“Well, sort of.” Max had her brow furrowed and looked both helpless and concerned in true sisterly fashion.
An awful thought occurred to him. “She’s not a lesbian, is she?” Oh, please let her not be a lesbian. He thought of all that glorious hair on the sexy woman he’d glimpsed beneath the apron and the attitude. There was nothing he hated more than finding an attractive, interesting woman was out of bounds, not because she preferred another bloke, but because she preferred another gender.
“You should probably stay away from my sister.”
And with that Maxine walked past him in the direction of the kitchen.
He climbed onto the ancient bridge and stood beside George, staring moodily at the slow-moving river beneath them. “Bad luck, that, her turning out to be a lesbian.”
His old friend glanced sideways. “You really are a daft prick.”
“What do you mean?” Renewed interest sparked. “She’s available after all?”
“Maybe you should do us all a favor and forget about Rachel. Maxine’s right. She’s one woman you should stay away from.”
George had known him too long to think he’d stay away from a woman because he was warned off without any reason. But he’d also known George long enough to realize there was no more to be got out of him on the subject.
Odd. Very odd. Oh, well, the mysterious hints only made him more curious to get to know Rachel better. “I’m looking forward to tasting Rachel’s cooking. I understand from Maxine that she’s a first-rate chef.”
“Yes. She was head chef at a top L.A. restaurant, but it closed. Good reviews couldn’t save it. Our luck, though. And your sister’s, having a woman like that catering her wedding.”
“I’d better run over to the pub and see about getting a bottle for tonight.”
George waved him off. “We’ll pull something out of the cellar.” Since the Hart House cellars were legendary, Jack didn’t argue. “And if we’re dipping into the cellars, you’d better not drive back to London. Stay the night.”
Jack glanced at the huge manor looming behind them. “If you’re sure there’s room.”
“I’m sure we can find you a suitable garret somewhere. I’ll lend you some pajamas and a toothbrush.”
“Don’t bother. I keep a packed overnighter in the boot of the car. Saves time if I’ve got to run over to the continent.”
“Blimey, I wouldn’t mind your life.”
Jack blinked and gestured to the view. “You didn’t do too badly.” But he knew he wouldn’t trade with George. He liked his London address, his frequent visits abroad, his uncomplicated lifestyle.
This time when Rachel heard movement in the doorway, she didn’t launch a grenade. Instead she turned with a scowl, but she was also ready with a spray bottle of water in case it was the damn cat again.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when her sister walked in, looking more like a model presenting Madison Avenue’s idea of the country than someone who actually lived among grass and sheep and five-hundred-year-old barns.
“You weren’t rude to the brother of an important customer, were you?”
For some reason she’d expected better of her recent unwanted guest, but he was a man, of course he’d disappoint. “Is that what he said?”
“No, he said you were charming, which naturally made me suspicious.”
Rachel grinned in spite of herself. One point for Jack Flynt. “I wasn’t exactly charming, but he certainly was.”
“I know. He’s famous for it.” Maxine grabbed a potato and found a second peeler. Rachel moved over, so they worked side by side at the sink.
At first it was peaceful and companionable, but, like all big sisters, Maxine couldn’t help dishing out a load of unwanted advice. Rachel could tell from the way Max glanced at her under her lashes that “what you should/shouldn’t do” was on its way.
“Jack asked me a lot of questions about you. He seemed…interested.”
Rachel was mildly flattered, though not surprised. There’d been that weird thing between them and she knew he’d felt it, too. “What did you tell him?”
“To stay away from you.”
“Spoken like a protective big sister.”
“The thing is…” For a few moments there was no sound but the scrape of peelers against vegetables. “His nickname is Union Jack. You know why?”
“Please tell me it’s got nothing to do with flagpoles.”
Max giggled. “Well, he must have something remarkable. He goes out with loads of women, gorgeous, amazing women. Most of whom go on to marry other men. He’s always in wedding parties, but he never gets married himself. That’s why they call him Union Jack.”
Rachel went back to her potato. “So he doesn’t believe in marriage?”
“George doesn’t think he’ll ever tie the knot. You know how men are with that ‘last bachelor standing’ crap.”
Rachel wasn’t interested in discussing the commitment-phobic ways of all men. Only of one. “So all he wants from these women is sex?”
“I don’t know that for a fact, but as you so astutely pointed out, he is a man.”
Rachel had pushed her attraction to Jack aside as nothing but one more irritation in a life that seemed full of them recently. But maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t one more trial sent to test her, but the answer to her dilemma. A hot English guy who wanted nothing but sex?
She was an undersexed, unemployed, depressed woman in need of a change, a spark. Some excitement. In an instant she saw that what she most craved was a crazy, self-indulgent fling. A love-’em-and-leave-’em holiday affair that would end when she boarded her plane home.
How much more perfect could Jack Flynt be?
“He’s staying for dinner tonight,” Maxine said.
“Yes, I know.”
“So, you’re okay with it?”
Rachel tried to conceal the fact that she was feeling more excitement at this moment than she’d felt since the early days with Cal. Back when she’d still believed in happily ever after. Now she believed she was owed a little fun after all the years of Cal and the restaurant. Fun should be like back pay coming to her, with interest. She had a sneaking suspicion Jack Flynt was exactly the man for the job.
“Yes,” she said, thinking about that rangy, athletic body, the come-to-bed eyes, the sizzle on her skin when he gazed at her. “I’m okay with it.”
“Really?”
She sent her sister a look. “Union Jack will balance the numbers. I hate it when the boy-girl quotient is uneven.”
Max gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m glad to see you. I missed you.”
“Me, too. And you know what else I’ve missed?”
“My excellent, sisterly, levelheaded advice?”
“That, and raiding your wardrobe.” Rachel glanced down at herself. “I’ve put on weight, but I think I can still squeeze into your clothes.” She nudged up against her sister. “Or die trying.”
Chapter Four
Rachel didn’t normally dress for dinner. Usually she wore something lovely in white, decorated with food stains, and-adorning her hair net-a chef’s hat. She’d cooked a lot of fine meals in the last few years, but it had been rare for her to dress up and join the party.
Maxine was right. She needed to get off her ass and get back to living. And having an irresistible commitment-phobe checking her out was exactly the push she needed.
Jack was staying for dinner, which she strongly suspected meant he was staying the night.
Rachel subscribed to the theory that if music was the food of love, then food was the fuel of sex. She should have realized, when she discovered she wasn’t musical, that love wasn’t for her. In her world, Red Hot Chili Peppers added bite to a fresh salsa and Black Eyed Peas were excellent done with tarragon and butter. Food was her gift, her talent, her favorite method of seduction.