Her Client from Hell (7 page)

‘It’s not to everyone’s taste.’

‘There’s taste here? Where, exactly?’ Picking up a giant stuffed patchwork hippopotamus with a missing ear, he shook his head. Then he held her gaze for a moment as he smiled. And it almost took her breath away. There were glimpses of a kind man. One who held himself aloof, tried not to give too much away, tried to hide how his past had made him so cautious. But, just every now and then, that mask slipped, allowing her to see the man underneath. Kind, cautiously funny. Beautiful. He turned towards the kitchen, eyed up the sack of fruit and shrugged off his jacket. ‘Right. What needs doing?’

‘You really can cook? I thought you said—’

‘No, I haven’t a clue, but I can chop things. Surely it’s not that hard?’

‘Sure. No reason for catering college at all. Anyone can do it. Obviously, Jamie, Gordon and Nigella all found worldwide success with just a bit of random chopping and uncomplicated slicing.’ Stabbing him with a skewer would possibly be petty considering his talent for kisses and his offer of help. ‘Really? It’s disappointing to have to add you to the list of people who don’t take me seriously. Damn it, Jack—it’s an art form. You know, like your job? Or is film school overrated too? Anyone can point a video camera and shoot these days, right?’

He held his hands up in submission and laughed. ‘Okay. Sorry. You’ve got that paring knife locked away?’ His shoulders lifted. ‘Perhaps I can just peel something?’

‘Do not touch anything. I’ll show you what to do, but first I’ll grab you an apron—oh.’ She was enjoying bossing him around until she noticed his lips were a faint tinge of blue. ‘You’re dripping all over the floor—you must be freezing. God, you’ll get pneumonia. Wait—I’ll go have a look for something dry you can put on.’

‘I’ll be fine. Seriously, don’t fuss. If you have a towel, that’ll be great.’

‘You’ll drip onto the kebabs. No way. That has to be a health and safety issue. Take your clothes off and I’ll put them in the tumble dryer.’

His eyebrows rose as he laughed again. Deep and long and just...lovely. His eyes crinkled and his smile was fresh and free. How a man could look so breathtaking just by being momentarily happy she didn’t know. But it was a rare thing to see him relax. Intense was great and that fired a passion in her too, but relaxed and free was better. Such a shame they had a kissing embargo because that mouth looked ripe for it.

‘Seriously? You’re ordering me to get undressed? Is this what kitchen slaves have to do?’ he asked.

Yes, please.
‘Well, no. Not in here. In the bathroom. Or something.’

He glanced down at his long, long legs.
‘
And you have clothes to fit me?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll find something.’ Actually, she really didn’t know. She didn’t have any men’s clothes, having set fire to the few things Patrick had left when he’d stayed over with her kitchen blowtorch. But it didn’t matter—the guy was wet and he needed to take those clothes off and quickly. Slipping into her bedroom, she closed the door and leaned against it, trying to stop her hands from shaking, squeezed her body into a tight knot of restrained excitement and inhaled sharply. Fist pumping the air, she allowed herself a little crazy dance. So, okay, they’d sworn off kissing. But hell, he was here. He wanted to help. And very soon he would be naked.

* * *

Left alone with nothing but a whiff of a sweet smell that fired directly to his groin, Jack looked around the dazzling yellow kitchen, at the neat rows of tiny tart cases and clingfilm-wrapped meatballs on the bench top. At the alphabetised spices, the lists of food ticked off in neat cursive handwriting.

He thought about her impassioned rant and realised he had seriously misjudged Cassie. Yes, she was a flake when it came to organising her life—she was loud and messy and habitually late, but she knew her stuff and took her job very seriously.

And her skin felt like silk that he wanted to run his fingers over again. Her breasts were just perfect, responsive to his touch, firm yet soft. Her mouth was funny and haughty and sassy—and downright X-rated. And she had no underwear on. Commando. Naked. Under that ridiculous apron. That she even owned something like that made him smile—made her more fascinating. That she wandered through her apartment with no underwear on made her much more interesting indeed.

That kiss had been the far side of stupid. A wicked way of trying to get her out of his system that had spectacularly backfired. Need for the woman ran through his veins.

It had taken every bit of willpower he possessed not to undress her there in the stairwell, but it wasn’t the way she looked that held him in thrall. Sure, she was beautiful, but there was so much more to her. A fight, a spirit, her sense of humour. A package that would keep him interested well beyond sex.

He was way out of his depth. This whole wedding breakfast escapade had thrust him into scenarios he hated and usually avoided at all cost. Tomorrow, he would be pitted against his sister, discussing her disastrous cooking which, in comparison with spending a few hours here not touching Cassie, would be a relative walk in the park. What the hell had propelled him over to her apartment in the middle of a rainstorm, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t sleep without kissing her again. She had a strange hold over him—too intense too quickly. So he figured it’d burn out pretty much as quickly as it had started.

He hoped it would because he was damned sure he didn’t want to live like this—thinking about her, wanting her. He’d come here because he’d had an unshakeable feeling that she needed help. An irresistible feeling that they hadn’t finished what they’d started—either by conversation, or by touch. And, yeah, he’d come here to kiss her again.
Dammit,
the woman was making him feel things. He didn’t want that—didn’t want a connection that would make him raw and exposed—he knew too well how destructive that could be. Glancing at the front door, he wondered whether he should just make an exit while she was out of sight. Leave a note. Send a text. Find another caterer.

‘Here we go.’ Too late. She bustled back into the room. It seemed Cassie rarely did anything sedately. Bustling, rushing, gesticulating. Thrusting a white chef’s top and blue-check trousers into his fist, she smiled, a little bashful. The dance they were doing around each other now was laden with that kiss. And the struggle against more. ‘I hope they fit. I’d forgotten I had them. They belonged to my catering tutor and he left them here.’

‘Oh? Tell me more. He left them in your bedroom?’ And why the desperate feral reaction in his gut at the thought of her with another man? It fuelled his desire to have her now. To make her his. Overrode any rationality.

He put the clothes on to the bench top, shrugged off his damp jacket and started to unbutton his shirt.

Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he popped each tiny pearl, the stuffy, humid late summer air in the tiny room becoming thicker and electric. ‘Oh. Well...I had a party ages ago. He spilled...’

Her throat moved up and down as she swallowed. She wanted him, regardless of their agreement. Her cheeks blazed almost as bright as the hair that she’d scraped into a scruffy ponytail. And, despite her less elegant choice of clothes—the woman would look amazing in a potato sack—she emanated pure sensuality. Her lips still glistened with a sparkling gloss, but her eyes were heavy with unadulterated desire. And there was nothing more of a turn-on than knowing a beautiful woman wanted you—so much so her speech was befuddled. ‘Some...tomato... Where was I? What?’

Watching her tongue-tied reaction made him hard. Intensely hard. ‘Spilling something. So you didn’t sleep with your tutor, then?’

‘What? Gay Gareth? No way.’ Her tongue darted out as she moistened her bottom lip, her hand lifted halfway between them—as if she was subconsciously reaching out to him. ‘Hilarious. No. Just a major food-processing accident with tomato juice. It almost redecorated the kitchen too. Not pretty.’

Her eyes didn’t stray from his chest. Tension vibrated through the room, sucking the oxygen out, thick and warm. He’d just stated his mission to help and then go home. She’d agreed. Hell, he’d even taken a step towards the front door.

His heart thumped loud and hard against his ribcage as he gauged his next move. Hers. But he didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to see the heat in her eyes diminish. Didn’t want to chop or slice. She turned away but he caught a glimpse of her fisted hands and a frisson of anxiety flitter across her eyes. ‘This is so unfair. Either leave now or go and get changed. Out of here.’

‘Right. Bathroom. I’ll just be a minute.’ He stifled a grin, grabbed the pile of clothes and headed to the cluttered bathroom. Worse still to be in her private space, where her smell intensified and everywhere he looked he imagined her. In the shower. Wearing the ridiculous duck shower cap. Luxuriating in the pink bath foam. Wrapping her naked body in the bright citrus-coloured towels.

Twisting on the tap, he stuck his head under and wondered just how much dousing in cold water he needed to be able to get rid of the heat suffusing him right now.

SIX

‘So this is
what we do; thread a piece of each of the fruit onto these wooden skewers. Grape first, strawberry, melon, pineapple and kiwi. Easy. Make it neat. Every skewer has to be as uniform as the others. That’s it.’

‘I reckon even a kid could make this.’ Jack threw himself into learning what to do rather than over thinking. Over smelling. Over kissing. Overreacting to her every move. ‘And this is difficult because?’

‘Because you have an expert showing you. Oh, and I gave you the easy bit; I try to make desserts as fun and easy as possible for a lunchtime. As you saw, the chopping needs to be exact if the product is going to have the wow factor. And you haven’t seen me assemble it all yet. Watch it—they all have to be perfectly symmetrical. I’m going to make a citrus wash to keep the fruit looking shiny, then we’ll have to wrap them and pop them in the fridge overnight.’ Having put a kettle of water on to boil, Cassie squeezed some lemon juice into a bowl then leaned against the counter. ‘So where did you guys grow up?’

He hadn’t seen that coming. She was only making conversation but still a swift stab of unease skewered his ribcage. ‘Around.’

‘I’ll just leave this to cool.’ She poured the water over the lemon juice, confident around the kitchen. Calm, even. This was obviously where she felt the most comfortable. He’d never seen her so in control. Her gaze drifted over him, to his eyes, his mouth, softly. Gently. Memories of that kiss scooted through him.

God, part of him wished he hadn’t said
never again.

Her tongue dipped out to her bottom lip and her eyebrows darted upwards, giving him a hint to elaborate. ‘Around where?’

Once again he gauged what to say. Always, he knew to give a little, enough to stop the questions. ‘Nowhere for long. But I know all this area pretty much like the back of my hand—I did most of my growing up around here—Notting Hill, Latimer Road, Shepherds Bush, then a short stint in Camden and another in Harrow. Six, months I think. Then back here again.’

She laughed. ‘Were you part of a travelling family, nomads, or your parents just got itchy feet a lot?’

‘Something like that.’ The juice on his hands was rapidly turning sticky. Washing them was a good distraction.

But clearly not for Cassie. ‘Like what?’

‘Like all of the above.’

She threw him a strange look. ‘Well, and thank you for asking, I grew up in two houses in total. One in North London and then Chesterton. I moved here last year. I like it here, close to the market and the pubs and the Tube. Oh, and the Carnival. Do you go to the Carnival?’

‘Not recently. I used to when I was younger.’

‘I love it. It’s such good fun. It’s the highlight of my summer. All that great music, people so happy, dancing in the street, the smell of spice and smoke in the air, heavy bass beats echoing until late into the night.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious and he drew frail threads of memories from the back of his mind. ‘One time I remember...’

Colours and scents, the happy, addictive atmosphere. A new mother, a new family. A new start. All trying to do the pretend family thing—a nice day out at the Carnival.

Then, the next year, different family, different mother. Different start. Things not quite working out. Excuses. Tears.

Tipping her head to one side, she watched him. ‘What do you remember?’

‘A whole load of stuff you don’t need to know about.’ Because it was enough just remembering that having an attachment to anyone, relying on anyone, loving anyone save his sister, had ended in hurt. He didn’t need to voice that. He just needed to heed it. ‘Okay, chef, so these kebabs are piling up, waiting for your professional whizz. What are you serving them with?’

‘A choice of either chocolate or honey-yoghurt dipping sauces, both of which are in the fridge already made. You want to talk about that? Sure. A company in the West End has signed me up to do a healthy eating day once a week. My remit is to produce a casual buffet-style lunch for the directors that is low in calories but tasty and satisfying. The chocolate is the treat we all crave at the end of a meal and the reward for the other stuff. High cocoa solids and low sugar. And in tiny amounts. So don’t judge me, okay?’

She didn’t look okay; she looked hurt because he’d changed subjects so rapidly. But he’d reached the end of the whole
share it with the group
thing. Something they’d tried to foist on him through Youth Services. He’d preferred sneaking into the back of the cinema across the road from their futile meetings and losing himself in someone else’s life. His hadn’t been worth examining in any kind of depth. Except working out how the hell to extricate himself from it.

But his younger years and his film experience had taught him enough about how to read people and right now Cassie was simmering. Not in a good way. Crashing a pan into the sink, she turned to him, all businesslike. ‘Have you spoken to Lizzie yet?’

Jack set to, threading more fruit as guilt hit him from all sides. ‘I rang her yesterday. We’re having a quick chat tomorrow afternoon in the Market Bar, Portobello. Four-thirty. Any chance you can come? On time? I have things to do afterwards. Meetings with clients of my own.’

‘Meetings in the evening?’

‘Yes. In the evening. My client’s in the States and it was the only time that was convenient for us both to Skype. Could be a big job; I don’t want to be late.’

Cassie’s voice was still loaded with irritation. ‘Of course I’ll be on time, Jack. The last couple of times were aberrations to my normally strict adherence to the clock. I do know how to run a business. Does she know I’m coming?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Does she know I’m catering? Oh, actually, am I catering? Did I get the job?’

There had been other, probably better, definitely more organised caterers. But none of them had had the verve Cassie brought with her, or the passion. He hadn’t tried the kissing...though he doubted any would be nearly as good as her in that respect. ‘If you can come to the meeting. On time. Yes.’

‘Great. Thanks. Again, does Lizzie know?’

‘Not exactly. Her cell battery died halfway through our conversation; it was all I could do to get her to arrange a time and place. That’s Lizzie all over.’ Matched by his inability to bring the subject up over the phone. Having Cassie there would act as a buffer too.

‘Well, it would be good if you could phone her again and tell her I’m going to be there and why.’ When she finally lifted her head to look at him, her eyes were shadowed. ‘Just so we all know where we stand.’

If he knew that he’d be a happier man. Putting down the pieces of pineapple, he turned to her. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, Jack. I’m fine. I’m tired and I’m busy.’

And annoyed because of him. What would it cost just to share a little? It was easier to kiss her than to talk. Go figure. Kissing would mean he didn’t have to face those searching eyes, the casual questions that he didn’t want to answer.

But how easy to open up some of those memories that he kept locked away? He’d drawn a line aged sixteen. Freedom and autonomy.
Life starts here.
And he’d blocked off the past, apart from regular visits to Lizzie. Taken his future into his own hands, grasped control. Finally.

But he owed Cassie something. He knew about her father. A little about how that had affected her. And, even though she was reluctant to talk about paring knife man, he knew she’d had her fair share of tragedy.

‘One time I was at the primary school just up in Latimer Road and we had a dance troupe in the carnival parade. Lizzie was in it, all dressed up in some kind of Caribbean outfit. I helped make the float. It was in the shape of a dragon and what the hell that has to do with Jamaica I don’t know. We won a prize, though. I got one of those whistles that drives everyone mad. I think I almost blew it dry. Didn’t know a whistle could actually stop working from overuse. Must have driven the estate crazy. Maybe that’s why we had to leave.’ He breathed out, wanting to add:
That was with the fifth family,
I think—I started to lose count after a while
. But thought better of it.

So, he did a mental body check, apart from an over-excited heart-rate he was still okay. It was hardly an exposure of his soul, but it was something. And inside him a hard corner of his heart relaxed a little. It also dredged a smile from her, so it had got to be worth it. Even though he didn’t usually do this. And would not be doing more. ‘Maybe I’ll go this year. If I’ve got time.’

‘Make some time. You’re the boss, aren’t you?’

‘Of most things. Yes. And if I’m extra careful they even allow me to use knives.’

She waved one at him. ‘Not these, my boy—these cost more than my van. So make a date with your diary and get yourself there. It’s a must-go thing. I love watching all those kids dancing. I have a food stall every year, on the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Lancaster Road. I get a great view and I love the buzz and the atmosphere. Plus I make a stack of money and a lot of friends.’

He grabbed at the chance to change the focus away from him. ‘So you sell what kinds of things?’

Her eyes glistened with excitement as she ran her hand in the air as if reading a billboard. ‘Gourmet Caribbean.
Taste of the sun. Fruit of the islands
. Chicken and rice. Corn. Mango mocktails. Roti. That kind of thing. Does a roaring trade. You should stop by my stall; I’ll give you a good discount. Mate’s rates.’

‘I would have thought you’d give your workers something for free.’

‘Nothing’s ever free, matey. Believe me. You always end up paying somehow.’ She flicked on her MP3 and calypso music filled the room. She started to hum as she painted the fruit sticks with the lemon juice and water. Then rustled in the fridge and pulled out a large blue and white china jug. ‘This music is so uplifting, isn’t it?’

Watching her backside jiggle up and down in those tight sweatpants was all the uplifting he needed. He looked at the kitchen clock. One-twenty. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow. Just like his libido. Up. Down. Up. Down. Very definitely up. ‘Are we almost finished?’

‘No. Not nearly—we have washing-up to do, for a start. And these all need covering, then there’s pasta to cook and cool for the salad, tomatoes to roast... My list is still very long. But, first, I want you to taste a kebab with the chocolate sauce.’ She offered him a fruit-laden stick, dripping in sauce. He took it from her hand—no way was he going to let her feed him—no matter how tempting. His groin could only put up with so much. But hell, he paused as she stuck a spoon into the jug and took a long swallow of the sauce. Her pupils widened and a soft moan came from her throat that was similar to one he’d put there only a couple of hours ago. ‘Oh, my goodness. That is soooo good. Go on, try it.’

Sweet fruit juice squirted down his throat, coated in a rich, dark, orangey cocoa dressing. It was sugar with just enough bitter bite and promises and heaven.

As he ate she watched, her eyes never leaving his face. Her unfettered eagerness struck a chord deep in him, her mouth tipped up into a smile. His hands fisted against the bench top as he fought back an urge to run them through her hair, to smooth them over those curves, to make her moan again.

Any chance of a rewind to just before they’d made that hands-off decision? Because while his brain was full of good, safe and sensible ideas, his body was all up for bad ones.

She waited for him to swallow. ‘Verdict?’

‘Delicious. Yes. Delicious.’ And the food? Yes. Great too.

‘Excellent. I thought so. A sprinkling of crushed nuts and we’re done.’ She rocked to the fridge and bent to put the jug back in. When she stood she swayed a little, caught the edge of the counter to steady herself. Blood drained from her face as two fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Woo.’

‘Are you okay?’ Dumb question. Heart thumping out of his chest, he was by her side in a millisecond, his arm round her waist, pulling her against him. A medical emergency called for body to body contact, not debatable. She was hot and soft, but fighting.

Her head rolled against his chest, her scent whacking him full-on in the solar plexus as she pressed against him to get her balance. For a second he wondered what it would be like to do this again. Comfortable. Close. No reservations or restrictions. To hold her so still, for her to hold him right back.

Rubbing her temples, she sighed, ‘I just went a little dizzy, that’s all. It happens sometimes when I’m tired. Low blood pressure or something. I’ll feel better tomorrow after a good sleep.’

‘Which will consist of how long?’

She glanced at the wall clock and whirled out of his grip. ‘Four hours if I’m lucky.’

‘So go and sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’ He’d make her even if he had to chase her round the tiny apartment.

‘I haven’t got time to do that.’

His hand was at her hair again, pushing back the strand that refused to do as it was told. Seemed it was a genetic thing that involved the whole body. ‘Make some time. You’re the boss.’

‘Another joke? From you? This is becoming a habit.’

‘I joke on a regular basis.’ Actually, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had some pure unadulterated fun. Tense, deep, controlled, yes. Amusing films and watching the escapades of his documentary subjects—vicarious fun. But laugh out loud for himself? Not so much. He spent way too much time planning his next assignment, improving his skills, forgetting the past. Watching through a lens as others let go while he held on. His drive to succeed had taken precedence, with short sharp dalliances along the way with women as seriously driven as him. No time for frivolous. Just a quick one-two and on their way. Cassie was the first woman who’d made him laugh in a long time—and that was precisely because she didn’t take herself so seriously. She made it look possible to chase a dream—and enjoy yourself doing it. Even after everything she’d been through.

‘What, so you put it in your diary? Joke at three-thirty? Chuckle at three thirty-one? And who made you head chef?’

‘I did. The current one is clearly incapable of making any rational decisions. She can take over when she’s feeling better.’ He took her by those stubborn shoulders and steered her into the lounge, dug out a space on the sofa and pushed her into it.