by Liz Fielding
The very thought almost fried his brains.
‘You do realise that this job is going to take chunks out of any pretence at a personal life?’ he said, making an effort to change the subject, but failing dismally.
‘Is that why you can’t keep a girl, Max?’ she asked.
There was a time when that kind of remark would have brought him to the boil, hearing only the words, the implied criticism. Now all he heard was genuine concern.
‘Relationships need time, hard work. You have to work at them if you want them to last.’
‘No one has ever been that important to you?’
‘Apparently not.’ Then, because talking about his failures held no appeal, ‘What happened to the Honourable James the gossip columnists had you all but down the aisle with a year or so back?’
‘That was nearly three years ago.’
She reached for her hair again. Looked away. No…Look at me…
‘As always,’ she said, ‘they mistook a light-hearted flirtation for something more important.’
About to suggest that it had looked a lot more than a lighthearted flirtation, he took pity on her. Whatever had gone wrong it was clearly still too raw to talk about and he was torn between a need to hit James Cadogan, and to wrap his arms around her and make it go away.
Since neither of the above was anything like a good idea, he settled for, ‘There’s a lot to be said for light-hearted flirtation when everyone knows the score.’
‘My sentiments exactly, but then PR isn’t exactly a nine-to-five job, either,’ she said. ‘In fact this is the only evening I’ve got free for the rest of the week.’
‘Then it’s a good thing I made an effort this afternoon.’ And because he didn’t want to remind her of all the times he hadn’t made an effort, let her down, he raised his glass and said, ‘A toast? To Bella Lucia. The future.’
By way of reply she lifted her glass, clinked it against his, said, ‘Salute, Max!’
Before he could reply, Martin tapped on the open office door. ‘Your food is ready, Miss Valentine.’
‘Thank you, Martin.’ She made to move, then, when he didn’t follow, ‘Max? Risotto won’t keep.’
But food was the last thing on his mind. She hadn’t responded to his toast to the future of Bella Lucia, but had replied with the Italian equivalent of ‘cheers’.
Louise was exhausted. Her feet ached; her head was pounding from music so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. She’d spent the week not only orchestrating media involvement in the HOTfood launch, but clearing her desk of all the niggling little jobs that had to be done, leaving her free to concentrate on Bella Lucia. Free to fly to Meridia with Max after the weekend.
Max.
Their working supper had ended as soon as they’d eaten. She’d made the excuse of an early start. He’d found her a taxi but it had taken all her powers of reasoning to dissuade him from escorting her home. By then she’d been desperate to get away from him, to clear her head, afraid that if he saw her to her door she’d drag him inside, tear his clothes off, tear her clothes off.
Distance didn’t help.
Not even the coldest of showers could shift the memory of that kiss from her head. It was as if the lid had been lifted on desires she’d kept damped down for years and she’d got to the point where she was almost afraid to close her eyes, risk sleep, because when she slept she had no way of keeping them under control.
At least the week was over. Having spent what seemed like an endless evening at the HOTfood launch party the last thing she needed was to arrive home in the early hours of Saturday morning to find Cal Jameson camped out on her doorstep.
‘All the hotels full?’ she asked, irritably, as she fitted her key in the lock. Stupid question. Since his brother was now married to her half-sister, Cal apparently considered himself family. And family were put on earth to provide free food and accommodation whenever you were in town. Which, since Cal was in the travel business, was often.
Which was what you got when you took advantage of the innocent. She should never have fallen on his neck in gratitude when he’d obeyed her sister’s orders and turned up at Christmas, blond, wide-shouldered and to die for in a perfectly cut dinner jacket, thus saving her from the embarrassment of arriving at the family party without a date.
Max always had some stunning eye-candy in tow and it was a matter of honour that she should match him, point-for-point, with the desirability of escort. Cal had delivered on appearance and that was all she’d asked for. She’d been away so much last year, had had so many other things on her mind, that she’d left it too late to round up a gallant willing to brave the Valentine family en masse.
When she’d seen that Max was on his own she’d felt a momentary pang of regret, but then he’d started flirting with Maddie, while she…She sighed. No use regretting what couldn’t be changed.
‘I left a message on your machine to say I had a stopover,’ Cal said as he followed her upstairs like an eager puppy, totally oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm.
Maybe, she thought, she should send him over to Max, since he was so hot on the subject of family.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Just before I left Dubai. Don’t ask me what time it was. I’ve crossed so many time zones in the last twenty-four hours I don’t know what day it is.’
She didn’t bother to enlighten him, but opened the door to her apartment, dropped the keys on the table, kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat over a chair. The red light on her answering machine was flashing, giving credence to his story. She ignored it.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what time you called. I haven’t been home since six-thirty-’
‘Jeez, Lou, what kind of bloke do you think I am?’ She found the energy to raise an eyebrow. ‘No, honestly,’ he protested, ‘it was earlier than that. You might have had a hot date or something.’
‘It was the or something,’ she assured him. ‘When I said six-thirty, Cal, I meant six-thirty this morning.’
‘You went to work dressed like that?’
He didn’t wait for her denial, but whistled appreciatively at the clinging ankle-length dress she was wearing, chosen solely because it didn’t wrinkle, even when it had spent all day rolled up in the bag she used to carry the essentials when she had to change on the job.
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ she said, because he was family, sort of, ‘but whatever you want, I’m afraid you’re going to have to fend for yourself. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’ll take that,’ he said, grinning broadly.
She finally cracked and laughed.
‘No, really,’ he assured her. ‘I’m happy to share. I can see you’re too tired to make up the spare bed.’
‘In your dreams, Cal.’
‘I’ve brought you a comfort package from Jodie,’ he said, fishing out a padded envelope from his backpack.
‘Jodie? How is she?’ She missed her sister so much. Would phone her in the morning. ‘And Heath?’
‘Good.’ Then, ‘Double chocolate Tim Tams?’ he said, waving the package temptingly in her direction.
‘Really?’ But no, she was not going to encourage him. ‘Sorry, I’ve found a local supply.’
‘You’re kidding? Who’d have thought the Poms were that bright? What about DVDs of the latest episodes of Beach Street? I’ll bet you can’t get those two for the price of one at your local supermarket. Jodie tells me that you’re an addict.’
While it was true that she had become…engaged…by one of the Aussie soaps while she was staying with her sister, she wasn’t prepared to admit it.
‘It’s the spare room or nothing. If you want the bed made, you’re going to have to do it yourself.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, grinning. Totally unashamed. ‘You can’t blame a bloke for trying.’
Wrong bloke, she thought.
‘You know the way, Cal. Don’t disturb me before noon unless the building is on fire.’
; An insistent ring on the doorbell dragged her from a dream in which Max had been kissing her. He’d started at her toes and it was just getting interesting…No, that was an understatement. It was already interesting. It was just getting…
‘All right, all right…’ she muttered as the doorbell rang again, pulling on a wrap, staggering to the door to press the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Louise, it’s Max.’
‘Max?’ She felt herself blush from the toes up.
‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he asked, while she was still trying to get her brain around the fact that he was here, at her door, when her subconscious was telling her that he was in her bed…
‘What message?’ Then, rubbing her hands over her face in an attempt to wake herself properly, ‘No, don’t tell me, just come up.’ She buzzed him up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she checked the time. Eleven-thirty?
She was half an hour short of dream time, but on the other hand she did have the reality.
She yawned, eased her aching limbs, filled the kettle, switched it on. ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she said, when she heard the door.
‘Ah.’
She turned and was for a moment transfixed.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Max in anything but a dark suit, or dinner jacket. Wearing a pair of washed-out jeans, an open-neck shirt, soft leather bomber jacket, he looked so much more like the boy she’d once worshipped.
They’d been such friends, had always had such fun until her hormones had got in the way.
She’d missed that so much. Missed him.
Her life, she realised, had never been quite so joyful, quite so sunny, since she’d fallen in lust with him and, too young to hide her feelings, had destroyed something truly special. She ached for that lost innocence. Ached for his friendship…
She swallowed. ‘Ah?’ she repeated.
He grinned. ‘The answer is clearly no. You didn’t get my message.’
‘Er, no.’ She glanced at the answering machine, its red light winking. Frowned as something nudged at her memory.
‘Did I get you up?’
‘What?’ Then, realising how she must look-not so much Saturday casual, as Saturday slob in an old Chinese silk dressing gown hanging open over the baggy T-shirt she favoured for sleepwear, no make-up and her hair standing on end-she belatedly pulled the wrap around her for decency’s sake and tied the belt. Ran a hand self-consciously over her hair in an attempt to smooth it down.
‘I had a late night,’ she said, unhooking a couple of mugs from the rack. ‘It’s Saturday, for goodness’ sake!’
What she did in her own time was none of his business.
Unlike what she did in her dreams…
‘Don’t be so defensive, Lou. You’ve had a long week. How did the launch go last night?’
‘Defensive?’ Yes, defensive. When had that become her default mode when dealing with Max? She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Why don’t you just tell me what you said?’ she suggested.
‘Something along the lines of “Why don’t we have lunch at the Chelsea restaurant tomorrow to discuss how we’re going to handle the Meridia trip? I know you’re busy so don’t worry about calling back unless the answer’s no…”’
He opened his hands, inviting her response.
Thoughtful, fun…
‘Ah,’ she said.
‘Maybe we could make that brunch? If we have it here you wouldn’t have to get dressed.’
Brunch in bed…
No, no, no…
‘Um, maybe,’ she said, brushing at her cheek as if she could somehow rub away a rerun of the blush. ‘I don’t know what I’ve got in. I’ve been too busy to shop.’
‘Eggs?’ he suggested, apparently oblivious to her heightened colour, more interested in the egg basket hanging from the overhead rail. ‘Why don’t I whip up something while you take your time and wake up?’ he suggested, apparently catching on to the fact that she wasn’t quite with it.
One of the perks of coming from a family in the restaurant business; everyone had to put in some time in the kitchens and the men didn’t think it beneath them to cook.
She found herself smiling. Really smiling. ‘That would be nice,’ she said. And realised that she meant it.
‘Scrambled do you? Coffee?’
‘That sounds good,’ she said, then, afraid that she was grinning like an idiot, she ducked away, reached for the basket, then yelped as pain shot through her scalp as Max had the same idea.
‘Oh, damn! Hold on, your hair is caught in my cuff. Don’t move,’ he said, unnecessarily, as he lowered his wrist to unravel it, making things worse.
‘Don’t pull!’
‘Sorry. Here…’ He lifted his arm, leaned into her, pinning her against the table with the weight of his body as he eased the tension on her hair.
Off balance and held fast, her face pressed into his shoulder, she had no option but to keep still while he tried to work it free, forced to breathe in the scent of leather, freshly laundered linen, something else-nothing that had come from a bottle. Something indefinably male. Memorably Max.
‘What’s taking you so long?’ she mumbled into his shoulder, in danger of drowning in Max-scented air.
‘What?’ Then, ‘Hang on, I’ve nearly got it…’ And then she was free, except that his arm was round her now. And he hadn’t moved. ‘Okay?’ he asked, looking down at her.
Your call, her inner temptress murmured. Go for it.
‘What?’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m very far from okay,’ she snapped, pulling free and gasping in sufficient fresh air to wash out the scent of him, rubbing her hands over her arms as if to free herself of the memory of his touch. Then, nursing her tender scalp. ‘What kind of idiot are you?’
‘The idiot who offered to make you breakfast? As opposed to the idiot with half a yard of hair flapping about in the kitchen.’
‘Half a yard of…’ Words failed her, but not for long. ‘This isn’t one of your restaurant kitchens, Max-’
‘Our restaurant kitchens.’
She’d started off angry with herself, but this miserable attempt to wrong-foot her just made her mad at him.
‘This is my kitchen, my space. I don’t have to tie back my hair and put it in a net. When I’m here I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.’
For a moment their eyes were locked in a combat of wills, the air crackling between them. Despite all the resolutions she’d made that week to be good, to be mature, if she’d had anything to hand other than the egg basket she’d have crowned him with it. Fortunately for him, she knew from experience just how much she hated cleaning up raw egg.
Maybe Max saw her dilemma, remembered the time she’d flung first and thought later, because without warning he began to laugh.
For a moment Louise couldn’t decide whether she was outraged or wanted to join him, but while she was thinking about it her mouth took off on its own and a hiccup of laughter escaped before she could slap a hand over her mouth to keep it in.
‘Just remember that I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears sous chef you can order around,’ she finally managed.
‘No?’
Without warning Max was not laughing, but reaching out for her, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her, enfolding her in his warmth. Not taking his eyes off her as the heat of his athletic body began to seep into her bones.
‘No…’
‘I won’t forget,’ he said, mistaking her intuitive denial of her body’s response to him for agreement. Then, his voice soft as velvet tearing, echoed her own thought. ‘You have my word…’
‘Lou!’ The front door slammed shut, making her jump. ‘Lou, are you up?’
Cal?
Oh, hell, Cal!
‘Time to wake up and smell the sausages, gorgeous!’
She’d known, at the back of her mind, that there was something. If Max had just given her a moment to wake up, properly, five seconds to think straight i
nstead of stunning her brain cells with an overload of pheromones…
It was hard to say who moved first, only that Max was no longer holding her, that somehow she was by the kitchen door, putting as much distance as she could between the two of them before her unwelcome visitor burst in with all the unrestrained enthusiasm of a Labrador pup.
She didn’t even know why. They weren’t doing anything wrong…
‘Damn, Lou,’ Cal said, his back to Max as he tossed the keys on the counter, dumped a bag of groceries alongside them without ever taking his eyes off her. ‘You looked like sex on a stick last night, but given the choice I’d take you rumpled every time.’
She tried to speak. Make it clear that he would never be given the choice. All that emerged was a croak.
‘Shocked into silence by the fact that I’ve been shopping, eh?’ he said, with a grin. ‘Needs must,’ he said, ‘and, let’s face it, you didn’t have anything in your fridge that a real bloke could eat for breakfast.’
‘I wasn’t expecting any kind of bloke,’ she finally managed, looking anywhere but at Max, knowing what he must be thinking would be written all over his face. And who could blame him? She was the one who’d let him think that she and Cal were more than…than they were. ‘Real or otherwise,’ she added, helplessly.
‘I know, but as always the welcome was as warm as the bed. In fact, my scrumptious, why don’t you toddle off back there while I cook you up a CJ special…?’
Max didn’t exactly clear his throat. It was more a low growl, alerting Cal to the fact that she was not alone.
He turned, glanced at Max, then at her, and with a careless shrug said, ‘Or maybe not.’ He turned back to the shopping, began to unpack it. ‘No problem. Plenty for three…’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I don’t do threesomes,’ Max replied and, with a nod in her direction, ‘You should have told me you had other plans.’
‘Max…’ she protested. Too late. He wasn’t listening. For an answer. An explanation. For anything.
‘I’ll see you on Monday morning, Louise. Check-in is at six-fifteen. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty.’ And with that he walked out of the kitchen, without so much as a glance at either of them, closing the front door very quietly behind him as he left.