British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  “Really?”

  She sent her sister a look. “Union Jack will balance the numbers. I hate it when the boy-girl quotient is uneven.”

  Max gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m glad to see you. I missed you.”

  “Me, too. And you know what else I’ve missed?”

  “My excellent, sisterly, levelheaded advice?”

  “That, and raiding your wardrobe.” Rachel glanced down at herself. “I’ve put on weight, but I think I can still squeeze into your clothes.” She nudged up against her sister. “Or die trying.”

  Chapter Four

  Rachel didn’t normally dress for dinner. Usually she wore something lovely in white, decorated with food stains, and-adorning her hair net-a chef’s hat. She’d cooked a lot of fine meals in the last few years, but it had been rare for her to dress up and join the party.

  Maxine was right. She needed to get off her ass and get back to living. And having an irresistible commitment-phobe checking her out was exactly the push she needed.

  Jack was staying for dinner, which she strongly suspected meant he was staying the night.

  Rachel subscribed to the theory that if music was the food of love, then food was the fuel of sex. She should have realized, when she discovered she wasn’t musical, that love wasn’t for her. In her world, Red Hot Chili Peppers added bite to a fresh salsa and Black Eyed Peas were excellent done with tarragon and butter. Food was her gift, her talent, her favorite method of seduction.

  So she wasn’t in her restaurant with the professional sous chefs and servers; she’d prepared a simple but perfect meal and the ancient Homestead de George did have servants. She had everything ready, instructions for Mrs. Brimacombe, the regular cook, and a couple of hours to get herself ready.

  What a blessing to sit down to her own meal and not in her chef’s garb. Even better, raiding Maxine’s closet was like a trip to Saks or Barneys, without any need of a credit card.

  “Can I really choose anything?” This was said for form’s sake, while she and her sister stood in front of a loaded wardrobe. She and Max had shared clothes forever.

  “Since when did you have to ask?”

  “Since you started dressing so much better than I do. The chances that you’ll be borrowing anything of mine are remote.”

  Max’s country attire today consisted of a pair of Rock & Republic jeans that hugged a body in much better shape than Rachel’s, a Stella McCartney shirt in turquoise worn with chunky beads, and, adorning her feet, a pair of black Marc Jacobs flats. Her makeup hadn’t smudged, her hair didn’t frizz. Rachel knew she must be a very good person to be able to love her sister.

  “Looks like I’ve gone up a size and you’ve gone down one.” She looked at the gorgeous array of booty and pouted. “Probably nothing in here will fit anyway.”

  “Nonsense. Neither of us have changed that much. You haven’t gained weight, you stopped working out. Besides, you’ve always had the curves in the family.”

  Rachel turned to look at herself in Maxine’s full-length mirror and pulled her T-shirt tight against her belly. “I’ve been having a three-way affair with Ben, Jerry, and that cute European, Häagen-Dazs.” She sighed and dove into the glorious bounty.

  “You’re already feeling better, aren’t you? Admit it. Coming to England was a great idea.”

  She pulled out a black Dolce & Gabbana dress with tiny, expensive-looking white polka dots. “It was a great idea.”

  She put the dress back and withdrew a suede skirt softer than melting butter. The label was in Italian. “TV sure pays better than chefing.”

  Max watched her for a few minutes from the bed, then rose and gently nudged her aside. The wardrobes here hadn’t been built with Max’s clothing in mind and there certainly wasn’t room for two to stand abreast.

  Max pushed a few things aside and reached for a loose wine-colored velvet jacket with gold stitching. It had a sexy elegance to it that was still relaxed. “There’s a skirt that goes with it, all loose and ethnic, and I wear it with these boots.”

  “It’s so…” Rachel was almost speechless. “It’s so romantic and sexy.”

  “I know. The color will look great with your skin tone and hair, don’t you think?”

  “My hair is a disaster.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s long and needs a trim and styling. But we can make you gorgeous until we get to the salon. I always liked your hair long.”

  “I cut it for work.”

  “Now you can let it grow if you want.” She shoved the clothes at Rachel. “Try everything on. Oh, here’s the blouse.”

  It was something out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, that blouse. All falling lace and soft linen. Victorian boho.

  She yanked off her jeans and shirt and pulled on the clothes in a rush.

  Max shook her head.

  “What?”

  “Watching you throw yourself into an outfit actually hurts me. It’s how you would feel if you witnessed a diner bolt your carefully prepared food like it was a Big Mac.”

  Rachel grinned at her. “You were always the clotheshorse. Not me. Anyhow, I’m in a hurry to see it all on.”

  They looked together as she preened in front of the mirror. Maybe the button was a little snug on the skirt, but otherwise the outfit could have been made for her. The rich wine color made her eyes glow and brought out the highlights in her hair. Her skin didn’t look so pasty now. It looked like old-fashioned porcelain. The style suited her, too. Loose and relaxed, but sexy. She turned in the mirror, letting the skirt sway. “I love it.”

  “You look fabulous. Now, I insist that you spend some quality time in your bathroom with creams, cosmetics, and bath products.” Her sister’s forehead creased in sudden concern. “You do have decent makeup, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You got some expert to do me over for that photo shoot in Gourmet, remember? And then you bought me all the products for my birthday.”

  “Right.” Max’s eyes twinkled. “I’m a good sister, huh?”

  “When you don’t make me want to kill you? You’re the best.”

  “As soon as you’re ready, come back and I’ll do your hair for your big dinner date tonight.”

  She bent to pull off the boots. “Why are you doing this? You just warned me about Jack and now you’re wrapping me up like a Christmas gift.”

  Max inspected her nails. Then glanced up. “Truth?”

  “No. I want you to lie to me like you usually do.”

  Her sister took a breath. “The truth is you’ve seemed happier since he wandered into your kitchen than you have since you got here. I’ve told you what he’s like. You’re a big girl and can make your own decisions.”

  Sometimes Rachel forgot how perceptive her sister was. She walked over and perched beside her on the bed. “I won’t break my heart over him.”

  “Of course not.”

  She traced a unicorn in the blue tapestry bedspread. “But I might be interested in some uncomplicated vacation sex.”

  Max stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Like I said, England has a fine tradition of turning out studs.”

  “So you’re not going to give me a hard time about this?”

  “As your big sister, I reserve that right into perpetuity.”

  Rachel felt suddenly and unaccountably misty. “I have missed you so much,” she said, throwing her arms around Maxine.

  “Me, too.” They hugged tightly. “Everything’s going to work out. You’ll see.”

  “I’m unemployed, broke, divorced, and wearing a borrowed dress to dinner in a castle.”

  “Things worked out okay for Cinderella,” her upbeat sister reminded her.

  A knock on the door had them pulling apart. “Come in,” Maxine said, and George appeared. “Ah, sorry, didn’t know you had company,” he said, and prepared to depart.

  “No. Don’t leave,” Rachel said. “I was on my way out.”


  “I hope you don’t mind having one more guest for dinner.”

  “Not at all. I only hope my cooking’s okay. I’m not used to the oven.”

  “I’m sure it will all be lovely. And if it isn’t, we’ll blame poor old Mrs. Brimacombe,” he promised her.

  “Jack seemed very eager to, um, sample Rachel’s wares,” Maxine said.

  “Yes.” George glanced at her. “He’s quite taken with you.”

  “We know, George,” Maxine said. “Did you tell him to stay tonight?”

  “Yes, of course.” He walked over and put a hand on Maxine’s shoulder. They were always touching each other, Rachel noticed. A brush of the fingers here, a pat there. She doubted they were even aware of it. They weren’t a couple she’d have imagined would work. They were so different, and yet looking at them together, she knew the mysterious couple thing she’d never been able to get right worked for them.

  “Do you know,” George said, “he keeps a packed case in his Jag? He often has to fly to the continent with only a couple of hours’ notice.”

  “What does he do exactly?”

  “He’s a financier. Always doing complicated things with money. I think he’s involved with hotels at the moment. Or is it vineyards?” George shook his head. “Both, I expect.”

  Jack was rather looking forward to dinner as he crunched across the gravel parking area to fetch his case. In it was a change of clothes, toothbrush, toiletries, even a modest supply of condoms. Jack didn’t believe in missing opportunities, in business or in pleasure.

  The housekeeper showed him to his room. It was done in greens, and the earl’s coat of arms was emblazoned on the mantel of the stone fireplace which had, fortunately, been modernized so he could flick on a gas fire if he wanted heat or atmosphere.

  The bed looked as ancient as the mantel, but he was pleased to find a new and firm mattress beneath the heavy, carved oak headboard.

  He made a couple of calls and text-messaged Chloe to let her know that the tent was going to be brilliant, and that the chef catering her wedding had been brought over from America specially from a five-star restaurant. That ought to appeal to her. She was spoiled rotten, his little sister, and everyone knew it, including Chloe.

  Duty done, he showered in the en suite bath and dressed.

  They were meeting for drinks in the drawing room, and there he wandered after first checking his watch to make certain the public visiting hours were over. He’d once been trapped by a schoolteacher from East Grinstead who’d mistaken him for the earl and harangued him for twenty minutes about organic farming practices.

  No lurking teachers or, in fact, anyone appeared to impede his progress and he found himself in good time for before-dinner cocktails.

  George and Max were the only ones in the room.

  “You’re looking gorgeous, Maxine,” he said, stepping forward to give her a light kiss. She did, too, in a sleek black dress and heels.

  “Thank you. Rachel’s checking on dinner. She doesn’t trust Mrs. Brimacombe,” Maxine told him and then glared at George. “Which is all your fault.”

  “All I did was tell her that Mrs. B.’s style of cooking is to boil everything to buggery.”

  “Quite right,” Jack said. “The foundation of British cuisine, in fact.”

  “I thought that was fish and chips.”

  “No, darling. You’re thinking of sausages and mash.”

  Maxine said, “I’m still waiting to try toad in the hole.”

  “And wait till you’ve tried Mrs. B.’s bubble and squeak,” George said. “Which, believe me, you will. And that’s not as bad as-Ah, here she is now.” They all turned to the doorway.

  Jack had expected that Rachel would clean up quite nicely, but he’d had no idea how well. He was fairly gob-smacked. The surly chef was stunning, with voluptuous curves in all the right places, sparkling eyes, and a mouth made for temptation. Her hair was pinned up, but a few wild curls played around her face and neck. He itched to get his hands into that thick, lustrous hair.

  Whatever mysterious thing she’d done with makeup brought out her eyes and accentuated those full and extremely kissable lips.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  She seemed to grow even prettier with the compliment, and glanced, half laughing, at her sister.

  A tiny pause was filled by George, ever the consummate host, who said, “Dry sherry as usual, Rachel?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Everything all right with dinner?” Max enquired.

  “Your helper didn’t throw everything in a pot and put it on to boil?” George added.

  “No. There was a little muttering, but no mutiny.”

  Voices could be heard in the hall, and then Arthur Denby entered, followed by an elegant, fine-boned woman. They’d never met, but Jack knew from George that she was a relatively famous American writer of terrifying thrillers. He didn’t know what he’d expected-wild eyes and witchlike hair, he supposed, and that she’d be dressed all in black. But this woman, wearing a cashmere sweater and slim camel-colored trousers, could have been a solicitor or a banker. She had that calm, capable, and intelligent look about her.

  He was introduced to Meg Stanton, shook hands with her and Arthur, whom he hadn’t seen in months, and then chose a seat beside Rachel.

  What would this odd lot find to talk about, he wondered.

  It turned out that Rachel was a fan of Meg’s, and Meg had twice eaten in Rachel’s restaurant when she’d visited Los Angeles.

  “Your cooking is amazing.”

  “Not as amazing as your books. I couldn’t go into the meat freezer for weeks after I read Gristle and Bone. Honest.”

  Meg chuckled, obviously delighted to have scared somebody that badly who’d paid good money for her book. And people thought his business was cutthroat.

  “When’s your next book out?” Max wanted to know.

  “A couple of weeks.” Meg glanced at Arthur and a look passed between them that had Jack betting on yet another wedding before he’d had time to get his tux back from the dry cleaner’s. “I’m leaving for a book tour next week. Arthur’s coming with me.”

  Rachel sat forward in her chair, so thrilled to be talking to a favorite author that she was unaware of his scrutiny. He knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. With the animation in her expression, the hair, the makeup, the clothes, she was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, in a real way.

  He needn’t have worried they’d all have nothing in common. They were talking and laughing as though the six of them had known each other forever.

  Wiggins, whom Jack always thought had learned his butlering from watching too many Noel Coward plays in summer rep at Brighton and Newcastle upon Tyne, stepped into the room.

  “Dinner is served, your lordship.”

  There was a half glance, almost of apology, at Maxine. Jack wondered how soon it would be before Wiggins was announcing, “Dinner is served, your ladyship.” From the way George and Maxine acted around each other, Jack-who considered himself an expert, having been involved in so very many weddings in the last few years-suspected Wiggins wouldn’t have long to wait.

  Another wedding.

  Soon, he’d be the last of the old guard. Well, except for Haverstock, who’d last been heard of in a submarine off Antarctica. Unless he hooked up with a polar bear or a penguin, Jack felt safe. Though Haverstock was just mad enough that he might yet surprise them.

  They adjourned to the small dining room, and Jack was seated beside the writer and across from Rachel. If she was nervous about her food, she didn’t show it. He was curious to see if a woman who included among her talents neutering men with fresh produce from five yards could also cook.

  He wasn’t going to be critical. He’d eat and find something to admire even if the entree tasted like dung cakes.

  It didn’t.

  The first course told him that Rachel could indeed cook.

  Carrot soup you could get anywhere, but then h
e tasted it. She’d flavored it in a way that made his tongue weep with joy. She mentioned the herbs in the kitchen garden and he wondered how she’d turned those weedy-looking clumps into magic.

  “Oh, mmm. This is fantastic,” Meg moaned. “I remember reading that in your restaurant you only used organic ingredients and they had to be grown or produced within a certain radius.”

  “That’s right. Fifty miles was my limit. I believe everything tastes better when it’s fresh and local.” Rachel gestured to the plates. “Everything on tonight’s menu is made from local produce. It was fun trying different things.”

  Max looked at George. “This is a great marketing hook, too, you know. If we always try and serve local, it supports our farmers and growers.”

  “Probably more expensive, though.” Jack felt somebody should mention it.

  “Can you put a price on better flavor? Vitamin retention? Local goodwill?” Rachel asked.

  In fact, it was his job to do just that, but when he put her food in his mouth he felt churlish arguing with her. The woman was a bloody genius.

  The lamb was done with a sauce he didn’t recognize, but which she informed them had quince in it. He wanted to lick the plate when he was done. Dessert was a tarte tatin made, she hastened to assure him, with apples that grew right here on the property, and even the soft cheese was local, served with pears and a Sauterne from the cellars that, like all the wine George had chosen, was not local. Some of the bottles were older than those drinking them.

  Conversation and laughter flowed until the candles were low, coffee was drunk, and one of the most pleasant evenings Jack had spent in a long while wound down.

  It wasn’t only the food and the conversation that had made the evening exceptional. There was an energy flowing between him and the sexy chef across from him that kept things interesting. He’d catch her eye and see speculation. When he spoke, she listened intently. He found himself doing the same, though, in truth, he learned everything about her he needed to from her food.

  Bold, sensuous, creative. He wanted very much to know her better.

  Tonight, if her teasing and increasingly bold glances were any indication, he would.