‘I hope she was suitably grateful.’
‘Let’s just say it was a mutually rewarding relationship that ran its natural course.’
Cassie limped into the dining room. Grey, black and chrome. ‘She wasn’t out of the frills and flowers school of interior design, was she?’ He shrugged. ‘Beth thought you might have bought this place with something more permanent in mind,’ she said, looking around.
‘Did she?’ They’d talked about him, then? ‘No. The lease was about to expire on my flat and it was a good time to buy. I liked this place on sight’ He followed her disparaging glance. ‘Do you want to see the rest of it?’
She tried to imagine his bedroom. Concealed lighting, a black carpet and a wolfskin bedcover? ‘No, thanks.’
He grinned. ‘You’re right. I’ll have to get someone who knows what she’s doing to sort it out.’ He put his hand beneath her elbow. ‘Come on. Better get the weight off that foot. Then you can show me what to do.’
‘You?’ she said, disparagingly enough to distract herself from thinking about his arm on her elbow. ‘I thought I was here to do the cooking.’
‘You’re just here to make sure I don’t make any mistakes. I want to be able to look Veronica in the eye and say I cooked this.’
‘Right.’ That sounded more like a challenge accepted and answered than a prelude to seduction. But whatever turned you on.
It was comfortable working in the kitchen with Cassie for company, Nick thought, despite the chill efficiency of the decor. She carried her own warmth about with her and, propped on a stool at the central island, she told him about working in television, the disasters as well as the triumphs, sparing herself not at all as he grated and chopped to her instructions. He noticed she steered well clear of her personal life.
‘Don’t get any of the white pith in with the lemon rind,’ she warned as he attacked it with the rough side of the grater. ‘It’ll make the dish taste bitter.’
‘But nothing happens if I use the fine cutter,
‘All you need is the zest, the oil from the skin and the magic happens. Now squeeze the juice and everything is ready.’
‘What about the stock?’
‘I brought a pint of my own.’
‘Did you? But isn’t that—?’
‘Yes?’
‘Cheating?’
‘Probably, but I won’t tell if you don’t.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, I hope it’s a good one.’
She glared at him. ‘It’s in my basket. Pass it to me, will you?’ He lifted the small round old-fashioned basket she had brought with her onto the countertop and she took out a screw-topped jar and poured the liquid into a measuring jug. ‘Now hadn’t you better go and lay the table?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And don’t forget flowers for the table,’ she called after him.
He did a double take. ‘Flowers?’
‘You forgot.’ She shook her head. ‘Pick a few from the garden. You’ve got a red rose climbing through that old apple tree out the back; that’ll do.’
‘Red roses are a bit—’ He stopped, made a helpless little gesture that was unusually awkward for him. Embarrassed even.
‘Obvious?’ she offered.
‘A bit too much of a statement.’
‘And you wouldn’t want to give the poor woman the impression that you really cared? You’re right, yellow would look better with all that grey.’ And in the language of flowers implied insincerity, but she didn’t tell him that ‘Shall I assemble your starter while you’re doing that?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Would you mind? I’m running out of time and I need to take a shower—’ He broke off. ‘Will you stop looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘As if you want to laugh, but you’re being too damned polite.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll try and take this seriously. Give me a hand down, will you?’
He crossed the kitchen and, ignoring her extended hand, he put his hands about her waist and lifted her off the stool, placing her very gently on the floor.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with just a hint of a catch in her throat.
‘You’re welcome.’ Damn, damn, damn. Why on earth had he got himself into this mess? He didn’t want Veronica Grant at his table, he wanted Cassie. He wanted her so badly that if he didn’t let her go right now, walk away and take a cold shower, he would do something really stupid. Like telling her that he loved her. Which was ridiculous. He didn’t go in for such rubbish. Good grief, he scarcely knew anything about her. Except that once she was married and now she was not. And she didn’t like to talk about it.
‘Go on,’ she said, giving him a little push. ‘Your blonde telegraph pole will be here soon. No, wait. You’d better show me where I’m going to hide if she comes snooping in the kitchen to check up on you.’
He looked genuinely startled. ‘She won’t, will she?’
‘She might,’ Cassie warned. Nick dragged his fingers through his hair and she was glad he was finding this deception more difficult than he’d expected. It made him seem just a little nicer. Which on top of the charm and the smile was really more than she could deal with. ‘I would,’ she added.
‘Well, there’s a pantry. Through there,’ he said, opening a door to expose an old-fashioned pantry lined with unused shelves that made her practically drool with longing to fill it with preserves and jams.
‘And where does that door lead to?’ she asked, indicating another door alongside it.
‘The mud room, then the garden,’ he said, showing her. The manic decorator hadn’t got this far. The worn quarry tiles were old and the walls had been painted cream a long time ago. A lonely and very shabby waxed jacket hung from a row of hooks, and on the floor beneath it was a pair of wellington boots that looked as if they had never encountered a puddle in their life, let alone mud. ‘I thought I might try my hand at gardening, but I don’t seem to have much time,’ Nick said, reading her expression with alarming accuracy.
‘Well, at least I’ll be able to get out without your guest seeing me,’ Cassie said, opening a door to disclose a loo and washbasin. A second door opened on a narrow flight of stairs. ‘I’d better be out of here before the real reason for this evening gets under way,’ she said.
‘Cassie!’
‘What?’ Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth.
‘Those are the back stairs. The main staircase is—’ He realised she had been teasing him and stopped.
‘Regular servants’ quarters,’ she said. ‘How appropriate.’ Something very like a blush darkened his cheekbones, probably for the first time since he had outgrown puberty. ‘Don’t worry, Nick, the minute dinner is served I intend to get out of here.’ She might have been kidding him but she had a pretty good idea what would happen once the after-dinner mints had been consumed and she didn’t plan to stick around and have her suspicions confirmed. ‘Did you arrange a taxi for me?’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t sure what time it would be needed…you just have to call the number by the phone when you’re ready. It’s all paid for.’ He hesitated. ‘I haven’t thanked you properly for saving my skin, Cassie.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure your young man has been instructed to do that most efficiently on your behalf.’ Her mouth-only smile indicated that she considered this cheap of him, but since she really wasn’t in a position to turn his offer down she didn’t push it. ‘Now, don’t you think you’d better go and make yourself beautiful before your date arrives?’ she said, her sweetness so false that it was positively saccharine. ‘It’s always difficult to look your best when you’ve been slaving over a hot stove, but you wouldn’t want Veronica to think you hadn’t made an effort, would you?’
Veronica Grant was not a date, she was a challenge. But Nick knew that saying so would do nothing to improve Cassie’s opinion of him. The truth was that his own opinion of himself wasn’t all that high right now. Veronica was a brilliant marketing professional and
if he messed up their working relationship because of some stupid bet on the men’s-room wall… Beth was right; it was definitely time he grew up. And now would be a good time to start.
Veronica had invited herself to dinner and dinner was all she was going to get. As for Cassie, well, he needed to take a little time to think about why her opinion mattered so much. It was too important to get it wrong.
‘Can I get you a drink before I go?’ he offered.
‘Only male television cooks can get away with drinking on the job, Nick,pity. She had the feeling that a drink or two would have gone a long way to helping her through the next hour or so.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE couldn’t wait for Nick to go, to have the kitchen to herself, yet the minute he had gone Cassie missed him. Which was idiotic. He didn’t care two hoots about her, or about anyone but himself. He wasn’t even putting himself out to thank her for helping him. He was getting someone else to do his dirty work, something he was very good at, she decided as she arranged curls of smoked salmon and unshelled prawns on two plates with elaborate care. Added a twist of lemon peel and cucumber.
It wasn’t as if he was making any pretence about it. He was having this meal with another woman, after all. One of those leggy blondes he found so appealing.
‘Everything under control?’ She was mixing the flavourings with the mayonnaise when Nick put one hand on her shoulder and leaned over to hook a finger through the mixture and taste it. She slapped irritably at the back of his hand with a spoon. ‘More mustard,’ he said.
‘Who’s making this mayonnaise?’ she demanded.
‘Me,’ Nick reminded her. ‘At least in theory. And I’d definitely use more mustard.’ He offered her his finger to lick. He had long fingers. Strong, straight with smooth, sensitive tips. She swallowed and dolloped in another spoonful of mustard.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ she said, whisking the mayonnaise with considerably more force than was necessary. His other hand was still on her shoulder and she turned to glance at his watch. His wrist was thick and sinewy with a generous sprinkling of sun-lightened hair, the wrist of a man who played tennis or golf. Very well. The kind of wrist a woman would enjoy rubbing her cheek against. When she wasn’t licking his fingers.
She closed her eyes. What on earth was happening to her? Five years without so much as a flicker of temptation to divert her. Now one kiss from Nick Jefferson had woken up all those little slumbering memories of how it was to be touched, stroked, kissed, loved… ‘What time is Veronica due?’ she asked, in an endeavour to keep her mind on food.
‘Any minute.’
‘Let’s get started, then. You want her to smell something cooking when she arrives or she’ll think you’ve just heated it up in the microwave. Put on the oven.’ She slid off the stool, wincing slightly as her foot touched the ground, and then produced a pack of cook-at-home rolls from her basket and handed them to him. ‘I’d normally make my own bread, but frankly I think you’d be pushing credibility a touch too far if you tried to get away with that one. But if you put these in the oven it will give the place a homey smell.’
‘Like people do when they’re selling a house?’ He didn’t move. ‘No one falls for that one, surely?’
‘Just put them on a tray, Nick. In the oven. It’ll tell you on the packet what temperature.’ He still didn’t move. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure I can do this.’ He took in the kitchen with a broad gesture. ‘I’ll have to tell her.’
After all the trouble she’d gone to? ‘Oh, come on, Nick. Pretending that you’ve suddenly developed a conscience isn’t going to impress me one bit.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Hadn’t you better answer that? You can worry about your conscience—and the risk of blackmail—in the morning. I’m sure it will be worth it.’
‘Blackmail?’ He still hadn’t moved.
‘Go,’ she said, waving him away. ‘I was just kidding. I won’t tell a soul about this; I’ve got my own reputation to think about, you know. The tabloids would have a field day if they ever found out about this. And since I don’t for one minute believe that you have a conscience—’
‘Kidding again?’ he cut in, his mouth tight, his eyes quite suddenly about as warm as agate.
She glanced up at him, surprised that he had taken offence. ‘I guess I just can’t help myself.’ But she wasn’t about to apologise. ‘Now, if you’ll just try and keep her out of the kitchen…’ He was still staring at her. He was that angry? ‘I’m sure you can think of some way of distracting her,’ Cassie added, a touch recklessly, anything to get him to move.
‘I’m sure I can,’ Nick replied, a dangerous edge to his voice. And as the bell pealed again he spun round and walked out of the kitchen. Well, that was what she had wanted, wasn’t it?
Cassie shut her ears to the sounds coming from the front hall and put the heat under the frying-pan. Half an hour and she would be out of here, she promised herself. And she promised whichever saint was responsible for the welfare of cooks that she would never, ever, do anything like this again. Honest.
‘Veronica, how lovely to see you.’ Nick invested his voice with special warmth, just in case Cassie happened to be listening. Although why she would be he couldn’t imagine. She’d made it quite clear that he was one step up from a louse. Or maybe she didn’t consider that he was that high on the evolutionary scale.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Nick.’ Veronica stepped into the hall, looking about her. He took her wrap and led her into the living room which suddenly seemed to have too much new black leather and not enough genuine comfort. ‘Nice house,’ she said politely.
‘It needs some work,’ he said, not bothering to explain that none of this was his choice. He didn’t actually care very much what Veronica thought of his home. In fact he couldn’t wait to get her out of it. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘A glass of wine, please. White. Something dry?’
‘No problem. Make yourself at home.’
She remained on her feet. ‘Can I look around?’
He remembered Cassie’s warning that Veronica would be on the prowl. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, after the briefest pause. ‘I’ll get you a drink and check on things in the kitchen.’
He pushed the door open, but the kitchen was empty, with only the gentle sizzle of meat in the pan to reassure him that Cassie was about somewhere. He took a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and peeled away the foil from the cork. Then he glanced anxiously at the pan, remembering how quickly everything had gone ballistic when he’d tried cooking the dish himself. She might think him a louse but she wouldn’t have walked out and left him, would she?
‘Cassie?’ The pantry door opened a fraction and she peered round it, her face slightly flushed, her hair already slipping from its pins. Unlike Veronica, who never had a hair out of place, Cassie couldn’t seem to control the sleek heavy mass of her hair. He wanted to reach out and tuck it back in place; his fingers curled with the sheer effort of not doing it. ‘What on earth are you doing in there?’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ she demanded in a fierce whisper. ‘Hiding from your seducee.’
‘My what?’
Not entirely confident that there was such a word, Cassie couldn’t bring herself to repeat it. ‘I nearly broke my neck getting in here. Couldn’t you have whistled or something to warn me that you were coming?’
‘I think Veronica might just be a little suspicious if I did that, don’t you?’ He had the feeling she was suspicious anyway. ‘Besides, I was on my own.’
‘I didn’t know that—’
‘You can see through the ventilation holes—’ he glanced at the door with its three-inch-wide holes drilled three-quarters of the way up the door ‘—if you stand on tiptoe—’
‘Nick?’ Veronica’s voice wafted down the corridor.
‘I’m in the kitchen.’ Reassured that she was still on his side, no matter how reluctantly, Nick grinned at Cassie.
‘If you don’t want to get caught, you’d better do your disappearing act again,’ he advised.
Cassie glared at him. ‘Put the lemon in,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Now.’ And dived back into the pantry as Veronica appeared in the doorway.
‘My goodness. What a hive of domesticity.’ Nick was saved from answering by the hiss and sizzle of the lemon juice hitting the pan. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘If you like. You’ll find a couple of plates of smoked salmon in the fridge. You could take them into the dining room for me while I open this wine.’
‘Smoked salmon?’ She opened the fridge. ‘And strawberries, too. How lovely.’
‘And how easy?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of saying that.’
‘No, but you were thinking it,’ he said, as she passed him with the salmon. He finished opening the wine and poured it into two glasses.
Cassie put her head round the door. ‘Has she gone?’
‘Only for a minute.’
‘Quick, put in the rosemary and give it a stir.’
He crossed to the hob and did as she said. ‘Then what?’
‘Then what, what?’ Veronica asked. He spun round to find her leaning against the island, sipping at her wine. He had to make a real effort not to look back towards the pantry.
‘Uh…I was just talking to myself. I’ve put in the rosemary, but I can’t remember which comes next, the stock or the soured cream…’ He smiled as if the answer had suddenly come to him. ‘The stock.’ The jug with the measured amount was standing beside the hob. He poured it in and, improvising, gave it a stir.
‘What is it?’ she asked, leaning over the hob. ‘Oh, chicken. Well, it smells delicious.’
‘Let’s hope it tastes as good,’ he said, reaching for his glass.
‘Don’t you know?’ Veronica was regarding him rather as a cat might have watched a bird he was planning to have for his supper, weighing the exact moment to strike. And he remembered feeling exactly the same way in the boardroom a few days earlier. What was she up to?
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