British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  But his mouth was having trouble remaining serious and she knew she had him. In the months she’d known George, she’d yet to find an argument that couldn’t be resolved between them. She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. “You know, for an earl you’re pretty damn sexy.”

  “I’ll speak to Arthur. That’s all I can promise.” Then he bent her back over the desk, and had begun showing her exactly how sexy he could be when the phone rang.

  “Ignore it,” George mumbled against her skin. His lips and tongue were seducing her whole body by kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. His hand was already sneaking under her shirt, headed north for her breasts. Knowing the service would pick up, she ignored the ringing until it stopped, putting her arms around George’s neck and kissing him until they were both breathing hard.

  Wiggins’s heavy tread could be heard crossing the foyer, so George slipped his hand out of her shirt, took a step back, and said, “My friend Jack’s sister Chloe wants to have her wedding here.”

  George was so smooth it was obvious he’d been used to having servants around all his life. She was still having trouble adapting. But she was learning. She hauled herself upright and pushed a hand through her hair. When Wiggins walked past the open door of the office, she said in a voice that was only the tiniest bit husky, “Fantastic. Will it be a big, expensive wedding?”

  “Should be. She’s marrying an Italian ski racer. His family owns half the Italian Alps. Pots of money.”

  “Perfect,” she said, forgetting sex at the prospect of making more of the money they needed to pay off the bank debt. “Oh, but if we’re doing a wedding for people like that, we’re going to have to do something about the catering. We can’t have those clowns we hired the last time. That mother-and-son duo from the next village. We’ll have to-” She stopped midsentence and smacked herself in the forehead. “Rachel!”

  Rachel’s intercom buzzed, waking her up from her second nap of the afternoon. Soon, this laziness would really have to stop. One more week, she promised herself. Then she’d go out, start assimilating back into society. Think about another job.

  She dragged herself off the couch. Must be the groceries she’d ordered by phone.

  The thing was, she’d already had offers to work again. By e-mail, by phone message, by mail. All so far unanswered. She didn’t want to work for someone else and risk losing another restaurant. If only one of those calls, letters, or e-mails said, “Here’s a couple million bucks. Open your own place. Pay us back when you can.” That message she’d have answered.

  She let the delivery guy up, and when he got to her door she peeked through the peephole. She didn’t recognize him, but he wore a uniform. She opened the door with the chain on it. “Yes?”

  Now she recognized the uniform. It was a courier holding not groceries but an envelope. He was cute, with sun-streaked hair and a fresh scrape on his knee. Surfer boy/courier guy. “Is that a check for two million?”

  “If it is,” he said, “can I get your number?”

  She managed a laugh, unhooked the chain, and took the envelope. Checked the address and wished she could reverse time far enough to ignore the door. Max + special delivery package = bad news.

  She considered throwing the envelope away unopened, but with her bossy, tenacious sister, avoidance was pointless.

  Inside the package was a plane ticket to London and a letter. There wasn’t much in the way of chitchat.

  Dear Rachel,

  I miss you, and need a favor. I’ll tell you when you get here. Don’t even think about not coming. Mom and Dick are going to drive you to the airport.

  If you’re not packed when they get there, Mom will pack for you. You don’t want that to happen.

  There is no escape.

  Love, Max.

  Rachel fingered the ticket.

  She could be bitchy about the fact that her big sister was interfering-again. Or she could appreciate that Max had gone to a lot of trouble for her, and she missed her.

  Besides, she could use a holiday. The first spark of excitement she’d felt in weeks flashed through her. Oh, what the hell? Maybe it was time to get off the couch.

  A carefree vacation in an English mansion was exactly what she needed.

  Chapter Two

  “You didn’t tell me you were marrying Hugh Grant.” Rachel and Maxine were having tea served in dainty china cups while they sat curled up on an overstuffed couch in a bright sunny room of Hart House and munched the Oreos that Rachel had brought from home, since they were Maxine’s favorite cookie in the world and she doubted Maxine could buy them in England.

  “He does look sort of like Hugh Grant, doesn’t he? It’s the eyes, I think.”

  Rachel narrowed her own eyes. “So you are marrying him. I knew it.”

  “We haven’t decided anything yet,” Max said, trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant, but her heightened color and extra sparkle gave her away. Then she dropped the airy pretense and complained, “Anyway, you could at least sound happy about the possibility of your sister getting married.”

  “Marriage is a patriarchal institution designed to enslave women.”

  But Max had known her longer and better than anyone on the planet, and she wasn’t buying it. “You picked the wrong guy, Rach. You made a mistake. It happens.”

  “I guess.” She shrugged. “Getting divorced and losing the restaurant was a lot of failure for one year.”

  “I know. And we don’t take failure well.” Max hugged her, something they hadn’t done much of since they’d both grown up. It was nice, Rachel thought, hugging her back. “So,” her sister said, all girlish and un-Max, “do you like him?”

  “Hugh Grant? I adored him in Love, Actually.”

  Her sister’s glare sent her back to childhood. “George, moron.”

  Somehow discussing a distant movie star was a lot easier than talking about a man who could become part of her family. “He seems very nice,” she said slowly. Seems being the important word there. It was the character lurking underneath the charming veneer that counted, as she knew from bitter experience.

  Rachel had been looking forward to a relaxing vacation, but now it seemed she was also here to check out Max’s prospective husband. Right now, that seemed like too big a job. Okay, so she hadn’t worked in two months. Hadn’t done much of anything but catch up on soaps she hadn’t seen since college. It was amazing how you could pick up the story lines again. She’d watched and rewatched classic movies and sitcoms, reread her entire collection of Sherlock Holmes, Anne of Green Gables, and the Harry Potter series which she’d somehow missed. With cable TV, online bill paying, and a grocery store and restaurants that delivered, she’d hunkered down in her apartment for weeks. The final divorce papers were in her filing cabinet under D, for disaster.

  She’d still be in her pajamas surrounded by junk food and watching the classic movie channel if it weren’t for Max.

  Bossy, pushy, never-give-an-inch Max.

  “George is nice, but I want you to get to know him better.” She pulled another cookie out of the bag. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Don’t be. I’m a mess. Your butler wanted to send me round to the servants’ entrance when he saw me.”

  “Wiggins doesn’t approve of trousers on women,” Max said in a stern British accent, pointing to Rachel’s jeans.

  Rachel snorted. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. He’s a sweetie when you get to know him, though.”

  “It’s not only the jeans,” she said, looking down at herself. “I’m a total wreck.”

  “Maybe you’re a little pale, and your hair, it’s so…”

  “I look like shit. I know,” Rachel said, pushing the tangle of dark brown over her shoulder, as though she might be able to minimize the disaster if she hid it from sight.

  Her sister didn’t argue with her about her looks. “I’m not used to it being so long. When did you last have a haircut?”

  “Wh
en I had a regular paycheck.”

  They’d always been different, she and Max. She was the one who worked summers at the deep fryer at Kentucky Fried Chicken while Max worked in the showroom of their uncle Wilf’s car dealership. When they got older, they stayed different. While she was in chef school learning how to remove the intestines from scampi, debone a chicken, and make stock from the bones and yucky parts, Max was taking the communications program at Berkley, after which she slid right into the glamorous world of television.

  Now Max was a respected producer with a great wardrobe living in a castle with a guy who was in spitting distance of being an honest-to-God prince.

  And she, Rachel, was unemployed, divorced, and suffering from a bad hair millennium.

  “Well,” her sister said, in a brisk voice Rachel knew from experience would be full of plans, “now you’re here, we’ll get you all fixed.”

  Listening to her made Rachel tired. She stifled a yawn.

  “We’ll get your hair done. I found a fantastic place in London.”

  “ London. You go to London to get your hair cut?”

  “It’s not that far. A couple of hours on the train. There’s nowhere nearer. Trust me.”

  “Maybe I’ll be okay with my hair. I’m thinking of growing it,” she lied. Mostly, she’d been avoiding anything more strenuous than pressing the remote with her thumb and crawling to the freezer for more ice cream.

  As though she’d read her thoughts, Max said, “Your skin looks sort of pasty. Have you been eating properly?”

  And, out of nowhere, irritation spurted. “No, I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been holed up in my apartment scarfing junk food. I’m a chef, and I can’t even be bothered to cook for myself. I cry at commercials-and not the long distance phone ones everybody cries at. I found myself in tears when the woman with her first job bought herself a Saturn. I feel like my skin is breakable.” She leaned back into the couch until she was staring up at the ancient ceiling. “I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

  “We’ll get that fixed, too.” Max reached over and patted Rachel’s knee briskly. “You’re going to be a lot happier when you start work.”

  “If anybody still remembers me when I get back home.” She thought of the now-defunct restaurant where she’d invested so much of herself and let a scowl settle on her face.

  “I was thinking you might do some cooking while you’re here.”

  Rachel had known that I-know-what’s-best-for-you expression too long to be fooled by it. “I’d be happy to cook dinner for you and George.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a professional gig.”

  “I came here for a rest.”

  “Mom says you’ve been ‘resting’ since the restaurant closed.”

  “Mom should mind her own business.”

  “Rach, we’re worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t. Apart from the small breakdown, I’m fine. I’m free. Free of that phony bastard I married, and free of eighteen-hour shifts.”

  “The restaurant closing wasn’t your fault,” Max said gently.

  “No. I know. Bad luck, bad management. Owners who didn’t have the same commitment.” But if it wasn’t her fault, then why did she feel like such an abject failure?

  Max took the last Oreo and offered it to Rachel, who shook her head. Around the cookie, Max said, “Your reviews were fantastic, your food is amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  Of course, despite having grilled her about her professional life, Max wasn’t nearly done torturing her. After finishing the cookie she said, “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “You mean like a man?” The entire notion revolted her. She didn’t think she’d go out with a guy for a couple of years, at least. And as for weddings! She’d developed a severe allergy to tulle, cakes with pillars between the layers, and vellum stationary. Max, with the chorus of Ave Maria playing in her head, was not good company.

  “I meant like a therapist.”

  “I’m not crazy.” Though secretly she thought she must have been to marry Cal, and throw her heart and soul into a restaurant that wasn’t hers.

  “I know you’re not crazy. I think you’re depressed.”

  Rachel picked at the end of her thumbnail. “You’d be depressed, too.”

  “I know. That’s why I have a therapist on speed dial.”

  “You lived in L.A. too long.” But, amazingly, Rachel was smiling. It must have been a while since she’d tried it because her smile muscles felt lax and out of shape. Kind of like the rest of her.

  “Anyway, now that you’re here, we’ll have fun, you’ll rest, but George is trying so hard to make this estate pay for itself that he takes in catering jobs. It would be so great if you could help out-”

  That was fair. If her possible future brother-in-law and host needed catering help, it wouldn’t kill her. “I’ll do anything but weddings.”

  If Maxine’s dominant quality was persuasiveness, Rachel’s was stubbornness, and she glared at her sister.

  Outside, two volunteer docents walked by sharing an umbrella.

  “The catering job I’m thinking of is to celebrate a merger,” Max said.

  Max had been in TV long enough for Rachel to be suspicious. “What kind of merger?”

  “Look, it’s a dinner reception for a hundred people. You worry about the food. You can do something absolutely amazing. They won’t believe your food.”

  “What kind of merger?”

  “Two separate entities becoming one.”

  “Will there be champagne involved?”

  “I think champagne is very likely.”

  “A multilayered cake with two tiny people perched on top, perhaps?”

  Max made a face. “I hope they have more imagination.”

  “It’s a wedding.” Rachel shot to her feet. “I don’t do weddings!”

  “Honey, you’ve got to get back on the horse.”

  “Get on a horse? I’m supposed to get on a horse? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that your marriage is over, and I’m really, really sorry Cal turned out to have loose morals even by L.A. standards. But you can’t give up on all weddings.”

  “Getting back on the horse after Cal left would be having sex again, not catering weddings. And for your information I have already done that.”

  Max was staring at her. “You had sex and didn’t tell me?”

  She flapped a hand. “Completely forgettable. I just needed to ride a different horse.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Friend of a friend. Like I said, no big deal.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  Max was suddenly grinning like a fool. “ England has excellent horses.”

  Rachel spent three days getting the kitchen cleaned, organized, and stocked exactly as she wanted it. She’d been in England two weeks, and amazingly she was starting to feel better. The smell of crisp apples ready to be picked stirred her senses when she walked around the estate. The scents of lavender, rosemary, and thyme lay heavy in the autumn sunshine bathing the kitchen garden, and her hands itched to cook.

  If Max was going to make her cater events then she was going to have the kitchen as efficient as possible. She’d brought her favorite chef’s knife with her, the one tool she hated to be without. Vaguely, she’d imagined cooking a few meals for Maxine and Earl George, never that she’d be catering a wedding. But holding out against Max at the best of times was tough. When she was emotionally pathetic, it was hopeless. In fact, there were lots of catering jobs large and small she could do while she was here, and after she’d heard about the mother-and-son catering disaster, she knew she had to step in and help her sister. On some level she even understood she needed to do this for her own healing.

  The knife was lightweight Japanese steel and fit her hand so well it was like an extension of her fingers. The rest of the knives at Hart House were German, and so dull she’d made Max drive h
er into town this morning to get them sharpened.

  A mistake she wouldn’t be making again anytime soon. How had she forgotten that Maxine couldn’t talk and drive at the same time in the States, never mind while driving on the opposite side of the road?

  She shuddered in memory. She was hot, frazzled, had seen her life pass before her eyes too many times today, and had discovered something called a roundabout, a traffic circle of hell. She wished she hadn’t picked today to offer to cook for Maxine and George because Maxine had trilled her excitement and run off to invite a few friends.

  The produce she’d discovered at a local greengrocer’s lay before her, along with the perfectly ripe soft cheese from the cheese shop. Marinating in the fridge was lamb so local she didn’t want to think about it too closely.

  Somebody who’d cooked here recently had let the big orange cat who paraded around the place make a nuisance of itself. Rachel did not allow cats in her kitchen, but this old tabby was acting like the kitchen was his and if she fed him enough tidbits, he might consider letting her stay.

  It was hot, too hot to close the door that led to a small yard and then the kitchen garden.

  Still, she was cooking again. The knife felt like a forgotten lover back in her arms, the vegetables and fruits and fresh herbs scattered before her were like paints ready to be mixed and, by her hands, turned into art.

  Some of her black mood drained and she found herself falling into the rhythms that gave her life work and made her work pleasure. While she prepared a sauce for the lamb, she mentally worked out the timeline for table service and made a list of the wines she’d need.

  That done, she moved to the homelier task of peeling veggies. When she thought about how many aspiring chefs had fought for the sous chef jobs in her restaurant, she smiled to herself. How far the mighty had fallen. She didn’t really mind, though. The rhythm of the movements, the scrape of peeler on carrot, the smell of vegetables and herbs fresh from the earth pleased her.

  The scrape of gravel informed her she had a visitor and her moment of Zen tranquility vanished. Damn cat.

  “Out!” she yelled, determined to get rid of that infernal mooch once and for all. She grabbed a potato from the tile counter and threw it hard, high enough that it wouldn’t actually hit the cat, but simply let the animal know that her kitchen was out of bounds.