Unlike the cat, however, a well-thrown potato didn’t seem to bother the man at her side. If anything, he seemed to be hanging around.
“For a guy who almost lost his privates to a potato, you’re standing awfully close to a woman with a very sharp knife.”
“I live for danger,” he said. She glanced up, and something about the way his eyes glittered made her feel like she was the one likely to be in danger. And him a bridegroom. No wonder she’d given up on men.
“Okay, maybe we should start over.” She held out her right hand after carefully putting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Rachel Larraby. I’ll be catering your wedding.”
Chapter Three
He took her hand in his and shook it gravely. “Jack Flynt. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s not my wedding, actually. My sister is the one getting married. She’s out of the country, most conveniently, so I’ve had to come about the arrangements.”
Jack didn’t know what it was about this woman that intrigued him so much. But he knew himself well enough and he’d enjoyed women long enough that he never ignored the pull of attraction when he felt it. There was something about this woman with her lethal aim, and the wild hair that she’d tried to tuck out of the way under a cap, but which still curled provocatively. He wanted to pull out every one of those hairpins and run his hands through the richness.
Her eyes were brown with flecks of green and gold, her skin pale and smooth, and her mouth full-lipped and luscious. It was a mouth designed for savoring food, or kisses.
The knife-wielding cook was voluptuous, all right, as were the scents emanating from this kitchen. He liked her efficient movements and the way she was trying so unsuccessfully to hide her irritation at his entrance into her kitchen.
Even under the apron he could see her curvy body. It made him think of plenty. He’d known so many women on slimming diets that the words “Atkins,” “South Beach,” and “macrobiotic” made him want to track down the purveyors of diets and force-feed them butter, cream, and foie gras. Or better still, choke them on their brown rice cakes and meals in tins.
Rachel Larraby was obviously a woman who understood the intimate connection between food and pleasure. “Are you working on a catering job now?”
“No. The honest truth is that I am trying to get to know this kitchen. I’m starting small. Tonight I’m cooking dinner for Max and George and a couple of their friends.”
“I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner,” he said with the smoothness of a born salesman. He enjoyed the sudden widening of her eyes and the flash of awareness that told him he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction.
“I thought it was just George, Maxine, and one other couple.”
“But that would leave an uneven table,” he reminded her. “It’s much more interesting to have everybody paired up, don’t you think?”
She was looking at him as though she wasn’t entirely sure whether there was hidden meaning behind his words. Leaving her to ponder, he said a cheerful good-bye and strolled out to find his old school friend George and see about mooching an invitation to dinner.
He’d been irritated as hell with his spoiled little sister and her endless demands, but suddenly he was grateful to Chloe for introducing him to Rachel Larraby. As he emerged into sunshine, he passed an overfed, imperious-looking cat. He knelt to scratch its ears. The tabby rubbed itself against his legs and then headed for the kitchen door with its striped orange tail held high. “I wouldn’t cross that threshold if I were you, old chap.”
The cat didn’t seem to have any better idea of self-preservation than he had himself, so he watched the open doorway in some anticipation and was rewarded by the same shouted voice. “Oh, no, you don’t!” The potato that he had come to recognize came sailing out of the doorway, closely followed by the cat.
They strolled a little way together, he and the cat. Jack wasn’t much for the country, but it was difficult even for a Londoner like him not to appreciate the view. Gently rolling hills, green fields dotted with contented-looking sheep, a few cottages and outbuildings. The slow amble of a river curling around a stand of fine old trees, and in the center of all, the ancestral home. Hart House.
Where his lordship might be at this time of day, Jack had no idea, but he was fairly certain that if he kept walking, somebody somewhere could direct him.
In fact, it took him almost no time at all to locate George. He and Maxine were standing on the Palladian bridge that arched gracefully over the river. They were close enough to touch, and Jack was about to think better of intruding on such an intimate scene when he noticed that Maxine was holding a clipboard and gesturing with her cell phone.
Not love, then, but business which, since he was here on business himself, he felt entitled to interrupt.
After the usual insults, without which no Englishman could greet a friend, he said, “I’ve just been chatting up the wedding caterer.”
Maxine looked alarmed. “Oh, I wish I’d known you wanted to meet her. I’d have-”
“Warned her to be civil?”
Maxine’s pretty mouth turned down. “I’m really sorry. She hates being disturbed when she’s working. Was she awful?”
He thought about it. He’d been shouted at, pelted with a root vegetable, and threatened with a chef’s knife, all in under five minutes. “She was charming,” he said, thinking of the gorgeous smells in that kitchen, the curvy body under that apron, and the surprising pull of lust he’d encountered in a most unexpected place.
“Oh, good,” Maxine said, looking relieved. “Customer relations really aren’t her strong point but she’s a genius with food.”
Bless Maxine. He could have kissed her for giving him the opening he’d hoped for.
“I’d absolutely love to try her cooking sometime. It smelled completely amazing in there.”
Right, so he wasn’t going for subtle here. George, who’d known him for as long as almost anybody, raised one eyebrow and looked at him with suspicion. But Maxine jumped in with all that enthusiasm he loved about Americans.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? Rachel’s cooking a special meal for us tonight.”
“Oh, well.” He tried to appear surprised at the invitation. “I wouldn’t want to push myself in where I wasn’t wanted.”
“Nothing you’d like more,” George said.
Maxine chose to ignore the interruption. “Of course you should stay. You’ll be able to sample Rachel’s cooking and you can carry back an excellent report to the bride and groom. I wish they could have come down themselves.”
“I know. Believe me, so do I. If it weren’t my sister getting married, I wouldn’t be poncing about acting like a wedding planner.” He grimaced.
“Oh, come on. All she asked you to do was drive down here and make sure the setting is right for the tent.”
“Which you could have done by e-mail.”
“And we did, but she’s a bride. She’s entitled to be finicky on her big day.”
Maxine didn’t know Chloe. She had no clue that the tent placement was only the beginning. However, in the interest of a harmonious dinner he decided to spare her a better knowledge of his spoiled rotten sister. She’d find out for herself soon enough. If the wedding wasn’t going to cost a bloody fortune and he didn’t know that Hart House could use the money, he’d feel guilty. “Absolutely. One ought to have a final send-off before being doomed to nappies and nannies and boring your friends senseless hearing about your package holidays to Spain.”
Max snorted. “Another marriage hater. You should get together with Rachel.”
“I’d like that very much.”
Maxine seemed rather startled by his statement and looked at him doubtfully. “I’m sure you’re joking, but that’s a really bad idea.”
“Why? Is there something I should know about your sister?” He raised his hands in a questioning gesture. “She’s got a big burly boyfriend back in America, perhaps?” Maxine shook her head, and behind her, George merely rolled his eyes. He thought harder. Recalled the violent tendencies. “She hates men?”