‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s a muffin.’
He glanced up from the muffin and considered her with a disapproving frown. ‘You’ve been hanging around with Hart too long. Sarcasm is never a becoming feature on a young lady. Please tell me what I’m looking at here.’
‘It’s a coffee and pumpkin-pie-spice muffin,’ she explained. ‘I think it’s lacking something. I want you to tell me what you think it needs.’
‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee?’
He lifted the muffin gingerly and sniffed the risen crust. In the morning light of the spice shop the sponge looked like dark gold. She could see the sprinkling of golden sugar crystals on the top and watched them sparkle brightly.
‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee is an adventurous combination, isn’t it?’
Trudy said nothing. She didn’t want to influence his opinion. She simply arched an eyebrow, turned and went over to the coffee shop.
She returned ten minutes later with two cappuccinos.
It pleased her to see that West had consumed half the muffin but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. He was shaking his head and she understood that something was wrong with the flavour. Something was clearly troubling him.
‘Where did you get the pumpkin-pie spice?’
‘Get it? I made it.’
‘That’s good. We can probably correct the error from there.’
If anyone else had told her she’d made an error in the kitchen, Trudy would have indignantly bristled and asked what qualified them to make such a bold statement. But no one knew spices better than Finlay West. If he said she’d made a mistake, Trudy was prepared to consider what he had to say and likely bow to his experience.
‘Are you telling me the error’s in the pumpkin-pie spice?’
She tore a piece of the muffin away and sniffed doubtfully. It had all the component parts she expected to encounter. It was fiery and sweet from half of the ingredients with a suggestion of something medicinal and bitter from the cloves.
‘What do you think is missing?’
‘It needs more cinnamon. It needs much more cinnamon.’
‘That’s all that’s missing?’
He shrugged. ‘At the moment you’ve got an even blend of allspice, ginger, cloves and nutmeg. But you’ve only got a similar amount of cinnamon in there too. Admittedly, your nutmeg could be fresher – but I know how difficult it is to get hold of fresh nutmeg. More importantly, most importantly for pumpkin-pie spice, there needs to be a greater cinnamon content.’
‘How much greater?’
He shrugged. Reached for a pen. Jotted down notes. He was shaking his head as he wrote and, when he broke away from writing to sip his cappuccino, she noticed he sluiced his mouth with the drink as though he was trying to remove the taste of the muffin.
Had it really been that unpleasant? She didn’t dare ask the question.
‘The recipe I’ve always used works with these quantities,’ he told her. He pointed at the scrap of paper as he reiterated the items. ‘You’ll need two teaspoons of ginger, two teaspoons of nutmeg, two teaspoons of allspice and two teaspoons of cloves.’ He paused to study her through the clear lens of his spectacles and said solemnly, ‘Added to that you need three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.’
The words sat between them like a challenge.
‘Three tablespoons?’ That was more than double the amount of cinnamon she’d been using. It was a ridiculous amount. ‘Won’t the cinnamon overpower the flavour of the spice?’
‘It’s cinnamon. Cinnamon never overpowers. It only ever sweetens.’
She studied him doubtfully as she sipped her coffee. It wasn’t that she doubted his judgement. But she felt sure that such a large quantity of cinnamon would only serve to dominate the mixture.
‘Try it,’ West insisted. He weighed a paper bag of ground cinnamon, twirled it once to seal the corners and then handed it over. Setting his shoulders into their usual confident pose he added, ‘Come back here and pay me for this once I’ve been proved right.’
Trudy took the note with West’s recipe and reread it slowly.
She trusted his judgement and ordered a couple of essentials for the recipe, whole nutmegs and allspice, which she knew were running low in the kitchens of Bill’s cottage. As soon as Finlay had organised them she placed the packages in the bag on her hip and finished her coffee. She was about to leave when the bell over the door rang.
A pretty young woman holding a baby stumbled into the shop.
‘Trudy,’ Imogen grinned. ‘You always look so good in your running gear.’
‘Imogen and baby Bill,’ Trudy returned. She plucked the baby from the young woman’s arms and cuddled him affectionately.
Baby Bill was a lively handful.
Large for his age, and blessed with painfully bright-red cheeks, he wriggled in Trudy’s arms and then tried to pull at the brim of her pink running cap. He giggled loudly whenever Trudy moved his hand away and pretended to scold him. As soon as he thought the punishment was concluded he would slap his hand back on the brim. She chastised him with mock ferocity and took satisfaction from the sweet sounds of his amusement.
‘You’re good with him,’ Imogen said. She took her coat off and hung it in the backroom of the shop. When she reappeared she asked, ‘Do you fancy a part-time job as a babysitter?’
‘Sure,’ Trudy said. ‘I’ll squeeze in a few hours of babysitting on those nights when I’m not running myself ragged around your father’s restaurant, or busting my backside over at Sweet Temptation.’
‘You think that’s hard work?’ Imogen asked darkly. ‘Have a child. Have a child and maybe work for a harsh and miserly old taskmaster who doesn’t appreciate your efforts. Then you’ll learn what real hard work is like.’
Finlay pretended to look shocked. He clutched Trudy’s wrist and said, ‘Did she just call me a miserly taskmaster?’
‘A miserly old taskmaster,’ Trudy assured him.
Finlay tutted. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless shop girl.’
Trudy jostled baby Bill on her hip. He felt substantial and there was something comforting about his weight and the way he kept reaching for her cap and grinning his broad, innocent grin. Ignoring Finlay’s theatrical attempts to appear injured, Trudy turned to Imogen. ‘You’ve not yet been up to Boui-Boui.’ She tried not to make the words sound like an accusation.
‘No,’ Imogen admitted. She took the baby from Trudy’s arms and busied herself with checking on him. ‘Baby Bill’s not been up to travelling these last few weeks,’ she explained. ‘You know how kids get at this time of year.’
‘He’s a sickly child,’ Finlay added. ‘I think he gets it from that sickly specimen of a father he had.’
Imogen shot him a reproachful look.
Trudy tried not to smirk.
‘You must come and visit the restaurant soon,’ Trudy insisted. ‘It would be great to see you up there and I know Bill would really love to see how his grandson is developing.’
Imogen’s silence was noncommittal.
It stretched to the point of being uncomfortable.
‘Doesn’t Hart spend a lot of time in the city now?’ Finlay asked.
‘He’s there three days a week,’ Trudy said. ‘He’s usually away on Thursday, Friday and most of Saturday.’
Finlay nodded. ‘So, if someone wanted to visit Boui-Boui to see you, but to avoid Hart …’
Trudy fixed him with a venomous glare.
Finlay pretended to ignore her obvious anger.
‘… that person would be best visiting on a Thursday, a Friday or a Saturday.’ He paused and then smiled to himself. It was obvious that he was trying to contain a lot of mirth behind his huge beard. ‘Should I get Imogen to write this down for me, so we all know which days of the week are best for avoiding Hart?’
Trudy was going to say something scathing but she stopped herself. Her phone chose that moment to announce that she’d receiv
ed a message. She pulled it from her bag to see who was texting her.
‘It would be nice to visit the restaurant again,’ Imogen admitted. She said the words in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘I made some good friends at Boui-Boui. Is Kali still pâtissier?’
‘Kali’s still making the best carrot cake in the world,’ Trudy said. ‘And I know she’d love to see you. Nikki asks after you too. She lost the purple-pink hair for a while and went raven black. But now she’s back to one hundred per cent fuchsia. I think the colour suits her.’
She was checking her mobile as she spoke.
There were two texts. The first had come from Harvey, asking if she could furnish him with a draft article by the end of the day. Trudy wondered if she would be able to manage that task during her lunch break while she was at Sweet Temptation. She was still puzzling over what to write about when she read the second text.
It was another message from Donny and this one seemed more threatening than his previous text: You’re about to find out that there’s a bigger bitch than you – it’s called payback.
Chapter 6
She returned to Bill’s cottage, still trying to decide how to deal with Donny’s latest message. With the prospect of a beautiful day blossoming from the pastel-blue sky, she didn’t like the idea of dwelling on his juvenile threats. But she knew, if she didn’t do something, the situation was likely to get out of hand.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she grumbled. She repeated the words as she ran, using their rise and fall to help balance her pace. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ It didn’t help to maintain a great rhythm but she felt a growing sense of satisfaction from condemning Donny as she ran.
The last leg of her run took her past Aliceon’s cottage on the outskirts of Bill’s estate. It was a pretty building, steeped in the rustic charm of a thatched roof and surrounded by a dry stone wall. There were lemon trees on either side of the cottage’s bright-green doorway and wild roses, yellow and peach, climbing ivy-like up the walls.
Trudy wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the woman living so close. She told herself that was more because Aliceon was cold and unapproachable than because her previous relationship with Bill might affect Trudy’s developing attachment to him. But she wasn’t entirely sure she was telling herself the truth.
Admittedly, living so close to the restaurant meant Aliceon was always available to work at Boui-Boui whenever she was needed. But the fact that she had a key to Bill’s cottage, and no qualms about bursting in when she felt the situation merited such an unwanted intrusion, meant that Trudy lived with the constant worry of her making an unexpected appearance.
The racing-green convertible outside Aliceon’s cottage was blocked in by a large dark sedan. There was a man at Aliceon’s door. Dressed in a dark suit he looked as formal and foreboding as the menacing vehicle he had been driving. He carried an impressive looking briefcase and wore an austere frown.
Trudy thought of stopping to ask if Aliceon needed help. She knew it would be a neighbourly and considerate action. It was the sort of thoughtfulness she herself would have appreciated. But she had yet to see a situation where the maître d’ needed assistance from anyone. Aliceon could handle complaints, drunks, threats and the media with ease, confidence and self-assurance. Trudy thought it unlikely that the woman would be shaken by one surly-looking man on her doorstep.
Nevertheless, as she jogged past, Trudy tried to catch Aliceon’s eye, just in case she did need assistance. She could see Aliceon lurking within the shadows of her doorway. Her frame was slender when she was wearing her suit in Boui-Boui, but it looked spindly here wrapped tight in a towelling bathrobe. She was shaking her head in small terse gestures. Her lips were pursed into a solemn sneer of disdain.
When she did make eye contact, and Trudy found her gaze being met by Aliceon’s defiant glare, Aliceon simply ushered her guest into the cottage and slammed the door.
The rudeness didn’t trouble Trudy. Making a note to mention the anomaly to Bill, she jogged unhurriedly past and headed back to the cottage.
She slowed her pace further as she passed the chicken runs where the restaurant’s resident Black Rock chickens clucked and pecked. They were substantial creatures, beautiful with their scarlet combs, golden capes and silky black bodies. But, like all chickens, they were easily unsettled and Trudy didn’t want to cause them any distress.
Slowing her pace only served to remind her that she had done too much this morning. Weary from the effort, and close to staggering, she stumbled into the kitchen.
The room was noisy with the sound of the hissing espresso machine. Bill had been listening to a radio programme but he turned the volume down when she entered the room.
‘You took your sweet time this morning, didn’t you?’ He was glancing at his wristwatch. ‘How many miles are you running nowadays?’
‘I went to the market to see Finlay,’ she explained. She held up the bag that contained her cinnamon and the other ingredients and said, ‘I might have resolved the problem with the muffins.’
Bill raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the old bugger think they’re lacking?’
‘Cinnamon.’
Bill considered this. ‘Maybe.’ In his thick Yorkshire accent the word came out as meb-bee. ‘You should try that, but I still think it’s an issue with the coffee. You should be trying beans with a more exciting flavour than the Coffea Canephora.’
She dropped the spices on the kitchen counter, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I need to get a shower. I’m all sweaty from this morning’s run and I’m sure you don’t want me when I’m all sweaty.’
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Because he was sitting and she was standing his face was close to her breasts.
‘I like you sweaty,’ he confided.
Her heartbeat quickened. Her need for him blossomed with fast, fluid urgency. He had a hand on the small of her back and was pulling her closer. She always found there was something electric in the familiarity of his touch. He knew how to balance his natural authority with her body’s desire for sensitivity.
This morning was no exception.
The suggestion of impending intimacy flavoured the air like the smell of spices had flavoured each breath in Finlay West’s spice shop. Her need for him throbbed with a dull and steady pulse that was undeniable. It grew more insistent with each passing second.
With an exertion of willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Trudy shook her head. She resisted the desires he inspired and fixed him with a firm expression. ‘I don’t have time to play those sorts of games this morning, Mr Hart,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to get showered and do a quick experiment with this new pumpkin-pie-spice blend before I get down to HQ.’
He let his hand fall away from her as he checked his watch.
‘What if I say you’re allowed ten minutes in the bathroom? What if I say, after those ten minutes, I want you in this kitchen, Ms McLaughlin?’
She shivered and considered her reply carefully before responding.
‘If you said those things,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I suppose I’d have to obey your commands, Mr Hart.’
He lightly landed his hand against her rear.
‘I did say those things,’ he agreed. He glanced again at his watch and said, ‘You’ve got nine minutes and fifty seconds remaining, Ms McLaughlin. I think you’d better get moving.’
She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking.
She slipped from his embrace and hurried up the stairs. The lycra running wear felt as though it had been glued to her body with a sticky blend of warmth and perspiration. She pulled the clothing away with clumsy snatches. After dropping the garments into the laundry basket she hurriedly stepped into the shower.
The stream of misty-hot water dissolved the sheen of sweat on her shoulders and back. She smoothed soap over her skin and tried not to think of how much Bill would be pleasuring her when she was clean and had retur
ned to the kitchen. The knowledge that they were about to share intimate time together sent a tremor of smouldering need through the muscles of her sex. Her nipples stiffened and she felt momentarily dizzy beneath the spray from the showerhead.
It crossed her mind that she should mention the messages she had received from Donny. Her former friend was clearly trying to make some point that would likely be unpleasant and inconvenient. She supposed it would also be prudent to mention the invitation from Harvey. Under the policy of honesty and openness to which they’d both agreed with the new arrangement, Trudy thought frank discussion would be the cornerstone of what they did together. But she knew that talking about Donny or Harvey could kill whatever passion she hoped to share with Bill. And, remembering that she had put her own arousal on hold while she went for her run this morning, Trudy didn’t want to do or say anything that was likely to spoil the satisfaction of their shared passion.
Promising herself that she would mention both subjects when she was working alongside him at Boui-Boui in the evening, Trudy finished her shower and dressed quickly. She found matching pants and bra in her drawers in their bedroom. She also found a modest charcoal skirt and a pair of black heels and completed the outfit with a silver-grey blouse. It was more stylish than what she usually wore – she preferred function to fashion – but she thought the results were pleasing. Aware that she had probably gone beyond the ten minutes Bill had allowed, Trudy hurried down the stairs calling an apology ahead of her.
Bill glanced at his wristwatch.
‘You’re six minutes late,’ he muttered.
Six minutes? She was surprised it hadn’t been longer.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’
‘Pass me the wooden spoon.’
The pulse between her legs beat more swiftly. She snatched the wooden spoon from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. She noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Some days the arousal he inspired was so strong that it was impossible to contain her reactions. Seeing her hands shake with anticipation was now such a regular occurrence it was almost commonplace. But, even though it happened so frequently, it felt far from commonplace.
Turning Up the Heat Page 5