‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Jac, yes ...’
They lay together, waiting for their breathing to steady. Her head was cradled against his chest.
‘Was I wet enough?’
‘You’re a wanton woman. Shush … I could fuck you all over again but we’d better get back, sweetheart.’
She pouted. ‘One more kiss?’
‘Not till tonight.’
‘Tonight I shall ride you.’ She kissed him.
He sat up. Grabbed a bunch of seaweed. Pulled her across his lap. ‘Naughty girls need a spanking.’ His voice was husky.
She felt him harden. Wriggled the cheeks of her bottom higher. ‘Do it if you dare!’
The rubbery fronds whistled through the air. She felt the sharp sting. Gasped with surprise. He smacked her again. And again. Warmth spread through her.
‘Enough?’ He turned her round so she gazed up at him.
‘Enough of what?’ She ran her fingers along his erection.
Jac groaned. ‘We can’t go home yet. Climb on, sweetheart. You have me at your mercy.’
Rebecca took him at his word.
When they were dressed again, he pulled her close. ‘Remember what I said about kissing you … wanting it to go on all night?’
‘I remember.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I want it to go on for the rest of our lives.’
Cooking Up Trouble
by Elizabeth Coldwell
Chapter One
THE PHONE RANG JUST as Morgan was taking a tray of brownies from the oven. Whenever she was nervous, she took her mind off the situation by cooking, and a situation like this demanded a special recipe. If the rich, squidgy brownies, studded with dried cranberries and chopped macadamia nuts, were as delicious as she hoped, she’d feature them in her next collection of recipes. With her editor expecting her to deliver the completed manuscript at the end of the month, the bulk of the book was already written. This latest recipe was simply the icing on the cake.
Smiling at her little pun, looking forward to taking her first bite of her latest creation, Morgan almost dropped the cast iron baking tray, startled by the sound of her phone bursting into the opening bars of Food Glorious Food. Carefully setting down the brownies and peeling off her oven gloves, she answered the call.
‘Morgan, it’s Lucinda here,’ said a perky voice on the other end of the line. ‘How are you?’
Lucinda Leeson was the producer of Cook’s Treats, the successful Saturday morning cookery show currently on its summer break. The programme’s long-standing presenter, Graham O’Neill, had announced he wouldn’t be returning when the new series started in the autumn, prompting an immediate avalanche of speculation in the press and on social networks about who’d be taking his place. Morgan had applied to attend the auditions to find O’Neill’s replacement. Her own show, Blissful Baking, which had originally started as a segment on the local TV news programme in her native Cardiff, earned decent ratings for the small cable channel that broadcast it. Fronting Cook’s Treats would bring her to the attention of a mainstream audience. She couldn’t pass up such a chance – but nor, it seemed, could the dozens of others who’d also made it through to the final stage of the audition process.
Morgan walked away from the studio where the audition had taken place believing she’d done a good job and the production team had liked her. It was foolish to think she was the only one who’d had that feeling. Lucinda had promised to get in touch with her within the week to let her know the team’s decision. Now, after four long, nail-biting days when she’d considered all the ways they could politely reject her, Morgan almost didn’t want to hear what the producer had to say.
‘Hi, Lucinda. I’m fine,’ she replied, as breezily as she could under the circumstances. ‘I’ve just been making some cranberry and nut brownies.’
‘Mmm, they sound wonderful.’ Lucinda paused for just long enough to let the sick feeling in Morgan’s stomach intensify. ‘And I hope you’ll be showing the viewers of Cook’s Treats how to make them when the new series starts. Congratulations, Morgan, you got the job.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Morgan managed to stammer out, hardly able to believe she’d beaten all the other highly talented candidates she’d mingled with at the audition. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Well, it was an easy decision for us to make. You’ve got a natural warmth and a way of explaining your recipes in simple terms that are just perfect for the show. And we think you’ll make the perfect foil for Scott Harley.’
At first, Morgan thought she’d misheard Lucinda. Had she really mentioned Scott Harley, the man she despised more than just about anyone else in the world? ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, yes. We didn’t mention it at the audition for fear of it leaking out before we were ready to make the announcement. We’re changing the format of the show. Graham’s departure has provided us with the perfect opportunity to freshen a few things up, and we’ve decided to have two presenters working alongside each other. You and Scott are going to make a great team, I just know it.’
Something gnawed at Morgan. ‘I don’t remember seeing him at the audition.’
‘Oh, darling.’ Lucinda laughed, the sound high and tinkling. ‘Scott Harley’s the hottest chef in London right now. He doesn’t need to audition.’
In that moment, Morgan came very close to telling Lucinda she was awfully sorry but she simply wasn’t able to take the job if Harley was involved. But opportunities like this came round so rarely, she’d be committing career suicide if she passed it up. Still, as she thanked Lucinda once again and took down the details of the production meeting where she’d be meeting Scott for the first time, she couldn’t help wishing her new co-star was anyone but him.
‘So it’s really going to be that much of a problem?’ Carrie asked, as Morgan poured her a second cup of French Vanilla coffee.
The first thing Morgan had done once she’d ended her call with Lucinda was ring Carrie Gray and ask her to come over. Her best friend since she’d interviewed Morgan for a short-lived cookery magazine she’d worked on, Carrie was the one woman Morgan knew who could be relied on to drop everything when she needed to talk something over. It helped that Carrie’s job as a freelance journalist meant she could be flexible with her time, and that she would do almost anything if it meant sampling one of Morgan’s delicious tray bakes.
‘You can’t have forgotten what Scott Harley said about me?’ Morgan replied, watching Carrie lick chocolaty crumbs from her fingers. She always found it hard to believe quite how much cake her friend could eat and still retain her petite, slender figure.
‘Of course not. And those brownies are the business, by the way. But that was nearly two years ago.’
The length of time didn’t make any difference. Harley’s words were etched on Morgan’s soul, impossible to forget. He’d been promoting both the restaurant he’d just opened in the City of London, The Ludgate Chop House, and his stint as one of the judges on Britain’s Next Top Chef. He’d been asked his opinions on some of the other cooks with their own TV show, and, for whatever reason, Morgan’s name had come up. Harley had dismissed her in a couple of sentences, making disparaging comments about her physical appearance as well as her cooking speciality. ‘Never mind muffins,’ he’d sneered, ‘she ought to do something about that muffin top of hers.’
Accompanying the article had been a photo of the man stark naked, holding a shiny copper saucepan in front of him to preserve his modesty. To contrast with the long, lean lines of his admittedly spectacular body, they’d printed a blurry snap of Morgan in unflattering sports gear, revealing the soft expanse of her lower back and hips. The caption beneath it read “Mumsy Morgan Jones”, completing her humiliation. Those words had stung then, and they still stung now.
‘OK, so I’m never going to be a size ten,’ Morgan said, ‘but you know how hard I work to keep in shape.’ Almost fanatical about her exercise regime, she jogged along the pavements close to her Clapham home ever
y day, and when the weather was bad, she put in the miles on the stationary bike in her bedroom. Even if she still carried a few more pounds than she’d like despite all her efforts, that extra weight had settled on her breasts and hips, giving her body a voluptuous softness her last boyfriend, Mike, had enjoyed very much.
‘I don’t know why you worry about it. My mother always used to say she never trusted a skinny cook.’ Carrie took a reflective sip of her coffee, twirling a lock of her blonde hair between her fingers before continuing. ‘I mean, look at you. You’ve got your own TV show, a best-selling cookery book and curves most of the women I know would die for. And anyway, Harley was only being controversial to create some publicity for himself.’
‘Whatever, he had no right to say those things,’ Morgan insisted, even though, deep down, she knew Carrie was right. ‘The arrogant bastard doesn’t even know me.’
‘Well, he’ll find out all about you soon enough.’ Carrie’s eyes brightened. ‘Tell you what, Morgan, why don’t we go shopping? You’re going to need a killer outfit for your first big TV appearance, and we’ll find something that’ll show Scott Harley just how wrong he was.’
Carrie was right. Nothing lifted the spirits like a spot of retail therapy, particularly when it could be justified as a way of celebrating Morgan’s good fortune in landing her new job. They spent a couple of happy hours shopping in the West End for a simple teal blue wrap dress that complimented Morgan’s long, dark brown curls and hazel eyes and would look good under the studio lights. But when she walked into the Cook’s Treats production office the following Monday morning, she wore a black scoop-necked jersey top over faded jeans, her lucky peridot choker round her neck. Hardly the sex siren image Carrie had wanted her to portray when she finally encountered Scott Harley in the flesh, but in her casual outfit she felt comfortable and confident.
That confidence evaporated a little as she walked into a scene of utter mayhem. Lucinda barely acknowledged her as she found a seat at the large round table in the centre of the room, and it was a good five minutes before the show’s runner, the junior member of staff charged with fetching and carrying, came up and asked whether he could get her a coffee. People were shouting into mobile phones, each one’s conversation seemingly more important and more vital to the smooth running of the show than the next. For the first time, Morgan realised the difference between working for a small TV company and one of the major players. Before, there’d never been more than three egos competing for attention in a room at any one time. Here, she counted four times that.
Scott Harley striding in brought the figure up to a baker’s dozen. Morgan had never met a man whose entrance could silence a room, until now. If he’d looked good in his magazine feature, he was something else again in the flesh. A good head taller than Morgan’s own five foot ten, he had the wide-shouldered build of a professional athlete and a taut, enticing arse outlined by tight-fitting black trousers. Pushing his thick mane of dirty-blond hair out of his face, he fixed Morgan with his piercing green eyes. Despite herself, she felt a sudden rush of lust, settling low in her belly and sending a faint, guilty flush to her cheeks. Of all the reactions she’d expected to have, she’d never thought she would find him as compellingly attractive as she did.
‘Scott,’ Lucinda chirped. ‘How lovely to see you, darling. Looks like you’re the last one here. Take a seat. Jamie’s just about to go on a coffee run if you’d like anything.’
‘Double espresso, thanks,’ he replied, pulling up the only vacant chair in the room which, as luck would have it, was next to Morgan’s.
She’d once read the man’s need for caffeine bordered on addiction. It probably went a long way to explaining his legendary bad temper, showcased on Britain’s Next Top Chef whenever he chewed out a hapless contestant for burning a hole in a saucepan or dishing up a steak so chewy it was practically inedible. Sitting beside her he was calm enough, though she sensed an unspoken tension beneath the surface, like a coiled spring waiting to be unwound. As she knew only too well, when that tension broke, Scott was likely to let out a vicious verbal volley, just like the one he’d launched in her direction in that bloody article.
‘Scott, may I introduce you to your co-star, Morgan Jones?’ Lucinda continued. ‘I’m sure the two of you are about to embark on a very productive working relationship.’
‘Nice to meet you, Morgan,’ he murmured.
He acts like he doesn’t even know who I am, she thought incredulously. He ridicules me in public, then sits here and smiles at me like butter wouldn’t melt. But he probably spent so much money on that nice, white smile of his, he just wants to show it off at every opportunity.
To her surprise, he reached out and took her hand. At that simple contact, electricity shot through her, bringing her body to life. Her nipples made their traitorous presence felt, crinkling against the cups of her bra. Scott seemed to feel a similar reaction, too, if the way he reluctantly broke the connection was anything to go by. Fortunately, no one else in the room seemed to notice a thing.
This can’t be happening, Morgan told herself. Of all the people to find herself so instantly, powerfully attracted to, why did it have to be him? Biting hard on the end of her ballpoint pen, she fought to keep the feeling buried. But as Lucinda began to outline the innovations she intended to bring to the Cook’s Treats format, hoping to gain an even bigger share of the Saturday morning audience than the show already attracted, Morgan found her thoughts wandering.
She pictured again the image of Scott naked but for the concealing saucepan, his magnificent body revealed for everyone to see. In her mind’s eye, he stood in exactly that same pose. Only this time, he moved the pan away from his groin, exposing a long, hard cock that almost invited her to touch it. She pictured herself unfastening the wrap dress she’d bought for the show. Her fantasy self wore no underwear, and, beneath the dress, Morgan’s body was a symphony of soft curves. Scott’s lips curved in a lustful smile at the sight of her full breasts, their nipples suckable peaks, and the fluff of dark hair on her mound, pussy peeking out between her rounded thighs.
Time seemed to stand still as they each eyed the other’s glorious nakedness, waiting to see who would make the next move. Then Scott took a pace forward, hand moving along his cock, pushing its velvety foreskin back so the head popped out from beneath it.
Morgan saw herself sinking to her knees before him, reaching out to take his thick shaft in her hand so she could feed the tip between her lips. His breath hissed out at the sensation of being enveloped in Morgan’s warm, wet mouth. Clutching him at the base, bobbing her head up and down so he almost, but not quite, fell from her lips with every pass, she licked and sucked till he couldn’t take any more. His warning cry gave her the opportunity to pull her mouth away. Instead, she held steady, gulping down every drop of his hot, salty …
‘So what do you think, Morgan?’
Swept away by her fantasy, it took Morgan a moment to realise the question was being addressed to her. Looking at the pad before her, on which she’d failed to scribble a single note while the producer was talking, wondering how she was going to cover up her complete lack of attention, she stammered, ‘Well, it’s an interesting idea, but –’
‘I think what Morgan is trying to say,’ Scott cut in, ‘is that the idea of everything needing to have a competitive element is getting a little old. If there are good amateur cooks who’d like to take part in the show, why don’t you simply make the feature a showcase of their abilities, rather than pitting them against each other?’
Grateful to Scott for having dug her out of a hole, she flashed him a smile before continuing, ‘That’s exactly how I feel. People want something more relaxed on a Saturday morning, and there are plenty of good cooks who might not put themselves forward to appear if they’re expected to take part in a competition, simply because they don’t like the idea of their efforts being criticised in public.’
‘OK, well, that gives me plenty to think about.’ Lucinda broke
off as the runner appeared in the room, carrying the lid of a box of printer paper which he used as a makeshift tray for the coffee order. ‘And here’s Jamie with the drinks, which I think marks the perfect time for us to take a break.’
As Jamie handed Morgan the gingerbread latte she’d asked for, Scott muttered, ‘Don’t expect me to cover your arse in public all the time, sweetheart.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Morgan’s eyes flashed with barely concealed anger at Scott’s patronising tone.
‘Sit there daydreaming all you want, but don’t think it’ll get you very far. You’re not broadcasting to six people on No-mark TV now, you know. I expect certain standards of professionalism from the people I work with, and so far you haven’t come anywhere near those standards, not by a long way.’ He took the lid off his espresso cup, stirring a couple of sachets of sugar into the dark, potent brew before continuing. ‘I have an awful lot of artistic input into this show, and if you don’t pull your weight, I only have to say the word and you’re out. Understand?’
Oh, she understood only too well. He might be the most handsome man she’d met in a long time, with a strong, raw sexuality she found almost impossible to ignore. But like she’d told Carrie, Scott Harley was an arrogant bastard who believed his own publicity. Working with him would either make her or break her.
Chapter Two
MORGAN WAS STILL MULLING over Scott’s behaviour on the tube home. She’d always thought his appearances on Britain’s Next Top Chef had been selectively edited, building an almost caricatured persona of a fiery-tempered perfectionist who didn’t suffer fools. A couple of hours in his company and she knew that portrait to be devastatingly close to the truth. One thing was certain, if she was going to succeed as the co-host of Cook’s Treats, she’d have to be at the very top of her game, both as a cook and a presenter. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of kicking her off the show.
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