjoyed it. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her again. If he just put his arm around that small waist, pulled her into his arms and simply kissed her. Would that damped-down passion bubble to the surface? Would she kiss him back?
He was seriously tempted to find out, because standing there, unencumbered with shopping, he could see that while her figure had a distinctly luscious quality her waist was invitingly small. She was a classic pocket Venus. And he had this sudden urge to pick her up and…
But a man could only take so many liberties and get away with it. He was sure that this time her response was likely to be swift and painful. No matter how much she enjoyed it a woman had to make a pretence at outrage. It was all part of the game. His favourite game. And he knew all the rules. So he resisted the urge to kiss her and instead pressed down the plunger on the cafetière before turning to the refrigerator and retrieving a carton of cream.
‘Do you take yours straight, or with cream and sugar?’
Cassie loved cream in her coffee, but she had seen that speculative look in Nick’s eyes as they’d roamed over her figure. This was not a moment to indulge herself, it was a moment to display self-control, strength of character, an iron will…before Nick Jefferson got entirely the wrong impression of her.
‘Straight,’ she said.
He poured the coffee and handed her one of the mugs. Then he tipped a great dollop of cream into his own. ‘I couldn’t find the sugar,’ he said. Without a word she passed him a bowl that had been sitting on the countertop almost in front of him. ‘Oh. How could I have missed that?’
‘I really can’t imagine.’ He added two heaped spoonfuls to his mug and then stirred it slowly. She was certain that he was doing it deliberately, as if he knew that she was already regretting her own self-denial. ‘Do you work out?’ she asked, leaning back against the table, eyeing his spare, suit-clad frame through the twin veils of lowered lashes and the fragrant steam rising from her coffee as she sipped at it.
‘You think I should?’
‘It’s worth considering. If you always drink your coffee that way,’ she added. ‘And sitting at a desk all day…’
‘Actually I run,’ he said, before she could suggest he was in danger of running to fat. ‘Every morning before I go into the office. You should try it.’ His dark eyes swept over her own well-rounded figure. ‘It’s a hell of a lot more effective than black coffee.’
‘God, but you’re rude,’ she gasped.
One corner of his mouth lifted it into a cock-eyed grin. ‘It must be catching. I’ve never tried it before—refreshing, isn’t it?’ He apparently didn’t expect an answer because he put down his mug and continued, ‘Now, since I’m here I think it might be a good idea if I repaid the favour and checked out your tent. I’d hate to think of you lying in your lonely little sleeping bag while the rain drips through the canvas.’
Somehow she doubted that. ‘I won’t be lonely and I think you’ve done quite enough thinking for one day, Nick. I can handle a tent and you’ve got chicken to cook.’ She put down her coffee and offered him the herbs in a quite unmistakable invitation to leave. ‘And this is a residents-only parking area. If you stay any longer you’ll be clamped.’
Despite her feisty, in-your-face attitude she was uncomfortable around him, Nick realised. That was why she wanted him to leave. And the way she snatched her hand back as he took the herbs and their fingers touched momentarily told him why. But not why she was fighting it so hard, which was much more interesting. After all, if she wasn’t attracted to him it should be easy, shouldn’t it?
Maybe he should have kissed her after all? Cheeks slightly flushed, her lips parted over small white teeth, she did look thoroughly kissable despite, or perhaps because of, her slightly defiant posture. But, as she’d reminded him, he had chicken to cook. And that was quite enough trouble for one day.
‘Thanks for these,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’ll make all the difference.’ He paused in the doorway and looked back. ‘Oh, and do enjoy your trip,’ he added civilly. ‘I’ll be thinking of you up to your knees in midges, mud and small boys.’
That was too much. ‘I hope your sauce curdles,’ she muttered through gritted teeth as she followed him up the stairs.
He must have heard her because he paused in the doorway and turned to face her with that grin firmly back in place. ‘And I hope your tent falls down in the middle of the night. In the rain.’
‘Ooooh!’ Cassie felt like stamping. But she didn’t. But only because she knew it would have made Nick Jefferson laugh.
He laughed anyway. It had suddenly occurred to him why he kept thinking about kissing Cassie Cornwell. It was because she had to look up at him. And when she did her mouth seemed to be offering an open invitation to do just that. And when someone kept offering such a tempting treat it seemed churlish to refuse.
But just as he bent to double-check her lips for the taste of strawberries she said, ‘I warned you that you’d be clamped, Nick.’ And as he spun around to check his car she banged the door shut on him.
For a minute she leaned back against it, her heart hammering like a drum as she waited for him to start banging on
the big lion-headed knocker. But he didn’t. Maybe he was just too pleased that she had been lying about the clamp to take offence at the way she had dodged his kiss. Or maybe he wasn’t that bothered. With the blonde already lined up and waiting to be impressed why should he be?
Perhaps it was relief that brought a smile to her face at the thought of Nick Jefferson trying to impress a girl with his cooking. He would probably do it too, she thought, shaking her head. He was that kind of man.
Nick spun back as the door shut behind him and began to raise his fist to bang on the door. Common sense stopped him. That and the strange look he was getting from some woman who was chatting to a caller on her doorstep a few doors down. Not that he cared one jot what the old busybody might be thinking. But Cassie would undoubtedly hate to be the subject of doorstep gossip.
And he should be grateful to Cassie, not mad at her. She had seen the kiss coming and stepped back, stopping him from making a fool of himself. After all, didn’t he have the very lovely Veronica Grant lined up and in his sights?
So what on earth was he doing even thinking about kissing Cassie Cornwell? It didn’t make sense.
On the other side of the door, Cassie finally heard Nick’s car pull away from the kerb and she let out her breath. Well, that was that. And a good thing too. Now she could be quite certain that he wouldn’t come back. So that was all right. Wasn’t it?
What on earth would the world come to if men got the idea that they could just go around kissing anyone they thought they might? Just because their lips looked as if they might taste like strawberries?
Did they?
Curious, she threw a swift glance at the elegant giltframed mirror hanging above a beautiful serpentine table. Then, furious with herself for being sucked into such vanity, she hurried back down to the kitchen. Glancing up at the cupboards he had filled for her, she grabbed a chair, climbed on it and began emptying them, determined to eradicate all signs of Nick Jefferson’s presence from her kitchen and from her life.
Nick, wearing an old T-shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better days, examined his ultra-modern kitchen with distaste. When he’d bought the cottage, he hadn’t been interested in the kitchen and had left it entirely in the hands of his decorator.
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