Her Client from Hell Read online

  ‘Thanks. I mean it, really. Thank you for coming round.’ And for the kiss. Kisses. Hot damn, she was supposed to be avoiding more contact, not encouraging it.

  ‘My pleasure. But that…’ he pointed to the wall he’d pressed her against and for a moment she thought he might do it again, but his jaw clenched just a little and she got the impression his resolve was a lot stronger than hers when it needed to be ‘…that had better not happen again. I will help you work, then I’ll leave. You do not want to get involved with me.’

  ‘Who said involved?’ Strawberries and cream sounded just about right—a light snack, delicious and indulgent and with only a very short season. She had to admit the thought was very appealing.

  But he was right. She bumped back down to earth. A light snack never quite sated her appetite and always left her wanting more. Seemed her judgement went awry the second he was in the vicinity. ‘Don’t worry. Didn’t I already say I wasn’t looking for anything? I’m not that kind of girl.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked satisfied with her answer, but not necessarily convinced. ‘I don’t want either of us to get the wrong idea.’

  ‘No wrong idea here. A kiss doesn’t mean anything.’ She’d had lots of kisses before. Although none had affected her quite like his had. It felt as if there was something there between them—almost tangible. A something that could expand and become deeper. Something real.

  His voice lowered. ‘That didn’t mean anything? Really? If you say so, Cassie. But it is not happening again. Okay?’

  He ran his thumb over her bottom lip and the shock of his touch rippled through her again. That was real. Her response to him was real. The way he could see through her, into her, see what she needed and then provide it was real.

  It meant something.

  That was the problem. His problem.

  Fear slammed through her. He was right. There was something here that neither of them wanted. Needed.

  Real and downright terrifying. ‘Okay. I hear you.’

  His hand was reaching to the door. ‘Look, maybe this was a stupid idea. I’ll go. I’m sorry. Really, I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  Instead of twisting the doorknob, he raked his hand across the back of his neck. ‘Ah, I don’t know—you looked like you needed some help so I took a risk.’

  That would have been big for him. He’d taken a risk on kissing her too and now neither of them knew what to do. Because it would be a bigger risk to take things to the next level and that was something neither of them wanted. She needed another relationship disaster like she needed a hole in the head. And Jack had no commitment written all over him. He didn’t need a sign on his forehead; it was just there in his eyes.

  So he regretted it already. Rash and hot and stupid. All the things she had definitely not put on her to-do list.

  What she did know was that if she didn’t make something good between them now then the next time she saw him it would be too embarrassing, too mortifying. He might even decide things were too difficult and not use her catering services. So she couldn’t afford not to keep him on side. She just had to stop kissing him.

  Trying to lighten the mood, she kept the tone casual. ‘Okay, well, if you’ve come all this way to be my kitchen slave I’ve got four dozen fruit kebabs spoiling upstairs while we dither about here. Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He huffed out a long breath and seemed relieved that things were getting back to a non-kissing controlled normal.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely, because now you owe me. Time is money, you know, and I can’t waste it deliberating with you. We have work to do.’ Turning her back, she put a foot on the bottom stair, wondering if she turned round again she’d see the door closing and him gone. ‘Last one upstairs does the washing-up. And, believe me, I’ve used every darned pot in the house.’

  ‘Okay. You’re on. But you have to know, I run marathons just for fun.’

  That explained the exquisite musculature she’d felt as she’d straddled him. God. She didn’t know if her woeful self-control could last an hour. ‘No one runs marathons for fun. We’ll go on my count of three. One, two…’ And she was off, leaving his laughter and calls of ‘cheat’ behind her.

  No doubt Mr Fabulous lived in an expensive house with beautiful things—his address certainly screamed desirable—but hers was more comfortable. Okay, shabby, with its mismatched and borrowed furniture. Nevertheless, she loved her apartment, its location and potential, and had filled it with the most vibrant things she could find. Things that made her happy. Interesting things that made her smile. Although, looking at it through Jack’s eyes, she thought maybe she’d gone a little too rainbow and not enough beige.

  No. There was never a call for beige.

  Jack shielded his eyes as he peered into the lounge. ‘Whoa. Have you got a pair of shades I could borrow?’

  ‘It has life. Energy. And I love it.’ She picked up a bright turquoise shawl she used as a throw and folded it along the arm of her plaid sofa. ‘Everything in here has a story attached to it. I had grand plans to do the interior design thing but I’m focusing my money in another direction.’ Decorating and furnishings had gone down the same gurgler as financial security the day he who shall not be named had left town. And if that wasn’t a salient enough reminder not to get involved she didn’t know what was. The faint tinge of the battles she’d fought ever since coated her words. But she was winning them. Slowly but surely. ‘So I had to buy furniture from the market or second-hand shops. But you can get some really fun things from there.’

  ‘I said it was bright; I didn’t say I don’t like it. It has character. But then I wouldn’t expect anything less coming from you.’

  ‘It’s not to everyone’s taste.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  SIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But clearly not for Cassie. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like all of the above.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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