Seduce: A Cariad Romance Three Book Bundle (Cariad Collections)

by Stein, Charlotte

  Herein lies the problem as I see it. I can’t say for certain but I’m pretty sure that the handsome stranger with the stunning blue eyes from my X-rated dream is the Heavenly Baker. As I can’t recollect his face I can’t know for sure, but if I was a gambling girl, which I’m not – well, you get the idea.

  So here I am, on my way to the Big City, a collection of nervous energy about to meet my baking idol/stellar crush, and I’m totally lost. I feel nearly as bad as I did the morning after my raincoat disaster.

  That was a very bad morning, with the taste of hard liquor and a thumping bass line being pounded out in my skull, and Carly had the cheek to look like the night before had been nothing but a walk in the park. Still, she was waiting for me with emergency coffee and then, around half-past ten, when the pain and misery had decided to settle in for the long haul, we received a phone call and Carly’s eyes lit up. She handed me the phone without a word.

  ‘Hello?’ Welcome to the house of the un-dead!

  ‘Can I speak to Ava Michaels, please?’

  Through the fog of alcohol fumes and big beats soundtrack in my head I’d decided I didn’t recognise the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘This is Ava speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘My name is Laura Simmons, and I’m calling from Dreamtime Studios, the production company behind The Heavenly Baker. I have your application form sitting in front of me.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. A pretty lame answer, but I was struggling with the basics as it was.

  ‘We’re in the process of filtering through the applications,’ Laura went on. ‘As you can imagine, we have quite a stack to go through.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I agreed.

  ‘But looking at your application we’d like you to come for a preliminary meeting. I realise this is short notice, but is there any chance you can come this Saturday?’

  ‘Wow!’ I murmured. ‘That is short notice.’

  ‘I know, but what’s that saying – strike while the iron’s hot. So how about it?’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Mostly just come up and meet the team. Really, it’s an opportunity for us to get to know you, and that way we can assess your suitability to be included in the baking competition.’

  ‘Won’t I have to audition?’

  ‘Bring along a few recipes,’ Laura suggested. ‘But don’t worry. You won’t be put through a formal selection process. The way we work here is if we like you, you’re in, and looking at your application form and the website for your Little Angels Bakery, I think you’ll be a good fit.’

  ‘This isn’t a wind-up, is it?’

  ‘No, this isn’t a wind-up, I promise,’ Laura assured me. ‘Go to the Heavenly Baker website and look me up. It’s not a great photo, but that’s me grinning like a lunatic.’

  ‘OK then. So what time do you want me?’

  ‘Say 11. Pack for the night. I’ll sort out the hotel and everything and if you can drop me a quick email as to your arrival time I can arrange for transportation to the studio.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good,’ said Laura. ‘I hope you can shift this bug before the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not officially ill,’ I explained. ‘I just have a killer hangover, that’s all.’

  Down the phone I could hear Laura laughing at me.

  I sighed. ‘I guess I deserve that.’

  ‘I’m not laughing at you, sweetie. But I’m pleased I called because I think you’re going to fit right in.’

  ‘I promise not to drink ever again.’

  ‘At least not until the weekend,’ Laura replied. ‘I look forward to seeing you.’

  ‘Thanks for your call.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ Laura said, and rang off.

  I was happy, ecstatically happy, but I was too hung over to show it. Truthfully, I felt like death warmed up, and it was only as my headache receded that I began to realise what I’d let myself in for.

  The landscape has changed. No more trees and rolling countryside. The vista is now urban; skyscrapers and houses and people. So many people that I inhale without thinking, but I’m here now, so just deal with it. Relax, girlie, and breathe. Collecting my case and suit carrier from the overhead rack, I negotiate exiting the carriage and follow the throng of weekenders flocking to the city for a good time. I stifle a growing desire to turn around and get back on the train. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, remember? I was drunk. The architect of all this madness is Carly. I need to plot a suitably fiendish revenge.

  Feeding my ticket into the gates at the end of the platform, I spot a casually dressed young man holding a sign with my name on it. I notice the sign bears the Dreamtime Studios logo but, being a naturally suspicious individual, I walk on and reach for my phone. Dialling the studios, I wait for someone to pick up.

  ‘Hello?’

  I recognise Laura’s voice from the other day.

  ‘Hello, Laura,’ I say.

  ‘Hello, Ava.’

  ‘I know this is going to seem overly paranoid, but bear with me. I’m a country girl at heart.’

  ‘Yes, I did send a young man to meet you and yes, I can describe him for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I feel the weight already starting to lift from my shoulders.

  ‘He is going to mock you all the way to the studios though,’ admits Laura.

  ‘That’s fair enough.’

  I pocket my phone and turn around. The guy is smiling smugly, his sign resting against his boot as he watches me with arms folded.

  ‘Did she tell you I was a serial killer?’ he asks.

  ‘No, but I can call her back if you like?’

  ‘I’m Bradley and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Michaels.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say, accepting his offered hand. ‘But you can’t be too careful, what with all the psychopaths.’

  ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’ he replies.

  ‘I don’t. Why, does it show?’

  ‘A little,’ he admits, ‘but that’s OK.’

  ‘Good,’ I say and smile. I’m warming to Bradley already, though not in an I-want-to-jump-his-bones way, because he has immaculately sculpted hair that involves large quantities of hair products and the kind of time spent in front of a mirror which shouts high maintenance. Add that small detail to the fact he works in television and clearly he’s gay. That’s awful! I must stop jumping to conclusions. But he is wearing red jeans. Boy, I’m a long way from home now.

  ‘So, country girl,’ begins Bradley, taking my case from me and leading me out of the station. ‘Am I right in understanding that you didn’t write your own application?’

  ‘That’s supposed to be top secret.’

  Bradley rolls his eyes. ‘You need to learn quickly that nothing that you tell Laura remains top secret for very long. I love her dearly, but keeping secrets is not her forte.’

  ‘My friend wrote the application on the quiet and then sent it when we were both bombed.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I heard,’ admits Bradley. ‘I hope you’ve got what it takes because, quite frankly, that’s genius and what I’m about to tell you is top secret so no blabbing.’ He looks at me.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he insists.

  ‘Cross my heart,’ I say.

  ‘Matt wants to take the programme out on the road and has already pencilled in Little Angels Bakery as a possible filming destination for later in the competition, so don’t bomb it.’

  ‘Why did you tell me that?’ I complain. ‘Now I feel ultra-pressured.’

  ‘Well, it’s lucky I like you, isn’t it?’ he murmurs secretively. ‘We’ll just have to fix the competition.’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim in mock-horror.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies suitably theatrically, waving down a taxi. ‘You’ve got a wicked streak, missy.’

  ‘I think I might have.’

  ‘Hallelujah!’ whispers Bradley in my ear as
he opens the door to the taxi and ushers me in.

  I think I’m going to be OK but then, as the taxi sets off, I start thinking about meeting the Heavenly Baker and all the things that could possibly go wrong.

  So many people, too many names, everyone saying “Hello”, and already I feel caught in the undertow. Does a drowning woman have any last requests?

  ‘Hi, how do you do?’

  It is like Moses parting the Red Sea. A moment ago there were people everywhere and now all I can see is a pair of oceanic blue eyes and a killer smile. He is dressed in blue jeans, ripped at the knee, Timberland boots, and a black polo tee. His chin is covered with a day’s stubble, his hair freshly shaved.

  ‘Hi,’ is all I can manage.

  His handshake is firm but friendly and there is definite warmth in the smile he offers me. I admire the outline of his biceps and the way his tee clings to him, not skin-tight but fitted enough.

  ‘So you made it OK, then?’ says Matt Richards.

  ‘I did, thank you.’

  ‘And there weren’t any psychopaths waiting for you at the station?’

  I glance at Bradley, who shrugs. ‘I had to give that one up,’ he admits. ‘It’s comedy gold.’

  ‘Well, mock away, then,’ I say.

  ‘So, you’ve met everyone?’ asks Matt.

  ‘I think so, but there’s been so many names that my head is spinning.’

  ‘So my name is?’ He ribs me gently.

  ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue,’ I say. Oh! My! God! I’m flirting with sex god Matt Richards and it’s just so easy!

  ‘I asked for that,’ he admits.

  ‘You did really.’

  ‘So thank you for coming up at such short notice.’

  ‘Is this the start of the interview?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he replies, smiling. ‘You passed that already. Anyone who phones to check whether Bradley is a serial killer has a guaranteed spot on any programme I’m producing.’

  ‘You say that now,’ I murmur.

  A man is gesticulating at Matt.

  ‘I have to go now before Henry has a complete heart attack but have a look around. Bradley is at your beck and call and we’ll catch up in a little while. OK?’

  ‘Do I have to prepare anything? I feel like I should prepare something, you know, like people do on real interviews.’

  I can see Henry becoming more and more worked up but I can’t help myself. I am magnetically attracted to this man. Wherever he goes I feel compelled to follow. It’s probably not healthy but I’ll put it down to being in the Big City.

  ‘Are you in the mood to bake?’

  ‘I’m always in the mood to bake, but isn’t that true of everyone?’

  ‘No,’ he says shaking his head.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I know. It’s really puzzling.’ He smiles and starts to walk in Henry’s direction. ‘Be ready in two minutes,’ he calls back.

  ‘What am I getting ready for?’

  ‘Welcome to television, country girl,’ declares Bradley with a wry shake of his head.

  ‘What am I missing?’ I ask, the fog of confusion hanging heavy around me.

  ‘This is live television, so no swearing, please,’ Bradley reminds me.

  I open my mouth to protest as the realisation dawns but Bradley is having none of it. With a hefty shove he propels me in the direction of the televised kitchen, and like a moth to the flame I am powerless to prevent the inevitable from happening. Please let it end quickly.

  Chapter Four

  Room with a View

  ‘To priceless television,’ announces Bradley, raising his bottle of beer into the air.

  ‘To priceless television,’ echo the assembled gang of drinkers who then proceed to look over at me. We are sitting in a suitably trendy Big City bar: all velour couches and interesting art hanging from the walls.

  ‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ I reply with a shrug.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ says Laura. ‘You were absolutely brilliant!’

  ‘You were,’ agrees Bradley. ‘But the moment you realised you were live on TV …’ He stops for a moment, savouring the memory. ‘It was just fantastic. I shall cherish the memory for ever.’

  ‘You need to get out more,’ I insist.

  ‘That’s bold coming from you, country girl.’

  ‘I’m not that country,’ I retort.

  ‘You just keep telling yourself that if it helps,’ teases Bradley.

  ‘He’s just jealous,’ murmurs Laura. ‘He wishes he had such sparkling screen presence.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll remember that,’ and for added effect I poke out my tongue at Bradley. It’s a very classy look, even if I do say so myself.

  The change in the girls assembled in the bar is noticeable the moment he enters. It would be comical if I didn’t feel it too. Backs straighten and cleavage is thrust forward. Beer bottles hover mesmerizingly close to lips where lipstick has been hastily reapplied. I wonder if he notices or is he immune to the world around him. He is the bringer of chaos, the destroyer of female hearts, and like all lethal assassins, he does it with a smile on his lips.

  ‘Evening all,’ he purrs, making his way through the crowd and smiling back at all the pretty girls smiling at him. ‘Is everyone all right for drinks?’

  Everyone needs a drink. The ladykiller nods at the barman who starts to line up the drinks order on the bar. Reaching into his wallet, Matt hands over a couple of 20s and starts passing out the drinks. He waves away the barman’s attempt to give him the change with a smile and a slow shake of his head. I watch Laura shift on the couch to leave room for her star baker to sit down, but instead he carries over a fresh bottle of beer, sets it down on the table in front of me, and squeezes in between myself and Bradley.

  ‘There’s no room here!’ protests Bradley.

  ‘There would be if you stuck to your diet,’ replies Matt, winking at me.

  Bradley’s features take a turn for the cartoonish as he explodes with righteous indignation. Before he can formulate a barbed retort, Matt smiles at him and murmurs, ‘You love it.’

  ‘I do,’ admits Bradley, nodding. ‘So country girl did well, then?’

  ‘Is that what he’s calling you?’ asks Matt.

  ‘That’s the name he seems to have settled on,’ I reply.

  ‘I can have him fired if you like,’ promises Matt. ‘It’s no trouble, really.’

  ‘Is that all it takes?’ says Bradley. ‘My loyalty of five years is cast aside and all because of a pair of brown eyes.’

  ‘Isn’t that a Pogues song?’ asks Matt.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Don’t dodge the issue,’ demands Bradley. ‘Five years of blood, sweat and tears.’

  ‘You work on a bakery show,’ Laura reminds him. ‘You’re not Spartacus!’

  ‘I should have known you’d turn on me at the very first opportunity,’ decries Bradley, throwing dagger eyes at his co-worker who responds in kind, but neither can keep up the display and they wind up giggling across the table at each other.

  ‘Children,’ mutters Matt with a shake of his head and turns his attention back towards me.

  I feel a glow inside and it’s not because of the alcohol, though the numerous pairs of female eyes trying to burn me to the ground with the intensity of their staring I find amusing. He is looking at me and it’s not the look of polite, social interest. No, the look he’s giving me is setting off all the right alarms deep inside. This is interesting. I remember this: the frisson of banter, the lingering looks, the promise of more. Yes, I do remember this. It may be time to dust off my low-mileage A-game.

  ‘So, my appearance didn’t go too badly, then?’ I ask, allowing the beer bottle to linger near my lips. I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this before.

  ‘No, it wasn’t too shoddy,’ admits Matt.

  ‘Praise indeed.’ Bradley laughs. ‘Don’t overdo it, will you, Matthew!’

  Matt glances at Bradley with
raised eyebrows.

  ‘He hates being called Matthew,’ explains Laura.

  ‘I’m only Matthew when I’m in trouble,’ clarifies the Heavenly Baker.

  ‘So you should be used to being called it by now,’ persists Bradley.

  ‘How many have you had?’ Laura asks with a shake of her head.

  ‘Clearly I’m on fire here,’ replies Bradley.

  ‘Don’t tempt me!’ warns Matt.

  ‘You can’t,’ says Bradley. ‘This is a crowded bar. There are witnesses.’

  ‘I assure you no one will see anything,’ replies his tormentor.

  ‘You’re not that famous!’ goads Bradley and then puts a hand to his mouth. ‘That just slipped out.’

  ‘Don’t you have to be somewhere, Bradley?’ asks the Heavenly Baker.

  ‘No,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘That’s later.’

  ‘It is later,’ explains Matt.

  Bradley looks at his watch then pulls a face. ‘Shit! I’m late!’ Downing his beer, he sets the empty bottle on the table. ‘It’s been a pleasure, country girl. I hope to see you before you depart the mighty metropolis. If not, take it easy. Adiós!’ Like a human tornado, he parts the bar crowd and disappears. Laura shakes her head and then reaches for her bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Matt.

  ‘Is it a hot date?’ I chime in.

  ‘A lady never tells,’ replies Laura teasingly.

  ‘You’re going on a date?’ says Matt. ‘Who is it? I’ll get them checked out.’

  ‘You would.’ Laura doesn’t sound surprised.

  ‘I totally would.’

  ‘Which is why I’m not telling you anything,’ she insists.

  ‘That’s not playing fair.’ Matt pouts.

  ‘No one said anything about playing fair,’ says Laura. ‘You never play fair.’

  ‘That’s a terrible slander!’ he retorts. ‘I always play fair.

  ‘Does he?’ I ask.

  ‘He does,’ says Laura. ‘But I really am going now. It’s been a pleasure, country girl.’ She stops herself. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to …’