by Heidi Rice
‘Don’t ask,’ Ruby moaned, propping her aching feet on the maplewood coffee table—which she’d splurged on a week ago along with the sofa and paint job, convinced she was going to secure the Cumberland order today.
Ella plopped down beside her. ‘But I thought it was in the bag?’
‘It would have been, if Scarlett’s bumper hadn’t fallen off and made me twenty minutes late for my appointment.’ Ruby dropped her head against the sofa cushions and let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘Unfortunately, chefs with two Michelin stars aren’t known for their patience and understanding. Gregori Mallini refused to see me, then his sous chef gave me a ten-minute lecture about how precious the great Mallini’s time is and informed me he didn’t do business with people who couldn’t bother to be prompt.’
‘Oh, no.’
Ruby swivelled her head to see the sympathetic frown on Ella’s face and the usual dusting of icing sugar on her nose and cheeks—and the tide of guilt almost swamped her. ‘That would be the child-friendly way of putting it.’
Ella’s frown deepened. ‘But didn’t you have Scarlett serviced, like, a week ago?’
‘Yes … but that would be before she got hit on by a swanky Italian sports car.’
And my hormones led me astray with its equally swanky owner.
If only she hadn’t got sidetracked by the guy, she would have noticed the damage to her car … Or at the very least given herself enough time to get to the precious appointment on time.
She wanted to kick herself. And she would have to, if her toes weren’t screaming in agony after racing across half of Camden in the high-heeled shoes she’d bought specially to impress a chef she’d failed to actually meet.
‘You were in an accident!’ Ella gasped. ‘Are you all right?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Ruby said calmly, Ella’s concern making the wave of guilt crest. Her partner in A Touch of Frosting was also her best friend. They’d been BFFs since nursery school. Ella was ditzy, impossibly sweet and a poet when it came to designing cupcake icing. She deserved better than this. ‘I’m fine.’
Or at least she would be when she got over wanting to commit hara-kiri on one of her own kitchen knives. When was she going to start behaving like a grown-up—and stop getting distracted by every handsome guy that caught her eye? She’d been being so good lately, so why the heck had she picked today of all days to fall off the wagon?
Mr Swanky Italian Sports Car probably hadn’t even been all that good-looking. She could see now she had probably exaggerated his appeal because of her nerves over the appointment at Cumberland and the shock of getting rear-ended and having her lipstick shoved up her nose.
Ruby frowned.
Damn.
And here she was obsessing about him again. A guy whose name she didn’t even know. And who probably wasn’t anywhere near as gorgeous as she remembered. When she’d promised herself she was going to stop doing that hours ago.
‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look really upset,’ Ella murmured.
Ruby forced a tight smile onto her lips. ‘If I’m upset it’s only with myself.’ She sighed again. ‘I’ve let you down, El. I’ve let us both down. Getting Touch of Frosting cupcakes onto the afternoon tea menu at Cumberland’s could have put us on the map. The orders would have come flooding in.’ She gave a heavy sigh as she let the dream slip away once and for all.
Blast and double blast.
‘We would have become the queens of cupcake design,’ Ruby added, struggling to find some humour in the situation. ‘A Nobel Prize for Baking would have been within our grasp at last.’
Ella grinned, her round pretty face lighting up as Ruby had intended. ‘Just don’t stop dreaming, Rubes. That’s what you’re good at.’
Shame I’m not as good at flirt control.
Ruby pushed the thought away and sat up.
Ella was right, there would be other opportunities. As long as they didn’t stop dreaming big … And making the best damn cupcakes in the known universe. And beating herself up over Gregori high-and-mighty Mallini and the Cumberland order—and her flirt-control problems—wasn’t going to get it done.
She’d just have to do better next time.
Standing up, Ella offered Ruby her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said, hoisting Ruby off the sofa with one swift tug. ‘I’ve got something for you to taste. I think I’ve found the perfect frosting to complement your new mango-and-passion-fruit sponge base.’
Ruby felt the familiar flicker of excitement as she followed Ella, anticipating their latest culinary delight. Discovering a great new sponge-frosting combo was a lot more fun than contemplating her love life.
If only cupcakes could give her an orgasm—and she could flirt with them—her life would be perfect. She resolutely banished the image of Mr No-Name from her morning fender-bender and the thought that he might be the equivalent of the perfect cupcake in bed. No such man existed.
The usual swell of pride tightened Ruby’s chest as she strolled into the kitchen she and Ella had mortgaged themselves to the hilt to buy the leasehold on two years before.
This was where she belonged. This was what mattered in her life. She adored the quick heady rush of falling in love, but she’d learned to her cost that it never lasted long—and then there was always the sticky business of falling back out of love again to handle. Love was fickle. It had certainly never been able to provide the same constancy or depth of satisfaction as her state-of-the-art catering kitchen. Tucked away in a Hampstead backstreet, the light, airy space with its utilitarian stainless steel surfaces and sink, the open shelves stacked with cake-baking equipment, the two top-of-the-range ovens, and its wardrobe-size cold room, probably wasn’t most women’s idea of bliss. But it was everything she wanted in her life. Because she and Ella had built it themselves from the ground up. And they got to call all the shots.
As long as she had her business, she was perfectly content to do without Mr Right. For the time being at least. Maybe one day she’d be ready to start searching for him, but she’d never been great at multitasking—as Johnny, her latest Mr Not Quite Right, had pointed out six months ago when they’d parted ways. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she had. Being cast in the role of femme fatale wasn’t high on her list of experiences to repeat any time soon, so she’d made a conscious decision not to get involved again for a while. And so far that was working out fine—give or take the odd hormone-induced blip, like this morning’s.
Ella rushed ahead to the industrial-size mixing bowl and, scraping out a spatula of pale yellow buttercream icing, swirled it on the sponge samples Ruby had baked before she’d left for her appointment.
‘Try that and tell me what you think,’ Ella said, her voice reverent with hope, her eyes bright with anticipation.
The taste exploded on Ruby’s tongue, spicy and citrusy and luxuriously fresh.
She hummed with pleasure. ‘It’s an overused phrase, but that seriously is better than sex.’ Or better than the vast majority of the sex she’d had.
Ella laughed and clapped her hands. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not good, El. It’s orgasmic. I can taste orange and lemon and maybe a hint of cinnamon, but there’s something else there. What is it?’
Ella touched her nose, her grin widening. ‘That would be telling, but it took me two hours of sampling before I figured it out.’
‘Well, it was worth it. We should add it to the menu right away. It’ll be perfect for summer events. Let’s debut it on the cupcake tower at Angelique Devereaux’s wedding.’ Ruby’s mind raced with the logistics of getting the new recipe maximum exposure.
‘Talking of love and orgasmic sex,’ Ella interrupted, typically uninterested in the details that Ruby was so good at taking care of, ‘I had a very nice chat with the new man in your life an hour ago.’ Ella’s grin turned cheeky. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d lifted your boyfriend embargo? If he looks half as good as that delicious voice sounds I’m guessing you hit the ja
ckpot this time.’
‘What new man?’ Ruby said, her whirring mind grinding to a halt.
‘Callum Westmore, that’s who,’ Ella replied easily, obviously still convinced Ruby was keeping secrets.
Ruby searched her inventory of names. She’d gone out with a few guys in the last six months, just to keep her hand in. But she hadn’t agreed to a second date with any of them—always mindful of her new business-first-romance-last strategy. ‘I don’t know anyone called Callum.’
Ella’s brow creased. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I may be flighty but I always get a guy’s name before I date him. It’s fairly essential information,’ she finished wryly.
Ella touched her fingers to her lips. ‘Oops.’
‘Why oops?’ Ruby demanded. She didn’t like the guilty look on Ella’s face.
‘I thought you were dating him. He sounded so confident and … Well, he had this amazing voice. A bit posh but not too posh and really deep and purposeful. And he said he needed to see you. Urgently. So I told him we finished at 5:30 p.m.’
‘You gave him the address to the kitchen?’ It was Ruby’s turn to frown. She had a rule, which Ella was very well aware of, not to give casual dates her workplace info, because it only confused things. ‘Oh, Ella, you didn’t.’
And more importantly, who the heck was this guy? He certainly wouldn’t be the first to try and get her details out of Ella. But no one had ever managed it before. Ella was usually a complete Rottweiler when it came to guarding Ruby’s privacy—because she knew just how determined Ruby was to resist temptation, especially since the messy break-up with Johnny.
So how had Callum Westmore, whoever the heck he was, managed to wheedle the information out of Ella with such apparent ease?
The image of Mr Super-Gorgeous popped into her mind. The man she hadn’t been able to get out of her head all afternoon. Despite all her best efforts.
‘What exactly did this Callum Westmore say? In his sexy voice?’ Ruby asked, but she was already fairly certain. He had to be the one. Who else did she know who would be arrogant and confident enough to ring up and brazenly muscle the information he wanted out of her best friend without breaking a sweat?
‘Just that he needed to see you,’ Ella said carefully. ‘In fact, he sort of demanded to see you,’ she added, as if the thought had only now occurred to her. ‘But to be honest, it didn’t even cross my mind to refuse him. He sounded so sure of himself.’
I’ll just bet he did.
Ruby cursed softly under her breath.
Still, at least she had a name, now. Callum Westmore. It sounded like the name of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord. Which fitted him down to a T. Commanding, completely uncompromising and defiantly masculine—and prepared to swoop down and carry off any female who caught his fancy, whether she wanted him to or not.
The frisson of heat at the fanciful, romantic and utterly un-PC image stunned Ruby for a moment. Callum Westmore was about as far from her ideal date as it was possible to get. She should have found his pushy behaviour exceptionally galling. So why was her heart kicking giddily in her chest at the prospect of seeing him again?
The bright trill of the doorbell made them both jump.
She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty precisely.
‘That’s him,’ she muttered. Trust him to be ridiculously prompt. Which was another good reason to dislike the man. Promptness was a skill she’d never quite managed to master herself—as this afternoon’s fiasco with Gregori Mallini proved—and one she found slightly intimidating in other people.
‘Do you want me to tell him you’re not here?’ Ella whispered, as if their uninvited guest could hear through walls.
Ruby considered the offer. For about a second.
‘No. He’s probably spotted my car.’ And even if he hadn’t, she somehow knew Callum Westmore would see straight through the ruse. Ella, with her open, uncomplicated nature and big doe eyes, couldn’t lie worth a damn—and, anyway, Callum Westmore clearly wasn’t the sort of guy who took no for an answer.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ruby said, marching out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll handle this.’
She threw the words over her shoulder as she strode through the reception area to the front door of the business unit.
Okay, maybe her attraction to him was a little surprising … and ever so slightly disconcerting. But she had no doubt at all that she could handle Callum Westmore just fine.
He might have the name and the dominating masculinity of a twelfth-century Scottish warlord, but she was no simpering little virgin.
The prickle of irritation, though, was twinned with the heightened hum of arousal as she spied Westmore’s tall frame silhouetted against the frosted glass of the door. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, secure in the knowledge that no man got to sweep Ruby Delisantro off her feet …
Not unless she wanted him to.
CHAPTER THREE
‘MR WESTMORE, I presume,’ Ruby remarked to broad shoulders—their width accentuated by the perfectly tailored jacket of a dark blue business suit—and the short-cropped hair on the back of his head.
She swallowed as he turned, and those heavy-lidded emerald-green eyes locked on her face.
Damn.
She should have taken the time to put her shoes back on. Without the benefit of the four-inch heels, she was at eye level with his chest, which, even clad in a white shirt and royal-blue silk tie instead of the bicep-hugging T-shirt of earlier in the day, still looked remarkably impressive. She jerked her eyes back to his face, in time to see a slow, distinctly knowing smile curve his lips.
He slung a hand into the pocket of his suit trousers, disarming dimples appearing in his cheeks—which were now clean-shaven, but no less chiselled.
‘Ms Delisantro, I presume,’ he murmured, the husky tone making her pulse points throb.
Her breath escaped from her lungs in a rush.
Her imagination had not exaggerated his attractiveness, or that industrial-strength sex appeal, one bit. He really was Super-Gorgeous. Even in a suit. Which was saying something. She didn’t usually go for the slick, executive type. She’d dated an accountant once and it had been a total disaster, his fastidious time-keeping and clinical attention to detail driving her batty within a week.
She concentrated on breathing evenly and getting her heart rate back under control. Somehow she doubted Callum West-more was an accountant—or the fastidious type, despite the razor-sharp crease in his trousers. Maybe it was just that force field of raw machismo that radiated off him, but she couldn’t imagine him bothering to crunch numbers.
‘Now the introductions are done,’ she said, trying not to sound too breathless, ‘I’m intrigued to know what you’re doing here.’ She paused to think of an appropriate put-down. ‘And why you saw fit to wheedle personal information out of my business partner.’
‘I don’t wheedle,’ he said as his gaze glided over her figure. ‘Even in extenuating circumstances.’
She resisted the urge to curl her toes, the painstakingly slow and thorough perusal making her feel as if it weren’t just her feet that were naked.
His eyes lifted back to her face, the penetrating green alight with amusement. ‘And I’d say why I’m here is fairly obvious.’
The suggestive comment and the gruff tone, thick with innuendo, made her feel warm all over, but she refused to fall for the ploy. She wasn’t walking into that one. What did he think? That she was an amateur?
She cocked her head to one side, and let her gaze rake over him in return. Pursing her lips, she sent him a deliberately quizzical look, pleased when his eyes flicked to her mouth. ‘I guess it’s not as obvious as you thought, because I can’t think of a single reason.’
He chuckled, acknowledging the hit with an unsettling lack of concern. ‘Why don’t I spell it out, then, Ms Delisantro?’ he said, lingering on her name. ‘So you can stop worrying about it.’
‘I’m not worried,’ she said, e
mphatically. ‘Just mildly curious.’
He raised one dark brow. ‘Only mildly?’
He had her there—given that she was about to spontaneously combust with a lot more than mild curiosity. ‘That’s right,’ she lied.
‘I see.’ The assured smile made it obvious he wasn’t fooled. ‘Well, happily I’m willing to satisfy your mild curiosity.’ He put the emphasis on satisfy and her whole body began to throb. ‘But only if you’re willing to satisfy me first.’
Why did she have the feeling they weren’t talking about curiosity any more, mild or otherwise? And why couldn’t she resist the challenge in those smoky green eyes?
‘What do you want, Mr Westmore?’ she said boldly, rising to the bait he had so purposefully dangled in front of her.
‘I’d like to get to know you better.’ His eyes flashed, the predatory gleam triumphant. ‘A lot better.’
She’d been expecting the invitation. Had been prepared to turn him down—and put him in his place. But the words refused to come out of her mouth.
‘So that’s why you went to all the trouble of tracking me down,’ she replied, putting just the right amount of indifference into her tone. ‘To ask me on a date?’ She battered her eyelashes. ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’
He didn’t seem fazed by the put-down. If anything, he looked more assured than ever. Drat the man.
‘Actually, that’s not the primary reason why I phoned and spoke to your partner.’
‘Don’t forget the wheedling,’ Ruby added cheekily, enjoying the sizzle as his eyes narrowed.
Sparring with this man had an edge of danger that only made it more irresistible. Which was definitely a bad thing. But she was finding it hard to care. She’d had a monumentally crappy day—and he was partially responsible. It seemed only reasonable she should allow herself a moment to flirt with him, as a consolation.
‘As I said, Ms Delisantro, I don’t wheedle. That was the fine art of persuasion.’
Ruby shrugged, admiring his dimples. He was definitely more dangerous when he smiled. ‘So what was the primary reason you tracked me down, then? And wheedled?’
