Her Client from Hell

by Louisa George

  He found his keys faster than Houdini. ‘Okay, I’ll come over.’

  ‘No. Wait. I’ll come to you.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, your call.’ How many times had he done that? Gone over to a woman’s house instead of inviting them over, just so he could control how long he stayed and get out quick if things got heavy? ‘You mean, so you get to choose when to leave.’

  ‘Exactement, my friend. Exactement. Plus, it’s about time I got to see how the other half live. I’ll be there in twenty.’

  And that was the moment he could have said this was not a good idea, but she’d hung up before he got the chance.

  *

  Twenty minutes later she was at the door, fresh-faced and dressed in a yellow and black polka dot wide-brimmed floppy sun hat, pink strappy top and red flouncy skirt, laden down with plastic boxes and a bottle of expensive French red. Her hair hung loose round her shoulders in big looping curls and he fought the urge to nuzzle right in and inhale.

  ‘Hi, Jack.’

  ‘Hey. Right on time.’

  ‘I’m getting better.’ Shoving the food into his arms, she took a deep breath, waiting until he was looking right at her. ‘Jack, just so we’re clear, this doesn’t—’

  ‘Mean anything? I know. I know. It’s just food. Come in.’ He moved back to let her in, his gut clenching at the thought of having her here and not having her. But he could do this—he just had to concentrate hard on not looking at her smile, her hair. Or listening too intently to the light laugh blowing through his humid house like fresh air.

  Stepping into the lounge, her mouth opened wide. ‘Wow. Some place you have here. Have you just moved in?’

  ‘No. Been here five years. First place I bought when I’d got enough for a mortgage down payment.’ Winning an industry award had helped bring the big guns knocking at Zoom’s door and, for some reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to move out of the neighbourhood he’d grown used to. Time was he’d have given anything to leave the place, but he’d been drawn back here with a feeling of needing some familiarity. God knew why. Guess it was also close to Lizzie.

  And now close to Cassie. Luck? Fate? Chance? Whatever. It didn’t mean anything.

  ‘Oh, really—five years?’ Her eyes widened now as she ran a hand across the back of his sofa. ‘It needs a little colour, Jack. You have heard of colour, haven’t you? It’s like…you know, that soft tickly stuff on the ground in Holland Park? Grass? That’s green. That big bright circle in the sky? Sun. That’s yellow.’

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t all need to live in Willy Wonka land. I like things to be tidy and ordered.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  He looked at his place—stark and spacious and white. All white. Sofa, chairs, rug, blinds. Easy to match, the designer had told him. As if he cared; he wasn’t trying for Homes and Gardens home of the month. Home wasn’t something he knew much about, having not really had one since he was six years old. Hell, for ever, in fact. He shrugged, far more interested in the riot of colour standing in the middle of the room. She swirled around, her skirt kicking out in a circle, revealing legs that he preferred wrapped around him than pirouetting, and leaving her scent everywhere. Everywhere. His chest became a crushing mass of emotion, the most prominent in there being lust. But there was more. Just…more. ‘Home decor isn’t top of my to-do list. I just need a bed, a kettle and somewhere to keep my stuff. I’m hardly ever here.’

  ‘Clearly. It barely looks lived in.’ She shook her head. ‘I have a sudden urge to mess everything up. Unstraighten the rug. Half close the blinds—at a jaunty angle. Run dirty footprints across the floor. Something. Where are the knick-knacks? Photos?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Family? Lizzie? You? Your pet iguana?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, but truth is I don’t have one.’ Family, or iguana.

  ‘What a shame. And I was holding out all this time just to meet him.’ Her mouth formed a perfect pout as she threw her hat, like a Frisbee, onto the sofa, where it sat messily, out of place, like a big bright stain against the alabaster fabric. ‘Maybe you should get one and brighten the place up a bit—or wouldn’t the green scales go with the decor? How about a pet that’s white? A cockatoo?’

  ‘And have someone else in here endlessly chattering away too? No, thank you.’

  She laughed, lowering her voice to a comedy whisper. ‘Oh, well, we’d better move into another room. Quick. I’d be afraid to spill anything and ruin the look. All that red wine, green sauce, golden potatoes. Shudder.’ But she flicked a sarcastic look towards her hat and grinned.

  She followed him through to the kitchen and started opening drawers, ferreting in cupboards, lifting out plates and pans, working her way round as if she’d designed the damned place. It looked as if she wouldn’t be happy until every darned thing he owned was piled on to the counters. There was a hum in her throat, though—no denying that the moment she walked into a kitchen she was in her happy zone. Nudging a drawer closed with a swing of her left hip, she handed him the wine bottle. ‘You get this poured and I’ll sort the food. So, how’s the week been?’

  ‘Frustrating. A hot sense of running round in circles and not getting where I wanted to be.’ Kind of like right now, but he had wanted to sack Billy, not rip his clothes off. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Okay, I guess. I scored another couple of jobs, which is good. Word of mouth really helps in this business. The mother of the head injury girl recommended me to a couple of her friends. More kiddies’ parties, but that in turn may lead to something else. Plus, I managed to negotiate a better rate with the bank for paying my debt off. So I’m pretty happy.’

  ‘Excellent. Well done. So we have cause to celebrate?’ He handed her a glass of wine and chinked his against it. She gave him a full-blown mesmerising smile that whipped the air from his lungs. ‘One day you’ll land a mega contract and things will be sweet for Sweet Treats. Pardon the pun.’

  ‘Oh, so funny. Big contracts are hard to find and even harder to win. But I’ll take any good stuff that comes along. What’s been your problem?’

  He told her about Billy and his less than stellar editing skills; for some reason, offloading to her made him feel better. Which was weird because the running of Zoom was his alone and he’d liked that, liked the autonomy, calling all the shots. Usually. ‘What I can’t understand is how he had such great references and yet he’s not shaping up.’

  ‘Maybe it’s you being there that makes him nervous?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, yeah, that’d be right. Blame the boss.’

  She stopped stirring and waved the wooden spoon in his direction. ‘Absolutely. First rule of the kitchen: the head chef is always in charge and therefore always to blame. If not him, then the restaurant owner. Never the minions. Isn’t it the same in your line of work?’

  He didn’t need to go into the hierarchy of the film business—safe to say, editors were just as respected as the directors. ‘There’s probably a whole load of dissent behind my back. Why am I not surprised you have authority issues?’

  ‘Why am I not surprised you have subordinate issues? Get off his back; give the guy a chance to prove himself.’ She pigged her eyes at him. ‘Stay out of the cutting room.’

  ‘Whoa. Radical—not sure if I can do that.’

  ‘Of course you can. Try it—stay away for a couple of days and let him get on with it. Take a chill pill. Control freak.’ Flicking the frying pan away from her, she flipped the almost perfect squares of flecked potatoes in hot oil until they began to sizzle and a fragrant garlic and rosemary scent filled the air. All around her was debris, discarded pots, oil smears on the granite. Thick slabs of bloody steak oozing onto a plate.

  He picked up the plate. ‘Mess freak. Here, give me that meat.’

  ‘Oh, no. You are not going to set fire to my Wagyu like you did those corn cobs. You can’t cook, remember?’

  ‘I can do man food. Give it here.’ Not giving her any more opportunity to resist, he took the steaks an
d placed them on a hot griddle pan, where they immediately began to sizzle. After a couple of minutes he turned them over and noted that so far they were cooking to perfection. Gotcha. ‘I want to cook at least one thing for you.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s actually very nice. See, you can be if you try.’ Cassie leaned against him as she checked out the progress. Her hair tickled against his chin and he pressed a small kiss on to the top of her head. It just happened, instinctively, before he could catch himself.

  Unsure of what her response might be, he stepped back a little. For a few seconds she looked up at him, as if weighing him up, as if working something out, tension spiralling until he just wanted her to say some damn thing.

  But then she gave his backside a quick squeeze and grinned up at him. He let out a breath. Man, this felt so unlike anything he’d had before. A sort of comfortable excitement. There was that word again. Comfortable. He knew better than that. Needed to be on his guard.

  And yet he was a man now, not an angry, confused teenager. Not a six-year-old, eight-year-old. Ten. He knew not to expect anything to last. Not to invest every last bit of himself in something doomed to end. This time he was definitely in control of things. He could walk away from Cassie any time—but having a little fun didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything at all.

  She watched as he checked the underside of the meat. ‘Good job. Good job. You’re getting very handy in here.’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like,’ he growled. His left hand curved around her bottom. Excitement won over comfort and pinged across his belly and arrowed south, to his groin, his legs, then back up to the top of his head. ‘I’m just going to leave this to…rest?’

  ‘Excellent. Well, everything else is ready so I’ll quickly prepare the dessert while we’re waiting.’ Twisting off the top of a bottle of rum, she slugged a good amount into a pan and then a small amount into two shot glasses. ‘Got to test it first to make sure it’s okay.’ She winked and handed him a glass, then downed her drink in one gulp, shuddered as it hit her throat. ‘Wow. That’ll do. Your turn.’

  Her eyes brightened as he followed suit, laughed as he flinched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s okay, I guess.’

  ‘That is a quality product. It’s better than okay.’ Then she added butter and some runny honey to the pan and stirred until it was thick and hot and well mixed. ‘Now, the next taste test. I love this stuff.’

  She put her finger in the pan and pulled it out covered in thick golden sauce.

  Before it reached her mouth he grabbed her hand and slowly sucked the sauce from her finger. It tasted soft and sweet and warm, like Caribbean nights, summer days.

  He saw the moment her eyes misted, the second desire softened her, the way she pressed against the counter, the momentary flicker of her eyes as she registered that he wanted her again. That he had not stopped wanting her. That she wanted him too. ‘Jack.’

  ‘It tastes very good indeed, but I think we need to try it again, just to make sure.’ His mouth went dry and wet at the same time at the anticipation of tasting her. Then, he put his finger in the sauce and offered it to her. When her lips clamped around his finger and she slid her hot wet mouth over his skin he was gone. No amount of self-control would keep him from having her. He dipped his head to her mouth and sucked her tongue. Nipped her lip. Grazed her throat, her neck.

  ‘Delicious.’ Again, he put his finger in the sauce and trailed it from the pulse in her throat to the ‘v’ of her breasts. Followed the trail with his tongue, spurred on by the guttural moans in her throat. She leaned against the counter and he crushed her against it, tearing her top to one side, fitting his hand inside her bra and palming her breast.

  ‘My turn now. Don’t want it to go to waste.’ This time she put three fingers in the sauce and wiped them over his cheek. Then she opened her mouth and licked it off, her gaze fixed on his, her eyes glittering with need. Button by button, she undid his shirt and let it drop, then she pressed a sticky kiss to each of his nipples. More sauce. More kisses. Then she was pulling at his belt and undoing his zip.

  ‘Come here.’ Part growl, part desperation. Walking her to the table, he leaned her back against it, dragged her skirt up and looked at her creamy skin, those thighs parted for him, the flimsy scrap of lace that was the only barrier between now and heaven.

  Who the hell was this woman with such a hold over him? Who he wanted to please, wanted to satisfy, wanted to hear his name on her lips, whose name he said again and again in his dreams. What the hell was happening to him? God knew. He was past thinking, past rationalising. He tried to control his breathing, his need, but his brains had all gone south. No—there was something else, a feeling. Something confusing and yet so very clear—just there. Something he didn’t understand, that he didn’t want to understand.

  There was nothing to do but to show her what he wanted, how he felt. And even if he couldn’t work it out for himself then his body definitely knew.

  Cassie felt him stretch her, inside her, filling her, and the rush of need for him intensified. His gaze so intense, his face so beautiful. This wasn’t going to happen. But how the hell could she stop it?

  When he sucked on her nipple she cried out, when he called her name with such ferocity she came, so hard and fast it felt as if she was spiralling out of her consciousness. Then, when he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her so tenderly, she almost cried with the absolute purity of this achingly precious thing they had found. This connection that made her feel safe and happy and yet free at the same time.

  He kissed her again, as if his life depended on it. As if he too felt it but didn’t understand. It was so right. So beautiful.

  Yes. This. She’d been lying to herself when she arrived on his doorstep. When she’d brought the cake round earlier. When he’d kissed her, when he made love to her.

  It did mean something. It meant everything.

  She arched her back as he thrust faster and faster, wanting more. Wanting more. Wanting more…

  And she knew that she couldn’t stop wanting this, wanting him. Knew that a part of her could never recover from knowing him—that, no matter how much she tried to prevent herself falling for him, or protect her heart against yet another man who might not care as much for her, a part of her would forever belong to Jack.

  ELEVEN

  Minutes later, Cassie shifted, her back hurting now against the hard table, the stars in her peripheral vision slowly dissipating and the sticky residue pulling at her skin. But, as soon as she moved, Jack’s arms were around her, pulling her up, laughing. ‘Whoa, well, that’s the hors d’oeuvres over with.’

  ‘Can’t wait for the main course, then. And dessert…I’m looking forward to that.’ She kissed his chest and straightened her clothes, the turn of events and the way she so easily fell back into his arms a little shocking. The meat sat on the counter, going cold. ‘Hmm, what to do with the steak now?’

  Jack zipped up, washed his hands and looked ready for more cooking action. ‘Microwave it?’

  ‘Heathen. Get out of my kitchen now.’

  Trapping her against the bench again he playfully kissed her nose, head, throat. ‘Er…it’s my kitchen and I get to say what goes on here.’

  ‘And that’s quite a lot, judging by the last half hour.’

  He grinned. ‘Again, not as much as I’d like.’

  After she’d reheated the meat—on the griddle—and dinner had been eaten, Cassie excused herself to go to the bathroom. She knew you could tell a lot about a man by his choice of toiletries, the cleanliness of his space, which she was suitably impressed by. Not quite the OCD perfect line-up of bottles she’d expected; in fact, a happy mess. His towels were soft and warm, hanging neatly on the rail. So far, so normal. Except…

  ‘Why do you keep your BAFTA award on a shelf in the bathroom?’ she asked him as they started to clear away the dinner plates. ‘I mean, I’ve heard of people doing that, but I didn’t actually believe it.�
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  He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it was the first place I put it when I came back from the ceremony and I’ve had no reason to move it. Where else am I supposed to keep it? It seems as good a place as any.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. A big banner outside saying: award here!’

  ‘Who am I going to shout it to? Everyone at work knows I got it. My friends do.’

  ‘But it’s such an amazing achievement. You must be so proud.’

  Clearly reluctant to talk about himself any more, he looked out of the kitchen window into the garden; it was a warm late summer evening. ‘We should have eaten outside while we can. Do you want to go for a walk in the park? It’s lovely this time of day, and not so busy.’

  ‘Yes, why not? Work up an appetite for dessert.’ Although, if the hors d’oeuvres were anything to go by, she was already hungry for more. ‘I’ll have to make more sauce. A lot more.’ She winked at him and started to make her way to the front door.

  ‘No. This way.’ He led her out through the narrow back garden, under a bower of blossoming white flowers, through a large gate and into the manicured gardens of Holland Park. Before them stretched a long tree-lined path, awash with dappled sunlight. Just across the way she saw the flickering flags of various embassies, and into some of the higher windows above towering walls and barbed wire.

  ‘Wow, this is brilliant. I’ve often walked through here and wondered about the kind of people who lived in these houses bordering the park. And now I know.’

  ‘Oh, yes? What exactly do you know? I’m only in a small house compared to one of those mansions. And what you see is what you get with me, I’m afraid.’

  No, there was so much more to him than he wanted to tell her. So much he was hiding from, or running from; she didn’t quite know. So much that probably meant the difference between him staying and going. Things working or not even given a chance.

  A tight fist of pain under her ribcage stalled her breath at that thought.