Sweet Seduction

by Jennifer St George

  ‘Well, thanks again,’ Charlie started formally. ‘I’ll give you a ring when—’

  ‘Come here.’ Gabe pulled her into a hug. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he whispered in her ear. He stepped away quickly and slid into the cab. ‘Make sure you call me when you arrive. Bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ she said with a little wave. She hoped her face didn’t reveal the despair taking hold.

  The cab shot off down the street and Charlie stared after the vehicle until it turned out of sight. She leaned down to pick up her new backpack. This finding life on your own terms sometimes just sucked.

  ‘Airport,’ Gabe said to the taxi driver.

  He turned and just caught sight of Charlie picking up her pack before she disappeared from view.

  ‘I like Charlie,’ Amelia said from the back seat.

  ‘I do too,’ Gabe answered.

  ‘She saved me.’

  ‘Yes, we will always owe her big time for that.’

  Owe her! What was he doing?

  ‘Turn around,’ he said urgently to the driver.

  ‘Que?’

  Gabe made a frantic circle gesture with his fingers.

  He owed her and there he was leaving her on the street. She obviously she had money trouble. No, she was coming with him until he was sure she was okay.

  The taxi turned into the street where they’d left Charlie. Gabe scanned the pavement. She’d gone. He swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat. What if he couldn’t find her?

  ‘Train station,’ he said pointing to a sign down the street. ‘Go to the train station.’ The taxi driver understood and followed Gabe’s directions.

  He spotted her. Shoulders hunched, trudging slowly forward. He expelled a long breath. The taxi pulled up behind her.

  ‘Turns out there’s a spare seat on the plane with your name on it,’ he called out the window.

  She snapped her head around. He laughed hard at her shocked expression.

  He got out. ‘Forget Italy. Spend the last of your holiday in London. I know a great place you can stay. And all above board, I promise.’

  She stared open mouthed.

  ‘Come on, Charlie. The kids are distraught.’ The kids giggled in the background.

  ‘All right, she said slowly as if considering the proposition carefully. ‘But there’s something I need . . . Ah . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She pulled her pack from her shoulders and he threw it in the boot. Charlie shuffled into the back seat with the kids.

  ‘So, what’s England like?’ she asked.

  ‘Rainy,’ Amelia said instantly.

  ‘You’ll love it,’ Gabe countered.

  He wondered if he ever wanted his debt to Charlie to be fully paid.

  Chapter Five

  The English weather lived up to its reputation. All the way into London from Heathrow airport, Charlie watched the drizzle slide down the taxi windows.

  They’d said goodbye to Amelia and Rupert at Gabe’s sister’s house. She’d liked Emma immediately. Emma had hugged her for the longest time. She’d said she’d never be able to thank her enough for saving Amelia’s life. People seemed to really love Charlie Brown.

  As the taxi slowed in front of an enormous Victorian terrace house in the fashionable area of Notting Hill, Charlie’s eyes widened. When Gabe opened the front door for her, she stood and stared.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  Their little apartment in Genoa had been cute and practical. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Gabe might be rich, but the instant she entered his home, she was surrounded by the trappings of a very successful man.

  ‘I guess,’ he said dismissively.

  He led her through to the living room. A smattering of gorgeous antiques highlighted the room. Two classic Chesterfield sofas in deep burgundy rested on a gold thread Persian carpet. A huge, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall and reflected back the luxury. The muted lamp lighting was complemented by the soft glow from a crystal chandelier set in the ornate ceiling that rose high above them. The room epitomised old England and serious affluence.

  Gabe set the bags down.

  ‘We need a drink,’ he said and disappeared from the room.

  Charlie walked slowly around admiring the various ornaments and the photographs. Some of the people in the photos looked vaguely familiar.

  On the mantelpiece a gold mask caught her eye. She leaned forward and read the plaque.

  ‘Gabe Grenville, Director of Fiction, Celebrity Shipwreck, Grenville Productions,’ she read aloud. ‘British Academy of Film and Television Art.’

  Her eyes bulged. So Gabe wasn’t just some television executive. He owned the company.

  Gabe returned holding two glasses. He held one out to her.

  ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said.

  Charlie put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with me, Mr Grenville.’

  Did I just say that? What a hypocrite.

  ‘Hmm,’ Gabe said, popping both glasses on the coffee table.

  ‘You said you were a TV executive,’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  She pointed to the statuette.

  ‘Okay.’ Gabe took a seat on the fine leather. ‘Yes, I own a production company.’

  ‘What sort of shows do you make?’ she asked, taking the seat opposite.

  ‘Just reality television.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like there is anything “just” about it.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Would I know any of your shows?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘At the moment Australia is showing Garden Rescue and My Life After Lotto.’

  ‘I love Garden Rescue,’ she exclaimed.

  Gabe grinned. ‘Produced and directed.’

  She put her glass down and walked back to the mantelpiece. Picking up the statue, she admired it more closely.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were some hot-shot TV director?’

  He took a slow sip of his drink as if he were considering the question carefully.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to escape the whole scene for a while. It can be pretty intense.’

  ‘Did you think I’d want you to make me a star?’ she teased, giving a little sway of her hips.

  The expression that flared across his face made her wish she could snatch back the words and crumple them in her hands. She quickly sat down on the sofa opposite him.

  Gabe peered at his glass and clinked the ice against the sides.

  ‘It’s been a problem in the past,’ he said with ill-disguised bitterness.

  ‘Oh.’ She snatched up her glass and glanced around the room, desperate for something tospark a change of conversation.

  ‘You have a beautiful house.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Silence.

  Gabe’s usually sparkling eyes grew dark and brooding. She suddenly felt like an unwelcome visitor.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I’ve obviously put my foot in it.’

  ‘No, it’s not you.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Before I left on holiday I’d just wrapped up an ugly court case that had dragged on for years. The woman suing me had been a cast member on one of my shows.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He drained his drink. ‘I won.’

  The ferocity of his voice surprised her. She sipped her drink as she didn’t know what else to do or say.

  Placing his empty glass on the coffee table, Gabe stood up.

  ‘I’ll show you your room. Then I have to work.’ He walked briskly into the hall.

  Charlie followed with a heavy heart. Had Gabe only invited her to stay to repay what he considered his debt for saving Amelia’s life? All the fun of their Italian adventure seemed a distant memory.

  Gabe left Charlie to settle in and unpack. He couldn’t concentrate until he’d fleshed out the concept for First-Class Chef. He took a seat in front of his compute
r in his office and began to type. After a few sentences, he stopped and leaned back in his chair.

  Make me a star. He hated that those words had tumbled from Charlie’s mouth. Of course, she’d only meant it as a joke, but still, things had changed now she knew who he was.

  He rubbed his hand across his brow. The days they’d spent in Italy together had been magic. Charlie’s charming company; Charlie’s fabulous dinners; no talk of work except for a brilliant new concept; no starlets clamouring for his attention. No-one wanting anything from him.

  His body reacted instantly as the image of Charlie in her black bikini burst into his mind. Slowly his eyes focused back on the screen. He shrugged his shoulders. Oh well, he had to succumb to reality sometime. Soon she’d be on the other side of the world and his life would be consumed by castings and production schedules once more.

  He ran his hand through his hair as he waited for inspiration to strike. His eyes settled on the glass-fronted cabinet. Although it was stuffed full of various statuettes and awards, the big one still eluded him. Not an Oscar in sight. His movie script had been bouncing around LA for years. Not one bite.

  He turned back to his computer and tapped out an introduction, striking the keys just a little too hard.

  Charlie wandered back down the stairs. Gabe wasn’t in the living room so she went looking for him.

  At the back of the house she found the kitchen. Although it was huge, it wasn’t a cook’s kitchen. She walked around the vast room and peeked in some of the cupboards. No mortar and pestle, no wooden chopping boards and clearly the stove had rarely been used. She ran her finger over the highly polished surface. If ever.

  The pantry stood empty of cooking essentials. No oils. No vinegars. No spices.

  She vowed one day she’d come back and fit out Gabe’s kitchen with some decent utensils. A thank you for all his help. Of course, she might also have to teach him to cook.

  Back in the hall, she admired the art work on the walls. Further down the corridor, she could hear Gabe tapping at a keyboard. She hesitated. Surely it was only polite to let him know she was going out. She crept down the corridor and peered into his study.

  Gabe was hunched over his computer. He didn’t look up.

  She bit her lip. As she retreated, she bumped into the wall.

  He glanced up, but immediately returned to his work. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m just going out to buy some milk and other things.’

  ‘Okay.’ Gabe stopped typing and read over the words on his screen, completely engrossed. The change in his demeanour unnerved her. In Italy, he’d been so attentive.

  She stepped from the room and closed the door. Accepting his invitation to stay had been a mistake. She was clearly intruding. London had changed everything.

  She walked down the hall and opened the front door. She drew her cardigan further across her chest; more drizzle and the temperature was dropping, but it wasn’t the weather that made her shiver. Gabe didn’t want her in his house. The holiday friendship wasn’t the same in London.

  Finding an umbrella in a stand, she braved the English rain. As she walked down the wet footpath, she wondered what London had to recommend it. So far it was wet, grey, dull and cold.

  An icy wind blew straight through her thin, light clothes. She shivered. It was the first day of autumn. She’d need a coat. But coats cost money.

  Cash. She needed cash.

  She turned the corner into a street packed with market stalls. She stared around in amazement. Glancing up, the street sign announced Portobello Road. At least this place had some colour.

  She made her way along the street between the stalls. The pungent bouquet of cheese enticed her taste buds. A few paces further on, a stall stacked high with cheeses, meats and antipasto captivated her. A hundred ideas for dinner whizzed through her mind. At least Gabe loved her food. Perhaps during dinner he might not regret his decision to invite her to stay.

  A few hours later, Charlie was back in Gabe’s kitchen frying up onions, mushrooms and pancetta for a quick spaghetti carbonara. The rich aroma slowly warmed her after her walk in the dismal London afternoon.

  ‘I’ve got First-Class Chefs all mapped out.’

  She jumped. It was as if a tornado had spun into the room. Gabe grinned as he flourished a sheaf of typed pages in the air.

  ‘What?’ Charlie said, dropping the spoon into the pasta sauce.

  ‘I’ve nailed the concept. The judges, the format, right down to the live grand final.’

  He thrust the papers into her hand. She held them aloft while she fished the spoon from the sauce, but he just kept talking.

  ‘Each week, regional finalists compete against each other. They’re given all sorts of challenges. The show is designed so the audience learns about the contestants from the meals they prepare. Sort of gastronomic profiling.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ she said, trying to listen and read at the same time.

  ‘I’ve developed the whole concept based on you!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Absolutely. Your obsession with food. It’s so important to you.’ He began walking around the room. His infectious energy bubbled through the room. The gloom of the afternoon evaporated.

  ‘The way you have such an affinity with ingredients,’ he continued, coming close and turning the full power of those dazzling blue eyes upon her. ‘How you find that extra something that makes food taste amazing, different, special. As if . . .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘As though it were an extension of you – your personality, your soul.’

  She blinked in amazement. Did he know her better than she knew herself?

  ‘I had no idea I did any of that,’ she said slightly breathlessly. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she quickly dropped her eyes to the sheets of paper. His proximity made it hard to concentrate, but once she’d found the flow of the words, she raced through the pages. Charlie didn’t know what made successful television, but Gabe’s concept had to be a winner. As she read, ideas multiplied in her mind.

  ‘How about one week each contestant brings one special ingredient and the rest must be selected from a pre-prepared list?’

  Gabe snatched the pages from her hands and sat down at the table. He scribbled notes in the margin. He looked up expectantly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Um, you could ask the contestant to make a dish from their childhood. You know, one that really makes them feel at home.’

  She thought of the chocolate brownies she’d cooked when her parents were out. She’d take them into the garden and eat them in secret.

  He wrote that down too and threw the pen onto the table.

  ‘You’re a genius.’ He leaped up from his seat, caught her about the waist and twirled her around. ‘You know, it was fate meeting you.’ He kissed her on the forehead and let her go.

  ‘ITV is already interested and I have a call into BBC One. I’m starting pre-production in the morning,’ he said, striding to the kitchen door. ‘Just got to make a couple of calls.’

  He left the room, muttering to himself.

  Although heavy rain was hammering on the roof, Charlie glowed as if she’d been hugged by the sun.

  Maybe London’s not so bad after all.

  Charlie filled the Italian percolator with fresh ground coffee and set it to simmer on the stove. She gazed out the kitchen window. The feeble morning sun peeped through the clouds – not a patch on home: the sun in Australia was bold and bright like a showgirl; here it seemed to apologise for existing.

  She’d woken early and pottered around the kitchen, wondering what time Gabe would be down for breakfast. She dropped a teaspoon of pancake batter into the frypan to test it. The batter sizzled satisfyingly.

  She flipped the test batter from the pan. She’d barely seen Gabe for the past four weeks. He’d leave early for work and didn’t arrive back until late. When they did cross paths, he chatted excitedly about the planning for the new series. He’d sold the concept to a ma
jor TV station, so the series was in full production. He’d shown her an artist’s impression of the set design. They’d started building it already at Pinewood Studios.

  Her wedding date had come and gone. She read online that the wedding had been cancelled due to her ill health. She smiled. I’m sure they considered me insane. She didn’t want to imagine the arguments between Paul and her father.

  She dropped spoonfuls of batter into the pan as she flipped the pancakes. Another day of job hunting faced her after breakfast. She had secured a job at a sandwich shop down the road, but the wage wasn’t enough to live on long term. Not if she was going to afford somewhere to rent. She wasn’t going home until she’d achieved something on her own terms. Shown her family that she didn’t need them to survive, to flourish. She shook with rage every time she thought about Paul clearing out her bank accounts. Had she been so starved of love she hadn’t seen Paul for the bastard he was or was he just a master of deceit? Probably lashings of both.

  She turned another pancake but splattered half of it onto the side of the pan, ruining it.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Gabe’s voice cut through her malaise. She tried to wipe up the mess quickly.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He walked to the stove to view the damage.

  ‘Ah, no need to cry over spilt pancakes,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. He poured himself a coffee, leaned against the kitchen counter and scooped up the newspaper.

  As she cleaned, Charlie stole a glance at his body. He looked as though he’d stepped from a billboard. His designer jeans hung perfectly on his slim hips and his cool urban shirt highlighted his broad shoulders. She busied herself with the pancakes, easing a couple onto a plate.

  ‘Focus on this instead.’ He flung the paper down on the counter and pointed to an ad.

  Wanted. Amateur cooks for new reality TV show.

  ‘You’re advertising for contestants already?’ she asked as she skimmed the ad.

  ‘Yes and we’ll be conducting regional finals for the next few weeks to find the top ten contestants for the show.’

  She handed him a plate of pancakes and he took a seat at the table.