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Her Client from Hell
Louisa George


Her customer satisfaction guarantee…!Cassie Sweet has a new mantra in her life—failure is not an option! Her good-for-nothing ex might have run off with all her money, but she’s determined to make her new catering business a success. So no distractions. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Which means her infuriatingly rude—and exasperatingly handsome!—new client, filmmaker Jack Brennan, is definitely off the menu…After all, while the customer might always be right, Jack’s clearly every shade of wrong! So when his clothes end up on her bedroom floor why do they look so right? And the biggest question of all: is this a recipe for disaster—or the best mistake of her life…?









‘Jack.’ It was meant to be a warning. A definitive no. But it sounded like a whimper.


No, it sounded like an invitation. And maybe it was. Cassie didn’t know. Didn’t know anything, really—except that this man had stirred something in her that had long been dormant. Which was equal parts thrilling and scary. Actually, it was scary as hell.

Before she could breathe again Jack was in front of her, all six feet plus of impressiveness, his scent of heat and man filling her nostrils. His hard body … there. The open-necked shirt revealing just a little of a tanned chest that she suddenly wanted to touch, his smile now almost blossoming.

The street seemed to fade out a little as her vision narrowed to just him. His hand was on her cheek, the lightness of his touch making her heart stutter. The intensity in his eyes caused her abdomen to contract with a need she hadn’t expected.

This was utter crazyville. A choc chip short of a cookie. How could she want to slap him and kiss him at the same time? He was pompous and a giant pain in the neck … and she wanted to kiss him.

No. No. No.

Yes.


Dear Reader

After deciding to write a book we’re often told to write what you know, but with this book I got a chance to write what I love too! My heroine Cassie is a chef and, while I am far from the proverbial domestic goddess, I do absolutely adore food, so it was a real treat to be able to indulge that passion throughout Cassie’s story and have a little fun with it along the way!

I also love carnival time and dancing, so setting some scenes at the famous Notting Hill Carnival in London meant I could reminisce a little about my experiences there too—I hope I’ve captured some of the magic of this amazing event.

We met Cassie Sweet in my first Modern Tempted


book, BACKSTAGE WITH HER EX, where we discovered that she is a woman who just wants to have fun and takes life less than seriously. What could be better, then, than for her to meet her match in Jack Brennan, who is the ultimate in serious?

Now Cassie is trying to make a go of her catering business—under a certain amount of financial pressure—so she has to impress the unimpressable Jack in order to win a catering contract, while trying to ignore the pull of an intense attraction. Jack, meanwhile, is not interested in having any kind of deep and meaningful relationship, especially with a woman like Cassie, so watching these two struggling with the sizzling tension is a real delight (authors can be so mean!).

I love writing for the Modern Tempted series—the characters are so fresh and real and fun. I hope you enjoy reading about them too.

For all my writing news and release dates visit me at www.louisageorge.com (http://www.louisageorge.com)

Happy reading!

Louisa x


Her Client

from Hell

Louisa George






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Having tried a variety of careers in retail, marketing and nursing (where a scratchy starched uniform was mandatory), LOUISA GEORGE is now thrilled that her dream job of writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon


means she gets to go to work in her pyjamas.

Originally from Yorkshire, England, Louisa now lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, two sports-mad teenage sons and two male cats. Writing romance is her opportunity to covertly inject a hefty dose of pink into her heavily testosterone-dominated household.

When she’s not writing or reading Louisa loves to spend time with her family and friends, enjoys travelling, and adores eating great food (preferably cooked by someone else). She’s also hopelessly addicted to Zumba


.

Visit her at www.louisageorge.com (http://www.louisageorge.com)

Other Modern Tempted


titles by Louisa George:

BACKSTAGE WITH HER EX

This and other titles by Louisa George are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Warren, my carnival partner

and failed recipe attempt victim,

your support means everything to me.

Happy anniversary!

Thanks for the last 20 years—here’s to another 20!

I love you x


Contents

Chapter One (#u0acc93d0-6103-5a8c-9a99-99ea0b117e8d)

Chapter Two (#u5b3519d0-dff0-5628-9061-65c4b55a0052)

Chapter Three (#u95e1d454-47d5-5b7c-bbd0-f4cc1b24422c)

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)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE

Sweet Treats Website Contact Form, 10th August, 9.55p.m.

Hi! How can Sweet Treats help you?



Contact from: JB@zoom.co.uk

I need catering for a wedding party of 50 (fifty) adults (no children) on 6th September. Better include some vegan options. Nothing too ‘out there’. (Neither too trendy nor endangered).

Send menu suggestions ASAP.

I hope your food is better than your website.

JB

* * *

Whoa, someone was in serious need of a happy pill.

Cassie Sweet squeezed the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and wondered what the hell she’d done that was so bad she had to endure this.

Impossible clients. 1: Like JB@zoom. At way too late o’clock, making rude comments about her business. 2: People who said things and then explained them in brackets.

Impossible choices. Her regular no-holds-barred mojito night with the girls struck out for a mind-distorting evening in front of the laptop trying to magic her business out of financial chaos.

And impossible decisions. Instead of telling JB where to stick their rude comments, she’d have to smile sweetly and reply positively. It was a job and, even though her work schedule was overflowing, one glance at her bank statement told her there were far too many minus signs. Looked as if she didn’t have a choice.



Email to: JB@zoom.co.uk

Well, hi, JB. Are you Mr? Miss? Dr? Rev? Lord?



Cassie resisted the temptation to add Sith?



Congratulations on your upcoming wedding!

Sweet Treats would be happy to help. Please find enclosed a copy of our specials menu and suggested vegan options for three, four and five courses. Please don’t hesitate to contact me for further info. I’m more than happy to talk things over.

Cassie

For Sweet Treats



She looked back down at the spreadsheet and willed the red numbers to be black. Damn her stupid trusting genes. She was way too much like her father; there was no doubt that William Sweet’s too-trusting blood definitely ran through her veins.

The figures swam in and out of focus. One day she’d been financially stable and then...wham! Sucker-punched by betrayal. She would never trust a man again.

Except, perhaps, for her bank manager, who she would not only trust but would love for ever if he could help her work a way out of this. Or maybe the bank manager was a woman? Who knew?

Her ex, actually. He’d set up the accounts with Cassie’s signature and apparent blessing. She, meanwhile, had focused on the catering side, giving little attention to running the business.

Well, hell, she was paying attention now. And oh, it would be so easy to run to her family and ask for help, but this time—this time—she was going to prove them all wrong. She did have stickability. She could cope without them.

Unlike her failed dog-walking business...her brief foray as a children’s entertainer...or the blip that was her disastrous market stall—why the hell they had to have them so early in the morning she didn’t know. This time she was going alone and this time she would succeed.

Her mobile rang. Blocked number.

Glancing at the clock, she breathed in, fists curling in anticipation. What time was it in deepest, conveniently out of killing distance, South America? By the time she’d finished with him, his number wouldn’t be the only thing that was blocked.

Picking up, she kept her voice steady. ‘Patrick, if that’s you I swear I’m going to take out my paring knife and chop your—’

‘Hey, hey. Steady, lady. Put. The. Knife. Down.’ The voice, so not her ex’s, was deep and dusky, a little tired at the edges. Like her. It wasn’t a posh accent per se—definitely London. Did she mention dusky?

‘I’m not Patrick. And even if I were I wouldn’t admit to it now.’

‘Believe me, if you were Patrick you wouldn’t have a breath left in your body.’ Although, three months down the line, she’d given up hope of seeing him or her money again. Case closed, they’d said.

‘Oh? A woman scorned?’

She supposed she was. Her ex hadn’t so much broken her heart as completely stamped on every trusting fibre in her body. ‘Who is this?’

‘Jack Brennan. I just got your email with suggestions.’

Not the ones she was really thinking. Such an unexpectedly warm voice for one so rude.

‘Oh, hello. Yes. My food is great; I come highly recommended. You saw the testimonial page?’

‘Eventually. Does it need to be so busy? I couldn’t find anything; it’s definitely not user-friendly. There are too many tabs. Too many options.’

Well, really? Mr Sexy Voice had become Mr Cocky and Irritating in the blink of an eye. Maybe she wasn’t so desperate that she needed to add his job to her already overflowing schedule.

Yes, she was. ‘Thanks for the feedback. I’ll make a note and consider a re-jig of my website next time I have an advertising budget.’ Like never. Raising her head above the cyberworld parapet and reminding the webmaster of her existence, and therefore her unpaid overdue bill, would only cause more trouble. ‘I guess it could do with a spruce.’

‘It needs a deforestation.’

Like your manners. ‘As it happens, the website detail belonged to my...er...ex-business partner. I’m making changes. It takes time.’

‘Your ex-partner and Patrick—I presume they’re the same person?’

‘Yes, he was the brains behind the business, allegedly. I’m the chef.’

‘Private party? Personal chef. Yes—’

‘Please don’t make any comments about that byline. I came up with it, and I like it.’ It was about the only thing she had left. Apart from my dignity, and that was starting to sag a little round the edges too.

But that voice... How could someone so rude sound so hot? It was like chocolate velvet, wrapping her up and making parts of her warm that hadn’t been warm in quite a while.

Which was a stark enough reminder that this was business. Hadn’t she learnt already never to mix that with pleasure?

And she was not that desperate to flirt with a client who was getting married. It was just a voice.

‘So, considering your late call, I presume you are interested in using Sweet Treats for the wedding? Have you had a look at the menu options? I’m happy to juggle things around if you want to mix and match.’

‘I don’t know. It’s complicated. We need to meet and discuss this further. And time’s running out.’ She wondered how easy it was for him to speak without the aid of brackets to explain everything in duplicate. A hum of traffic buzzed in the background. He raised his voice. ‘How about tomorrow? Afternoon? Evening?’

‘I’ll just check.’ Looking at her diary, she worked out she could fit him in between Zorb’s regular Friday Feast lunch order, little Hannah’s third birthday party and the carnival meeting early Saturday morning. Couldn’t she? Sleep was seriously overrated. As was a social life.

As for a sex life? She literally laughed. Out loud. Sex was something she remembered from her dim and distant past. Vaguely. Hell, twenty-six and sex was just a memory? If she planned right, she could fit in a quickie between the hours of three and four in the morning. Next Wednesday week. But, in her experience, most guys weren’t particularly happy with that. Well, not the kind of guys she wanted to spend that special hour with, anyway.

Better make that two people in need of a happy pill. ‘I can fit you in at around six-thirty. Would that work? Where are you based?’ She jotted down the details. ‘Actually, you’re just down the road from me; I’m in Notting Hill too. When the business started to take off we decided to move—’

He sighed. ‘Look, I’m in a cab; it’s hard to hear. I don’t need your life story. I just need food.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Tetchy. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of managing her thoughts in silence. Or managing anything at all, really, outside the kitchen. But she was trying hard. ‘I usually meet my clients at Bean in Notting Hill Gate, just a few shops down from the cinema. It’s a sort of café-bar, open office space for independent professionals. I’ll hire a meeting room so we can chat in relative privacy. There are also office facilities there in case we need any photocopying et cetera. If that suits your requirements, Mr Brennan?’

‘Perfectly.’ His growl wasn’t nearly as scary as he intended. ‘This is my first time at organising a wedding breakfast and I want to get it right. I’ve absolutely no intention of doing it again.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Brennan-to-be will be very glad to hear that.’

‘What?’ Some tooting and a curse from a voice that wasn’t dark and rich interrupted the conversation. Then he was back. ‘Sorry?’

Cassie spoke slowly. ‘Your intended? Mrs Brennan-to-be. Will she be joining us tomorrow? I find that it cuts down on problems and saves a lot of everyone’s time if the happy couple thrash out ideas and differences way before the event. So I’d prefer to meet you both. Tomorrow. If that’s okay?’

There was a pause. Then, ‘There is no Mrs Brennan-to-be.’

Ah. She knew it—that deep voice was way too good to be heterosexual. ‘Oh. Sorry. Er...well, bring Mr Brennan-to-be along.’

‘No. No. No. Not at all. I’ll explain tomorrow...er...?’ She imagined him sitting in the back of a cab, squinting through a monocle at her business card, trying to make out the name of the woman he was phoning.

‘Cassie,’ she reminded him. No wife? No husband. ‘Erm...you’re not one of those marrying his pet iguana kind of guys, are you? I mean, I’m not one to judge, but I’m not sure what iguanas eat.’

He laughed. Finally. Hesitant—reluctant, even, but there. Free for a moment, unctuous like thick, warm chocolate ganache. Or was it just a gasp? Whichever, it was gone as quickly as it appeared. ‘I have no intention of marrying a man or an iguana. Or anyone, for that matter, Cassie. Yes. Short for Cassandra?’

‘Says the guy who doesn’t want my life story.’ But now she really, really wanted his. Although she wasn’t surprised such a grumpy, tetchy man hadn’t got a wife-to-be or a husband and was only appealing to a reptile.

But she really, really needed his money.

There was another toot of a horn, his voice fading in and out. ‘Tomorrow, then. Oh, and one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Leave the paring knife at home.’

This had to be the weirdest conversation she’d ever had. Organising a wedding breakfast for a man who wasn’t getting married. Maybe he’d had his heart broken and couldn’t move on? Maybe he was channelling Miss Havisham? Tragic.

And that was definitely none of her concern. Because she was not going to allow any man to wheedle his way into her business or her heart—especially her heart—ever again.

* * *

Jack Brennan jogged down the steps of his Notting Hill home and checked his watch—time minus twenty minutes. What the hell he was doing he didn’t know. But if he could organise a film crew to shadow a rock group across twenty European music festival venues at the drop of a hat, he could organise a few flimsy sandwiches.

No.

His heart squeezed a little. Lizzie was not getting sandwiches for her wedding. He’d make damned sure of that. She deserved a whole lot better, whether she liked it or not. He just had to find the time—and courage—to tell her.

A wall of noise greeted him as he opened the door to Bean. The café was filled with the Friday after-work-before-dinner crowd. With standing room only, he was grateful that the scatty-sounding Cassie had shown a little foresight to book a room, because discussing the finer points of canapés across this racket would be impossible. Still, the food smelt of something exotic and spicy—garlic, chilli and coriander—sending his stomach into a growling fit, and he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Editing his current documentary had taken up the majority of his afternoon. Food had, as always, taken a back seat.

Ten minutes later he was still standing there, blood pressure escalating. Unused to being stood up, looked over or generally let down these days, he made for the exit. Cassie Sweet had had her chance. If she couldn’t make it on time for the initial meeting, how could he trust her to be reliable for the event? The event he needed so badly to be a success.

As he reached for the handle the door swung almost off its hinges and a blur of colour rushed in. ‘Hey—Mr Brennan? Jack? Are you Jack? I’m Cassie.’

‘You’re late.’

‘I know—I’m sorry. I tried to call but reception was patchy—’ She dug deep into a large battered brown satchel that looked like a relic from way before his school days and pulled out a phone and showed him it. ‘I got held up with a client at a birthday party. There was an emergency and I just couldn’t leave her with all those children.’

From the phone call last night and what he knew about chefs—which was diddly-squat—he’d conjured up an image of an older, larger, bitter woman, hair piled up on her head exposing two fat ruddy cheeks and small glittering eyes. Okay, so what he knew about chefs amounted to a TV reality show about some Scottish bloke swearing in a sweat-filled steel kitchen and the overly cuddly nineteen-twenties period drama below-stairs cook.

Wrong. So damned wrong on every level.

A twinkle in her eye, yes. A cocky mouth, yes. But he hadn’t imagined such a mouth—teasing and smiling. Lips that were full and covered with a slick of something shimmery and red. Pinned-up hair, yes. But secured with a pair of chopsticks on the top of her head, with wisps of vibrant auburn corkscrewing at angles round her face.

Something glittered on her cheek, a smudge that sparkled—he thought for a moment about pointing it out. But it kind of went with the whole chaotic look.

And curves, yes. Very interesting, framed by a bright loose-fitting top in dazzling browns and blues and oranges, the kind of thing an old-fashioned gypsy might wear, secured by a thick dark brown belt. Below that, a layered frilly white skirt ended just above her knees. On her feet she wore flat leather laced tan sandals. All Greek goddess meets hippy. A crazy artsy type with her head in the stars. So not his type. A pretty head, though, porcelain skin. And that hair...

As wild and crazy as she was.

This whole escapade was already shifting him way too far out of his comfort zone; he didn’t need a too-hot boho airhead added to the mix. Regardless of the curves and the hair...and the curves...

He shook his head. ‘Well, I’m sorry. You’ve had your chance; I’m leaving.’

‘Oh. But we haven’t even—’ Her mouth turned downwards, her hand on his arm. ‘Please don’t. I did try to call...’

‘I don’t have time to be wasted. Nate said you were reliable. And keen.’ Frazzled more like, as if she was juggling a zillion things in the air and they were all dropping around her. But she was still smiling and he was drawn to that, in some kind of weird masochistic way.

So she was pretty. Didn’t mean a thing. Certainly didn’t mean the woman could cook.

Nate had also mentioned she’d been babied during a difficult upbringing, that she’d had little direction in her life apart from partying and that she was trying to prove herself with this catering venture. She’d already dabbled at other things like...nannying, was it? Dog-walking? And lost not only cash but interest far too quickly.

Nate hadn’t mentioned anything about an ex-business partner, though, or the need for a paring knife. So Jack guessed Cassie kept her family in the dark about some things.

Which suddenly made her a whole lot more interesting. In a purely professional way. Teasing dark secrets from people had made him a stack of money and cemented his reputation as the best gritty documentary maker in the UK.

‘So Nate told you about me?’ Two pink patches on her cheeks darkened to red. ‘Nate Munro? I wondered...usually people use a search engine or a business card rather than a world famous rock star to find a caterer.’

‘Yes, he recommended you. Although why I bothered I don’t know—’ But his new mate had done him a huge honour by allowing him to film his more intimate home life for a documentary which could well be award-winning—if only for the usually very private subject. Which meant Jack owed him precisely five more minutes to hear Cassie out before he took his leave and found a more organised, punctual and less disturbingly off-the-scale attractive caterer.

The flush turned from embarrassment to irritation. She wore her emotions very obviously on her face—as if there was no caution button. No keeping things in check. How could people live like that? Spilling their feelings out at any given moment? Did they have no control? It was his endless fascination and what made his films so damned compelling to watch.

‘Nate’s almost as bad at interfering in my life as his wife. That’s my sister, Sasha. I keep telling them to butt out and I know they mean well, but...’ She inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly. ‘But, well, you’ve already said you don’t want my life story.’

‘I already know Nate’s, and a little of your sister’s...and therefore some of yours.’

‘Not the best bits.’ She winked, but he refused to laugh. He did not want to know about the best bits of her life. Or the worst. Or anything more about her. Five minutes. Her hands moved as she talked. Was there not a serene molecule in that far too interesting body? ‘So you’re the rock-umentary producer man—my sister did mention you. And Nate’s right; I am reliable. I’ve just been having a trying time recently.’

‘Yes.’ He tried to keep up. ‘Something about a paring knife?’

‘I left it at home. Which is probably a good thing, seeing as you look like you might want to use it.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Okay. Can we begin again? I’m Cassie Sweet. Caterer extraordinaire. And just a little bit out of control right now. But normal service is being resumed. And my cooking is brilliant.’ She smiled.

‘Jack Brennan.’ Always in control. He shook her hand. It was warm and soft. And why the hell he’d even noticed he didn’t know.

She took a step back and looked around at the crowd, then raised her voice above the chattering. ‘I’ve booked a room. Hang on a sec.’ She turned to speak to a passing waitress, who shook her head and shrugged.

‘Shoot.’ Cassie sighed loudly and her fist curled tight around the satchel strap. Was that a curse under her breath? ‘They gave the room to someone else because I was late.’

Typical. This escapade was turning into a disorganised farce. He needed to leave and take his chances on someone more professional. ‘Look. Forget it. I’ll find someone else. Some time else.’

‘No. Please. Please. Tell me this isn’t happening.’

‘It is. In full glorious Technicolor.’ Your problem, my nightmare.

‘I’ll have a word with Frankie, the manager. He’s just over there.’ Shoving her bag at Jack, she disappeared into the crowd. ‘Frankie! Hey, Frankie!’

Did she have another speed? Like just plain old fast instead of whirlwind? And now he couldn’t leave unless he took the bag with him or left it here. Unattended, in a crowded bar. It could end up in anyone’s hands. And not that she didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t need that on his conscience. It was full enough already.

In a few moments she was back, breathless but grinning. ‘Good old Frankie. There are a couple of free tables outside. Saves those for his best clients. Talking about food always makes me hungry so I’ve ordered some nibbles. They do the best soft shell tacos here with pork belly crackling. You must not leave without trying those. And he gave us a bottle of red on the house for the mix-up. Result!’

She brushed past him and Jack caught a scent of vanilla sugar and something distinctly soft and pretty, which he dutifully followed, trying not to watch the sway of her hips as she walked. Her backside looked just about the perfect size for his hands—jeez, he swallowed. Hard. What the hell was wrong with him?

With her? No caution or stop button. She was at warp speed. And now he was caught up in her chaos too.

So much for the five-minute plan. He blinked as he entered a small courtyard. Ivy, intertwined with scarlet flowers, curled over the walls, white gravel covered the ground. Small iron tables dressed with lit tea light candles dotted the space. It was like a secret garden from a movie he’d seen as a kid. Back when he’d believed in fairy tales like family and happy ever after. ‘This is impressive.’

‘Glad you like it. I wasn’t sure if you’d think it was too...out there.’ She raised her fingers and did quotation marks with them to emphasise her words, and he caught a teasing twinkle in her smile.

Then her eyes met his—darkest blue and wide and honest—and she seemed, for a moment, a little startled, but she didn’t turn away. His heart thumped in his chest as he was drawn into that gaze, sucked deep and then deeper, and deeper still, as if he was tumbling somehow, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

A blush hit her cheeks again and she shook her head, breaking a tentative connection that left him feeling a little unnerved.

Opening her satchel, she pulled out a thick creamy notepad and folder of papers. ‘Okay. Right. Let’s get started. We have a lot to get through.’ As she opened the folder a gust of wind caught the top sheets and sent them spiralling into the air. ‘Oh, wait... Sorry. Oh, no, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m sorry.’

Next, she was on her feet chasing the papers, stamping on a few to stop them floating away like confetti on the gentle breeze, more tendrils of her hair falling from the chopsticks.

He watched for a moment until it became clear he either helped or he’d be sitting here all night waiting for her to switch to simmer.

‘Here you go.’ He handed her the papers and she placed them back on the table and weighted them down with a large bowl of delicious-looking silky stuffed olives.

Popping one in her mouth, she bit down and smiled. ‘Not just delicious, but useful too. Thanks. So not my day.’ Finally she sat, took a long deep breath and slowed to a mode Jack could follow. She smiled again. She had a lot of them—endless smiles. Polite smiles. Embarrassed but intriguing smiles. Smiles that didn’t quite hit her eyes. He got the impression she was trying very hard to be professional and thought that smiling would be the way to go.

But endless cheerfulness wouldn’t convince him she’d be any good at helping him—and he needed help right now. Reliable. Organised. Straightforward help. ‘Er...the wedding? Are we going to cover that tonight?’

‘The wedding. Okay. Yes.’ She leaned forward and there was the scent of vanilla sugar again. Sweet and soft. ‘So, talk me through the day, Jack. Can I call you Jack? What’s planned? What do you need?’

Hell if he knew. Now she’d actually focused, he suddenly felt way out of his depth. This was a stupid idea. He should have asked first instead of interfering...as Cassie had so succinctly described honest and well-meaning sibling interest.

He spoke slowly to give himself time to think and to engage her full attention. ‘As I said, it’s in three weeks’ time. I’m not a hundred per cent sure of exact timings so I’ll get back to you on that. The wedding ceremony is going to be in a community art space off Portobello Road. It’s a small gathering of friends; there’s an Irish band booked in the evening. The details are being finalised.’

She tucked one of the errant curls behind her ear. ‘It’s very short notice but, luckily, I do have space in my calendar. Tell me, though, you’ve waited until now to sort out the food because...?’

‘I’ve just got back from filming; my schedule got changed a little.’ And he’d been too damned busy to pay much attention to Lizzie’s emails. Plus the word help had never been in her vocabulary. Even when she’d needed it the most. And he was, apparently, the world’s worst at working out what women wanted. Why they didn’t just straight out tell him, he didn’t know. But he wanted to make this work, wanted to make her happy. After everything they’d been through, Lizzie deserved a slice of that.

Another smile. ‘Okay, well, I guess we can work out some of the finer points later, but it would be useful if we could make a start on menu choices, just a jumping off point. I like to get a feel for the couple, their likes and tastes and dreams. Do you have a memorable meal you’d like to recreate? A theme?’

‘Why all the deep and meaningful stuff? It’s just food, right?’ Clearly, there was a whole lot more to weddings than he’d ever given thought to. Actually, he’d never given thought to weddings at all—only that he’d never be having one. ‘I...er...’

‘Okay, no worries. Let’s try a different angle.’ Her eyes twinkled through a confused frown. ‘Tell me more about the iguana—was it love at first sight?’

It was the first time in a long time a woman had left him speechless.


TWO

‘It’s my sister’s wedding. I’m organising the food, the car and the photographer.’ Jack Brennan had an edge to him, a rippling intensity, brooding, which made Cassie immediately want to make him laugh.

Or at least smile. But somehow she didn’t think he’d take kindly to a tickle in the ribs. He didn’t look the type of guy who’d take kindly to much that wasn’t serious and Very Important.

So what if he was? As she looked at him, all the breath sucked out of her lungs. Tall, and underneath that open-necked grey shirt he looked sculpted out of lean muscle with broad shoulders wide enough to tuck herself into. Dark tousled hair that made her fingers itch to ruffle some more. Deep brown eyes softened the defined features of his sharp cheekbones and square jaw. So what if he was cover-model gorgeous? Looks didn’t make a man. That, she knew first-hand. This one was grumpy and grouchy and in need of a damn good belly laugh.

She put this over-the-top attention to his detail down to the dating drought she’d enforced until she wrestled her finances into some sort of order. Not even an extraordinarily hot man would distract her.

If only something today could actually go according to her well-constructed plan. Flighty and chaotic was not the impression she’d intended to give him. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you. What does your sister want as regards food? Brunch? Sit-down dinner? Buffet? Food stations? How many courses?’

‘Whoa. Too many choices. Food stations? What the hell? I just want food. Good food. On a table, in a room. It’s not rocket science.’

‘No, it’s not.’ She tried to make the sigh escaping her lips sound a little less irritated. This was going to take a lot longer than she’d anticipated. Beauty he might have been, but empathetic he definitely was not. ‘It is her wedding day.’

‘Yes, I am fully aware of that, believe me.’ He shook his head, his palms held up, and he had the decency to look a little embarrassed. ‘Okay. Look, I’m coming clean. I am way out of my depth here. I didn’t ask her what she wants to eat. She doesn’t know I’m arranging this.’

‘What? She doesn’t know? How can someone organise food for a wedding without consulting the bride?’ Answer: the man who spoke in brackets. Figured. But she bit back what she was truly thinking. Honesty didn’t always go down well and she didn’t want to jeopardise his wedding party of fifty and its very welcome boost to her finances.

He gave a nonchalant shrug of those magnificent shoulders. Which she noted purely for their potential ability to carry things. Heavy pans. Trays. She might need assistance on the day. Briefly. ‘She said she was going to do it herself, she has a plan—and it’s terrible. I can’t let it happen.’ At her frown he elaborated, ‘Paying for the food is going to be my gift to her, a surprise.’

‘Oh, it’ll be a surprise all right. But not necessarily a good one. Fair play to you for wanting to help, but this isn’t the right way to do it.’ If there was one thing Cassie knew well it was that siblings often had great intentions but execution of intent wasn’t always brilliant. Killing with kindness sprang to mind. Suffocation. Never being taken seriously. Plain old interfering. ‘This may be news to you, but women tend to have a pretty definite opinion about what will happen on their wedding day. That usually includes the food too. And what about the husband? Did you ask him?’

‘Callum? Why? He’s a man. So long as there’s plenty to eat he won’t care what it is.’

‘Gosh, you’re all hearts and flowers, Mr Brennan, aren’t you? And they say romance isn’t dead.’

Was he for real? Thank God this was purely business because he was everything she kept away from. Overbearing. Too smart. Unfeeling. She usually went for the more laid-back type. And okay, well, the type you couldn’t trust. But if she was ever thinking of dating again—which she wasn’t—Jack’s type would be at the bottom of her list.

Which was long.

So why, when he was clearly every shade of wrong, did her tummy lurch at the merest hint of a smile? It was very disconcerting.

She hid one of her own behind her surprise. Unlucky girl whoever fell for him—there’d be no wooing, or wining and dining. No riding off into the sunset or valentine’s cards.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his legs. ‘Personally, I don’t believe in wasting time on fairy tales.’ Something simmered behind those dark brown eyes—a depth that she hadn’t been ready for. Hurt, maybe. Pain? Then it was gone in another quick shake of his head. ‘But Lizzie’s happy, I suppose.’

‘Not for much longer once she’s got wind of your plan to sabotage her wedding breakfast.’ He seemed a little shocked by the notion that his sister could be happy, or was it that she was happy to be getting married that seemed so unpalatable? ‘And you’re planning to tell her that you’ve taken away her choice for food...when, exactly?’

His hand ran along his stubbled chin, the dark shadow creating a dangerous edge to his striking features. She got the impression he was used to getting his own way and not being challenged. Well, unlucky. Part of the success of a wedding day was the quality of the food; she wouldn’t allow him to jeopardise that for his sister’s sake or risk Sweet Treats’ reputation by taking part in a fiasco. Her business depended largely on positive word of mouth or all her hard work would have been for nothing.

She sensed his irritation rising as that smooth deep voice took on a harder tone. ‘Let’s reframe this, shall we? I haven’t taken away her choice, I’m going to free up her time, remove some stress and help her enjoy her special day.’ The way he said special made Cassie believe he didn’t think there was anything valuable in a lifetime commitment, just a whole host of stupid. ‘I’ll present her with my plan when I’ve decided who is going to be my caterer.’

‘You’re interviewing others?’

His perfect lips curled upwards at the edges. He had a kind of reluctant smile that was almost there, almost whole, but somehow stopped short. Cassie wondered what stopped it from fully blossoming. ‘Of course. I have two lined up for tomorrow morning. I always keep my options very open.’

‘I bet you do. Good idea. Excellent plan. But no one’s going to agree to taking on a contract unless they have more concrete details this close to the day. Seriously, she might hate my ideas, or at the very least have some pretty fixed ones of her own.’

‘Sandwiches. Quiche. Something God-awful called quinoa, which sounds more like a tropical disease than anything edible.’ He visibly shivered. ‘If I stood back and let her loose on that it’d be the worst wedding ever.’

‘Forgive me for saying this, Mr Brennan, but with a bossy brother interfering behind her back it already is.’ If she didn’t take control he’d be bossing her too. Forthrightness was next to sound business, right? ‘Now, I’ve printed these off thinking you might not have had time to look at them. I’m going to talk you through some ideas, on the proviso you go right back and tell her about the options available.’

Carefully opening the folder in case they blew away again, she gave him copies of her menu suggestions and ignored the black look he threw her. ‘I’ve done a few quirky weddings in the past, themed receptions...anything goes, really. Some really embrace the idea of a breakfast, offering waffles and pancakes, French crepes, homemade pop tarts with hearts baked in them, that kind of thing. At the other end of the spectrum, cocktails are popular at the moment too, and local produce is a big hit.’

‘Like jellied eels, pie and mash—that kind of thing?’ The brown in his eyes glittered with hints of gold, which she imagined would be quite attractive. In another lifetime. On a more smiley man.

‘If it floats your boat—you’d be surprised how many people do ask for it. Oh, but if you decide on food stations I’ll have to hire a few other people—I can’t wok and grill at the same time.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘You do surprise me.’

‘I can hire in waiter service from the local catering college to save cash if you go for that option. Although family-style is pretty on-trend too.’ There she was, trying damned hard to be businesslike and professional, but those eyes....

He dropped the menus on to the table and shook his head. ‘You’re blinding me with science. What’s family-style?’

‘Where the party sits at one large table and passes the food around to each other. You know, like a regular family dinner.’

‘Oh. Of course. A regular family.’ His gaze dipped down; he seemed to be pulling a thought or a memory from a distant place. Not a happy one. And something in her heart melted just a little. When he looked at her again his eyes were clear and bright and any vestige of emotion had fled. ‘Don’t you just have a set thing for the clueless? Wedding 101?’

‘No.’ She found her best smile. ‘We believe in choice at Sweet Treats.’

An eyebrow peaked. ‘We? Please don’t tell me there are more of you?’

‘Sorry. I,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m adjusting to a new regime. It’s just me. And that’s really exciting.’ If she said it enough times it might even come true.

‘Maybe if you took a little time to crank down a gear or two. Slow to a more manageable speed?’

‘Yes, well...’ That would be lovely. Luxury. At least a pace where she could breathe and take stock, plan past tomorrow. But it wouldn’t happen this side of Christmas. Or even this side of the decade. If she stopped, her business would die and she’d lose her apartment, along with her self-respect.

Sometimes she felt as if everything was teetering on a knife-edge. She tried to hide the flush of panic but it rolled through her, like it did sometimes in the dead of night, wakening her with a thick cold weight in her chest, and especially when she stared at those rows of numbers that made little sense.

So, whatever else happened, she had to keep him on side—or, rather, keep him on the side of twenty-nine pounds a head times fifty. ‘I’m managing just fine.’

‘Really? Which school of customer relations did you attend? Because you might want to ask for your money back.’ He smoothed his hand across his jaw, all the time keeping his dark eyes on hers. ‘Being late is just fine? Losing a booked table is just fine? Keeping a client waiting is just fine?’

So he didn’t speak in brackets, he just repeated things. Over and over to make his point. She got it now.

‘No. Not at all.’ She cleared her throat. She was trying her hardest, dammit. ‘This afternoon I made three dozen red velvet cupcakes, decorated a fairy castle birthday cake and prepared finger food for twenty-two toddlers with every allergy imaginable. Then I drove over to Kilburn and presented them to a very happy and satisfied customer. Who then fell in the backyard and split her head wide open. What would you have liked me to do? Leave her to bleed out? Happy birthday, little Hannah, sorry about the concussion but I have to go because I have an appointment with a man who doesn’t know what he wants for a sister who doesn’t know he’s doing it?’

Jack took a slug of wine and looked at her; something in his stance stiffened. ‘No, of course not.’

She leaned back in her chair. ‘Apology accepted.’

‘I— That wasn’t an apology...’

‘Well, it should have been.’

‘This is getting nowhere.’ He stood up.

Scraping her chair back, she stood and faced him. Or at least faced his buttoned-up, Italian cotton-shirted rock-solid chest that looked just perfect to lean against, and peered up at his taut jaw and narrowed eyes. Then remembered some of the cardinal rules of customer service that Patrick had drummed into her, back when he wasn’t embezzling. Or maybe he already was.

Keep them happy. Jack didn’t look happy.

Fulfil promises. She’d been late, and the room had been given away, and the wind had blown everything...

Go above and beyond. She’d done it for Hannah. But not for Jack Brennan.

And so that was it—not one tick in any of those boxes—and she’d bet anything Jack Brennan was the box-ticking type. He was angry because of her and she’d lost the job. Hurrah. Things just kept getting better.

It was hard. Running her business was hard. Saving her business was harder still. She tried to smile. But none came. Nothing. She didn’t have any left.

In that moment the stress of the day—her life—boiled up inside her, too raw and fresh to hold back. ‘Of course I was concerned about keeping you waiting. My business is my first priority and my clients are everything to me. But really? You have no idea how hard I’m trying and it feels like some days I’m going backwards. The cooking’s fine and a real hit, but I couldn’t help the head injury. And I squeezed you in when I probably should have made an appointment for a different day, but I didn’t want to lose this chance.’

He opened his mouth to speak but she got in first, hearing her voice rising, louder and more high-pitched, but with no way to stop it. ‘I have to do everything now—the ordering, the admin, the delivering. I don’t have time to do the little stuff. But then suddenly I find out that the little stuff is actually quite important. Things like VAT and tax...’

‘Very important, actually. Keeps the world going round. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’ He turned away, his back rigid as he took a step across the gravel.

‘No. Stop. Wait. You probably have no idea how hard it is to prove yourself to people. To have a dream that you want to take a chance on...and you have it there, almost in your grasp. Then someone comes along and snatches it all away. Have you ever had someone steal your dreams, Jack?’

That seemed to have an effect. He stopped abruptly and turned round, taking his time to face her. He studied her for a moment, which made her hot and cold at the same time. Suddenly she felt totally exposed in front of someone who kept his emotions clearly locked away because there was no way she could tell what he was thinking.

Finally, he spoke. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’

‘I just need a chance.’

‘And I just need food.’

Not your life story. I know. ‘I can do food. I can do damn good food.’ She stopped talking then as she realised her voice was actually shaking, and he didn’t need to know all of this. He just wanted someone to do a job for him. And for all she knew he was in cahoots with Nate and Sasha and would go running back and tell them about yet another failed venture from the girl who couldn’t stick at anything.

Something pricked at the back of her eyes. She squeezed them closed. Oh, for goodness’ sake, no tears.

When she opened them again he was still staring at her. Just staring, with a niggly frown dancing across his forehead.

After that outburst he was bound to go, but it felt strangely good to get it off her chest. Even to a grumpy stranger who clearly thought she was mad.

His head cocked to one side as he sat down again and indicated for her to do the same. ‘You can’t hire someone? A bookkeeper? An admin assistant?’

Besides the fact she had no desire to hand over her precious business management to someone else again, she had no cash for even part-time wages. ‘Not unless I can pay them in doughnuts.’

‘I hear they’re considered legal tender in some parts of the world. Or at least they should be.’

He could joke too at a time like this? So maybe he was human after all. Surprising. Nice, actually. A glimpse of another side to him—something softer. Definitely more that she was intrigued by. Dammit.

She raised her glass to him and noted her hand was still trembling. ‘Unfortunately, man cannot live by doughnuts alone.’

‘No, I suppose not. But it would be interesting to try. For a day or two.’ He picked up his glass and his hand brushed against hers. At the contact their eyes met for a beat, two. His gaze roved her face, her mouth, then dipped to her throat. Lower. And heat intensified in all the places he looked at. Unexpected. Inconvenient.

And something simmered there in his gaze too.

She pulled her hand away, reframing her thinking. She needed to get out of here quick sharp. She’d exposed her soul to him and now she was thinking strange thoughts. Was it hot out here? No, she was hot inside. ‘So, take these menus to Lizzie. Show her. Discuss them with her. Tell her I’m more than happy to make other suggestions. I’d love to know what she thinks and to meet her, and the groom. Then, when you’re done showing her, call me and we can talk further.’

‘No.’ He shook his head, his hand reaching out to her wrist, but she stepped back before he reached it. No more skin-on-skin action needed, thank you. ‘I need to have this sorted. I’m away in Reykjavik next week, and after that it’s getting far too close. I need certainties and decisions.’

‘Well, like you, I have no time to waste and I am trying to be fair and honest with you.’ Cassie sighed, projecting a calm that she didn’t feel. ‘She may insist she’s going to do it herself; it may be her lifelong dream to do it—who knows? She’s probably already started prepping and freezing things, then all this talk here with you is a complete waste of time.’

‘Really? You think so?’ He looked at her again and something zipped between them.

Under his searching gaze, Cassie felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights. For some reason his intensity slammed up against her resolve and threatened it. Luckily, Frankie arrived with the food. She hoped that would be enough to distract her from Jack Brennan’s dark eyes and even darker voice—although she seriously doubted it.


THREE

So he’d been sucked in by a bleeding heart and a pretty face. Not for the first time and probably not the last.

No. Definitely the last. Jack didn’t usually allow himself to be carried away by a sob story—unless it was for work, in which case it was the soppier the better; soppy made damned good TV. Soppy falling headlong into breakdown turned compelling into a road crash—the ratings always peaked. Great for his career, but out of bounds for his personal life.

But those big wide eyes and the crack in her voice had tugged at something deep inside him. He knew exactly what it was like to have someone steal his dreams. Time and again—and always just as he started believing they might finally come true.

So he’d stopped making dreams, simple as that. He’d clamped down on any kind of wishful hope that he was important enough for anyone to care about. Buried himself in study and work and stayed away from deep and dangerous, too burnt to foster anything more than a flimsy connection that he could break before someone else did.

But Cassie deserved a break. Right? And that was easy enough to do. So why did he feel as if he’d made a huge mistake just sitting here?

She looked a little nervous as she spoke between mouthfuls of the best taco shells he’d ever tasted.

Less hysterical, but nervous. ‘Does your sister know about the car and the photographer?’

He wondered just how much more to tell her and decided to give her the basics. ‘She wasn’t going to have any frills. Friends are taking photos and she asked me to drive her to the venue in my car. She’s a struggling artist marrying an equally struggling musician. They don’t have cash to throw around; they can barely make the weekly rent. She’s also a self-taught cook, and pretty bad, never having anyone to show her how to do these things growing up. But you try telling a woman that. Chances are she’ll give everyone botulism.’

‘I imagine the closest she’ll get to hurting anyone would be killing you when she finds out about all this.’ Cassie’s brow furrowed into tiny lines. ‘Provocation. Any jury would let her off.’

He ignored her little joke. ‘Look, I want to give her the magical day she always talked about growing up—the whole meringue dress and rose petals shindig. But I’d like to get to the end of it without a trip to the emergency department or fending off an insurance claim.’

The frown deepened. ‘Are you always this negative?’

Negative? Him? ‘You don’t know my sister. I prefer to see it as realistic. Plan for the worst, and so on.’

‘And hope for what? The saying is: plan for the worst and hope for the best, right?’ She pierced him with those eyes.

Hope that this marriage-fest would be over soon and he could get on with his life, guilt-free.

He watched Cassie take a long slow lick of a drip down the side of her hand and swallow the coriander and minty goodness. The way her tongue dipped across her suntanned flesh, the curl of a lock of hair framing her face, the light in her eyes as she caught him watching—a guilty twinkle. God.

His groin tightened.

Hope for what, indeed? A taste of her?

What? No way. No way. Na-ah. Pretty, yes. Attractive, even. But more than looking he couldn’t—wouldn’t—contemplate.

He ignored it. Tried to ignore it. Tried, too, to shake off the unnerving feeling that when she looked at him she saw a whole lot more than he wanted her to see.

Luckily, he was heading to Iceland tomorrow afternoon. The great thing about his job was that he was never anywhere for long. Guaranteed to stop any kind of meshing of minds. Meshing of bodies he could do—that didn’t take too much investment. ‘Hope that I can find a caterer who cuts me a bit of slack and stops talking in a foreign language about food stations.’

At this her eyes twinkled some more. ‘My mum used to say that often things you’re looking for are right in front of you. Which is usually the case for me—things I want are way too often in front of me, in a shop window display begging to be bought. Now, talking of mothers, what about the mother-of-the-bride? Is she likely to want to give her opinion too? Father?’

He felt his shoulders snap up at the mention of the woman who’d given birth to him and his sister, the blackness that filled that corner of his heart. She’d been no mother. Or the subsequent string of women who’d tried in vain to create the one thing he’d craved but had always had ripped away. Connection. Connection—like Lizzie was trying to create with Callum. He felt the blackness rise—that would mean putting his heart on the line again. No way. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

Pink patches took up residence on her cheeks, seeping down her neck in a rush. ‘Oh. Okay. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped—’

‘Don’t be. Now, are we done here?’ He waved a pen-scribble action towards the door and a waiter nodded and disappeared for the bill. He needed space.

‘I guess.’ She looked a little put out at his brutal tone, and it might have been easy to clear the air—easy, maybe, for someone else. But hearts on sleeves was messy. Messy wasn’t his thing.

While they waited for the bill he searched for something uncontroversial to cut through the heavy silence. Which was, after all, his fault. ‘So what made you go into catering?’

‘You mean my sister didn’t give you the low-down of my life already?’

‘Your sister’s pretty protective where you’re concerned.’

‘She’s lovely and everything, just sometimes a little stifling.’ Fiddling with her bag, Cassie gave a gentle smile. ‘Make that a lot stifling. Like you, maybe? With Lizzie?’

He felt the guilt shimmer through him. ‘No. I don’t stifle; it’s hard to stifle when you’re not even in the same country for most of the year. I’m always on the road shooting or editing. I’m not here enough, so she tells me. But I was asking about you and your career choice.’

Hell, he didn’t need to have his relationships analysed. He knew he was bad at them. That was what this whole wedding food thing was about—making amends. Being the better guy. The better brother. Trying to create a happy medium between work and life. Instead of work and work...and work. Which until now had been his life.

Cassie shrugged her delicate shoulders as another curl fell from the chopsticks. And now his imagination ran riot with a few too many scenarios of that vivid red spilling over his bed, his back...

Whoa. Not a good idea.

She carried on chatting in her sing-song voice. ‘Bottom line—I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I left school so I dabbled in a few things, none of them particularly successful, but everything came back to how much I loved food. Eating, cooking, and I get a kick out of making food for other people to enjoy. My mum said it was my nurturing side. My sisters think it’s all about the praise and attention. Oh, such amazing flavours, Cassie...what adorable presentation, Cassie...you’re so clever, Cassie... And you’ve got to admit, you can’t beat a bit of adulation, right? Mr Award-winning Film-man.’

‘I’m more proud about the films than the awards. It’s the craft I love, not the praise. The interesting and sometimes reluctant subjects...’

Her laugh rang through the evening air. ‘My shy sister, a subject. She’d love that idea. Not. I can’t believe you persuaded her to even be in one of your films.’

‘It was for a good cause. They wanted to promote their charity work. Seemed a good trade-off for a fly-on-the-wall of their lives.’

In all his conversations with Sasha she’d missed out a lot of details. Like Cassie’s hotness. Her irritating habit of telling people how to live their lives. Her scattiness. The humour. The hotness. ‘She was definitely one of my more challenging interviewees. I had to work hard to get information out of her. But now I know a little about her life, about your dad.’

‘Oh. Right. My dad? My dad.’ Cassie swallowed her shock, but her eyes widened. ‘You just come out and say it. Like that? Most people tiptoe...no, actually, most people don’t mention it at all. Is that your media thing? Catch her off guard, throw in a curveball?’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Are there hidden cameras?’

‘Not at all.’ He almost laughed at the thought. The stiffening of her back and the eye contact dodge wasn’t lost on him, though; clearly, this was a subject she wasn’t comfortable discussing. And who could blame her? He hadn’t meant to stray into such difficult territory. And now he was here he didn’t know how to reverse.

Her voice rose again. ‘Wow. Well, that’s another skeleton out of the cupboard then, but I think everyone knows that story now—it was front page for long enough. Your direct approach doesn’t surprise me, though, Mr Brennan. Nor does it affect me—if that was your intention.’

Liar. She was a tight bundle of gelignite that looked about to explode at any moment.

Her father’s betrayal by his business partner and subsequent suicide had been pretty high profile; it hadn’t been hard for Jack to delve deeply enough to find that out. The effects on her family had been long-term and damaging. Not least that the Sweet sisters struggled to give trust easily—Sasha had been definitive about that.

So whatever had happened between Cassie and her ex business partner must have added deeply to her sense of mistrust. No wonder she was like a hot potato dancing in embers trying to make her business a success. She needed something to believe in. To make something hers. Just hers. ‘I’m sorry, really. Wrong subject?’

‘Understatement of the year. Seems we both have private things we don’t like to discuss during a business meeting, Mr Brennan. I asked you about family because it was relevant. I’m not sure at all why you asked about mine. Now, where’s that bill got to?’ Scraping her chair back, she stood, shot him a wavering business smile and scooted to the door.

* * *

After a debate during which they agreed to split the bill—at her absolute insistence—Jack walked Cassie out on to the busy street. The bare skin on her arms shone in the street light. He’d never really noticed a woman’s skin before, unless it was in front of his camera lens. Or the depth of blue in their eyes. Eyes that darkened to navy with anger, that glittered like a shimmering ocean when she laughed. And now he was thinking like a pathetic poet. While pure irritation shimmered through her.

‘Do you want to get a cab, Cassie? I could drop you off.’

‘No, thanks. I’ll walk. Saves cash and the environment. Look, there’s a taxi coming now—you want it?’ She raised her hand to the oncoming black cab. It slowed towards them. ‘I presume you’ll call me when you’ve spoken to Lizzie?’

‘Of course.’ He’d been wrong about her. He’d thought the scattiness and the sensitivity were signs of weakness. But they were a sideshow. She had steel in that ramrod back and a streak of determination that bordered on reckless.

Nevertheless, he still seriously doubted she could pull off a decent wedding dinner without some sort of major mishap. The jury was still out on whether to take a risk and hire her.

Still, he wasn’t prepared to allow her to walk the London streets on her own in the dark. She might not like it, but that wasn’t under debate. He waved the cab on. ‘Nah, it’s okay. I’ll walk too. You’re on my way.’

‘I’m further down Holland Park Avenue than you and then a little way off the main drag.’

‘You’re only a short detour.’

Her hand slipped to her hip. ‘Seriously, I’m fine. I do this all the time.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t.’ Could she not listen? He knew these streets. He would not let any woman walk home alone. He’d spent far too much time fighting for survival in the adjacent neighbourhood to know the dangers. ‘It’s not safe. I said I’ll walk you.’

‘Stifling much?’ He didn’t need to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes, and the thought of it amused him. ‘It’s fine, Mr Macho. I use knives for a living, remember? I know how to gut and bone and de-vein just about anything that moves. What’ll you do?’ Her eyes flicked to his jeans pocket. ‘Wallet an attacker to death?’

‘What do you know? I have black belt wallet ninja skills.’ And a working knowledge of street fighting. Because he’d had to learn the hard way. Wrong kid, wrong street, wrong background. Every single time. Shifted from pillar to post. From house to house. His face had rarely fitted and he’d had to fight his way out of too many arguments.

But all she saw was a successful film-maker who had butted into his sister’s wedding plans. Good. Because the less she knew about him the better. The past might have shaped him, but he didn’t ever let it impinge on how he lived his life now.

At least that was what he told himself.

Cassie shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I don’t need a bodyguard but keep up, I’ve got sums to do when I get home and I want a good sleep because I have an early meeting tomorrow. I don’t have time to wait for stragglers.’ Laughing, she wrapped a cream shawl around her shoulders and kept a brisk pace as they descended the hill towards Holland Park. This was no evening stroll for romantics. Not that he would ever use his name and the word romantic in the same breath.

He met her step for step. Too easy for a man who ran marathons to keep flab and feelings at bay. ‘So the personal chef gig—why did you choose that instead of opening your own place?’

‘Are you still here?’ She increased her pace past the still open shops and overflowing pubs. He wondered if she ever stopped. Just stopped. A fleeting image of her, slick and spent on his bed, flickered in his mind. Her eyes closed, body soft against his sheets, slow deep breathing. Relaxed. Still.

Sometimes being a film-maker played havoc with his sanity—he saw too many things in fast flickering images in his brain. Zooming in could be a pleasure and a curse. Right now, the latter.

She kept right on chattering, the tension from the café dissipated. Or it could have been that she was trying to keep him on side; it was no secret she needed his money, the job. So he supposedly had the upper hand. If only he could see it through the fog of chaos she created.

‘This way I get to meet my clients in a more intimate environment, much preferable to working in a hot, noisy restaurant. Probably like you and your documentaries? You get the best out of people when there’s less of a crowd, right?’

‘And the worst. I didn’t make a big splash on the documentary scene by finding the nicer parts of people’s stories. Sadly, dirty laundry sells.’

‘And there seems to be a lot around.’ She nodded. ‘Sometimes people plain forget that I’m there in their homes. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen and heard.’

‘You want to bet? I’ve been on the road with rock stars. I reckon I can beat you hands down in the shock stakes.’

Slowing her pace, she looked at him, that teasing and breathy voice becoming harder to ignore. ‘Oh? Try me. A gory story smackdown. Excellent.’

Now this could get interesting. ‘What does the winner get?’

She looked up at him for a few moments, blue eyes piercing, as if trying to read his mind. Oddly disconcerting. Because he could have sworn that she understood exactly what he was thinking. ‘Winner gets...the satisfaction that they won?’

‘I tell you, there is no competition. I’ll win.’

‘You like to win? You do seem the type.’ Her mouth curled up at one corner. ‘And you have that self-satisfied look already. How about this? Once I was serving dinner in a famous actor’s house. But he was having it away with a guest upstairs, while his wife was downstairs tasting my crème brûlée.’

‘Which actor?’

She tapped her nose. ‘My secret. Confidentiality. I’m like a doctor with the Hippocratic Oath. Only not as clever. Or as...doctory.’

He couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up from his chest. She was...well, she was just surprising. Warm and soft and smelling like a candy shop. ‘Doctory? A technical term?’

‘Obviously. My eldest sister, Suzy, is training to be a surgeon and she’s very doctory. You know—bright and dedicated and compassionate.’ They stopped at a crossing and waited for the red light, turned right past an old church on to tree-lined cobbled streets. One of the older and prettier parts of the area, a little more rundown than his mews, but nice enough. ‘Okay. Your turn. Beat that.’

He sifted through the tales and memories of the last few years. Difficult to pick one that was funny and shocking but not too sordid. ‘Threesomes, foursomes, wife-swaps. Drugs and alcohol. You name it, I’ve seen it or heard about it. But the strangest? I was once on tour with a band and the lead singer developed an explosive habit.’

‘What do you mean? Drugs?’

‘No. He blew up—literally detonated—something in every venue. Toilets, drum-kits, seats. He liked the poeticism of shards, apparently.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Okay, yes. Probably drugs.’

‘Really? Blowing things up? Bizarre.’

‘Win?’

‘I don’t know; I’m thinking. I must have something to beat that. Foursomes? Really? I don’t even want to know how that works out.’ Finally she came to a halt outside a row of neat terraced houses with window boxes that had brightly coloured plants trailing over them. A vivid splash in an otherwise unimaginative backdrop. Kind of like her.

She rooted in her satchel, tutted. Dropped it to the ground and spilled the contents out, handing bits of paper, a can opener, lipgloss to him as she searched, her fist getting lost amongst tissues and things he barely even recognised and surely should not be in a woman’s bag. Was that a spanner? Eventually she pulled out a bunch of keys. ‘Got them! Right. This is me. Number twelve. First floor. It’s not much but it’s home.’

These were renovated apartments in a decentish part of town. No wonder she was struggling to find the rent. ‘You live here on your own?’

‘Yep. It was always meant to be a work-from-home kind of thing with... Never mind.’ Her shoulders hitched.

‘Are you talking about paring knife man?’ And why the hell he’d even asked and burst the first pleasant bubble of conversation they’d managed all evening, he didn’t know. It was none of his business and in his haphazard personal life he always—always—stayed away from backstory. Unlike in his films, where he liked the present to be filled with regret and melodrama and lost chances. People searching for the whole happy-ever-after lie that littered cheap novels and rom-com films. The pursuit of all that filled his subjects with a hope that was rarely realised. Hell, it made addictive TV. Won awards.

She bit her bottom lip, then flashed him another of her smiles. This one was unconvincing. ‘Okay, well, thanks for walking me back. I’ll be fine from here. Have a safe walk home.’

‘He broke your heart?’ She’d already changed the subject but he wouldn’t let her get away with it.

Cassie sighed as she shoved everything back into the Tardis-like bag. She blinked away a wisp of bitterness or sadness or just plain hurt and hid behind that enduring mask of cheerfulness. ‘Absolutely not. He broke my bank balance and that’s a whole bigger sin in my book. I’m over it and, make no mistake, I’m never going there again.’

He still wasn’t convinced. ‘You sure about that? What about the gooey-eyed romance thing? The wedding catering? Isn’t it your job to believe in all of that?’

‘For someone else, sure. My sister. Your sister. Everyone else. But not this sister.’ Her finger pointed to her chest and he had no doubt that she believed it. Somewhere down the line she’d change her mind, but for now? He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The scent of her whirled around his head; the passionate tone to her voice, the fighting back, her chaos even, stoked something deep in him. The determined look in her eyes did nothing to dampen the fizz of something electric whizzing round his veins; if anything, it just made it stronger.

With a shock he realised he wanted to crush her against the wall and kiss her.

Turning to go up the steps, she waved. ‘So call me when you’ve spoken to Lizzie and we’ll sort out the menus.’

Like hell he was going to let her go that easily. ‘And so now you’re what? A nun? You don’t do this ever?’

‘Do what?’ She paused.

‘I want to claim my winner’s prize.’ Where in hell did that come from? He didn’t know or care. The need to feel her mouth against his swelled inside him.

‘What? We never agreed on a prize.’ But the heat in her too-blue eyes told him she was just as interested as he was. If not for that he’d have walked right away. If not for that? And the fact she was a beautiful woman. And he was drawn to her in a way he hadn’t been drawn to any woman in a long time. If ever. Which was why he should have taken her lead and walked away too. Put that sexy sway to the back of his mind, those pink lips, those dark navy eyes. The nagging feeling in his head that blared alarm bells.

Go home.

He made it up the first couple of steps towards her. At her frown he stopped short. Her mouth was inches away.

All he had to do was reach out.

* * *

‘Jack.’ It was meant to be a warning. A definitive no. But it sounded like a whimper. Worse, it sounded like an invitation. And maybe it was. Cassie didn’t know. Didn’t know anything really except that this man had stirred something in her that had long been dormant. Which was equal parts thrilling and scary. Actually, it was scary as hell.

Before she could breathe again Jack was in front of her, all six feet plus of impressiveness, his scent of heat and man filling her nostrils. His hard body...there. The open-necked shirt revealing just a little of a tanned chest that she suddenly wanted to touch, his smile finally now almost blossoming.

The street seemed to fade out a little as her vision narrowed to just him. His hand was on her cheek, the lightness of his touch making her heart stutter. The intensity in his eyes causing her abdomen to contract with a need she hadn’t expected.

This was utter madness. A choc chip short of a cookie. How could she want to slap him and kiss him at the same time? He was pompous and a giant pain in the ass yet she wanted to kiss him.

No. No. No.

Yes.

No. This couldn’t be happening. But the more he looked at her, the more intense this urge to taste him grew.

‘What’s this?’ His hand had moved across her cheek. She should have walked away, but that glittering in his eyes made her legs refuse to move.

She found her voice, but it wasn’t her usual one. This was filled with desire, reedy, coarse. Husky. And speaking was difficult through a throat so dry and a mouth so wet. She ran a finger across her face and looked at the sparkles on her fingertips. ‘It’s gold dusting from the fairy castle. Wait, I’ll just wipe it off. I can’t believe I’ve been wearing it all evening and you didn’t mention it.’

‘Fairy dust? I like it. Let’s just say for once I do believe in fairies. Even if they are a little on the manic side. And possibly crazy. And definitely disorganised.’ His fingers closed around her hand and he pulled it away from her face. Then he stroked the glitter on her cheek.

Blood pounded in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, his finger touching her lips and stoking that need with an extra helping of urgency. His delicious dark voice whispered along her neckline, ‘I want to claim my prize and also win a bet with myself.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘That just for one second you will be still.’

He stepped closer and the scent of him caressed her, the sound of his ragged breathing stoked a fire in her belly. The heat in his eyes connected with something feral, something wild inside her. Her mouth watered at the thought of how he might taste. She put her hands out to keep a distance but her fingers curled into his shirt as if manipulated by some weird instinct that she just could not fight. ‘I can do still.’

‘Show me.’ Then his tongue licked along her bottom lip—and heck if she wasn’t frozen in place under his touch. Just the merest caress of his skin against hers had her anchored to the spot. All logic fled her brain and her body took over. Her eyes fluttered closed as that need swelled inside her. Hands held her shoulders as he dipped his head, his tongue moving over her mouth, gently teasing it open. Slowly. Achingly slowly. Every cell in her body jumped and danced but she didn’t move, not one inch, save for a stuttering breath and a heart that threatened to pound out of her chest.

Then, unable to resist any longer, she opened her mouth to him. He tasted of danger. Intense, unfettered heart-pounding danger. And, as if that was all the encouragement she needed, she pressed against him, deepening the kiss, arms curling around his neck, breasts brushing against that hard wall of muscle. His hands cupped her face, his kiss urgent but soft, taking and giving. But it was far from sweet. It was rash, it was hot, it was everything she expected from him—and yet so much more. His tongue stroked against hers and deep in her gut she burnt bright white heat, her belly tightened.

This was purely physical. Nothing more. But for once it was so good to feel the warmth of strong arms holding her, making her believe that for a small selfish moment she didn’t have to face everything on her own. Making her forget everything. Apart from this. Him.

His mouth traced a trail of kisses to her neck and she heard herself moan. Then he pulled her closer, groaning against her neck. The heat intensified to molten lava coursing through her body.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he murmured.

Upstairs. The old Cassie would have jumped at the chance. She was on the verge of agreeing when cold reality slammed through her. She had to go upstairs to the flat she could barely afford and make her peace with her spreadsheet. She could not invite a man into her space to distract her from her goal. However good a kisser he was. However much her hormones rallied against her in some kind of sexual guerrilla warfare.

And then she was pulling away, her brain a muddled blur of wants and shoulds and reasons not to. That had been one hell of a mind-melding kiss. All rational thought had abandoned her. ‘No. Look, I can’t. I need to go. Alone.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ And to be honest he looked a little unsettled too. Which gave her the tiniest amount of pleasure. Who’d have thought a kiss could rumple a man like Jack?

She sighed, rather too seductively for her liking because that was so not her intention. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. It’s not the right time.’ And if she was ever going to get involved with anyone in some parallel universe where she could actually trust a guy, it wouldn’t be him. It would be someone who didn’t do brackets, someone less bossy. Someone...her heart squeezed...no one.

‘I’m not looking for forever.’ The heat in his eyes began to dim. Fading. Fading...

She shrugged, wishing the light would dim inside her too, but it blazed too brightly. ‘Me neither. But I’m also not looking for this.’

And the light was gone...over and out. Stepping back, he shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘You sure about that? A kiss? Some fun?’

‘I’m sure. Totally sure. Definitely. Absolutely one hundred per cent sure.’ Once again she was saying words and hoping that she’d damn well soon believe them. Feel them.

He stood, mouth half smiling, with a bewildered look in his eyes which made him even more attractive. How easy it would be to take a chance. To say: to hell with everything. To kiss that confused look into something hotter and sexier and satiated.

So tempting to drag him up to her flat by the lapels and forget about the promises she’d made.

But she turned and forced her feet up the pale stone steps, let herself into her apartment and steadfastly refused to look out of the window to see if he was still standing there. Part of her secretly hoping he was still there—and wishing him gone at the same time. Pouring herself three large fingers of cooking brandy, she took a long drink to try to erase the delicious taste of him. Swallowed a handful of chocolate-coated cherries. The last delicious red velvet cupcake. Feta cheese squashed onto a cracker. God, if she carried on like this she wouldn’t fit into any of her clothes. Then she’d truly be the naked chef. Not a pretty prospect.

But it was no use. Jack was still there, with her, on her. There was no way she’d be able to make sense of those numbers on her spreadsheet now.

See? The infuriating man had messed up her timetable along with her resolve.

Looking around at her shabby but well-loved kitchen, she decided to do the only thing she knew that could relax her. So she set to work weighing and mixing, whisking egg whites and sugar and vanilla essence by hand until her arms hurt and she’d finally steadied her breathing. It took a while for her head to feel clearer and almost back to normal again as the scent of soft meringue cooking slowly in the oven filled the kitchen. But she knew it would take even longer to douse the heat zipping through her. She shouldn’t have let him walk her home. Shouldn’t have kissed him.




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