by Nancy Warren
In fact, she discovered that she’d pitched the potato exactly at crotch height of a tall man when she heard a distinctly human oomph and spun around.
His instincts were quick, at least. He had his hands crossed over his privates as the missile hit the cupped backs of his hands and bounced to the floor with a hollow plop.
For a stunned second there was utter silence. She stood there, staring at a rangy, athletic man with close-cropped hair and a lean, intelligent face, with his hands crossed over his crotch. Slowly, he removed his hands and straightened.
“Unmanned by a spud,” the man said, looking down at the potato, which had rolled, as though embarrassed by its bad temper, under the butcher’s block.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were the cat,” Rachel said.
“Ah, that explains it.” He had a cultured voice. Crisper than George’s, though. More BBC America announcer than royal family. Sharp gray eyes, she noticed, and hair that would curl if he didn’t keep it so short. An athlete’s build. As she replayed the protective move with his hands, she realized she’d seen that same posture during shoot-outs in soccer games.
He was looking at her as though wondering whether he dared cross the threshold. Smart guy.
“This is the private part of the house,” she said, glad Max had warned her about the tourists who sometimes got lost. “The old kitchen is in the next building, around the corner. Do you want me to show you?”
“No, thank you. I came to see you.”
He looked at her with those heavy-lidded gray eyes, and for the first time since Cal Moody had broken her heart, she felt the stirring of…something. A little of that male-female thing that always led to no good in her experience.
“You came to see me?” she repeated stupidly.
“About the wedding. I understand from Maxine that you’ll be doing the catering.”
“Right, the wedding.” She picked up a carrot and attacked it with the peeler.
Her unwanted visitor knelt to the ground and picked up the potato, then walked briskly forward and placed it beside her. “Do I detect a certain animosity toward the upcoming happy event?”
Silently, she marveled at the sheer number of words guys like George and this dude needed to say the simplest things. She also reminded herself to remain silent about her feelings referring to the upcoming “happy event.” George and Max needed the money and it was up to her to make sure the catering was superb. That was all she had to do. So she forced herself to look up and try to keep her expression pleasant. She’d always stayed in the background of food preparation for good reason. She hated dealing with the customers.
“I’m sure the event will be so happy it will do cartwheels. I promise the food will be good.” And she went back to her carrot.
He rolled the potato back and forth under his fingers as though it were a bumpy and rather dirty marble. She couldn’t help noticing his hands. He had great hands. They looked tough and strong, like a fighter’s-or a chef’s. Better on a man than a woman. Hers were so scarred, burned, and generally mistreated that she never drew attention to them. On a guy, though, the roughed-up hands looked good-sexy. For a blind moment she imagined those hands on her, and then snapped herself out of her inappropriate sexual reverie.
What was wrong with her? She must be crazier than she thought.
She felt that he was watching her and wished fervently it had been the cat who’d intruded on her kitchen.
Unlike the cat, however, a well-thrown potato didn’t seem to bother the man at her side. If anything, he seemed to be hanging around.
“For a guy who almost lost his privates to a potato, you’re standing awfully close to a woman with a very sharp knife.”
“I live for danger,” he said. She glanced up, and something about the way his eyes glittered made her feel like she was the one likely to be in danger. And him a bridegroom. No wonder she’d given up on men.
“Okay, maybe we should start over.” She held out her right hand after carefully putting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Rachel Larraby. I’ll be catering your wedding.”
Chapter Three
He took her hand in his and shook it gravely. “Jack Flynt. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s not my wedding, actually. My sister is the one getting married. She’s out of the country, most conveniently, so I’ve had to come about the arrangements.”
Jack didn’t know what it was about this woman that intrigued him so much. But he knew himself well enough and he’d enjoyed women long enough that he never ignored the pull of attraction when he felt it. There was something about this woman with her lethal aim, and the wild hair that she’d tried to tuck out of the way under a cap, but which still curled provocatively. He wanted to pull out every one of those hairpins and run his hands through the richness.
Her eyes were brown with flecks of green and gold, her skin pale and smooth, and her mouth full-lipped and luscious. It was a mouth designed for savoring food, or kisses.
The knife-wielding cook was voluptuous, all right, as were the scents emanating from this kitchen. He liked her efficient movements and the way she was trying so unsuccessfully to hide her irritation at his entrance into her kitchen.
Even under the apron he could see her curvy body. It made him think of plenty. He’d known so many women on slimming diets that the words “Atkins,” “South Beach,” and “macrobiotic” made him want to track down the purveyors of diets and force-feed them butter, cream, and foie gras. Or better still, choke them on their brown rice cakes and meals in tins.
Rachel Larraby was obviously a woman who understood the intimate connection between food and pleasure. “Are you working on a catering job now?”
“No. The honest truth is that I am trying to get to know this kitchen. I’m starting small. Tonight I’m cooking dinner for Max and George and a couple of their friends.”
“I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner,” he said with the smoothness of a born salesman. He enjoyed the sudden widening of her eyes and the flash of awareness that told him he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction.
“I thought it was just George, Maxine, and one other couple.”
“But that would leave an uneven table,” he reminded her. “It’s much more interesting to have everybody paired up, don’t you think?”
She was looking at him as though she wasn’t entirely sure whether there was hidden meaning behind his words. Leaving her to ponder, he said a cheerful good-bye and strolled out to find his old school friend George and see about mooching an invitation to dinner.
He’d been irritated as hell with his spoiled little sister and her endless demands, but suddenly he was grateful to Chloe for introducing him to Rachel Larraby. As he emerged into sunshine, he passed an overfed, imperious-looking cat. He knelt to scratch its ears. The tabby rubbed itself against his legs and then headed for the kitchen door with its striped orange tail held high. “I wouldn’t cross that threshold if I were you, old chap.”
The cat didn’t seem to have any better idea of self-preservation than he had himself, so he watched the open doorway in some anticipation and was rewarded by the same shouted voice. “Oh, no, you don’t!” The potato that he had come to recognize came sailing out of the doorway, closely followed by the cat.
They strolled a little way together, he and the cat. Jack wasn’t much for the country, but it was difficult even for a Londoner like him not to appreciate the view. Gently rolling hills, green fields dotted with contented-looking sheep, a few cottages and outbuildings. The slow amble of a river curling around a stand of fine old trees, and in the center of all, the ancestral home. Hart House.
Where his lordship might be at this time of day, Jack had no idea, but he was fairly certain that if he kept walking, somebody somewhere could direct him.
In fact, it took him almost no time at all to locate George. He and Maxine were standing on the Palladian bridge that arched gracefully over the river. They were close enough to touch, and Jack was a
bout to think better of intruding on such an intimate scene when he noticed that Maxine was holding a clipboard and gesturing with her cell phone.
Not love, then, but business which, since he was here on business himself, he felt entitled to interrupt.
After the usual insults, without which no Englishman could greet a friend, he said, “I’ve just been chatting up the wedding caterer.”
Maxine looked alarmed. “Oh, I wish I’d known you wanted to meet her. I’d have-”
“Warned her to be civil?”
Maxine’s pretty mouth turned down. “I’m really sorry. She hates being disturbed when she’s working. Was she awful?”
He thought about it. He’d been shouted at, pelted with a root vegetable, and threatened with a chef’s knife, all in under five minutes. “She was charming,” he said, thinking of the gorgeous smells in that kitchen, the curvy body under that apron, and the surprising pull of lust he’d encountered in a most unexpected place.
“Oh, good,” Maxine said, looking relieved. “Customer relations really aren’t her strong point but she’s a genius with food.”
Bless Maxine. He could have kissed her for giving him the opening he’d hoped for.
“I’d absolutely love to try her cooking sometime. It smelled completely amazing in there.”
Right, so he wasn’t going for subtle here. George, who’d known him for as long as almost anybody, raised one eyebrow and looked at him with suspicion. But Maxine jumped in with all that enthusiasm he loved about Americans.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? Rachel’s cooking a special meal for us tonight.”
“Oh, well.” He tried to appear surprised at the invitation. “I wouldn’t want to push myself in where I wasn’t wanted.”
“Nothing you’d like more,” George said.
Maxine chose to ignore the interruption. “Of course you should stay. You’ll be able to sample Rachel’s cooking and you can carry back an excellent report to the bride and groom. I wish they could have come down themselves.”
“I know. Believe me, so do I. If it weren’t my sister getting married, I wouldn’t be poncing about acting like a wedding planner.” He grimaced.
“Oh, come on. All she asked you to do was drive down here and make sure the setting is right for the tent.”
“Which you could have done by e-mail.”
“And we did, but she’s a bride. She’s entitled to be finicky on her big day.”
Maxine didn’t know Chloe. She had no clue that the tent placement was only the beginning. However, in the interest of a harmonious dinner he decided to spare her a better knowledge of his spoiled rotten sister. She’d find out for herself soon enough. If the wedding wasn’t going to cost a bloody fortune and he didn’t know that Hart House could use the money, he’d feel guilty. “Absolutely. One ought to have a final send-off before being doomed to nappies and nannies and boring your friends senseless hearing about your package holidays to Spain.”
Max snorted. “Another marriage hater. You should get together with Rachel.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Maxine seemed rather startled by his statement and looked at him doubtfully. “I’m sure you’re joking, but that’s a really bad idea.”
“Why? Is there something I should know about your sister?” He raised his hands in a questioning gesture. “She’s got a big burly boyfriend back in America, perhaps?” Maxine shook her head, and behind her, George merely rolled his eyes. He thought harder. Recalled the violent tendencies. “She hates men?”
“Well, sort of.” Max had her brow furrowed and looked both helpless and concerned in true sisterly fashion.
An awful thought occurred to him. “She’s not a lesbian, is she?” Oh, please let her not be a lesbian. He thought of all that glorious hair on the sexy woman he’d glimpsed beneath the apron and the attitude. There was nothing he hated more than finding an attractive, interesting woman was out of bounds, not because she preferred another bloke, but because she preferred another gender.
“You should probably stay away from my sister.”
And with that Maxine walked past him in the direction of the kitchen.
He climbed onto the ancient bridge and stood beside George, staring moodily at the slow-moving river beneath them. “Bad luck, that, her turning out to be a lesbian.”
His old friend glanced sideways. “You really are a daft prick.”
“What do you mean?” Renewed interest sparked. “She’s available after all?”
“Maybe you should do us all a favor and forget about Rachel. Maxine’s right. She’s one woman you should stay away from.”
George had known him too long to think he’d stay away from a woman because he was warned off without any reason. But he’d also known George long enough to realize there was no more to be got out of him on the subject.
Odd. Very odd. Oh, well, the mysterious hints only made him more curious to get to know Rachel better. “I’m looking forward to tasting Rachel’s cooking. I understand from Maxine that she’s a first-rate chef.”
“Yes. She was head chef at a top L.A. restaurant, but it closed. Good reviews couldn’t save it. Our luck, though. And your sister’s, having a woman like that catering her wedding.”
“I’d better run over to the pub and see about getting a bottle for tonight.”
George waved him off. “We’ll pull something out of the cellar.” Since the Hart House cellars were legendary, Jack didn’t argue. “And if we’re dipping into the cellars, you’d better not drive back to London. Stay the night.”
Jack glanced at the huge manor looming behind them. “If you’re sure there’s room.”
“I’m sure we can find you a suitable garret somewhere. I’ll lend you some pajamas and a toothbrush.”
“Don’t bother. I keep a packed overnighter in the boot of the car. Saves time if I’ve got to run over to the continent.”
“Blimey, I wouldn’t mind your life.”
Jack blinked and gestured to the view. “You didn’t do too badly.” But he knew he wouldn’t trade with George. He liked his London address, his frequent visits abroad, his uncomplicated lifestyle.
This time when Rachel heard movement in the doorway, she didn’t launch a grenade. Instead she turned with a scowl, but she was also ready with a spray bottle of water in case it was the damn cat again.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when her sister walked in, looking more like a model presenting Madison Avenue’s idea of the country than someone who actually lived among grass and sheep and five-hundred-year-old barns.
“You weren’t rude to the brother of an important customer, were you?”
For some reason she’d expected better of her recent unwanted guest, but he was a man, of course he’d disappoint. “Is that what he said?”
“No, he said you were charming, which naturally made me suspicious.”
Rachel grinned in spite of herself. One point for Jack Flynt. “I wasn’t exactly charming, but he certainly was.”
“I know. He’s famous for it.” Maxine grabbed a potato and found a second peeler. Rachel moved over, so they worked side by side at the sink.
At first it was peaceful and companionable, but, like all big sisters, Maxine couldn’t help dishing out a load of unwanted advice. Rachel could tell from the way Max glanced at her under her lashes that “what you should/shouldn’t do” was on its way.
“Jack asked me a lot of questions about you. He seemed…interested.”
Rachel was mildly flattered, though not surprised. There’d been that weird thing between them and she knew he’d felt it, too. “What did you tell him?”
“To stay away from you.”
“Spoken like a protective big sister.”
“The thing is…” For a few moments there was no sound but the scrape of peelers against vegetables. “His nickname is Union Jack. You know why?”
“Please tell me it’s got nothing to do with flagpoles.”
Max giggled. “Wel
l, he must have something remarkable. He goes out with loads of women, gorgeous, amazing women. Most of whom go on to marry other men. He’s always in wedding parties, but he never gets married himself. That’s why they call him Union Jack.”
Rachel went back to her potato. “So he doesn’t believe in marriage?”
“George doesn’t think he’ll ever tie the knot. You know how men are with that ‘last bachelor standing’ crap.”
Rachel wasn’t interested in discussing the commitment-phobic ways of all men. Only of one. “So all he wants from these women is sex?”
“I don’t know that for a fact, but as you so astutely pointed out, he is a man.”
Rachel had pushed her attraction to Jack aside as nothing but one more irritation in a life that seemed full of them recently. But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t one more trial sent to test her, but the answer to her dilemma. A hot English guy who wanted nothing but sex?
She was an undersexed, unemployed, depressed woman in need of a change, a spark. Some excitement. In an instant she saw that what she most craved was a crazy, self-indulgent fling. A love-’em-and-leave-’em holiday affair that would end when she boarded her plane home.
How much more perfect could Jack Flynt be?
“He’s staying for dinner tonight,” Maxine said.
“Yes, I know.”
“So, you’re okay with it?”
Rachel tried to conceal the fact that she was feeling more excitement at this moment than she’d felt since the early days with Cal. Back when she’d still believed in happily ever after. Now she believed she was owed a little fun after all the years of Cal and the restaurant. Fun should be like back pay coming to her, with interest. She had a sneaking suspicion Jack Flynt was exactly the man for the job.
“Yes,” she said, thinking about that rangy, athletic body, the come-to-bed eyes, the sizzle on her skin when he gazed at her. “I’m okay with it.”