‘Well, while Natalie tucks in to her brownie,’ Scott said, ‘we’ll take a look at her in action. Here she is, giving it the old razzle dazzle as Roxie Hart ...’
The remainder of the show passed in a blur. When the closing credits rolled and Morgan was finally told she could clear the set, she almost screamed aloud with elation and relief. She’d managed to get through a whole 90 minutes of live television without fluffing her lines once.
‘Well done,’ came Lucinda’s voice through her earpiece. ‘You were excellent, both of you. And I do believe there’s a glass of fizz or two waiting for you in the green room when you come through.’
As they walked away from the fake kitchen, Scott wrapped his arm round Morgan’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Her nerves seemed to sing with delight at the contact, even as she wondered why he was being no nice to her.
‘Looks like you’ve proved me wrong,’ he said. ‘I thought the old nerves might get the better of you, but you did a great job.’ He broke away. ‘And I’d love to stay and celebrate with you all, but Natalie’s agreed to join me for a drink at this nice little place I know down on the riverside at Hammersmith. See you Tuesday for the production meeting, Morgan.’
With a little wink, he was gone, leaving Morgan fuming at his cheek. He clearly expected her to let the others know about his lack of interest in attending the after-show drink. Carrie’s housemate, Josh, worked on one of the newspaper gossip columns. She was almost driven to ring him and let him know where the paper’s photographers might find Scott. They’d love a photo of the famously temperamental chef in a cosy rendezvous with Natalie Shakes. Knowing Scott’s reputation, he’d be so enraged at the arrival of the paparazzi that he’d probably try to punch someone, or at the very least damage a camera. And how would that sit with Lucinda and the rest of the Cook’s Treats production crew?
Morgan shook her head. Much as she’d love to see the man squirm, she’d never been the vindictive type. And she couldn’t help thinking her motives were fuelled as much by the fact he’d chosen Natalie over her. Wondering for the hundredth time why she was letting Scott Harley get so deeply under her skin, she went to grab a glass of Champagne before the studio crew guzzled it all.
Chapter Five
THE RINGING PHONE DISTURBED Morgan from a dream where she was standing in the Cook’s Treats studio, about to introduce the morning’s big-name guest. Only the name of that guest had completely slipped from her mind, and the autocue had ground to a halt, offering her no help. With millions of people watching, she fought in vain to salvage the situation, and just in her eye line she could see Scott looking on, his mocking smile indicating how much he was enjoying her obvious discomfort.
It was nothing more than a simple anxiety dream, Morgan thought as she groped for the phone, just like all the ones she’d had where she’d been sitting in an examination, only to find herself staring at a maths paper instead of the expected questions on geography. Though what she had to be anxious about, she didn’t know.
A familiar laugh greeted her mumbled, ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ Carrie replied, ‘sorry if I woke you, but it is nearly midday.’
Really? A glance at her alarm clock confirmed the truth of Carrie’s words. Morgan didn’t usually sleep so late on a Sunday, but then she had been up till two, working her way through a box set of episodes of her favourite crime drama.
‘Hi, Carrie.’ Why was her friend ringing? Had she forgotten something important? ‘Er – I wasn’t supposed to be meeting you for lunch or anything, was I?’
‘No, nothing like that. I was going to ask you if you’d seen the Sunday Clarion this morning, but obviously not. In which case, let me read you a little extract from Will Harding’s TV review.’
‘OK, just give me a moment.’ Morgan hauled herself out of bed and headed in the direction of the kitchen, needing a strong cup of coffee to help her cope with whatever might be coming next.
Carrie cleared her throat. ‘You ready for this? Right, here we go. The relaunched Cook’s Treats is hosted by an eye-catching team in seasoned veteran Scott Harley and feisty newcomer Morgan Jones. As well as whipping up the kind of good old-fashioned comfort food viewers might actually want to make for themselves, Harley and voluptuous Valleys vixen Jones seem to be cooking up some definite sexual tension. Tune in next week for more significant glances over the stove and a welcome dash of Saturday morning sauce …’
‘Wow! I wasn’t expecting that.’ Morgan spooned freshly ground coffee into her cafetière before putting the kettle on to boil.
‘Do you seriously think I’d have rung you if it’d been a bad review?’
‘Of course not,’ Morgan replied, remembering how supportive Carrie had been when Scott Harley’s hurtful comments appeared in Personal magazine. ‘But it makes us sound like we were presenting some kind of burlesque show, rather than a cookery programme. And what did they call Scott? Oh yes, a seasoned veteran.’ She repeated the phrase with relish. ‘It makes him sound about a thousand years old. I’m not sure about being referred to as a “Valleys vixen”, though.’
‘Well, what can you expect when you posed for that photo licking that wooden spoon like you’re about to give it a blowjob? And you can’t deny that you and Scott look good together.’ Carrie ignored Morgan’s objections to her last comment, continuing, ‘You’re going to have to get used to a lot of speculation, Morgan. I think you’re going to be trending all over the social networks by the end of today, and it won’t be because they’re anxious to get their hands on your recipe for red velvet cupcakes.’
Scott didn’t see the Sunday Clarion review of his Cook’s Treats till more than a month later. The only parts of the Sunday papers he ever bothered with were the news, sport and financial sections; the rest were useful for wrapping fish and chips, nothing more, as far as he was concerned. So he never knew what compelled him to smooth out the crumpled sheet of newsprint with his and Morgan’s faces on it as he sorted out items for the regular recycled waste collection.
Quickly scanning the review, he grew more incredulous by the moment, making a mental note to treat Will Harding to the full force of his wrath should they ever run into one another. The write-up had barely covered the cookery segments of the show. Instead, it discussed him and Morgan as though they were appearing in one of those comedy dramas featuring a couple who claimed not to be able to stand each other but were destined to end up in bed together in the final episode.
Or was that just his own take on the situation? He’d been thinking about Morgan more than he cared to admit over the last couple of weeks, and he’d be damned if he knew why. After all, the booking policy for the show seemed to involve a succession of glamorous female guests who couldn’t have been closer to his idea of perfect eye candy. Natalie had only been the first. After her had come newsreader Paula Langdon, world champion hurdler Kym Sadler and pop star twins, Jade and Jennifer Blue. Pert, identical blondes, for God’s sake! Wasn’t that every man’s fantasy?
There’d been a time, not too long ago, when he’d have been all over those girls like a rash, inviting them for cocktails, an intimate dinner cooked by his own fair hands and whatever came after. But now, he just couldn’t see the appeal.
It had started with Natalie Shakes. She’d accepted his invitation to join him for a drink at the Schooner. In the shadow of Hammersmith Bridge, it was one of his favourite London pubs, with a cosy, wood-panelled interior and a beautiful view out on to the Thames. If Morgan had been there with him, he’d have enjoyed pointing out all the yachting memorabilia on the walls while drinking a fine pint of locally brewed stout. Instead, he’d found himself listening to Natalie complaining about the bitchiness of her fellow cast members, and how much her feet ached at the end of every performance. The actress was pretty but shallow; he’d known that from the brief conversation he’d had with her while Morgan demonstrated her cranberry brownie recipe. Not too long ago, that wouldn’t have been a problem. He’d have hung on her every
word, made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, then taken her back to his flat where they’d have fucked for hours, those spectacular legs of hers locked round the back of his neck as he ploughed into her pussy. He’d cook her breakfast the following morning, and afterwards they’d go their separate ways with no regrets.
Now, though, the prospect of such a meaningless encounter didn’t thrill him the way it used to. When he’d divorced Sasha, he’d vowed never to get involved with another woman on a long-term basis. He’d grown to like having his own space too much. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted. Yet he found himself imagining what it would be like to wake up every morning with Morgan’s glorious hair spread out on the next pillow, rousing her with a long, sensuous kiss before crawling down under the covers to lick her clit till she cried out his name.
It was such an enticing image, and more than once it had come to his mind while he’d been lying on his bed, fist enclosing his thick, hard cock. He saw himself licking a slow, wet trail over the sumptuous peaks and valleys of Morgan’s body, losing himself in the taste and feel of her soft, yielding flesh. He ached to take her nipples between his lips, sucking till they peaked, before moving down towards her wet, waiting pussy. By the time he reached it she’d be desperate to feel his tongue there, begging in those throaty, lilting tones of hers for him to make her come. Using the fantasy to spur him on, he would wank harder and faster, until his come jetted out to land in pearly strings on his taut, heaving belly.
He had to get this obsession with her out of his system; the tension between them might be great for the show, but it wasn’t doing the rest of his life any good at all. If only he could find some way of making that happen.
* * *
‘Oh, just one last thing before you all leave ...’
The production meeting was breaking up, people making plans for lunch or heading out to work on filmed segments for next Saturday’s programme, but Lucinda’s voice cut through the babble of voices. She was clutching her BlackBerry with a wide smile on her face.
‘I’ve just had an email with the latest viewing figures. We’re up almost four hundred thousand a week since the first show in the series, and last week we peaked at just over three million viewers. Isn’t that fantastic?’
‘It’s wonderful news,’ Carl, the assistant producer, commented, ‘and given how the ratings were slumping towards the end of Graham O’Neill’s time on the show, it completely justifies the decision to bring in Scott and Morgan.’
‘Oh, there’s been a lot of hard work all round,’ Lucinda replied, ‘and I’m sure the figures will be even better this coming Saturday, seeing as we’ve got Zachary Klein on the show.’ Hollywood heart-throb Klein, currently appearing as the villain in the latest of the Captain Fearless blockbusters, was in the UK on a promotional tour, and the booker for Cook’s Treats had managed to secure him as a guest. Quite a few of the female members of the production team were already giddy at the prospect of the man parking his much-photographed bottom on the studio couch.
‘How many more times is she going to mention the fact they’ve booked that bouffanted airhead?’ Scott grumbled to Morgan.
She smiled, amused to see his nose clearly out of joint for once. ‘Oh, he’s not so bad,’ she replied, even though the last film of Zachary Klein’s she’d seen – some romantic comedy Carrie had dragged her along to, where he played a laid back boat captain who found himself stranded at sea with a spoiled, uptight heiress, a role that required him to spend most of his time shirtless – was so bad she’d struggled not to walk out before the end. ‘I can’t wait to see you being nice to him over a plate of eggs Benedict.’
‘You haven’t been paying attention, sweetheart. We dropped that recipe. It doesn’t fit in with his macrobiotic lifestyle, and his publicist is very anxious that we don’t prepare him anything involving meat, dairy or processed foods. So I’m making buckwheat noodles with tofu.’ Scott’s lip curled in distaste. ‘Just the thing the average viewer needs after a Friday night out on the lash.’
Morgan dragged her attention back to Lucinda, who was still talking. ‘Anyway, people, I think we should celebrate. If you’ve got plans for Saturday night, cancel them. Everyone’s invited to a party at mine.’
With a glance over at Scott, Morgan wondered whether he’d try to find some excuse for not attending. If he was working in his restaurant, fair enough, though she suspected he delegated the chef’s duties to someone else at weekends. And she had to admit he’d been behaving himself over the last couple of weeks; no more sneaking off with the show’s female guests or giving self-aggrandising interviews to the press where he tore into the reputation of his fellow chefs. As long as he wasn’t too put out at having to accommodate the needs of Zachary Klein, a situation that for once would place Scott in the unusual position of not possessing the largest ego in the room, she suspected he might actually show up at Lucinda’s.
‘Oh, Morgan, a quick word ...’ Lucinda beckoned to Morgan as she shovelled her notepad into her handbag and prepared to leave. ‘I’ve been asking everyone else to bring a bottle on Saturday, but I wondered if you could whip up a few dozen of those delicious Parmesan and chilli biscuits you did on the show last week?’
‘No problem,’ Morgan replied, glad she hadn’t made plans for Saturday afternoon either, ‘and I’ll do you some of my famous red onion and sheep’s cheese tartlets, too, if you’d like?’
‘Fabulous, darling. You’re a real life-saver.’
It never failed to amaze Morgan that, despite being in charge of what was now officially the country’s highest-rated cookery programme, Lucinda could barely boil an egg. But the party would be a good excuse for the crew to get to know each other a little better; the high-pressure schedule involved in preparing the show meant there wasn’t usually much time for socialising once the cameras stopped rolling. Though Morgan thought it might be safer if she avoided Scott as much as she could; somehow, they always seemed to rub each other up the wrong way when they spent any time in each other’s company. She’d been working so hard it wouldn’t hurt to let her hair down for once, and she didn’t want him ruining her enjoyment of the evening.
Lucinda lived in a beautiful four-bedroomed terraced house in Clerkenwell, close to City University and within walking distance of Scott’s restaurant. Her husband worked for an investment bank, which was how they were able to afford to live in such a desirable part of London. Casting an appreciative glance at the house’s ochre brick façade and high, white-framed windows, Morgan rapped the wrought iron knocker against the door and waited for an answer.
She’d spent most of the afternoon in her own kitchen, preparing the nibbles Lucinda had asked her to bring. The results of her baking were contained in a couple of plastic containers, the crumbly biscuits and delicate tartlets separated by layers of greaseproof paper. After the manic scenes in the studio that morning, there’d been something deliciously soothing about rubbing butter into flour to make the pastry for the tartlets, and slicing jalapeño peppers to place on top of the biscuits.
Never having had to deal with anyone, either on a professional or personal level, as high maintenance as Zachary Klein, she’d been astounded by the demands his publicity assistant had made. Even before Zachary would agree to appear on the show, a list of questions had to be emailed over for her approval. Anything that didn’t relate to his new film was removed, apart from a couple of fairly bland questions relating to his diet.
It didn’t get any easier once he arrived at the studio complex. A specific brand of bottled water had to be waiting for him in the green room, chilled but not cold, along with a bowl of organic dried apricots for him to munch on. ‘Zachary has issues with low blood sugar,’ the publicist explained.
‘Hardly surprising, when he’s living on tofu and fresh air,’ Scott commented. Though he was cooking for Zachary during the show, he’d delegated the task of interviewing the actor to Morgan. No o
ne on the production team had a problem with this; Morgan was sure they were hoping for some flirtatious banter. But though the actor was probably the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with glossy black hair that simply demanded to be ruffled by female fingers, and cheekbones so sharp they could be classified as lethal weapons, he had almost nothing in the way of personality. Every question she asked was answered with a reply that sounded like it had been given in a hundred interviews before, and would be given in another hundred after. He praised the buckwheat noodle dish – which, for all Scott’s complaining about having to cater to such a restrictive diet, was packed with perfectly cooked, crisp vegetables and gave off a mouth-watering aroma of ginger and garlic – but Morgan noticed he didn’t let more than a forkful pass his sculpted lips. She was glad when Lucinda told her to wrap up the segment. Zachary gave her a polite peck on the cheek before scooting off to his hired limo, ready for the next engagement on his publicity tour. The girls in the gallery squealed with envy into her earpiece, but as she told them after the show, they really hadn’t missed out. Indeed, when she spoke to Carrie later, who’d rung demanding every last detail of her meeting with a genuine superstar, she compared it to being kissed by her grandmother,
‘Morgan, darling, do come in!’ Lucinda let Morgan into her home, giving her a welcoming hug in the hallway.
‘Careful,’ Morgan warned her. ‘I’ve managed to get the nibbles all the way over from Clapham in one piece. I’d hate them to break now.’
‘Well, bring them through into the kitchen, and we’ll get them plated up. Gerry will get you a drink. Gerry?’
A man who had to be Lucinda’s husband popped his head out of the living room doorway. With his close-cropped silver hair and the tracery of lines round his blue eyes, he had to be a good 20 years older than his wife; not quite what Morgan had been expecting. But his affection for his wife was strong, patting her on the bottom as she passed, and the smile he turned on Morgan was warmer and more genuine than any of those she’d received from Zachary Klein.
Traded Innocence Page 12
