by Liz Fielding
‘Sorrel Amery from Scoop!’ she said, checking his identity tag. ‘We’ll be serving the champagne tea. Who are you with, Tony?’ she asked.
‘Celebrity. Do you mind if I help myself to your pose?’
‘Not if you promise to use the picture,’ she said, slipping out one of the cards she had tucked at the back of her own identity badge and handing it to him, so that he would remember who they were.
‘That’s up to the picture editor, but a row of pretty girls always goes down well.’ He glanced at the card. ‘Ice cream?’ He looked her up and down with a knowing grin. ‘What flavour are you? Pistachio or mint?’
‘Neither, she’s cucumber.’
Her entire body leapt as a hand came to rest possessively on her shoulder.
‘Alexander...’ Calm, calm, calm... ‘You’re late. You very nearly missed your photo call.’
‘I don’t believe you actually mentioned a time.’
‘Didn’t I?’ she asked, lifting her head to turn and look up at him, conscious only of the warmth from his fingers spiralling deep down inside her, spreading through her veins with a champagne tingle. ‘You had my number. You could have called.’
‘You could have called to remind me,’ he replied.
‘I assumed you’d slept through the alarm,’ she said dismissively, making an effort to gather herself, step away from his drugging touch, ‘and took pity on you.’ Her brain responded. Her legs didn’t. ‘You must have been exhausted. It can take days to recover from jet lag.’
And finally he smiled. ‘The beauty sleep didn’t work, then?’
She looked at him. He was dressed for the part in a pair of immaculate and expensively cut tennis shorts and with a white polo shirt, every stitch firmly in place, clinging to his wide shoulders, but while the shadows, like bruises, that had lain beneath his eyes were gone, no one could call him beautiful. The underlying structure was good, high cheekbones, a firm jaw, but the nose had taken some knocks and in the bright sunlight she could see a series of fine raised scars on the side of his face, suggesting the lash of sharp, toxic leaves, that marred his cheek.
She wanted to run her fingers over them, smooth them away...
‘I’m sure the photographer will give you a Photoshop glow if you ask him nicely,’ she said, curling her fingers tightly into her palms as he turned to watch the girls giggling and putting on a show for the photographer.
‘Thanks, but it would take a lot more than that to get me into your chorus line.’
‘How much more?’ The words were out of her mouth before she had the sense to close it.
He didn’t look at her, but one corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he said, and her heart bounced like a tennis ball being tested by a champion about to serve for the match.
‘Don’t worry about it....’ The ‘don’t’ got stuck in her throat and the rest of the sentence never quite made it. She cleared her throat. ‘An insect,’ she said, flapping her hand as if to waft it away. His smile deepened. ‘The thing about a chorus line is uniformity,’ she struggled on. Everything about Alexander West was bigger, more dangerous than the students who hadn’t quite made the leap from youth to manhood. ‘You’d just make it look untidy.’
Worse, his maturity, his broad shoulders and muscular thighs, calves developed from walking miles in difficult terrain, would make them look ordinary. Not that she had seen how great his legs were when her heart had leapt. All it had taken to send it leaping about was the sound of his voice.
‘I was going to get my hair cut, but I thought this was more urgent.’
He’d remembered what she’d said? Without thinking she put her hand on his arm. ‘You’ll do.’
‘Will I?’ And finally, he turned those hot blue eyes on her and she snatched back her hand as if burned before, not knowing what to do with it, she self-consciously tucked back the untameable curl. What was it about this man that made her act like a teenager? She hadn’t done that since she was seventeen...
‘Just this once. Hair above the collar next time,’ she said, going for teasing, but not quite making it. ‘I’m guessing, since you’ve come dressed for the part,’ she said, giving him a casual once-over, just for the pleasure of looking at his legs, ‘that you’ve been to the ice-cream parlour.’
‘I called in for the books. I was going to put together the accounts.’
‘And you got sandbagged by Basil and Lally?’ So he was here out of guilt. But he was here... ‘How are they doing?’
‘Fine, although your grandmother seemed disappointed that I wasn’t wearing beads.’
She smothered a groan, wondering what exactly her grandmother had said to him, thinking how good it would feel to hide her face in his chest, breathe him in, let his hand slide from her shoulder to her back. Well aware just how bad a move that would be.
‘I’m sorry about that. She tends to say the first thing that comes into her head.’
‘Someone must have put the thought there.’ Thank you, Graeme... ‘You have her smile.’
‘Yes.’ It used to get her grandmother into trouble, too... ‘I mentioned that you were a friend of Ria’s. It’s that New Age thing.’
Floaty, hand-dyed clothes, lots of exotic jewellery.
‘It’s okay. I got it. Have you heard from her?’
‘Ria?’ She shook her head. Why on earth would Ria call her when she could call him? ‘I did find a postcard she sent me from Wales. It had a story on it. The legend of Myddfai.’
He grinned.
‘I’m not pronouncing that right, am I?’
‘Not even close. It’s muth as in mother, vi as in violet.’
‘Oka-a-ay...’ Like she could ever have guessed. ‘Would she go there, do you think?’
‘Why? Are you planning to go and look for her?’ he asked, not answering her question.
‘I don’t have much choice. She was going to develop a special chocolate and chilli ice cream for me.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a special request for a local company who import tea, coffee, chocolate, spices. Adam Wavell? You might know him?’
‘I might,’ he admitted.
‘He didn’t insist on a tasting. We’ve worked for him before and he trusted me to deliver.’
‘Did he know that Ria was involved?’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? His contract was with me. Graeme is absolutely right. This is no way to run a business.’
TEN
Strength is the ability to open a tub of ice cream and eat just one spoonful.
—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’
‘Graeme?’
Sorrel blinked, slowly. He’d said that in exactly the same way as Graeme had said, ‘Alexander?’
‘Graeme Laing,’ she said. ‘He’s my financial advisor.’
His eyes searched her face, so close that she could see the starburst of navy blue that gave his eyes their ocean depths. The flecks of turquoise around the outer edge of his iris that lent a gemstone intensity to the colour. ‘A little more than that, I think.’
‘No...’ The denial sprang to her lips, heat to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she didn’t blush, apparently, only that the occasion hadn’t arisen before. But whereas Graeme had accepted her dismissal of Alexander as ‘just a friend of Ria’s’, Alexander had instantly sensed that there was something more. ‘I met him when he gave a lecture on business start-ups at university. I talked to him afterwards, asked his advice. He’s been my mentor ever since.’
‘He’s not keen on dogs, I understand.’
Thank you, Gran...
‘He’s not wild about dog hair,’ she admitted, ‘but right now he’s more concerned about Knickerbocker Gloria. He’s advising me to let Ria go to the wall so that I can pick up the pieces for peanuts, then pay students the minimum wage to produce her ices. Pretty much what you suggested, in fact.’
‘It’s good advice,’ he said, his hand slipping away from her shoulder. No-o-o... ‘You should take it.’
‘Probably,’ she managed, through a throat thick with words, explanations that had no meaning. He had kissed her as if he had no ties, no bond. And she had responded as if Graeme did not exist because at the moment, when Alexander’s lips had touched hers, he hadn’t. ‘He’s helping me attain my ambition to be a millionaire by the time I’m twenty-five.’
‘Then you should definitely take it.’ He didn’t look impressed by her ambition, but at least he hadn’t laughed. ‘How much time do you have left?’
‘Only a couple of years,’ she said. ‘And while my business brain knows that Graeme is right, that you are right, given a choice between friendship and ambition, there’s no contest. I’ll take on Knickerbocker Gloria, but only if I can have Ria as a partner.’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I’m not sure about anything, Alexander.’ It wasn’t just her business world that was falling apart; her life plan was crumbling to bits. ‘The only thing I’m certain of right now is that you should have worn cricket whites instead of shorts. You’re going to make my students look pasty.’
‘I didn’t realise it was an option but don’t worry about it. No one is going to be noticing what those boys are wearing. Everyone will be looking at the girls.’
‘All the men will be looking at the girls,’ she said as he turned those blue eyes on the young women in their ribbon-trimmed ice-cream-coloured dresses. All the women would be looking at him. ‘Would you like me to introduce you?’ she asked. ‘From left to right we have raspberry ripple, lemon cheesecake, Mexican vanilla, cherryberry sundae, coffee mocha cream and strawberry shortcake, also known as Lucy, Amika, Kylie, Poppy, Jane and Sienna.’
‘Very pretty, but you were right about too much sweetness being cloying,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick with cucumber surprise.’
‘What’s the surprise?’
He grinned down at her. ‘Crisp and cool on the surface but with a soft centre and an unexpected kick of heat when you bite into it.’
That would be the heat burning in her cheeks. She had to put a stop to this before everything spun out of control. Now!
‘You’ve got it totally wrong,’ she declared. ‘This dress is pistachio praline.’
He shook his head. ‘Pistachio has more yellow in it and mint,’ he continued, before she could argue, ‘has more blue. That dress is definitely cucumber. Trust me. I’m a doctor.’
‘Are you?’ Stupid question. Of course he was. One who was intimately acquainted with plant life and undoubtedly knew what he was talking about. ‘Then, I’m afraid, Dr West, you’re a little over-qualified for this job,’ she said, her own eyes straight ahead. ‘You do know I wasn’t expecting you to turn up today?’
‘Basil thought you were.’
Basil thought nothing of the sort... ‘I’m afraid you’ve been put upon by a past master in the art.’
‘I don’t do “put upon”.’
Confused, she looked up at him. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because this mess is my fault, because you promised me home cooking—’
‘Oh, right!’ Well, that was all right, then. Guilt and food. She could handle that and she let out a shaky little breath, ignoring the tug of disappointment that flooded through her.
‘And because I couldn’t stay away.’
For a moment their gazes locked in a silent exchange that surged through her body. Hot, powerful, unstoppable as a lava flow, it left her aching with hunger for this stranger who had erupted into her life.
She wanted this. Wanted him...
‘Sorrel...’ It took a moment for her to realise that Coffee Mocha Cream was speaking to her. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said, blushing, not quite meeting her eye, ‘but I think it’s time we started.’
‘Yes... Yes, of course...’ She was too shaken to think of the girl’s name. ‘Jane...’ It was Jane. ‘Thank you.’
Alexander, as if knowing her legs were all over the place, casually took her arm as they headed up the hill towards the conservatory, supporting her until she could sit at one of the small tables, pull herself together. She had to write his name on a badge...
It didn’t help that he sat in the chair beside her, his knee nudging against hers beneath the table, the froth of skirt between them no barrier to dizzying connection.
‘Tell me what you need me to do,’ he said, taking the pen from her useless fingers and doing it himself.
‘I can’t think...’ He looked up, a slight frown creasing his forehead, and she realised that he was talking about the event. ‘It would really help if you moved your knee...’ Then, not quite able to believe she’d said that, ‘I’m sorry...’ She wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologising for. Her inability to spell his name, or for being so completely lost in lust that she had forgotten the time, or for exposing her feelings so blatantly that she’d made Jane blush. ‘I don’t... It’s not...’
‘Breathe,’ he murmured, fastening the badge to his shirt pocket. Shifting his knee a fraction, easing the pressure. Leaving only the heat... ‘In and out. It helps—’
He was right. Remembering to breathe helped a lot. That, and the fact that he’d fastened the badge on upside down, proving that she wasn’t the only one struggling to focus.
‘What does Basil do, exactly?’ he asked.
‘Exactly?’ That was it. Think about her uncle in his stripey blazer, making the women feel special... No, making everyone feel special. She took a breath. Okay. She could do this. ‘Basil is a bit of a showman. He acts as a maître d’ at this kind of event, keeping an eye on what’s in demand and what isn’t.’ She managed a casual little shrug. ‘Well, you’ve met him...’
‘Yes,’ he said, wryly. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been lumbered with me.’
‘I don’t do “lumbered”,’ she said, and was rewarded with a smile. It should have made things worse, but, oddly, it didn’t. It wasn’t that kind of smile. It was a reassuring, we-can-handle-this smile. ‘You’ll be fine, Alexander.’ More than fine... ‘It’s little and often with ices, as you can imagine. The trick is to keep the circulation going, make sure there’s always something being offered and whisking away anything before it begins to lose its crispness.’ She managed a wry smile of her own. ‘There’s nothing that ruins a celebrity’s day like ice cream dripping on her designer dress.’
‘Ria’s accounts are beginning to look more attractive by the minute.’
‘Too late,’ she said. ‘For the next two hours you are all mine.’ And she concentrated on the exquisite tiled pattern of the conservatory floor so that he shouldn’t see just how happy that made her.
‘I imagine this is an equal opportunities company?’
‘Of course it is,’ she replied, then, realising that she’d missed something, she looked up. For a split second their eyes connected and the effect was like an electrical surge shorting her circuits. For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak...
‘Two hours of your time... I’ll tell you when,’ he said, and this time his smile was definitely one of ‘those’ smiles.
Her hand flew to her heart to stop it hammering. ‘I...um... Small quantities and speed of delivery is the answer, which is why I need so many waiters,’ she managed to get out in a breathless rush. ‘The students have all done this before so you shouldn’t have any problems.’
‘Why aren’t they at class?’ he asked.
Breathe... Air... ‘I have a work-experience arrangement with the local college.’ Better. Ordinary conversation would edge them out of the danger zone. Keep her focused on the job in hand. ‘It’s good for students doing catering and hotel management courses to have some hands-on experience to put on their CVs.’
‘The money must come in handy, too.’
‘Well, yes, and quite a few of them have found full-time jobs through me.’ Yet another reason why it was so important that Scoop! didn’t fail. ‘I’ve organised a couple of them to help out in the ice-cream parlour, by the way. Basil i
s fit enough, but Gran can’t work all day. Just in case you call in and wonder who they are.’
‘Right... So where will you be?’
‘I’ll be in Wales. First stop Myddfai,’ she said, and this time earned a grin for her pronunciation. ‘Unless you can offer an alternative?’
‘That will do as a starting point, but I was actually asking where you are going to be while I’m keeping the drips off the designer clothes?’
‘Oh...’ Stupid... ‘Now that you’re here, I can supervise the service. Did you know that you’ve got your badge on upside down.’
‘Have I?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Everyone, this is Alexander,’ she said, unhooking his badge and turning it around, fumbling a little as her fingers came into contact with the hard wall of his chest, the thump of his heart a slow counterpoint to her own racing pulse.
‘Breathe slowly, Sorrel,’ he murmured, putting his arm around her waist to steady her. As if that helped...
‘Alexander...’ she protested. He smelled so good. Nothing out of a bottle to obliterate the scent of fresh linen, warm skin... ‘He’s standing in for Basil today so if you have any problems he’s your man.’
‘I’ve got a problem,’ one of the girls said, provoking a round of giggles.
‘Raspberry ripple,’ Sorrel muttered, under her breath, focusing on the badge. ‘A bit of a handful.’
‘That’s what I thought about you.’
‘That I was raspberry ripple? Or a bit of a handful?’ He didn’t answer and she looked up. ‘Which?’ she demanded.
‘Both. But I was wrong. You’re not raspberry.’
And remembering exactly when he’d last said ‘not raspberry’, she blushed again.
* * *
Alexander had no trouble keeping the flow of ices moving. The sorbet, mouth-wateringly pretty in chilled miniature cocktail glasses, didn’t have time to melt before it was seized upon, while the mouth-sized bites of strawberry shortcake, little cups of Earl Grey granita, cucumber ‘sandwiches’ and all the other little teatime treats disappeared as fast as Sorrel and her team could dish them out.