‘Would you mind telling Mrs B. that I won’t be long and that everybody’s still scheduled to come tonight’’ Quinn called as Alix grabbed her suitcase and almost leapt from the car.
She waved her assent and sighed a massive gasp of relief as the car wheeled away, leaving her to trudge silently round the house to a joyous welcome from both dogs and the sanctuary of her cosy little cottage.
Nick wuffle-wuffle-wuffled his greeting, then whined loudly as Alix turned away without releasing him from the kennel, and his cry of anguish was enough to bring similar whines from Anna.
‘In a minute ... in a minute,’ she said gruffly. ‘Now just be quiet while I drop this gear and have a word with Mrs B., and maybe I’ll take you both for a good long walk.’
But when she knocked at the door of the main house, only silence replied. Surprised, Alix knocked harder and then called the housekeeper’s name loudly. Surely she was home; Mrs B. hardly ever left the house except to shop, and she wouldn’t be doing that at this time, surely.
Alix knocked and called again, but still there was only silence. Silence ... and ...
She cocked her head, unsure of what she had heard, but the sound came again, slightly louder this time. She didn’t pause to consider her actions then, but thrust open the door and ran into the house, steering instinctively for the kitchen.
Her cry of alarm at the sight of tiny Mrs Babcock, lying sprawled beside an overturned kitchen chair, was echoed by the elderly woman’s puny wail.
‘My God! What’s happened?’ Alix cried, dropping to her knees beside the small woman. Mrs Babcock’s left leg was badly twisted and she was obviously in pain. At first she could only moan, but when Alix leapt up to soak a dishtowel and sponge at her face, Mrs Babcock finally managed to speak.
‘Twisted ... my leg ... fell ... changing ... light bulb,’ she gasped, but then Alix shushed her. The broken bulb in one corner and Mrs Babcock’s few words combined well enough without further strained details. Except for one.
‘How long have you been lying here?’ Alix asked gently, fearing the answer and greatly relieved when she found out the accident had occurred only half an hour before.
‘Must have fainted,’ Mrs Babcock, said. ‘The pain ...’
Alix shushed her again, and after telephoning for the ambulance she gave silent thanks to a half-forgotten first aid course that allowed her to determine that it was probably only a severe sprain. Gently she shifted the tiny woman around so as to take the strain from the injured leg, but she decided against further moving her in case there might be other injury.
A glass of water seemed to have greater restorative powers. By the time the ambulance — but not Quinn — had arrived, Mrs Babcock had managed to inform Alix about her interrupted preparations for an ‘important’ dinner party Quinn had scheduled for that evening.
‘Don’t you worry about that now; Til take care of everything,’ Alix assured her with a confidence she didn’t feel. That confidence ebbed even more quickly when she discovered the menu Mrs Babcock had planned and the amount of work that remained after she had cleaned up the broken glass, replaced the faulty kitchen light bulb, and slipped into her own quarters long enough to find an apron that fitted.
The fact that Quinn still hadn’t returned bothered Alix enough that she wasted five minutes invading his study in a futile attempt to find Michelle’s telephone number. She then tried the directory, considered checking with directory information, and decided saving the dinner was more important.
‘Damn the man anyway,’ she muttered. ‘If he’s that busy playing house — or whatever — he can just wait for his information. And his dinner too!’
Mrs Babcock’s preparations for the dinner had been well under way at the time of the accident, and Alix needed little extra time, she estimated, to keep to the timetable. The soup was the only course she deliberately changed, opting for a chilled Senegalese style she could whip up by adding a bit of curry powder to a canned chicken soup.
The enormous fillet of beef was already stuffed with tender oysters and spices, but Alix was far from certain of the timing involved in cooking such a large roast. And did Quinn prefer his roast beef traditionally pink and succulent or typically Australian and roasted to a fare-thee-well? If he got back in time, she’d have to ask, but if not he’d take his chances and like it.
As she was preparing the sautéed potatoes and several vegetable dishes, Alix decided that nobody would bother with a gigantic fillet if they wanted it overcooked, and so another decision was made.
Alix’s major problem was the pita bread that Mrs Bab- cock had originally planned to serve hot with the meal. The bread dough had finished its first rising, and now needed to be rolled into balls and left for another twenty minutes, then rolled flat into six-inch rounds and left for a further twenty before being quickly cooked in a super-hot oven. But how flat? How long to cook it? The Israeli style bread was something Alix had never encountered before.
Ah, well ... nothing ventured, nothing ... etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,’ she sighed. ‘Damn you, Quinn Tennant — at least you could get here in time to go out and find me some bread rolls or something!’
‘And why would I want to do that?’ came a familiar voice from behind her. Alix turned, suddenly aware of the flour smudged on her nose and the disarray of her hastily coiled hair, to find Quinn looking at her quizzically.
‘Because this bread isn’t likely to come out right,’ .she answered, but before she could say any more he interrupted.
‘Mrs B. never fails ...’ he started to say, but this time it was Alix who interrupted.
This is a stupid conversation, she was thinking as she nearly shouted at him. ‘Mrs Babcock is in hospital, which you d have known if you’d get home at a decent time!’ she raged, and then fairly flew at him in a torrent of words. Quinn stood silent as Alix verbally demolished him and she was barely aware of what she was saying. When she finally ran down he shook his head admiringly.
‘I don’t envy the man you marry, dear Alix,’ he said. ‘But I hope he isn’t the sensitive type. Now do you suppose you could calm down and start over? I think I have most of it straight, but some parts got a bit lost in the personal attack.’
‘Calm down! I’ll give you calm down right between the eyes in a minute, Alix thought. But she didn’t say so; instead she took a deep breath, steadied herself inwardly, and related the facts as she knew them.
‘Right, that’s much better,’ he said then, and actually had the audacity to grin. ‘And now that you have all the invective out of your system,I hope, I shall tell you that Mrs B. suffered only a severe sprain, is now resting comfortably, and could well be released from hospital tomorrow or the next day. I’m to thank you for her, and also to tell you not to roll the pita too thin. About an inch thick or a bit less.’
‘But ... but ...’ Alix was wide-eyed with surprise.
‘But how do I know all this? Simply because I happened to be in the hospital when the ambulance arrived, and not involved in the rather questionable activities you so loudly accused me of,’ he grinned. I’ve never seen a woman jump to conclusions the way you do, and while it’s often rather interesting, I take no great pleasure in being consistently accused of lechery, debauchery and general all-round womanising. If I was as bad as that, dear Alix, I wouldn’t have time for anything else at all. Now, speaking of time, our guests will be here in half an hour, so you’d best nip across and change.’
‘Change? I don’t understand.’
‘Obviously,’ he said rather drily. ‘Change ... you know? Put on something fit for company. I’m a fairly liberal person despite all my alleged shortcomings, but I absolutely will not have you acting as my hostess in that outfit. And wipe the flour off your nose while you’re at it.’
‘How dare you ...’
‘My dear child, the kind of man you’ve accused me of being could dare anything ... anything at all. And since you show no indication of apologising, at least have the decency to do as y
ou’re told.’
‘But I can’t be your hostess,’ she protested. ‘And why not, for God’s sake? You’re filling in for Mrs B., for which I thank you, by the way, and she certainly would have been the hostess. Or do you think I chain her up under the house when company comes?’ There was a hard edge of anger in his voice, despite the calmness, and Alix shivered inside at the chill of those deep green eyes.
‘You’re right, and I’m sorry,’ she said then. And I do apologise for the things I said. It’s just that I was so concerned and upset and ...’
‘And jealous, perhaps? No, don’t answer that; I’m not sure I could cope with the answer,’ he laughed, reaching out suddenly to brush at the flour on Alix’s nose. ‘I will say you look admirably domesticated, however. Quite becoming, but not with company on the way. Now run along and change and I’ll have a drink ready when you get back.’
Thoroughly confused and somewhat demoralised, Alix could only obey, but she made one last bid for normality as she reached the doorway. ‘Will you please go and find some proper bread, or bread rolls,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve never made that kind of bread in my life, and I’m sure it’ll flop.’
‘Nonsense!’ Quinn shrugged off her plea with a thoroughly autocratic gesture. ‘More faith, dear Alix, that’s what you need. Besides, there isn’t time, so if it fails you’ll just have to say that I made it or something.’
Alix hurried through a quick shower, managing somehow to keep her hair dry, and just before the expected guests she was able to return to Quinn’s big house in a dress that was suitable if not exotic. Or perhaps it was more exotic than suitable, she thought, catching the assessing glance he trickled down her body like a warm, sensuous shower.
The deep-veed caftan was one she had constructed herself, using a material that flowed in soft jersey from a pale, soft blue around the shoulders to a deeper, brighter hue that merged into a riot of other colours along the hem. The sleeves were a three-quarter-length cut in wide, butterfly scooping that left her forearms free while aiding the flow of the dress around her breasts and middle.
Alix had never yet found a bra sufficiently low-cut to wear with the dress, and under the scrutiny of Quinn’s appreciative eye she suddenly wondered if her choice was not a touch too bold.
Quinn was resplendent in a smoking jacket of a velvet material so dark a green it seemed almost black, and the whiteness of his shirt against his tan made him look satanically elegant.
Alix caught a whiff of his after-shave as he reached around her to fasten the apron, but she wasn’t prepared for him to whisper into her ear as he did so.
‘You be careful of this dress in the kitchen. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.’
Alix looked up, startled, and found his eyes only inches away. His mouth was even closer, and he leaned down to brush her lips lightly with his own, a touch so delicate and yet so vivid that Alix felt herself flutter inside. For an instant she thought he would kiss her again, but he turned away to reach a glass from the sideboard and hand it to her.
‘Thank heaven for unpunctual guests, he murmured. ‘Now get this into you and we’ll see about solving this read problem.’
‘But you can’t ... I mean, your clothes ...
‘You worry too much, and besides, I have no intention of actually doing anything; I’m a far better supervisor.’
‘Just what I need,’ Alix replied with a shaky grin.
‘Exactly what you need,’ he replied soberly. ‘Because I, at least, have seen this done once or twice. Enough to know you’ll stuff the whole thing if you roll them too flat.’
So under Quinn’s directions, Alix rolled out the dough and set it for the final rising while the oven heated up and she completed the other preparations for the meal.
Quinn, meanwhile, stayed safely out of range, told her enough about the guests and their business so that she wasn’t totally unprepared, and then entertained her with a series of quite ridiculous jokes until the doorbell rang and it was too late to be nervous.
Especially as he insisted they would greet the guests together, and dismissed Alix’s objections as quickly as he divested her of her apron. ‘Don’t fuss,’ he said with a-broad grin. ‘You look absolutely lovely, and if the bread fails, then let them eat cake!’
‘We don’t have any cake either,’ Alix whispered in return, but as Quinn took her arm and escorted her to the hallway, she straightened her shoulders and raised her head almost triumphantly. Let them eat cake indeed! So long as Quinn Tennant thought she looked absolutely lovely, food was of secondary importance.
The guests, with their wives, were both older men, carrying the stamp of business success and personal triumph. Their wives, too, had that inimitable style that bespoke a good education, and a happy and successful marriage.
When Quinn related the story of Mrs Babcock’s accident, somewhat over-stressing Alix’s part in the rescue, she thought, the reaction of the guests was understandable. But when he continued, saying, ‘Alix managed an excellent transition from guest to impromptu hostess,’ Alix nearly fell out of her chair.
Well, you lying devil, she thought behind her smile of recovery. You had no intention of inviting me and you know it!
‘I did, you know?’ He laughed across the room, and Alix looked up with evident surprise, thus defeating her cool cover-up of the effects his last statement had created.
She didn’t dare ask what he meant, but even that couldn’t save her when Quinn enlightened their guests without bothering to consult her.
‘She’s sitting there thinking I’m a liar, but I had planned to invite her. It just got sidetracked because of another commitment ... and the accident, of course,’ he said.
The comment drew a polite laugh from their guests, but Alix couldn’t let it drop there. ‘I’m surprised you left it so late,’ she said acidly. ‘What made you so certain I wouldn’t already be tied up?’
‘Because I read your mind, of course,’ he chuckled. ‘And I’ve just proved it, before witnesses, no less.’
‘Ah, you’re in trouble now, Alix,’ said the elder of the two wives. ‘When they start reading your mind it’s time to either give in and marry them or run like blazes.’
Alix shot a glance at Quinn, saw what she interpreted as a look of uncertainty, and retorted, ‘I can’t Imagine anything worse than being married to a man who can read your mind! I’ll run, thanks.’
‘Not until we’ve tested your cooking,’ Quinn shot back. ‘If it’s not up to snuff you won’t have to run; I couldn’t possibly marry a woman who couldn’t cook.’
‘You can always hire a cook,’ Alix retorted, then blushed at the realisation of what she had implied. But if anyone else noticed, they gave no sign of it. Quinn, of course, did, and his response was to rise to his feet and say, ‘All right, cook, into the kitchen with you, then. I’ll even come and de your apron strings.’
‘You’re safe after all, Alix; it’s only cupboard love, said one of the wives, but the other broke in with an opposing view.
‘Not so. When they start following you into the kitchen is when things are getting serious. Marriages may have their high spots in the bedroom, but they survive in the kitchen.’
‘Ah, the risks I take just to see that my guests don t starve,’ Quinn chuckled, then insisted on checking everyone’s drinks before ushering Alix into the kitchen. First he helped her into her apron, and then, surprisingly, wrapped another one around himself.
‘This damned bread is virtually a two-man job, ‘ he said with a grin. ‘So throw aside your thoughts of marriage and let’s concentrate on the job at hand.’
Which they did, working surprisingly well from Alix s viewpoint to ladle the dough on to hot greased cookie sheets and then stand back to watch it puff up like a balloon in the process that created the pocket inside each individual loaf.
‘See? I told you it would be all right, said Quinn at the end. ‘And now I shall rejoin our guests and let you get on with it.’
The meal was an un
qualified success, apart from Quinn’s deliberate teasing of Alix throughout. It was a gentle teasing, but pointed enough to make the older of the two wives comment that Alix had best keep an eye on him.
But the biggest surprise came after the guests had departed. Alix was somewhat taken aback when Quinn insisted upon helping her clean up, revealing himself to be no stranger to the antics of a dishwasher that he declared to be, among other things, ‘contrary*.
‘Mrs B. keeps it in line with a kick in the slats on occasions,’ he revealed with a grin. ‘I usually have to give it two kicks, but eventually I get my own way.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ she replied drily, but the reply gained her only another wide smile. Quinn was in far too good a humour to be baited.
The cleaning up complete, he insisted that Alix stay for a nightcap, and she was able to listen on the extension when he telephoned the hospital to ensure that Mrs Babcock was resting comfortably.
Afterwards he very genuinely thanked Alix for her help, with a seriousness far beyond his joking thanks earlier in the evening.
‘You’re a girl of many talents,’ he said after walking her to her own door. ‘But you’ve got me wondering what surprises you might have in store for me next weekend.’
Alix didn’t reply except to smile up at him, whereupon he kissed her lightly on the brow and took his leave, pausing only to call back over his shoulder that she’d better not be too surprising, because he still had a few tricks of his own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Despite everything, Alix slept poorly. Her mind was troubled by a weird combination of thoughts that ranged from the frankly sensual to something far different, mental replays of Quinn helping her bake bread, Quinn helping clean up, Quinn kicking at the dishwasher.
The sheer domesticity of these aspects of the evening, coupled with the friendly comfort of dinner the evening before that, had a more vivid effect upon Alix than the sensual recollections of Quinn’s kisses, his hands upon her. There had been a strange rightness about their being together, a firm rounding of all Alix’s sensitivities. It had been almost as if they were married, and in her search for sleep she realised totally for the first time that marriage, the whole, total package, was all that she could ever allow herself.
The Everywhere Man Page 15