As he led her deeper into the gleaming depths of the room, then through a separate doorway, he flicked another switch and revealed a further bank of polished counters, sauté burners, fridges and ovens.
‘This is the patisserie. This is where Boui-Boui’s pâtissier works.’
He hadn’t needed to explain that detail. Trudy had figured as much because this was her area of specialist expertise. The pâtissier in a commercial kitchen was usually given a separate room. Fluctuating temperatures in a typical kitchen could prove disastrous to the delicate creations being forged by those who worked with desserts.
If the air was too cold a soufflé could sink.
If the air was too hot a soft sponge could harden. Ice creams, chocolates and all manner of crafted sugar creations depended on a consistency of temperature that wasn’t guaranteed in a busy kitchen working on fish, meats and veg. The environment needed to be fully controlled to ensure the dishes being produced met the consistently high standard demanded by the pâtissier.
The patisserie was joined to Hart’s office. The glass door on this side was closed and also labelled with the words: Head Chef. Looking at the closed door Trudy understood that Hart took his role seriously and kept a judgemental eye over every item being produced in his kitchen.
As Trudy walked around the patisserie she watched Hart take an apron from a hook on the wall. He smiled slyly as he offered it to her. Trudy could see the apron was decorated with the restaurant’s logo: an appliqué of a silver spoon dripping golden liquid to form the words Boui-Boui.
She was momentarily too surprised to know how to respond.
The garment hung between them like an unaccepted challenge.
Surely, William Hart was not genuinely offering her the chance to wear one of his restaurant’s aprons? It was a day when she had graduated, committed herself to a business partnership with her best friends and since discovered a new yet familiar flavour. It was a day when she had talked baking with William Hart and been given the privilege of a private tour around his prestigious kitchens. She could not imagine any experience ever bettering those she had enjoyed so far this day.
A lewd twist of her imagination presented her with one idea that could potentially better the day’s experiences. She blushed and admonished herself for such a lurid train of thought. She didn’t know where the idea had come from but she knew it was extremely inappropriate even if it did hold a delicious, dark appeal.
Seeing her hesitation, Hart took the apron and placed the neckpiece over her head. He was so close she could detect the lemony notes of his cologne. He smelled as delectable and appetising as his own citrus and blueberry muffins. She wondered if he would taste as sweet if she were to draw her tongue against his bare flesh. The idea came from nowhere and her blushes deepened when she realised she was thinking such things.
She turned her back on Hart and allowed him to tie the waistband of the apron. He stood with his head close to her ear and she could hear the slow draw of each breath he took. She held herself motionless for fear that any movement she made might break the magical spell of the moment or reveal the wicked thoughts that were suddenly rushing through her mind and exciting wanton responses through her body.
‘Why do you want me wearing an apron?’
He whispered his reply against the nape of her neck. ‘You want to try making those muffins, don’t you?’
She swallowed.
She drew in her waist, only ever satisfied with aprons when they were cinched uncomfortably tight, and she allowed him to pull the ties and secure them with a bow. His knuckles pressed firmly into the hollow at the small of her back. Trudy knew that the deep intake of breath accentuated the swell of her breasts but she didn’t figure William Hart was likely to complain. The thought that he might be enjoying her company as much as she was enjoying his, that he might be as sexually excited by her nearness as she was by him, ignited a swell of smouldering arousal in the pit of her stomach. When Trudy released her breath it came out as a trembling and expectant sigh.
Her heartbeat was racing.
Her cheeks flushed as though she suspected he had glimpsed the wicked direction of her thoughts. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was so close he could have been drinking in the scent of her short-cropped hair.
‘Honestly? Mr Hart –’
She paused abruptly, wondering if he was going to say, ‘Call me Bill,’ or, ‘It’s just William to friends.’ He didn’t say either of those things. Instead he considered her expectantly, as though waiting for her to finish her sentiment.
‘– are you really letting me bake a batch of muffins in here?’
He shrugged. ‘Only if you want.’
‘Why would you let me?’
He studied her earnestly. His eyes, in this light they were the steely grey of a polished kitchen counter, glinted with lightly tempered mirth. ‘You spent two hours sitting alone in my restaurant so you could have one question answered about some mysterious ingredient in a chuffing bun. You’ve shown me that you clearly know your flavours. If you were in that seminar I addressed it’s clear that some aspects of your education have been properly addressed.’
She smiled at his obvious conceit. Tilting her head arrogantly she asked, ‘It’s not because you fancied having a young blonde doing your bidding in the kitchen?’
‘That might be part of the attraction,’ he allowed. ‘But not for the reasons you’re suggesting. You’re too young and inexperienced for a man with my appetites. Even if you were older, I’m not sure you’d be able to cope with the demands I place on those who do my bidding in the kitchen.’
Her cheeks seared.
She had no idea what he was intimating but the words were an incendiary to the smouldering coals of her arousal. Her need for him had been powerful before. Now it was unquenchable.
Hart did not seem to notice her reaction. ‘Truth is, I want to see what a graduate does in my patisserie. It’d be champion to hear of any improvements you could suggest once you’ve baked in here. And I’d love to sample your interpretation of my muffins.’
Trudy nodded and came to an abrupt decision. She could think about Hart and his desirability later. For now she had a chance to concentrate solely on baking whilst she had the facilities of an immaculate world-class kitchen at her disposal.
Setting the temperature on a small oven, finding a bowl, sieve, blender and a pair of spatulas, she pointed quizzically towards a door marked PANTRY and cocked an eyebrow.
Hart nodded and told her to help herself. In his broad dialect the words came out as: Elp thi sen. Then he disappeared through the doorway of the head chef’s office. When the sounds of light jazz began to dance through the kitchen she realised he’d been picking music for them.
The jazz was cultured and sophisticated and easy on the ear: Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘September Song’. Trudy had not yet worked in a kitchen where the chefs didn’t have music playing softly in the background and she thought the sultry elegance of the jazz worked well for the chic meals that Hart’s kitchen produced.
From inside the chef’s office he called, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Scotch, if you’ve got it.’
He grunted dour amusement. ‘I might be able to locate a bottle of that somewhere in here.’
She was in the pantry, willing herself not to be overwhelmed by the choices available. The air was sweetened with a million mixed fragrances. The shelves were overstocked with brightly coloured packages and clearly labelled packets. Snatching a pair of eggs, a scoop of flour and a couple of other pieces, she tripped back to the kitchen.
Her feet moved instinctively in tempo with the music.
She allowed her hips to shake slightly with the rhythm and lightly rolled her shoulders to match the beat. The rhythm was heady and exciting and Fitzgerald’s voice was always reminiscent of something exotic and sexy.
She came face-to-face with Hart, took the lowball of proffered Scotch from his hand, and twirled in a light dance as
she made her way towards the counter where she was working.
Hart grinned.
The wrinkles around his eyes creased heavily making him look both older and more desirable. Trudy shut that thought from her mind, unwilling to let it run its logical course just yet. Later, she told herself, there would be time to reflect on William Hart’s desirability. Now, she had a job to do.
She sniffed tentatively at the neat pale gold that sat at the bottom of the lowball he had given her. The fragrance of quality malt was acerbic and so heady she felt intoxicated from the bouquet. It was what Charlotte called a vampire smell because, she said, whilst it was pleasing at this time of night it only ever smelled of suffering and regret on a morning.
‘It’s a Chivas Regal.’ Hart’s words sounded moist on his lips and she knew he was already savouring his own drink.
‘It smells divine,’ she muttered.
She was trying not to let herself be distracted. After pouring the wet ingredients into the bowl – eggs, honey and creamed butter – she had begun the process of sifting hand-milled flour.
‘Can I do anything to help?’
She was in a Michelin-starred kitchen and William Hart was asking her if he could do anything to help. Trudy wondered if she was dreaming. Even if she was dreaming, at that moment she decided she didn’t want to wake up. She was basking in the thrill of the experience. In future years, when anyone asked her how she celebrated her graduation, she felt sure it would be difficult not to boast about this turn of events.
‘No help needed,’ she told him. ‘I’m golden.’
It was one of the phrases that she and Donny and Charlotte used repeatedly. Charlotte had first introduced it because she was tired of saying she was OK. Donny and Trudy had picked up on it and now the word was a natural choice.
‘Golden,’ Hart laughed. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
She didn’t know what he meant by that so she let the comment go.
‘Whilst you’re working on those muffins, why don’t you tell me about yourself?’ he suggested.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘You could start with your name.’
She introduced herself as Trudy McLaughlin and told him about her lifelong desire to become a chef. She had baked in her late father’s kitchen, learning beneath his professional guidance. Trudy had entered competitions at an early age and won some prestigious local prizes. She explained about her goals and ambitions and told him how much she had enjoyed developing her skills and knowledge on a culinary arts degree. She stopped short of telling him about Sweet Temptation and the idea of building an online culinary empire with Charlotte and Donny for fear of boring him with every aspect of her life and aspirations.
She didn’t know if it was the situation, his companionship or the mood of the evening but she found it easy to talk with Hart. When he came and stood behind her to watch how she blended ingredients, she didn’t find his presence unsettling. Ordinarily she didn’t like to have her personal space invaded by strangers. But, when his arms came around from behind her, and he gently guided her hands so she was stirring at a more acute angle, Trudy savoured his nearness.
‘Make the strokes broader,’ he whispered. His words touched the lobe of her ear like gentle kisses. ‘The finished result will give more satisfaction if you make the strokes broader.’
She did as he asked.
Savouring the sensation of having his body pressed against hers as he guided her hands to work to his instructions, Trudy lowered her voice and asked, ‘Do we both want to be giving more satisfaction this evening?’
He chuckled softly.
She caught the scent of the Chivas Regal on his breath. It reminded her that she’d not yet taken a sip of her drink. She was suddenly driven by the need to taste the flavour of the Scotch on his kiss. The idea inspired a flurry of dark and desperate urges that sparkled deep in the centre of her sudden need for him.
‘Smells divine,’ he grunted.
She blushed. ‘Thank you, but I was only following your recipe.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the muffins.’
It was as much as he needed to say before she turned to face him. His lips were tantalisingly close and the desire to kiss him was overwhelming. She hesitated for less than a second and then pushed her mouth against his.
Chapter 6
Later Trudy would admit that she amazed herself in the kitchen with her show of restraint. She pulled away from the kiss and, with a promise in her smile, placed a finger on his lips. Saucily, she tilted her hips against him. She could feel the insistent threat of his erection concealed beneath his trousers. The hard flesh bulged between them as desperate as her own swelling need for him. It was a delightful and unexpected reminder that they were both fuelled by the same powerful and demanding urges. She wanted to shiver as she realised what the discovery meant: William Hart finds me desirable.
Then she turned and finished prepping the muffins.
The patisserie was already heady with the scent of the Sri Lankan cinnamon. Her lips needed constant moistening as her nostrils drank in the intoxicating flavour. She had liberated blueberries from the pantry and was looking for an orange when he joined her.
They were alone together in the kitchen.
But the narrowness of the dark pantry meant they had to be even closer.
Trudy trembled.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Orange,’ she admitted. ‘Lime or lemon if you’ve got no orange –’
She was going to carry on listing potential alternatives but he reached for something large and red from behind her and then placed it in her palm.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Rangpur,’ he said simply. ‘It’s sometimes called lemandarin. It’s a hybrid form between mandarin oranges and lemons.’
‘Shut the front door,’ Trudy whispered. She studied the fruit in her hand, incredulous that such a thing could exist – and that she’d never encountered it before. She sniffed the biting zest of its flesh, drinking in the acidic orangey fragrance, and fretful that the powerful flavour might prove too strong for the muffins she wanted to create. Then, realising the rangpur was being offered by a leading chef, she figured she could gamble confidently on the unknown ingredient.
‘Rangpur,’ she repeated, as she stepped past him and back into the kitchen. ‘Haven’t I learnt a lot tonight?’
‘The lessons have barely begun,’ he muttered.
She shivered as her thoughts lingered on the subtext of his words. She didn’t know what else he thought he could teach her in the kitchen but she knew she wanted to learn every lesson he had in mind.
The thought made her pulse quicken.
She grated the zest from the plump and succulent rangpur. Its fragrance was a powerful orange that would have been too bitter to tolerate as a main flavour. Trudy marvelled that she was now on the verge of creating the same divine delicacies she had sampled earlier in William Hart’s restaurant. She hoped, given her own approach to baking, the flavour would have something extra that came from the way she chose to combine ingredients.
If that happened, Trudy knew it would be an incredible accomplishment.
She folded the remaining ingredients into the bowl.
She creamed.
She mixed.
She stirred.
She found an electric whisk and blended. She rubbed her fingers thoughtfully along the brittle, fragile cinnamon quills. Their fragrance was as delicate as all the other mysterious ingredients she had discovered this evening. Reverently, she crumbled half a dozen quills into the mix. After mentally checking her understanding of the recipe, and convincing herself that she had everything in place, Trudy dropped a dozen pretty pastel pink paper cases onto a baking sheet and then used spatulas to place sponge mix into each waiting case.
The mixture stood stiff but she could sense its lightness in every scoop that she ladled into a case. The blueberries came next, to then be topped by a quarter more of the
remaining sponge mix. She finished the muffins with a layer of the citrus rinds from the rangpur and a small handful of the remaining blueberries.
William Hart watched with a scowl of good-natured approval.
‘Are you happy with them?’
She placed them, not on the middle shelf, but on the shelf below. The trick to get the best from muffins, she had found, was to bake one shelf lower in the oven. It produced a result that remained thoroughly cooked and properly risen but with an improved sense of moistness that made the sponge all the more succulent. Pressing the door closed she said, ‘I’ll be happy if they turn out half as good as those your pâtissier made for me.’
She stood up and replaced the oven mitts on their hook. Swiftly, she pulled her smartphone from her pocket, and used a timer app to set a fourteen minute alarm.
‘Very efficient,’ he muttered. He sounded grudgingly impressed. ‘And what do you propose doing whilst you’re waiting for the muffins to rise?’
Ordinarily she would have used the time to clean her kitchen. She had messed up a modest collection of utensils, bowls and spatulas and the counter needed to be wiped down. However, it had taken a tremendous effort of will power to resist William Hart for this long and Trudy was adamant that she wouldn’t torture herself with unnecessary abstinence for a moment longer.
She stepped back into his embrace.
‘I thought we could continue with that kiss, Mr Hart.’
‘Call me Bill, for this evening, and I might let you.’
‘Bill,’ she repeated, testing the name on her lips and finding it sat pleasantly there. ‘Bill.’
He placed a finger on her lips and shook his head. ‘It’s Bill for tonight,’ he said. ‘It won’t be Bill on every occasion.’ And then he had his arms around her. One hand held her waist, pulling her closer to him and clutching tight. The other hand rested in the middle of her back. The fingers there crept slowly upwards, tiptoeing up the ridges of her vertebrae on a lazy dance to the nape of her neck. She wanted to melt in his embrace and yield to the animal desire he so effortlessly evoked.
A Taste of Passion Page 3
