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Gentlemen Prefer... Brunettes
Liz Fielding
The bachelor, the blonde and the brunette!There are two things Nick Jefferson can't resist: a challenge and a blonde! So when the latest platinum-haired woman to cross his path challenges him to cook her a romantic dinner, what else can he do but accept? Unfortunately, Nick could burn water. Which is where chef Cassie Cornwell comes in.Cassie is not Nick's type. For one thing, she's a brunette. For another, she's the only woman to ever turn Nick down. reluctantly. Her first marriage has made her wary of sweet-talking playboys. But even she has to admit to being disappointed that Nick now only wants her to help prepare a seduction feast rather than partake of one. Unless, of course, Cassie can persuade him that blondes aren't necessarily more fun….


Time for this bachelor to change his ways!
There are two things Nick Jefferson can't resist: a challenge and a blonde! So when the latest platinum-haired woman to cross his path challenges him to cook her a romantic dinner, what else can he do but accept? Unfortunately, Nick could burn water. Which is where chef Cassie Cornwell comes in.
Cassie knows she’s not Nick’s type. For one thing, she’s a brunette. For another, she’s the only woman ever to turn Nick down…even if reluctantly! Cassie might be wary of sweet-talking playboys, but seeing Nick again reminds her of just how irresistible he is. Maybe it’s time to persuade him that blondes aren’t necessarily more fun…!
“What’s the matter with you, Nick? Isn’t one woman enough for you?
“Better not keep the lady waiting,” Cassie continued, turning away from him. “It sounds to me as if you’ve hit pay dirt.”
“Damn it, Cassie—”
“Careful. She’ll hear you.... Go and eat.... You’ll have to come back for the rice. Unless you’ve got three hands?”
“With two women to keep happy, I’ll need them, won’t I?”
He hadn’t got two women, Cassie thought furiously, but Nick didn’t hang around long enough for her to say so, which was perhaps just as well.
Cassie tried to ignore the soft murmur of voices seeping into the kitchen from the dining room over the elegant strains of Mozart. She tried hard not to think about what Nick was saying, what he might be doing.
Dear Reader (#ulink_18e2c05f-d659-5c28-abf2-9ebe9a06e704),
Like Cassie Cornwell, the heroine of Gentlemen Prefer.. Brunettes, I love cooking for my family and sharing recipes with friends.
Toad-in-the-hole is a traditional English favorite. If you would like to find out Cassie’s recipe for this, and the other dishes mentioned in Gentlemen Prefer . . . Brunettes, you’ll find them on my web site, which can be accessed via the Mills & Boon Enterprises site at http.//www.romance.net. Maybe you’ll leave a favorite of your own, while you’re there?
I’ll be waiting to hear if you enjoyed them. In the meantime, happy cooking and reading!


Gentlemen Prefer…Brunettes
Liz Fielding


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For wonderful aunts and uncles,
with whom I have been much blessed.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u02813136-6ffd-5aef-9ed3-f8791daa5a9d)
“What’s the matter with you, Nick? Isn’t one woman enough for you? (#udff81a8a-0d94-5a07-aff0-cdba3058fcce)
Letter to Reader (#ulink_72f439ea-0548-5354-834d-bb2971b22031)
Title Page (#uccf93823-da25-5edc-b71d-e7161c560c29)
Dedication (#u8727631b-d19e-5cf1-b958-d11a92bdb2e7)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_8a29d660-d8a5-5eb1-a972-b99b2de0fbf4)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bb06e71a-654b-5fe4-8d2c-89ffba456bd6)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_53e85d70-42f2-512c-a8a5-b70c71276e88)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_998f1d39-5c83-5244-a93f-6e9415ee81bb)
CASSANDRA CORNWALL had a problem. Or rather she had three of them, all male. Added to that, she was suffering from writer’s cramp, smile fatigue and a serious lack of caffeine.
She looked up, hoping to catch Beth’s eye, but her friend was too busy flinging herself into the arms of a man who had just walked through the door to notice her plight.
‘Nick, darling!’
Beth’s squeal of pleasure turned every head in the shop and Cassie paused mid-signature as ‘Nick, darling’ bent from his considerable height to kiss Beth’s cheek.
The movement sent a thick cowlick of hair the colour of clear dark honey sliding over a broad, tanned forehead. ‘Beth, you look gorgeous.’ His voice was honey too—warm honey, running with butter over thick crunchy toast. ‘I don’t know why I ever let you get away.’
The squeal of pleasure, Cassie decided, had been thoroughly justified. The man was sex on a pair of very long legs, with a smile that fanned around a pair of dark eyes that she could tell, even from this distance, would make any woman feel beautiful, desired. The kind of man any girl would be a fool to take seriously.
Beth clearly knew that. ‘There were just too many distractions, I guess,’ she said, laughing. ‘Let’s see. There was Janine Grey... Georgia Thompson... Caroline Clifford—’ she ticked off the names on her fingers ‘—and rumour had it that Diana Morgan...’
‘Enough, Beth! Enough!’ ‘Nick, darling’ held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’ve never denied it. I just have this incurable weakness for tall blondes.’
‘Tall, beautiful, willowy blondes,’ Beth said, somewhat pointedly, as he hugged her own full curves. ‘It’s a weakness that will get you into big trouble one of these days.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘You are appalling, Nick. When are you going to grow up?’
His grin was an admission that Beth was right. But he wasn’t contrite, far from it. ‘Never, I hope. How’s Harry?’
‘Harry, bless him, is content with a tubby redhead. Long may it continue.’
‘Not tubby, Beth. Deliciously curvaceous,’ Nick murmured.
Beth snorted. Cassandra felt like snorting too. You could have too much honey. ‘You’ll never change. But mark my words, some woman will steal that playboy heart of yours one of these days. Just when you’re least expecting it.’
‘Common gossip has it that I don’t have a heart to steal, Beth.’
‘I know, but who listens to common gossip?’ She linked her arm through his and gave it a squeeze. ‘Is this a social call, darling, or are you buying?’
‘I’m looking for a present for Helen; it’s her birthday next week. I saw you had a celebrity book signing...’
Nick Jefferson glanced across at the table piled high with books and found himself being soaked up by a pair of butterscotch eyes, eyes that were regarding him with the kind of look more usually bestowed upon a naughty puppy. Exasperated and trying very hard to be firm. But not quite making it.
Any sensible puppy worth a chocolate button would simply have rolled over and offered his tummy to be tickled. Nick wasn’t a puppy so he contented himself with crossing the shop for a closer look.
He’d been on his way into the office when he’d noticed the poster announcing that Cassandra Cornwell, celebrated television cook, would be signing copies of her new book that day between eleven and twelve o’clock. He’d sent his secretary down at eleven, but she’d come back saying the place was mobbed and she’d go back later. But later she’d been rushing to get out some figures for him.
He could have called Beth and asked her to have a signed copy put by for him, but it occurred to him that if she was that busy it wouldn’t be kind to drag her away to take a phone call when he was just a few floors above her. So he’d come himself. He was rather glad he had.
If he’d thought about Cassandra Cornwell he might have expected some middle-aged matron with red cheeks, greying hair and a slightly bossy manner. But she was none of those things. She had clear translucent skin, thick, glossy brows, eyes that smiled even when they were trying not to and dark, lustrous hair that was escaping her attempts to pin it tidily away from her face.
And she had the sweetest mouth. Like her eyes, it seemed to smile all by itself and he had this disconcerting urge to kiss it, certain that it would taste exactly like the strawberries he’d stolen from his mother’s kitchen garden as a boy.
‘...and you know how she loves to cook,’ he finished, slowly.
‘I’m not sure that I’d want a cookery book for my birthday,’ Beth was saying as she followed him across the store. ‘But heck, I’m not above parting a customer from his money, especially one as well endowed with the stuff as you. Cassie, do you know Nick Jefferson?’ Behind his back she silently pointed upwards at the office block rising above them, indicating that he was that Jefferson.
Cassie tried to keep a straight face as Beth continued her pantomime, pointing at her wedding ring and shaking her head and then doing a melodramatic death scene which Cassie took to mean that he was the kind of man a girl would die for.
Apparently sensing something was going on behind his back, Nick began to turn but Cassie swiftly stuck out her hand and said, ‘No, we haven’t met.’
‘Why?’ he said, enfolding her hand—there was no other word that described the way he took hold of it, Cassie decided. He enfolded it, very tenderly in his own. His long, cool fingers seemed to reach up to her wrist, their tips resting lightly against a pulse that was fluttering in a quite ridiculous way. ‘If you live in Melchester...’
She blinked at the casual ease with which he flirted. ‘It’s a big place, Mr Jefferson.’ And she avoided the social circuit.
‘Nick,’ he urged.
‘Nick, this is Cassandra Cornwell, a woman whose pastry could break your heart. She catered for my wedding, met a television researcher my brother was dating at the time and the rest is history.’
He glanced back at Beth, now fully recovered from her dramatic rendition of Nick Jefferson’s bachelor status and leaning against the cash desk. ‘History?’
‘Television history. Cassie has the biggest television ratings for a cookery programme in the history of broadcasting. Women watch her programmes to learn how to cook the way their mothers used to. Men watch her television programmes and drool.’ She gave Nick a thoughtful look. ‘It may be her sticky toffee pudding that attracts them, but somehow I don’t think so.’
‘No, I don’t think so either.’
‘She’s just come back to Melchester to live.’
‘Lucky Melchester.’ Despite the fact that she was at least six inches short of his gold standard and, like Beth, her figure leaned towards cuddly rather than super-model slender, Cassandra Cornwell, he decided, was exactly the kind of woman a man might fantasise about finding in his kitchen at the end of a hard day at the office. Warm, comforting, homely. Someone to massage your neck and put a drink in your hand to keep you happy until she served a meal fit for the gods. In short, the kind of girl a man would marry just to keep her all to himself. Not his type at all, in fact. Except for those lips.
Cassie, very much afraid that she had been doing a little drooling on her own account, swallowed and smiled politely. ‘Hello, Nick.’
It was her cue for him to release her hand. He ignored it. Beneath her neat white shirt Cassie was uncomfortably aware that her skin was beginning to tingle dangerously and she threw a silent plea for rescue in Beth’s direction, but her friend had been buttonholed by a customer and was disappearing towards the rear of the shop. And Nick Jefferson was showing no inclination to surrender her hand as her cheeks and quite a lot else began to heat up.
Maybe that was why he reached out and with just the tip of his finger touched the corner of her mouth. Maybe why, when she was still too startled, shaken, entranced to move away from this unexpected gesture, this most gentle of touches, he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was quite shocking. She should have been shocked. He was a total stranger... well, not total exactly, they had been introduced...and they were in the middle of a classy bookshop in the atrium of a very classy high-rise building. She should have stopped him; she knew it. The trouble was, it just wasn’t the kind of kiss that a girl wanted to stop. Ever.
He didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to bring it to an end, either. His lips moved over hers lightly, inquisitively, as if he was seeking out something rare and precious. And when finally he did stop she heard herself give a little, regretful sigh.
That was when she realised with horror that she was the one actively seeking to prolong the kiss, her face lifted invitingly, her lips slightly parted. She snapped her eyes open to see Nick Jefferson regarding her with the dark, knowing eyes of a man used to making instant conquests.
‘I was right,’ he said, before she could ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. Actually, he sounded surprised, which threw her a little.
‘Right... ?’ Cassie began, distracted from her legitimate indignation. Then, realising that she was still looking up at him in a way that almost begged him to kiss her again, she made a determined effort to pull herself together. ‘Right about what?’ she demanded, straightening and attempting to retrieve her hand, but he was having none of that.
Aware that several people had stopped browsing amongst the shelves and turned to stare at them, she allowed her fingers to remain in his. Rather than provoke an unseemly struggle. At least that was what she told herself she was doing. But somewhere, at the back of her mind, there was the faint sound of hollow laughter.
‘I was right about your mouth,’ he said. ‘It tastes of strawberries.’
Strawberries! Cassie was very much afraid that the blush had finally materialised beneath the twin assaults of his touch and the intensity of his gaze. And she was furious with herself. The man was an incorrigible flirt; he probably couldn’t help himself but that was no reason to encourage him.
‘Really?’ she enquired, her voice considerably cooler than her body, which was pounding from the jolt of sexual awareness provoked by his touch. She had forgotten that sudden, unexpected collision of desire when a stranger reached for your hand. Or maybe she’d just been avoiding it for such a long time that she had fooled herself into believing that it would never happen again...
Whichever it was, she told herself firmly, she was too old to be taken in by such an obvious pass. He was just doing it to impress Beth. Except that Beth was nowhere to be seen. Whatever. He was impressing the hell out of her and that would never do. ‘Strawberries?’ she repeated, thoughtfully. ‘What variety of strawberries?’
If she had hoped to crush him with this put-down, she was doomed to disappointment. His eyes crinkled into a slow, wide and infinitely seductive smile. ‘The small sweet ones that are bright red all the way through,’ he murmured. ‘The kind that when you squash one between your fingers it dribbles dark red juice into your mouth.’
‘Oh.’ The image evoked was so sensuous, so real that Cassie sincerely wished she hadn’t asked. But at least he had surrendered her hand, finally.
Her reprieve was short-lived, however, since he used the hand to hitch an inch or two of expensive lightweight suiting over his knee and prop himself on the edge of the table at which she was sitting. Then he leaned across her to pick up one of her glossy new cookery books.
She steeled herself against the warm man-scent of freshly laundered linen, soap and an elusive trace of the kind of cologne they didn’t sell in the local supermarket. Nick Jefferson, on the other hand, began idly flipping through the pages as if nothing had happened. Seriously tempted to take it from him and hit him with it, she restrained herself. It would undoubtedly be wisest to follow his example and pretend that nothing had.
Easier said than done. Her lips were singing from his delicate touch and she found herself wondering what it would be like to have Nick Jefferson hold her face between those long, sensitive fingers and kiss her seriously. Then she wondered if she was going quite mad.
‘I’m sure Helen will love this,’ he said, making her jump.
‘Helen?’
‘My sister,’ he told her.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Again that knowing smile as if he had sensed the ridiculous flash of jealousy at the mention of another woman’s name. Lord, but the man was arrogant. And she was an idiot.
‘Well, far be it from me to discourage you from buying a copy of my book, but I’m rather inclined to agree with Beth. It’s hardly the kind of present a girl expects for her birthday.’
‘Well, this is just a little extra. Helen loves to cook—she collects new cookery books the way some women collect jewels. She’s a great fan of yours—which is why I came in when I saw the poster. Now I’ve met you, I can understand why.’
Cassie ignored the smooth compliment. She strongly doubted that he had ever heard of her and she was positive that he was not the kind of man to waste time discussing cookery with his sister.
‘I think I’d rather buy my own cookery books and have someone give me jewels for my birthday,’ she said feelingly.
‘Don’t worry, Cassandra, I’ll find her some exciting surprise to go with it. I’m not that cheap.’
No. She’d never thought he would be cheap. On the contrary, she was certain that he was a man who would be overwhelmingly generous with the little treasures that money could buy. But something warned her that he would be as mean as Scrooge with anything as important as emotional commitment.
‘Would you like me to sign it for her?’ she asked, holding out her hand to take the book, but he was apparently in no great hurry, turning the book towards her so that she could see the picture he had been looking at.
‘Sussex Pond Pudding?’ he queried, eyebrows raised just a fraction. ‘Is that for real?’
Cassie was not convinced by his apparent interest in recipes, certain that he had further dalliance on his mind. But she was determined not to be drawn into further flirtation with a man who obviously thought he was irresistible—who quite probably was irresistible to anyone looking for a meaningless flirtation. But that was not her. However, she had to clear her throat before she could attain sufficient briskness to answer him.
‘Have you never tried it? It’s a traditional English pudding,’ she explained, as if lecturing a class of fourteen-year-olds at the local comprehensive. ‘The pond is a lemon and butter sauce that forms a moat around the pudding when it’s turned out of its basin. It’s loaded with calories, of course—but it is quite delicious. Maybe,’ she added, ‘if the surprise is exciting enough, your sister will make it for you.’
‘Maybe she will,’ he acknowledged, continuing to flip through the book. ‘And what about fluffs and fools and flummeries?’ he enquired, stopping at a page near the end of the book. ‘Are they stuffed with calories too?’
She shrugged. ‘They’re certainly stuffed with cream.’
He closed the book with a little snap and turned it over. ‘Maybe you should print a health warning on the cover.’ He raised the book slightly as once more his smile deepened the creases around his mouth, sending tiny crinkled fans out from the corners of his eyes.
‘They’re also full of good fresh fruit. Have you never heard the expression that a little of what you fancy does you good, Nick?’
‘Certainly. It’s a philosophy I subscribe to most heartily. But not necessarily in regard to food. Besides, I thought it was all low-fat, no-added-sugar that did you good these days?’
Cassie discounted the smile. There was no denying that the man was gorgeous, but he was just a little too aware of the fact. Besides, she wasn’t a tall, willowy blonde so he was presumably just using her to practise on until something more to his taste came along.
‘Frankly, I’d rather go without. And no one is suggesting you eat them every day. You can have too much of a good thing, particularly flummery,’ she said pointedly.
‘Is that a particularly rich dish?’ he asked, a touch dangerously.
Coming from him it was; the glint of mischief in his eyes betrayed him. She was quite certain he was aware that the word had another meaning, one that he would be far more familiar with...nonsense, humbug, empty trifling.
Beth, who had dealt with her customer, returned in time to witness the sudden flush of bright pink spots that had appeared on Cassie’s cheeks. ‘If you think flummery is rich, my friend, you should try Cassie’s toad-in-the-hole,’ she interjected hurriedly.
‘Should I?’ Nick asked, continuing to look straight down into Cassie’s eyes. ‘If I catch the toad will you cook it for me?
‘Buy yourself a copy of the book, Nick,’ Beth advised him. ‘It will be an investment. One day you’ll run out of women to charm and then you’ll have to learn to cook for yourself.’
‘I’ve never charmed a woman for her talents in the kitchen, Beth,’ he said, without taking his gaze from Cassie. ‘This town is full of good restaurants.’ He hadn’t missed the hectic colour that had seared her cheekbones, confirming that despite her very cool manner he was making some kind of impression on Miss Cassandra Cornwell. Quite what kind of impression he wasn’t sure, which was unusual enough m itself to interest him. ‘But I’ll buy one if Cassie will inscribe it for me.’
‘Of course she will,’ Beth said, suddenly businesslike. ‘What would you like her to write?’
‘Oh, I’ll leave that to Cassie. I’m sure she’ll think of something appropriate,’ he said, offering her the book.
‘How about, “To Nick Jefferson, the most accomplished—?” ’
‘The most accomplished cook in town,’ Nick completed, cutting Beth off before she could say something completely outrageous.
‘But you can’t cook,’ Cassie reminded him, with excessive politeness. Nick had a feeling that she would have preferred to throw one of her cookery books at him. A whole pile of books, perhaps. He rather thought he would like to see her try.
‘Won’t your book teach me how to turn out perfect meals in minutes?’ he asked, provoking her some more. ‘That is the dream you’re peddling’
‘On the contrary. Anyone can heat up some fancy cook-chill meal from the supermarket these days.’ She laid her hand on the pile of books beside her. ‘I write about the kind of old-fashioned cooking that takes time and love to produce. My readers cook for pleasure, Nick, and so do I, not for the instant gratification of fast food.’
‘I can see why your television show is so popular, Cassandra. Nostalgia is really big right now.’
‘Don’t you sometimes long for a taste of rice pudding the way your mother made it? With butter and sultanas and freshly grated nutmeg?’
‘No, I always preferred fresh picked strawberries. And if the strawberries were stolen...’
He wasn’t talking about puddings any more. ‘That’s nostalgia too,’ Cassie interrupted, just a touch crossly. ‘And what about the dreams you’re selling?’ She indicated the floors above her, the glass tower of Jefferson Sports headquarters, glistening in the summer sunshine, dominating the town. ‘Buy this great new tennis racquet, or these expensive golf clubs, and you too can be the world champion? Where’s the reality in that?’
Beth choked. Neither of them noticed.
‘Not world champion.’ He lifted one corner of his mouth in the kind of smile that would have had most women gasping for more. ‘Club champion, maybe. But Jefferson Sports sells more than one kind of dream. We sell the great outdoors, too. Camping gear, fishing rods, hiking and sports equipment, in fact the complete antidote to over-indulgence in your kind of cooking.’
‘You’ll be needing a tent, won’t you, Cassie?’ Beth put in swiftly, before things got totally out of hand. ‘If you ask him nicely, I’m sure Nick will show you his entire range.’ She paused, a wicked little twinkle appearing in her eyes. ‘You never know, he might even offer to pitch it for you.’
‘Are you going camping’ he asked Cassie.
‘You bet she is,’ Beth said, answering for her. ‘In fact she’s going with three perfectly adorable young men.’
‘Boys,’ Cassie muttered, refusing to allow Beth to make something out of this stupid flirtation. ‘And I already have a tent.’
‘Three boys?’ He glanced at her ringless hand, not that it meant anything these days... ‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘My nephews. They want a taste of the big outdoors and since my sister and her husband are going away for a week I volunteered to take them.’
‘Just you and three boys? Beth could be right. You’ll need someone who knows what he’s doing to put up the tent.’
‘Will I? Is it that difficult?’
‘A nightmare if you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Do you warn your customers about that when you’re selling them one of your dream tents?’
‘We do advise them to have a practice run at home in the garden before they go trekking up the Amazon. Have you done that, Miss Cornwell?’
‘Trekked up the Amazon?’
‘Had a practice run—in the garden?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should. This weather isn’t going to hold for ever. It might be pouring with rain, or blowing a force ten gale when you get to wherever you’re going.’
‘Are you volunteering to show me how it’s done, Mr Jefferson?’ She didn’t think so. He was doing it on automatic, Cassie decided. It wasn’t anything personal; he wasn’t in the least bit interested in her, he just couldn’t help himself.
‘Maybe. Why don’t we discuss it over lunch?’
Lunch? The man really was too much. Did he think she would swoon into his arms with gratitude?
‘Won’t you be too busy pursuing leggy blondes to worry about me and three small boys?’ she enquired, keeping the edge from her voice with difficulty as, determined to put an end to this nonsense, she turned to the flyleaf of the book.
‘Who said I pursued anyone?’
The implication being that they pursued him? Good grief. ‘Your sister’s name is Helen, I think you said?’ She refused to take any further part in this conversation.
‘That’s right.’ She signed the book, handed it to Beth to wrap and waited for him to go. He didn’t. ‘Don’t forget my book, Cassandra,’ he reminded her.
She’d assumed his offer to buy a book had been simply part of the game—in fact she’d been sure it was. But if he had more money than sense she wasn’t about to argue. She took a second book from the pile, opened it and for a moment considered the bare white space of the flyleaf.
Then she wrote, ‘For Nick Jefferson—a man to be taken with just a pinch of salt.’ Then she signed it and handed it to him.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c5dca36d-f01a-54ac-8fec-330da19d0522)
NICK regarded the inscription for a moment before passing the book to Beth with his charge card without comment. A man had to pay for his pleasure, after all, and flirting with Cassandra Cornwell had certainly been different. Whether he could describe it entirely as a pleasure he couldn’t be sure. Except for that kiss. He hadn’t been kidding about the strawberries.
‘Now, where shall we have lunch?’ he asked Cassie. ‘I’m sure you know all the best places.’
Not as well as he did; she was certain of that. ‘I’m sorry, Nick, I already have a luncheon engagement.’ She offered him her hand without thinking...at least, she hoped she hadn’t been thinking. ‘I do hope your sister enjoys the book.’
‘And what about me?’ He was holding onto her hand again, the pad of his thumb pressed against the backs of her fingers in something close to a caress. Cassie retrieved it quickly. She was twenty-seven years old, well beyond the point in life where she was prepared to become just another entry in any man’s little black book.
‘You’ll never open your book again,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll just stick it on a shelf somewhere, or maybe it won’t even get that far. Maybe you’ll just go back to your office and give it to your secretary.’
‘Not with that inscription, I won’t.’
‘You didn’t think it appropriate? I’m sorry, Nick. Would you like me to give you your money back?’
‘No.’ Then, as she reached for her bag, he added, ‘I can’t wait to read it more closely.’
‘Nonsense. You’ll hide it away in the bottom drawer of your desk and forget all about it. That would be such a waste when I can find a good home for it.’ She opened her purse and began to extract the money to refund the cost of the book.
Nick closed his hand over hers. ‘Put your money away. I promise I shall take your book home with me this evening and study it with the closest interest. Who knows? Maybe you’ll convert me and I’ll be tempted to cook something.’
‘Be careful you don’t make a complete strawberry fool of yourself, Nick,’ Beth warned him as she returned his card and handed him the books in a bag. ‘Give my best wishes to your mother and don’t wait for Helen’s next birthday before you drop in again. You do have to pass the door every day,’ she reminded him.
‘I won’t,he promised, his gaze ligering momentarily on Cassie. Then he stepped through the door and out into the huge airy atrium that rose through the centre of the building.
‘Whew!’ Cassie said, flopping back in her chair as the door swung shut behind him. And she shook her fingers, blowing on her nails as if scorched.
Beth laughed. ‘You’re a cool one, Cassie. I should think it’s a totally new experience for Nick to be turned down for anything, particularly lunch in some fancy restaurant. ’
‘Then I shall take comfort in the certainty that the experience will be a memorable one for him.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Which is more than can be said for the dish of the day—which is all I would have been if I’d said yes.’
‘I see your point. So who are you lunching with?’
‘You. My treat.’
‘You turned down Nick Jefferson for me? Lady, you need to get your priorities right.’
‘Just because the man makes me sizzle, Beth, doesn’t mean I have to leap onto the plate and hand him the mustard.’
‘He does make you sizzle, then?’
‘Only in the same way as your average movie star.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know. You go to the cinema and while the lights are down he’s all yours. Then you go home. Men are safer that way.’
‘Don’t you find safety a touch boring?’
‘Not at all. Besides, you heard the man. He has an incurable weakness for blondes.’
‘I know. Tall blondes at that. The cool Grace Kelly type. One has just taken up residence in the Jefferson Sports marketing department and I hear the guys are laying odds on how long it will take her to succumb to the Jefferson charm. But do you know something? For all the lovely blondes Nick’s chased and undoubtedly caught in the last few years, he’s never actually been tempted to marry one of them. Doesn’t that tell you something?’
‘That they’re smart?’
‘You’re not that cynical, Cassie.’
‘Oh, yes, I am.’ The onlooker saw more of the game and she’d been an onlooker for long enough to know that she’d made the right decision. But she was human enough to be interested in a little hot gossip. ‘He’s never even come close?’ she asked.
Beth shrugged. ‘He bought a lovely cottage just outside town a few years back and everyone got excited about that, assuming he was going to take the plunge.’
‘And?’
‘It turned out he was having fun with an interior decorator at the time. I suppose she just wanted something to practise on and he was inclined to indulge her. Once she’d finished with the cottage she moved on.’ She grinned. ‘Or maybe he moved her on.’
‘That sounds more likely. After all, why would he bother to marry anyone when he’s having such a good time?’
Beth frowned. ‘Nick isn’t like that.’
‘No?’ Cassie shook her head. ‘He’s a good-looking man, Beth, and maybe he’s as nice as you say, but I like a little more bottom to a man.’
‘Bottom? He has the cutest butt—’
‘Substance. Gravitas,’ Cassie interrupted quickly. ‘Nick Jefferson is a cuckoo. A very charming, very beguiling cuckoo, no doubt, and I can see the way your mind is working. But I’m a swan—so don’t even think about it.’
Beth’s forehead wrinkled up into a frown. ‘A swan?’
‘They mate for life.’ It was an excuse that had served her well enough until now, but her fingers strayed to lips still tingling from that unexpected kiss. Then she saw Beth looking at her with an expression that mingled sympathy with just a touch of exasperation, a look that said five years was long enough to mourn for anyone. ‘I know, I’ll probably end my days talking to my cat,’ she said, quickly, before Beth said it for her.
‘Possibly, but that’s no reason not to have a little fun with the cuckoos, or even the ducks, while you’re waiting for another swan to come along. I imagine swans do look for another mate if the first one... It’s not too late to call Nick back and tell him you’ve changed your mind about lunch—’ She began to move towards the door.
‘Stay right where you are, Beth Winslet. Nick Jefferson is not my kind of man.’
‘He’s every girl’s kind of man,’ Beth said with a grin.
‘Exactly. And he isn’t about to saddle himself with one when he can have the whole gallery, now is he? So, where am I going to take you for lunch?’
Beth continued to challenge her for another thirty seconds, then she threw up her hands, conceding defeat. ‘I should be treating you,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe the number of people you brought into the shop this morning.
‘And some of them even bought a book,’ Cassie said with a grin as she signed the books left on the table.
‘I know you hate these things. It was good of you to give up your morning.’
‘It was the least I could do. After all, catering for your wedding changed my life—’
‘Lunch with Nick Jefferson might well have done the same,’ Beth pointed out. ‘Have you ever considered the possibility that I might be your fairy godmother—?’
‘You’re not suggesting that Nick Jefferson is Prince Charming?’
‘Heaven forbid. I wouldn’t wish Prince Charming on any woman. Just consider... He lined up all the beauties in the land so that he could take his pick of them. And then he chose Cinderella by the size of her feet. How sad can you get?’
‘Well, when you put it like that...’
‘I do. I have to admit that you do have the daintiest little feet I’ve ever seen—but I have the feeling that Nick looks for a little more than that in a woman.’
‘Blonde hair, super-model looks?’ Cassie suggested.
‘Well, what do men know? As your fairy godmother my advice would have been to let him take you to lunch.’
‘I’d advise you to hang up your wand and quit while you’re ahead, Beth. Now, I’ve discovered this great little place down by the river. So, what do you say?’
‘Thank you?’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
Twenty floors above them in the Jefferson Tower, Nick Jefferson was facing a problem of his own. She was approaching him right now across the marble floor of the lobby. Tall, slender, with platinum hair that emphasised her glacial beauty, Veronica Grant was a distinctly superior female and since she’d been brought in as a consultant to work with the marketing department she’d had every man who worked at the headquarters of Jefferson Sports drooling over her every word, even the ones old enough and married enough to know better.
Not that she gave them any encouragement. Professional to her fingertips, she confined her conversation strictly to the job in hand. She appeared to be quite unaware of the testosterone rampaging in her wake as she walked through the building.
Appeared to be. Nick Jefferson was not entirely convinced about that. There wasn’t a woman yet born that oblivious of the ripples she caused as she walked across a room. Not when the ripples were of tidal-wave proportions. It had to be an act. Didn’t it?
The temptation to find out was almost irresistible. After all, his name headed the list of odds in the ‘Ice Queen Stakes’ that some clown had posted in the men’s room—hardly surprising in view of the fact that his family owned the business and that he was still, despite his thirty-three years, one of the few men on the list without at least one failed marriage behind him. A situation he was in no hurry to change. He’d seen the bitter aftermath of too many marriages that had ended on the rocks to be eager to rush into wedlock.
Not that his name seemed to impress Veronica Grant. She treated him with the same rather distant politeness that she bestowed on everyone else.
He wondered if she knew about the list. He’d ordered its removal the moment he’d seen it, well aware that the female thought-police of the typing pool would pounce on such political incorrectness with glee. But things like that had a way of getting around; which meant that simply asking her out to dinner the way he might any other new colleague was likely to be met with a certain amount of suspicion. He was well aware that more than one of his colleagues had made the mistake of being too eager. Her response had been a polite but definite ‘No, thank you’. No excuse. No face-saving suggestion that she was busy, or involved with someone else. Just a plain, unadorned ‘no’.
Was it just that she didn’t mix business with pleasure? he wondered. Or was she waiting for something better to come along? The heir apparent to the Jefferson Sports empire, for instance?
Veronica nodded as she fell in beside him at the lifts. ‘Hello, Nick.’ That was about as personal as her conversation got.
‘Veronica,’ he returned distractedly, stepping into the lift ahead of her, well aware that she would take instant offence at any suggestion of patronising deference to the weaker sex. Apparently she didn’t subscribe to the concept of a weaker sex and he was pretty sure that she could teach the typing pool a thing or two about PC behaviour.
‘What’s up, Nick? You look as if you’re about to report a slump in the sales figures.’
‘Do I?’ He didn’t allow his triumph at this small breakthrough to show, merely looked slightly puzzled. Then he said, ‘Oh, no. It’s my sister’s birthday next week. I’ve just bought her a cookery book—’
‘I saw Cassandra Cornwell had a signing.’
‘Yes, well, that’s the predictable gift. Now I’ve got to think of something special as a surprise.’
‘Send her a cheque.’
‘A cheque?’ That would certainly fulfil the surprise element. It surprised the hell out of him. ‘Isn’t that a bit... impersonal?’
‘But easy. And it saves time, postage and footwear. Believe me, it’s a great deal more enjoyable getting an impersonal cheque than being presented with something you’d be ashamed to put in the garbage.’
Her bluntness was refreshing, even if her assessment of his taste was less than flattering. But it was the longest conversation they’d had on any subject other than marketing in the three weeks since she’d moved into the office opposite his. Maybe he could string it out a little further, learn a little about her likes and dislikes.
‘It’s a tempting idea, but I don’t think it would go down too well with Helen. Kid sisters like to be spoiled a little, you know.’
‘Do they?’ She gave him a long, assessing glance from a pair of silvery blue eyes. ‘She can’t be that much of a kid.’
He shrugged. This was one hard female. Here he was, a warm, caring brother, worrying about a gift for his sister, and was this woman impressed? Would anything impress her? An uneasy feeling that it might be wiser to ignore the challenge on the men’s room wall abruptly hardened into determination to see just what it would take to soften her heart.
It wasn’t as if it would be a hardship, exactly. He considered the perfection of seemingly endless legs, the slender figure expensively clad in cool ice-blue linen that so exactly matched her character, the smooth platinum curve of hair. The contrast with the vivid, inviting warmth of Cassie Cornwell couldn’t have been more marked.
‘I suppose not,’ he conceded quickly, before his thoughts ran away with him. Dimpled little pouter pigeons were not his style. He’d always liked his women to have the lines of a well-bred greyhound. ‘Helen’s got four of her own.’
‘Four? Four children?’
If he’d suggested sex in the lift she couldn’t have been more shocked. ‘She started young,’ he explained. ‘And last time she had twins.’
‘In that case forget the cheque, just take her children off her hands for the weekend and give the poor woman a break.’
He laughed out loud. ‘Four girls? You’ve got to be joking.’
‘Have I?’ Veronica’s voice maintained its neutral tone, giving nothing away. ‘I’d have thought four girls would have been right up your street.’
Nick opened his mouth to protest at this calumny, but decided that might not be a wise move. The grapevine had obviously been busily filling her in on the details of his bachelor existence. So he grinned instead. ‘Not four girls between the ages of five and eight, Veronica.’ And he found his thoughts drifting to Cassandra Cornwell. She was taking her nephews camping. He was assailed with a sudden vision of her waking up early, stretching and then curling back into the warmth of her sleeping bag like a dormouse...
‘Well, I’m sure a man of your experience will think of some treat to take the poor woman’s mind off runny noses for a few minutes, Nick,’ Veronica said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Some way to light up her day.’
He dragged himself back from the enticing thought of curling up with Cassie and gave his full attention to Veronica. Poor woman? It was the second time in as many minutes that she’d referred to his sister in that condescending manner. He’d like to see her try it to Helen’s face; she’d soon be put in her place.
Just because his sister thought her family was more important than running a company, that didn’t mean she couldn’t do both if she’d a mind to. Probably with one hand tied behind her back. Even surrounded by boxes of nappies and baby goo she had found time to train for and compete in the London Marathon. And turn in one of the fastest amateur times. Her role as wife and mother might be her first priority but she was still a Jefferson. However, Helen didn’t need him or anyone else to stand up for her, so he let it go.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Veronica,’ he said as the lift door opened. ‘I’ll think of something. Every woman has a weak spot.’ And he’d find hers, he promised himself, and sooner rather than later.
As for Helen, Veronica might have inadvertently offered a solution. Not a cheque—because despite all the advantages Veronica had outlined he knew better than to send his sister money. Helen would return it with a reminder that money was something you gave to charity; sisters deserved a little more time and thought. But then sisters were notoriously blind to their brothers’ good qualities, presumably because they’d lived with them through childhood and adolescence and had been the victim of all their worst ones.
That couldn’t be Veronica Grant’s problem, though. Not that he was entirely convinced by her arm’s length tactics. She might be a very clever woman but he wasn’t exactly stupid himself. He was number two at Jefferson Sports and when his uncle retired in a year or two he’d be number one. The Jefferson name and the money which went with it were a plum prize and he was well aware that he was a target for every matchmaking mama in Melchester.
If that was Veronica’s game she was doomed to disappointment. A little kiss chase was one thing but he had no intention of getting involved in anything heavier. He was simply out to prove a point, not change his life. He liked his life just the way it was.
But he hated to walk away from a challenge. It ran in the blood. His grandfather had been a track hero, his father had played rugby for his country and his uncle had been about to follow him when he was sidelined by injury. The three of them had put Jefferson Sports on the map and expected their offspring to follow in their mighty footsteps.
While his cousins had taken to the professional sports field with enthusiasm, adding glory to the family name, Nick had chosen instead to flex his muscles in the business world. After all, someone had to stay home and mind the store. He’d done his bit for the family honour with a rowing blue for his university, but he’d long outgrown such gladiatorial contests. Not that he was a slouch on the tennis court, or the piste, but sport, in his book, was for fun. He particularly enjoyed the indoor kind.
He was smiling as he dropped the bookstore carrier bag on his desk and reached for the telephone to call his brother-in-law. But as he waited for a connection his gaze fell on the bright bag and his smile turned into a frown.
Cassandra Cornwell was not his kind of woman. Short, with an armful of curves and an uncontrollable mop of dark hair, she was the very antithesis of the kind of woman he liked to be seen with. He couldn’t think why he had asked her to lunch. Or why he had been so irked when she had turned him down. Except that she reminded him of a little brown teddy bear he’d had as a child. Soft and warm...and cuddly. He suddenly realised that someone was speaking into his ear.
‘Oh, Graham, it’s Nick. I’ve just had a bright idea for Helen’s birthday. How would you two like to spend it in Paris? On me?’
‘Tell me about your nephews, Cassie,’ Beth invited as they settled themselves in the small, elegant dining room overlooking the river. ‘Why do you feel you have to take them out into the wild woods and introduce them to nature in the raw? Surely that’s their father’s job?’
‘Their father has something more important on his mind. And I don’t mind, really.’
‘Bravely spoken.’
‘No, it’ll be fun. They’re great kids. I took them with me to an ice-cream factory a few weeks back and we had a ball. I’m more worried about the boys’ parents than looking after their offspring...’ Cassie shrugged. ‘I’m pretty sure that my sister is having problems with her marriage. I know Lauren’s sick to the back teeth of being left alone with the boys while Matt’s been spending all the hours of the day and night working.’ ‘We all have to make sacrifices, Cassie. It’s tough out there.’
‘I know that. Lauren does too, I’m sure, but you know how it is. Tension starts to build up over something stupid and before you know it you’re nursing every grudge under the sun. I had lunch with them a few weeks back and frankly the place was like a powder keg on a dodgy fuse. Then, when Lauren found out that Matt had promised to take the boys away on a camping trip on the few days he was planning to take off this summer instead of spending the time with her on a proper family vacation... well...I had to do something...’
‘So you volunteered to take over the camping trip? Single-handed? Couldn’t you have bought the boys off with a trip to Disneyland Paris?’
‘Matt’s mother took them in the Easter holiday.’
‘So?’
‘Well, it would have looked a bit obvious.’
‘And this doesn’t?’
‘I managed to convince them that I was planning a series on cooking outdoors...practically begged them to let me do it...’ Cassie smiled ruefully. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’
‘Actually, I think you’re a peach. Mad, but a peach. But are you sure you’re wise to go on your own?’
‘Do you mean without a man to take care of me?’ Cassie enquired dangerously.
‘Well, it’s always nice to have one handy. Even if it’s only to pitch the tent and fetch the water.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘And any other little job that needs doing.’
‘Maybe I should have taken Nick up on his offer of lunch after all. Who knows where it might have led?’
Beth stopped scanning the menu long enough to laugh out loud. ‘Oh, I’m sure you do. Just because you’ve chosen a life of celibacy doesn’t mean that you’ve lost your memory.’ She frowned. ‘Or maybe it does.’
‘You’re not suggesting a double sleeping bag, are you, Beth?’ Cassie responded in mock horror.
‘I am, actually. But not just any double sleeping bag, you understand. I’m suggesting a top-of-the-range Jefferson Sports double duck-down sleeping bag.’
‘Have another glass of wine and say that.’
Cassie’s laughter turned the heads of several lunching businessmen. They were in no hurry to look away.
‘Just think how romantic it would be, Cass, zipped up together beneath the stars.’
Cassie was trying not to think about it She didn’t understand why it was so hard. ‘With three small boys playing gooseberry? I think I’d rather manage on my own, thanks. Unless, of course, you fancy a week of outdoor fun in the wilds of Wales? You’d be most welcome. ’
‘Me? I’ve got a store to run. Those cookery books and videos don’t just sell themselves, you know.’ Then she thought about it. ‘Actually in your case they do. But someone has to take the money.’ And to emphasise that she was not to be persuaded she returned to her close scrutiny of the menu. ‘I’ll have the lamb cutlets with the herb and mustard crust, baby new potatoes and peas,’ she said, after reading it through twice.
‘I can’t tempt you to try the scallops, first?’ Cassie asked innocently.
‘Please! This is lunchtime. If I eat too much I’ll fall asleep over the accounts.’
‘You’re quite sure? I’ve heard they’re very special and I’d like to try them. If you don’t mind waiting...’
‘Sit and watch you eat?’ Beth groaned. ‘You wretch, you know I’ve got all the restraint of a rabbit faced with a field of lettuce.’
Cassie grinned. ‘Save the lettuce for supper and join me in the gym tomorrow to work off the excess.’
Beth brightened. ‘Oh, right. What time?’
‘Six-thirty.’
‘Six-thirty? Forget it. After a day in the bookshop all I can think of is a large G and T and putting my feet up.’
Cassie grinned. ‘I meant six-thirty in the morning.’
Beth’s mouth fell open, then she gathered herself, with the smallest of shudders. ‘No, thanks. I’ll learn to love my curves and if you don’t mind my saying so you need a man to keep you in bed in the morning.’ Even as she said it, Cassie saw Beth wish the words back into her mouth. ‘As I said, the restraint of a rabbit and a mouth like a runaway train...’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_fb23ed9d-0ca4-5d81-b678-2b4b62505ac4)
CASSIE took pity on her. ‘Don’t worry about it, Beth. You’re only saying what everyone else thinks. Matt and Lauren have been trying to fix me up with their spare men friends for years.’
‘Look, since this is apparently my day for saying the wrong thing, can I do it again?’
‘Will anything stop you?’
‘It’s just that... well, has it ever occurred to you that Jonathan might not have been a swan after all? You’d only been married a few weeks when he died, hardly long enough to find out the faults. And they all have faults, you know. Even the best of them.’
‘I know, Beth.’
‘It’s unfair to measure every man you meet against him.’
‘I know.’
‘But it doesn’t make any difference?’
‘Beth, you don’t understand...’ The waitress arrived to take their order and when she had gone the urge to tell someone, anyone, the truth about Jonathan had evaporated. That was her secret. Her shame. ‘Are you sure you won’t come along to the gym?’
‘At six-thirty?’ Beth seemed as relieved to let the subject drop as she was.
‘An hour in the gym three mornings a week helps to counteract the occupational hazard of constantly tasting new recipes to get them just right.’
‘You mean you claim membership of the gym as an expense against income tax?’ Beth was seriously impressed by that.
‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ Cassie confessed.
‘Check it out with your accountant and let me know what he says. I wonder if I could get away with it? You have to be fit to run your own business, you know.’
‘You have to be fit for any kind of job and somehow I can’t imagine the Inland Revenue subsidising health club membership for the entire nation.’
‘Why not? Think what it would save on the National Health bill.’
‘You know, you’re wasted in business, Beth. With a mind like that you should be in politics. Running the Exchequer.’
‘Are you coming, Nick? The meeting is about to start.’
Veronica was framed in the doorway, her slender figure displayed to advantage in the palest grey and white dress. Outside the day was hot and humid, yet this woman managed to look as if she was moving in her own air-conditioned space, a picture of unruffled poise. He suspected that if she were a glass she would be frosted. The very opposite of the way he was feeling at that moment.
‘I’ll be right with you,’ he muttered, wishing she would move on instead of watching him hunt through the papers on his desk for a sheet of figures that had disappeared without trace.
Instead, she asked, ‘Lost something?’ in a tone that suggested a whole heap of things. But mostly that she had never lost anything in her entire life.
‘One of my secretary’s kids is sick,‘ he muttered. ‘But I know she did those figures before she went home last night...’
Veronica appeared to glide across the room, then, bending from the knees, she picked up a sheet of paper that had fallen beneath his desk. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ she enquired as she stood up and offered it to him, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Like everything she did it combined an economy of movement with perfect grace. He wondered briefly if she had ever been a model, but immediately discounted the possibility that she would ever involve herself in an occupation so trivial.
‘That’s it. Thanks, Veronica.’ He smiled somewhat ruefully, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘I seem to be all over the place today,’ he said, with a slightly helpless shrug. That ‘little boy lost’ thing seemed to get to some women. Maybe it would touch Veronica Grant.
‘The heat gets to some people.’ Her tone suggested only the weak and feeble.
Obviously not.
He shuffled the papers into order and picked up the folder with the details of the new project he had been working on. Beneath it lay Cassie Cornwell’s book, which, despite his promise, had not been opened since he bought it. But at least he hadn’t hidden it away in the bottom of his desk as she had predicted. Veronica picked it up and turned it over to examine the photograph on the back.
‘Is this the book you’re giving your sister?’ she asked.
‘Yes...and no.’ He shrugged. ‘I bought more than one copy.’
Veronica’s eyebrows moved upwards in gentle query. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been bulk buying them as presents for all your female relations?’
‘Thus saving on time, effort and shoe leather? Isn’t that what you advised?’
‘Not quite.’
Somehow he had known that there would be precious few Brownie points for admitting to such a lack of imagination. The truth at least had the virtue of being surprising. ‘No, well, actually, I bought that copy for myself.
‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘You’re a new man through and through.’
Her scepticism was beginning to irritate him. ‘The idea amuses you?’
‘You don’t really expect me to believe that you cook for yourself, Nick?’
‘Men have to eat too, you know.’
‘In my experience they usually manage that by getting some poor woman to cook for them.’
‘Really?’ Some of the women who had wanted to cook for him had been a long way from poor, but he didn’t think she was referring to their fiscal status. He wondered why she so despised domesticated women. Did she think they were letting the feminist side down? ‘Maybe you should try a better class of man,’ he advised.
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘An invitation?’
Without thinking he stood back to let her precede him through the door. She didn’t appear to notice this lapse or, if she did, she let it go, but once she was in the corridor she stopped and turned to face him.
‘An invitation to dinner, Nick. I’ve never met a man who could cook before. To be honest I’m still not sure that I believe you can—but I’m prepared to be convinced. I’m free on Thursday evening, if you’ve a space in your diary?’
Not by so much as the twitch of a muscle did Nick betray his surprise. Was that all it took to melt the ice-lady? A little home cooking? Or was it simply that she couldn’t resist the opportunity to catch him out in a lie? Did she think he’d wriggle and squirm to get out of it?
‘Well, there’s an evening track meeting at Crystal Palace that I’m supposed to attend. We’re sponsoring one of the events.’ He waited while her face arranged itself into the superior kind of smile that suggested she had expected some feeble excuse. Then he shrugged and grinned. ‘But I don’t imagine I’ll have any trouble finding someone to go in my place. Shall I pick you up at around eight?’
It was her turn to be surprised, but if she was she didn’t let it show either. ‘Won’t you be occupied with your sauces?’ she asked, making a little stirring gesture.
Frankly, he hadn’t a clue. He had no idea what making a sauce entailed, but he knew it couldn’t be difficult—his mother could do it for heaven’s sake.
‘I won’t know until I’ve decided what to cook. Perhaps I’d better send a car for you.’
Her enigmatic look faltered slightly as she realised that he was serious. Then she lifted one elegantly clad shoulder a fraction of an inch. ‘At eight? Why not? What have I got to lose?’
‘Your waistline?’ he suggested, recalling Cassie’s comments about calories.
She gave him a disbelieving look before returning his book and heading for the meeting, one hundred per cent businesswoman again, her entire being focused on the launch of a new line in ladies’ golfing equipment.
Yet once when he looked up from the projected sales figures he was quoting to the team he caught her looking at him, her forehead creased in a slightly puzzled frown, and it was all he could do to stop himself from smiling.
Every woman had a weak spot. Even if it was only the desire to see a man make a fool of himself. He wondered about Cassie Cornwell and what her weak spot was. Not that kind of cynicism, he was prepared to bet any amount of money. She had the kind of eyes that would melt at a litter of puppies. Or the sight of snow falling on Christmas morning. Or a new baby grasping at her finger...
‘Nick?’
He started at the sound of his name and glanced up to discover half a dozen pairs of eyes looking up at him expectantly. It took a moment to clear the appealing image of Cassie Cornwell and puppies and Christmas in front of a log fire from his brain. What did it was the distinctly predatory look he surprised in Veronica Grant’s eyes.
It was a momentary expression, almost instantly replaced by the cool, slightly distant look she normally adopted. He might have imagined it. But it gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t in the least bit taken in by his ‘new man’ act. And that if she caught him out in a lie he’d never be allowed to forget it.
Cassie had been cooking since she was old enough to stand on a chair and knead a piece of dough at her mother’s side and she always found the beating, the kneading, the careful combining of ingredients as she prepared a favourite recipe therapeutic.
But ever since she had turned down Nick Jefferson’s invitation to lunch nothing, not even the creation of a new pasta dish, had been able to shake her of the conviction that she had made a mistake. And it infuriated her. She slammed down the dough on the work surface in her kitchen and proceeded to take her feelings out on it. Nick Jefferson was not her kind of man and never would be. In a hundred years. And she certainly wasn’t his kind of woman.
His kind of woman was tall as a tree, with sucked-in cheeks and a bone structure that showed. The kind of woman who lived on carrot juice and a few leaves of lollo rosso. The kind of woman who wouldn’t dare to take three boisterous boys on a visit to an ice-cream factory in case the calories somehow managed to seep in through her pores. Remembering the hard work she’d had to put in at the gym afterwards, she had to admit that it was a distinct possibility.
She’d certainly be a woman with more sense than to offer to take those same three boys camping...
And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, her brother-in-law had ridiculed the campsite she had picked out...the one with civilised plumbing, hot showers, a swimming pool and a camp store as well as organised activities with trained counsellors...
‘That’s not camping, that’s a holiday camp,’ Matt had scoffed. And her heart had sunk like an undercooked sponge as she had listened to his rose-coloured memories of his own boyhood camping trips. He had waxed lyrical about how they had fished and canoed and swum naked as the sun came up. And Mike and Joe and little George had listened too. At least Joe and George had. She had seen their ecstatic little faces absorbing every last detail. Mike had been quieter. She was worried about Mike.
‘You can’t expect my sister to take the boys somewhere like that,’ Lauren interjected irritably. ‘We’ll have to take them with us to Portugal.’
Matt had no trouble in equalling his wife’s irritation. ‘I thought the whole point of this holiday was to get away from the children...’ Mike got up and left the room. ‘Mike!’
‘Oh, let him go,’ Lauren said. ‘Having him around is like living with a permanent headache.’
Cassie glanced after the boy, wondering if he’d heard. But it was her sister who was worrying her most. She had a pinched look about her mouth and angry eyes. She was looking for an excuse for the kind of row that would leave her free to walk out. Cassie refused to give her that excuse.
‘For heaven’s sake, Lauren,’ she said lightly, ‘anyone would think I was a grade A wimp to listen to you. We’ll have a lovely time, won’t we, boys?’ Lauren gave her a look that suggested she was fooling herself.
Was she? She’d put on a brave face for Beth, and the camp she’d chosen had sounded positively civilised. But to give Matt a chance to put things right she would willingly put up with a few days’ discomfort.
‘You’re right, Matt,’ she continued, with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘Uncommercial sounds like much more fun. Book the site, mark the place on the map and we’ll make like pioneers, won’t we, boys?’
And pioneers was probably right. She was well aware that ‘uncommercial’ was shorthand for an absence of any kind of running water, and ‘untouched’ meant that the toilet facilities would involve the enthusiastic use of a shovel.
Then she gave herself a mental shaking. She had volunteered for this trip and it was a small enough sacrifice to make to save her sister’s marriage. Although she rather thought she’d pass on swimming naked in some freezing Welsh lake at dawn.
She put the bread dough in a greased bowl and covered it with a damp cloth while she waited for it to rise. Then she turned out a solid, cut-and-come-again fruit loaf she had been making for their trip. And after that she started to make a shopping list. A long shopping list.
If she was going pioneering, she had better be prepared for any eventuality.
Nick had always managed to eat very well without ever developing his culinary skills beyond the ability to make a decent cup of coffee. If pushed, he could make a slice of toast, even a sandwich. But he’d always considered the kitchen very much a female province and women, in his experience, couldn’t wait to get in there and display their home-making skills, presumably in the hope they would become a permanent fixture. He’d never discouraged them. He’d never made any promises either. He enjoyed home cooking as much as the next man, but not to the point that he was prepared to give up his independence for it.
But now all that was about to change. He sat at his desk and opened Cassie’s book. It was organised neatly into courses and as he slowly turned the pages he could almost see her in some big, comfortable kitchen, full of the scent of herbs and baking bread, surrounded by earthy vegetables fresh from the garden.
Romantic nonsense, of course. She was a professional cook and almost certainly worked in a stainless-steel kitchen that had all the atmosphere of a hospital operating room.
He bypassed the recipes for rich vegetable soups. Somehow he didn’t think that Veronica was the kind of woman to eat ‘hearty’. No. He’d start with something simple. Something cold that could be prepared in advance and left in the fridge. His sister did it all the time.
Oysters? He grinned. No. That would be too obvious. And he prided himself on not being obvious. Smoked salmon would be better. With that special dill mayonnaise Helen made. And thinly sliced home-made bread. She’d part with a loaf if he asked her for one. Elegant, but easy. Pleased with himself, he made a note on the pad beside him. Round one and so far he hadn’t done a thing.
What next? Something unusual, something that would convince her that he hadn’t picked it up from a cook-chill cabinet at the supermarket. He would have liked to call Cassie and ask her advice. But he didn’t have her number. Beth would know it, of course. But Beth would be too interested in why he wanted it. And jump to all the wrong conclusions. Instead he called his sister.
‘Helen, how are you?’
‘Busy. What do you want?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Is that any way to speak to your big brother?’
‘Nick, darling, I’m not one of your doting fillies, so please don’t use your butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth voice with me; I know you too well to be taken in. What do you want?’
He considered acting hurt. But she was his sister. And, as she said, she knew him too well to be fooled. ‘Advice. I’m cooking a meal for someone tomorrow night—’ She began laughing before he could finish. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, come on, Nick. Surely you don’t have to ask? You couldn’t boil water without burning it.’ Then, before he could reply, she said, ‘Oh, I get it You want me to cook the meal for you and hide in the pantry between courses. Sorry, sweetheart,’ she continued, before he could deny it, ‘I’m giving a dinner for Graham’s boss tomorrow night and his promotion rests on the piquancy of my chicken chasseur and the lightness of my pastry. Call a caterer. Or better still take the girl somewhere romantic. That usually does the trick—’
‘Helen!’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Not on this occasion.’ Nick gritted his teeth. ‘She thinks I can cook.’
‘Where on earth would she get an idea like that about you?’ Helen asked, hooting with laughter. Why did women always laugh? ‘You didn’t lie to the poor woman, did you?’ Nick was interested to note that Helen referred to Veronica as a ‘poor woman’, too. Maybe they should meet and compare notes.
‘No, I didn’t. She found a cookery book on my desk and sort of jumped to conclusions.’
‘A cookery book? What on earth...oops...was it my birthday present?’
‘More or less,’ he hedged.
‘Even so. Is she soft in the head?’
‘Does she have to be? Cooking can’t be that difficult. Women do it every day of the week.’
‘I guess it must be all that practice that makes us perfect,’ she agreed, with suspicious sweetness. ‘Let me know how it turns out, Nick. Better still, take pictures; I can always use a really good laugh.’ And she hung up.
‘Helen!’ Then, ‘Damn!’ He hadn’t even had the chance to ask her for the bread and mayonnaise.
He considered calling his mother. But not for more than ten seconds. He’d had a basinful of being laughed at.
He’d make his own mayonnaise. He’d do it all. He’d got a cookery book. He could read. If Helen could cook chicken chasseur, so could he. He looked through Cassie’s book. It wasn’t there. He was beginning to understand why there was such a big market in cookery books.
He stopped at the supermarket on his way home. It wasn’t something he did very often—he had a lady who came in every day to clean and organise the essentials of life, although she’d made it plain from the start that she didn’t cook. Even if she had he wouldn’t have asked her. He had something to prove to all those scoffing women.
Tonight he would have a practice run. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow his chicken with grapes, lemon and soured cream would make Miss Veronica Grant eat her words.
He manfully grasped a trolley with one hand and with his shopping list in the other he set about finding all the ingredients he would need. He had paused between a pyramid of canned peaches on special offer and a stack of cornflakes that would have given the Jefferson Tower a run for its money, wondering where to find the dried herbs, when he spotted Cassie Cornwell pushing an overloaded trolley that seemed to have a mind of its own.
She was too distracted by the task of preventing the shopping cart from knocking down the tower of cornflakes to notice him. The urge to let them tumble was, for just a moment, wickedly tempting. But then he realised that this was a God-given opportunity to pick her brains so he took pity on her and, taking hold of the front of the cart, pulled it straight.
Cassie looked up, a smile of thanks already on her lips, but as their eyes connected over a bumper-sized pack of breakfast cereals she blushed. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘It was the last time I looked in a mirror,’ he agreed. The blush was oddly gratifying; her lack of enthusiasm at encountering him was not. ‘I take it this mound of food is for your camping trip? Or are you an impulse shopper?’ he enquired.
Cassie had an impulse to throw something at the man. For appearing suddenly like that, before she could warn her body not to do anything stupid. She just knew she was blushing like an iced fancy that had been mugged by the cochineal.
‘No.’ He picked up the box of frosted cereals and turned it over. ‘No. Somehow I don’t see you eating these for breakfast.’ Cassie wondered what he did see her eating, but she managed to restrain herself from enquiring. He told her anyway. ‘A girl like you understands that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I see you tucking into something wholesome and filling. Soft creamy scrambled eggs with cnsp bacon, toast, home-made marmalade and Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee?’ he suggested.

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