Anxious to discuss her opinion of the man with Carrie, she fired off a quick text. ‘Free for a drink tonight?’
The answer came back, lightning quick. ‘Sorry, Morgan. At a press launch. Let’s talk tomorrow.’
Deprived of her usual sounding board, Morgan settled for the next best option. When Carrie’s reasoned arguments couldn’t calm her mind, a long, foamy bath and a glass of white wine would always do the trick. Letting herself into her basement flat, she headed for the bathroom, turning the taps on full and adding a generous amount of ylang ylang and jasmine bath soak. While the tub filled, Morgan poured a glass of Chenin Blanc, savouring its crisp, honeyed bouquet. She undressed in her bedroom before wrapping her Chinese silk robe around herself and returning to the bathroom.
A cloud of sensually scented steam enveloped her as she stepped into the tub. Morgan couldn’t prevent a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. The bathroom was her haven, her escape from whatever life chose to throw at her. Here she could dream and scheme, with no one around to judge her, or pour cold water on her suggestions. Where Carrie kept a notepad by her bed, to record the ideas for articles and short stories that always seemed to come to her as she was on the verge of dozing off, Morgan thought up all her best ideas in the tub.
But even though she let her mind drift, drinking her wine and enjoying the feel of being enveloped in jasmine-scented water, she received no inspiration for new recipes. Instead, she saw herself twined naked in bed with Scott Harley, his full lips placing a wet trail of kisses down her throat and the deep cleavage between her breasts. He would know how to kiss, she was sure of it, driving her to a helpless mess of wanting with his mouth and tongue before he even thought about pleasuring her with his cock. In her experience, a love for food always equated to a love for sex, and despite Harley’s posturing and showmanship in his TV appearances, reviews of his restaurant never failed to praise the quality of his food and his instinctive knowledge of how flavours complemented each other.
Almost unaware of what she was doing, Morgan let a hand slip down between her legs, to caress herself under the water. In her fantasy, it was Scott’s hand playing over her body, touching her in all the places that couldn’t fail to excite her, pinching and teasing her nipples until she was almost crying out for him to turn his attentions to her pussy. Seeing how he was driving her crazy with need, he would smile that lazy, megawatt smile of his, and bend his head to nuzzle first at the sensitive buds, then gradually work his way down toward her liquid cleft. He would take his time, lapping up her juices where they coated the insides of her thighs, ignoring all her pleas to use his tongue on her clit. Only when he decided he’d made her beg for long enough would he press his mouth to her cunt.
Morgan’s fingers worked feverishly on her clit as she pictured Scott kissing and sucking the soft folds of her sex. She was oblivious to everything but the pleasure she was giving herself as she imagined how he would bring her to a gasping, body-shaking climax. This being fantasy, she didn’t have to tell him what do to turn her on; he instinctively knew. The insistent pressure of his muscular tongue, coupled with two long, thick fingers slipping up inside her pussy, would bring her to the verge of climax.
Lost in a world of her own creation, Morgan stroked and teased till delicious spasms rippled through her body, leaving her flushed and breathless. If only, she thought, taking a sip from her wine glass where it stood neglected on the edge of the tub, the real Scott Harley was more like her fantasy lover, sensitive to her needs and ready to do whatever it took to satisfy her, rather than the self-centred control freak he’d shown himself to be earlier in the day.
Scott looked at the line of stationary cars snaking all the way down Old Street and almost banged his hand on the steering wheel of his Alfa Romeo Spider in frustration. The traffic was usually bad at this time of day, but tonight it was an absolute nightmare. There was nothing for it; he’d have to call Chris and let him know he was going to be late.
In the two years he’d been running The Ludgate Chop House, Chris Baxter had become an invaluable part of Scott’s business empire. With his commitments on Britain’s Next Top Chef, and now the presenting job on Cook’s Treats, it simply wasn’t possible for Scott to work in the restaurant every day of the week. He’d needed someone to run the kitchen on the days he was absent, and Chris fitted the bill perfectly. One of the best chefs in London, Scott had been lucky to recruit him. He had ambitions to acquire a restaurant of his own, and Scott knew if he was to retain Chris’s services, he needed to keep him sweet.
That meant doing something he hated – apologising for running late. His ex-wife, Sasha, was among any number of people who’d willingly stand up in court and testify how impossible he found it to accept events that were outside his control, never mind those he’d been responsible for. Anyone else would regard a traffic jam as one of life’s minor inconveniences. Tonight, Scott took it as a personal insult.
‘Hey, Scott, how’s it going?’ Chris sounded remarkably laid back for a man who should have left for the day after the lunchtime sitting had finished.
‘Not great,’ Scott snarled into his Bluetooth headset. ‘I’m about a mile away from you, but the speed this traffic’s moving, it’d be quicker to get out and walk.’
‘Look, don’t worry about it, mate. We’ve only got half-a-dozen covers to cater for at the moment. We’ll cope till you get here.’
Scott finished the call. Ahead of him, the traffic lights had changed from red to green, but still the traffic refused to budge an inch. Sighing, he thought back to the morning’s production meeting, and his introduction to Morgan Jones.
When he’d discovered she was going to be his co-presenter, he’d been less than thrilled. He’d been hoping to appear beside someone with a higher profile, more authority, not some cable TV nobody who’d made her name teaching viewers how to ice cupcakes. But Lucinda Leeson had been insistent. Scott had gained a reputation for being impatient and abrasive, his personality repelling as many viewers as it attracted. It was important, she said, to have someone warmer, more down-to-earth alongside him to provide a balance, and Morgan fitted that role perfectly. It also helped that Morgan was tall enough not to be dwarfed by Scott when she stood alongside him.
He still wasn’t convinced she was the right person for the show, not after he’d caught her daydreaming when she should have been giving her full attention in the production meeting. But he couldn’t deny she was nothing like he’d been expecting. If he’d ever watched her show, her lilting Welsh accent might not have come as such a surprise to him, but even TV couldn’t have prepared him for the reality of her voluptuous body, all tits and hips. She was the polar opposite of Sasha, whose whip-thin but perfectly proportioned frame had earned her any number of modelling contracts during the course of their marriage. Given the acrimony with which his relationship with Sasha had ended, maybe those differences were all part of the attraction.
And that hair! Though Morgan had styled it into a neat chignon, dark strands had come loose during the course of the morning to frame her face. Scott knew if he’d pulled it free of the pins holding it in place, it would have tumbled down beyond her shoulders. He pictured himself burying his face in those glorious tresses, breathing in the scent of her shampoo as his hands cupped her luscious breasts.
To his surprise, thinking about Morgan was starting to get him hard. He shifted in his seat, moving his erection into a more comfortable position. Forgetting his irritation at being caught up in this infernal jam, he found his imaginings taking on an increasingly erotic tone.
He pictured himself in the kitchen at the Chop House, Morgan working alongside him as the restaurant’s pastry chef. Just as in the meeting this morning, she’d been daydreaming instead of keeping an eye on the tartlet cases she’d set to bake. When she pulled open the oven door, black smoke poured out, and the pastry was burned beyond recognition. Something very similar had happened on Britain’s Next Top Chef, and the hapless contestant had received her marchin
g orders at the end of the episode, but not before Scott had treated her to an expletive-ridden assessment of her culinary abilities – or lack of them. If one of his kitchen staff did the same thing, he’d more than likely sack them on the spot. Morgan was to receive very different treatment.
‘You need to be taught a lesson, girl,’ he told her, as Morgan stood before him, eyes downcast, waiting for him to do his worst. ‘Something that’ll make sure you never forget to pay attention to what you’re supposed to be doing.’ He pulled one of the chairs from the chef’s table, where guests were able to sample his special tasting menu in the heart of the kitchen, and sat down on it.
‘Over my knee, Morgan,’ he ordered her.
Eyes wide, she began to protest, telling him she was sorry and she’d never do such a thing again.
‘Saying sorry isn’t good enough, Morgan. At least, not right now. Let’s wait till you really know what sorry is, shall we?’
With that, he patted his lap, urging her to climb on to it. Meekly, she did as he asked, lying face down over his widely spread thighs. Though he was sure she’d feel foolish in that position, waiting to receive her spanking like a naughty schoolgirl, he thought she looked magnificent. Even more so when he eased down her blue and white checked chef’s trousers to reveal her plump bottom, only partially covered by her plain white cotton panties. Morgan’s protests as he stripped her were half-hearted, and he knew she wanted this.
He let her wait for a long moment, allowing the nervous anticipation to build, before he brought his hand down on her backside. Slowly, methodically, he slapped every inch of her soft, round cheeks, making her give out a series of cute, throaty little yelps. She wriggled on his lap, her movements stimulating his cock to full hardness where it lay trapped between her half-naked body and his thigh. And just when she thought her punishment was over and he’d let her go back about her kitchen duties, he reached for the waistband of her panties, pulling them down to bare the cheeks of her arse and the wet pouch of her pussy, ready to begin her spanking all over again ...
Behind him, a car horn hooted and he realised the traffic was finally on the move. Pulling his thoughts back to his surroundings, Scott tried to ignore the swelling at his groin. He’d no idea where the idea of spanking Morgan had come from; his sex life usually ran along a much more vanilla track. But something about the feisty Welsh cook intrigued him, her demeanour making him think she wouldn’t object if he ever chose to act on his kinky fantasy. But there was no likelihood of that. He got the feeling she didn’t like him very much, and their relationship would never be anything but strictly professional. Though it was a reaction he was used to from the people he worked with, he couldn’t help wondering why it was so important the two of them clicked on a more personal level.
Putting his foot down on the accelerator, he took a right turn into Goswell Road, bypassing the emergency gas main repairs that must have caused the tailback. Taking the back street route which was the quickest way to reach the Chop House, Scott pushed thoughts of Morgan to the back of his mind, the better to concentrate on whatever lay in store for him in the restaurant’s bustling kitchen.
Chapter Three
‘SO, TELL ME ALL about Scott,’ Carrie said, watching the world go by from the battered but comfortable leather sofa in the coffee shop window. ‘I mean, I can tell you like him, it’s written all over your face, but spill the juicy details.’
‘Carrie, don’t be so ridiculous,’ Morgan said, breaking her almond biscotti in half and dunking it into her coffee cup. ‘Scott Harley is the most arrogant, infuriating man I think I’ve ever met. He acts as though he’s doing me a huge favour by allowing me to appear alongside him on the show, and, if he wants to, he can get rid of me at any time.’
‘But that doesn’t explain why you keep dropping his name into the conversation at every possible opportunity, or why you blush and keep fiddling with your hair when you talk about him. I’ve known you long enough to know that’s what you do when you’ve got the hots for someone.’
‘I don’t have the hots for Scott,’ Morgan protested, her voice so loud the woman on the neighbouring table leaned a little closer, hoping to hear more. Noticing her less-than-subtle attempts to eavesdrop, Morgan reined herself in. It didn’t help that Carrie was dangerously close to the truth. Much as the man’s presence rubbed her up the wrong way, Morgan knew she was displaying all the signs of being head over heels in lust.
‘So you say.’ Carrie sipped her hot chocolate. ‘But one thing I do want to know – is he as good-looking as he is on TV?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Morgan replied without hesitation. ‘He’s got to be six foot three if he’s an inch, and he’s got the most incredible green eyes, studded with these little gold flecks ...’ Aware she sounded like she was gushing over Scott, she hastily changed the conversation. ‘Anyway, you said you were at a press launch last night. Anything interesting?’
‘Oh, one of the supermarkets was unveiling its Christmas range.’ Even though Christmas was still three months away, the lead times on the magazines Carrie wrote for meant that if manufacturers wanted publicity for their products, they had to present them to the media well in advance of the actual occasion. ‘And there’s another showcase tomorrow lunchtime, and one next Tuesday evening. I tell you, give it another week and I won’t ever want to see a mince pie again ...’
Morgan glanced at her watch, remembering the reason she’d arranged to meet Carrie in Islington. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to dash. I’ve got to be at the photographer’s in ten minutes and I really can’t afford to be late. If I keep Scott waiting, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Well, have fun – and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’ Carrie laughed, leaning back against the sofa to enjoy the rest of her drink.
Leaving the coffee shop, Morgan consulted the directions to the photographer’s studio on her phone. A map popped up, telling her to cut through Camden Passage, with its world-renowned selection of antique shops, then weave her way through the back streets, surprisingly quiet after the lunchtime traffic and shopping crowds on Upper Street.
Martin Bayford lived and worked in one of the neat Georgian terraced houses within sight of the Regent’s Canal. Morgan rang the doorbell and waited for an answer.
Bayford was a broad, florid man in his 50s, with a shock of white hair and a neat moustache. He greeted Morgan as though he’d known her all his life, ushering her inside.
‘You have a really beautiful house,’ Morgan told him, stepping into a hallway decorated in a rich shade of plum.
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘I bought this place the best part of 30 years ago, when the area wasn’t half as sought after as it is now.’ He took her through into the living room, which looked out on to a small, neat square of garden. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Morgan shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve just come from having coffee with a friend. Is Scott here yet?’
‘No, you’re the first, but I had a call from him a moment ago to tell me he’ll be here once he’s found himself a parking space. And that might take a while.’
‘In which case, I will have that drink you mentioned. But could I just have a glass of water, please?’
‘Of course.’
In Bayford’s absence, Morgan took the opportunity to study the photographs on his wall. Many of them were moody, black-and-white shots of canal side views, from the modern apartment blocks in the City Road Basin, a few minutes’ walk from Bayford’s house, to the brooding gasometer that dominated the stretch close to Cambridge Heath. The landscape of urban London varied greatly, even within the space of a couple of miles, and these photos captured those variations superbly. Morgan, however, was more interested in the small number of portraits on the wall. She recognised an actor here, a footballer there, all captured in candid poses. It seemed Bayford had a knack for making his subjects relax and forget the camera was there; something she’d need if she was coping with the distractions of being up close and personal with Sc
ott once more.
As Bayford returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of iced water, the doorbell rang. He handed Morgan her drink, then went to answer it.
If Scott had found it difficult to snag a parking space, he didn’t show it, looking cool and unruffled in a tight, light blue T-shirt that emphasised the toned muscles of his chest and upper arms.
‘Morgan, nice to see you again.’ Scott’s smile contained more warmth than she might have expected. Perhaps he’d mellowed since their last meeting.
He waved away Bayford’s offer of coffee. ‘Let’s just get the whole painful process out of the way, shall we?’ Scott made it sound as though he was about to undergo root canal work, rather than have his photograph taken.
Unless he’s referring to spending time with me. Morgan quickly dismissed the thought, determined nothing Scott Harley did or said would dent her confidence. But why did it matter so much what he thought of her? Television was full of people who were prepared to trample over each other in the fight to become stars, and she’d never let any of them affect her, until now.
‘OK, then, if you’d both like to follow me ...’ Bayford led them upstairs to his airy photographic studio. Spotlights were already set up, awaiting their arrival, and Bayford switched them on while Morgan and Scott slipped into the outfits they’d been requested to bring.
The TV channel’s publicity department had asked them both to provide what they called a “professional look”. This translated to chef’s whites and a large metal balloon whisk for Scott and a striped apron and wooden spoon for Morgan. Cheesy, but perfect for the TV listings pages in the daily papers.
Bayford reached for his digital SLR camera, having been briefed as to what was needed. ‘Right. Let’s have the two of you back to back to start off with. Scott, I want you to hold that whisk to your chest. Morgan, you do the same with the spoon. Now, big smiles ...’
Traded Innocence Page 10