British Bad Boys

Chapter One

To: chefgal@hotmail.com

From: Maxinelarraby@Harthouse.org

Subject: I know you’re there!

Message: Hey, sis. We’re worried about you. Mom says she hasn’t seen you for weeks, and you sound weird on the phone. Yeah, yeah, I know, but nobody else has seen you either. Possibilities. 1. You’re seeing a hot new guy and you haven’t crawled out of bed in weeks. 2. You’re depressed. Which makes perfect sense given that your divorce became final and they closed the restaurant a couple of weeks later. Pissy timing, huh?

Let me know what’s up. Miss you.

TTFN, Max

To: Maxinelarraby@harthouse.org

From: chefgal@hotmail.com

Subject: I’m fine

Rachel Larraby paused and looked at her subject line. Should she add an exclamation mark after fine? Or would snarky punctuation make her older sister suspicious?

She looked down at herself and was glad she’d never invested in one of those Internet cameras. She really didn’t want designer Max to see her like this. Her comfy sweatshirt was a pretty accurate food diary for the last couple of weeks. There was a Thai noodle, desiccated and lonely, rather like Rachel herself; there was the tea stain from where she’d fallen asleep watching an I Love Lucy episode. There a blob of chocolate from where she’d laughed so hard at a Seinfeld rerun she’d dropped the chocolate out of her mouth. Not one of her finest moments. Day-Glo orange Doritos dust, butter smears from popcorn, an unidentifiable foodstuff she suspected had once adorned a pizza. The old UCLA sweatpants that had been Cal ’s weren’t in much better shape. Still, she was showering daily and brushing her teeth regularly. She even took her vitamins every morning. She was fine.

Mostly.

Don’t worry about me. I’m catching up on my sleep and hanging out at the beach.

How’s England?

Luv, Rach

Maxine Larraby cried out, “I knew it!”

“Knew what, darling?” George asked, coming up behind her at the computer and kissing the nape of her neck.

“My sister is a mental case.”

“Every family has one. My uncle Cecil takes my aunt Winifred everywhere with him.”

Maxine stared at the screen as though she could see all the way to L.A. and her sister. “So?”

“She was cremated. In 1966. He has a lovely box for her-Georgian silver, I believe, with her favorite poem engraved on the lid. A Shakespearean sonnet, but it’s a bit disconcerting to people who aren’t used to the pair of them, such as the staff of restaurants. And the family. I once sat on poor old Aunt Winnie at Christmas dinner. Caused a fearful row and put me right off my roast goose.”

“Rachel’s not that kind of mental case. She’s depressed.”

George read over her shoulder, leaning in so she smelled his skin and felt the warmth of him. “She says she’s hanging out at the beach. That doesn’t sound very depressed.”

“Rachel hates the beach and she gets hives if she sits in the sun. That’s what worries me the most. If she had to lie, couldn’t she make up something I might believe? No,” she said, rising. “This has gone on long enough. That e-mail is a cry for help. We’ll have to stage an intervention.”

George blinked at her, his sexy blue eyes wary. “But what are you going to do? We’re in England, love. She’s in America.”

He had a point. What were they going to do?

“She’d be okay if it was only the divorce, but losing the restaurant at the same time has taken away her natural outlet for stress.”

George nodded. “I feel for her. I remember how awful it was losing my father and then having to give up my job in London to come down here and run this place with all its responsibilities and debts.”

“Still, at least you had Hart House. You had a purpose. That’s what Rachel needs. She’s passionate about her work,” she said, pacing. “She needs to cook, she needs a change of scene, a new start.” She snapped her fingers. “She needs to come here, George. I’m sure Arthur would give her a job at the pub. She’s a brilliant chef.”

“You can’t have an American cooking English pub food,” George argued.

“Why not?”

“It’s not seemly.”

“She’ll be in the kitchen. Who’ll know?”

“You must be joking. Everyone in the village will find out. No, really, Max.”

She swung around. “ Cal ’s been gone a whole year and she’s not moving on. At all. At least she had her work. Now, the restaurant’s closed. Every time I talk to her she has a harder time faking that she’s fine. She is not fine. Traveling here would do her good, and besides, I miss her.”

“Fair enough. Have her to stay. We’ve got loads of bedrooms. She won’t be in the way.”

“She needs work, a sense of purpose. She needs to cook.”

“Well.” He spread his hands in a reasonable way. “She can cook for us.”

“Rachel needs a real job that earns real money.” She turned to him. “Come on. It would only be for a few months. Please?”

“Stop looking at me with those melting eyes. It’s not working.”

But his mouth was having trouble remaining serious and she knew she had him. In the months she’d known George, she’d yet to find an argument that couldn’t be resolved between them. She walked up to him and put her arms around his neck. “You know, for an earl you’re pretty damn sexy.”

“I’ll speak to Arthur. That’s all I can promise.” Then he bent her back over the desk, and had begun showing her exactly how sexy he could be when the phone rang.

“Ignore it,” George mumbled against her skin. His lips and tongue were seducing her whole body by kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. His hand was already sneaking under her shirt, headed north for her breasts. Knowing the service would pick up, she ignored the ringing until it stopped, putting her arms around George’s neck and kissing him until they were both breathing hard.

Wiggins’s heavy tread could be heard crossing the foyer, so George slipped his hand out of her shirt, took a step back, and said, “My friend Jack’s sister Chloe wants to have her wedding here.”

George was so smooth it was obvious he’d been used to having servants around all his life. She was still having trouble adapting. But she was learning. She hauled herself upright and pushed a hand through her hair. When Wiggins walked past the open door of the office, she said in a voice that was only the tiniest bit husky, “Fantastic. Will it be a big, expensive wedding?”

“Should be. She’s marrying an Italian ski racer. His family owns half the Italian Alps. Pots of money.”

“Perfect,” she said, forgetting sex at the prospect of making more of the money they needed to pay off the bank debt. “Oh, but if we’re doing a wedding for people like that, we’re going to have to do something about the catering. We can’t have those clowns we hired the last time. That mother-and-son duo from the next village. We’ll have to-” She stopped midsentence and smacked herself in the forehead. “Rachel!”

Rachel’s intercom buzzed, waking her up from her second nap of the afternoon. Soon, this laziness would really have to stop. One more week, she promised herself. Then she’d go out, start assimilating back into society. Think about another job.

She dragged herself off the couch. Must be the groceries she’d ordered by phone.

The thing was, she’d already had offers to work again. By e-mail, by phone message, by mail. All so far unanswered. She didn’t want to work for someone else and risk losing another restaurant. If only one of those calls, letters, or e-mails said, “Here’s a couple million bucks. Open your own place. Pay us back when you can.” That message she’d have answered.

She let the delivery guy up, and when he got to her door she peeked through the peephole. She didn’t recognize him, but he wore a uniform. She opened the door with the chain on it. “Yes?”

Now she recognized the uniform. It was a courier holding not groceries but an envelope. He was cute, with sun-streaked hair and a fresh scrape on his knee. Surfer boy/courier guy. “Is that a check for two million?”

“If it is,” he said, “can I get your number?”

She managed a laugh, unhooked the chain, and took the envelope. Checked the address and wished she could reverse time far enough to ignore the door. Max + special delivery package = bad news.

She considered throwing the envelope away unopened, but with her bossy, tenacious sister, avoidance was pointless.

Inside the package was a plane ticket to London and a letter. There wasn’t much in the way of chitchat.

Dear Rachel,

I miss you, and need a favor. I’ll tell you when you get here. Don’t even think about not coming. Mom and Dick are going to drive you to the airport.

If you’re not packed when they get there, Mom will pack for you. You don’t want that to happen.

There is no escape.

Love, Max.

Rachel fingered the ticket.

She could be bitchy about the fact that her big sister was interfering-again. Or she could appreciate that Max had gone to a lot of trouble for her, and she missed her.

Besides, she could use a holiday. The first spark of excitement she’d felt in weeks flashed through her. Oh, what the hell? Maybe it was time to get off the couch.

A carefree vacation in an English mansion was exactly what she needed.

Chapter Two

“You didn’t tell me you were marrying Hugh Grant.” Rachel and Maxine were having tea served in dainty china cups while they sat curled up on an overstuffed couch in a bright sunny room of Hart House and munched the Oreos that Rachel had brought from home, since they were Maxine’s favorite cookie in the world and she doubted Maxine could buy them in England.

“He does look sort of like Hugh Grant, doesn’t he? It’s the eyes, I think.”

Rachel narrowed her own eyes. “So you are marrying him. I knew it.”

“We haven’t decided anything yet,” Max said, trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant, but her heightened color and extra sparkle gave her away. Then she dropped the airy pretense and complained, “Anyway, you could at least sound happy about the possibility of your sister getting married.”

“Marriage is a patriarchal institution designed to enslave women.”

But Max had known her longer and better than anyone on the planet, and she wasn’t buying it. “You picked the wrong guy, Rach. You made a mistake. It happens.”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “Getting divorced and losing the restaurant was a lot of failure for one year.”

“I know. And we don’t take failure well.” Max hugged her, something they hadn’t done much of since they’d both grown up. It was nice, Rachel thought, hugging her back. “So,” her sister said, all girlish and un-Max, “do you like him?”

“Hugh Grant? I adored him in Love, Actually.”

Her sister’s glare sent her back to childhood. “George, moron.”

Somehow discussing a distant movie star was a lot easier than talking about a man who could become part of her family. “He seems very nice,” she said slowly. Seems being the important word there. It was the character lurking underneath the charming veneer that counted, as she knew from bitter experience.

Rachel had been looking forward to a relaxing vacation, but now it seemed she was also here to check out Max’s prospective husband. Right now, that seemed like too big a job. Okay, so she hadn’t worked in two months. Hadn’t done much of anything but catch up on soaps she hadn’t seen since college. It was amazing how you could pick up the story lines again. She’d watched and rewatched classic movies and sitcoms, reread her entire collection of Sherlock Holmes, Anne of Green Gables, and the Harry Potter series which she’d somehow missed. With cable TV, online bill paying, and a grocery store and restaurants that delivered, she’d hunkered down in her apartment for weeks. The final divorce papers were in her filing cabinet under D, for disaster.

She’d still be in her pajamas surrounded by junk food and watching the classic movie channel if it weren’t for Max.

Bossy, pushy, never-give-an-inch Max.

“George is nice, but I want you to get to know him better.” She pulled another cookie out of the bag. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Don’t be. I’m a mess. Your butler wanted to send me round to the servants’ entrance when he saw me.”

“Wiggins doesn’t approve of trousers on women,” Max said in a stern British accent, pointing to Rachel’s jeans.

Rachel snorted. “You’re kidding me.”

“No. He’s a sweetie when you get to know him, though.”

“It’s not only the jeans,” she said, looking down at herself. “I’m a total wreck.”

“Maybe you’re a little pale, and your hair, it’s so…”

“I look like shit. I know,” Rachel said, pushing the tangle of dark brown over her shoulder, as though she might be able to minimize the disaster if she hid it from sight.

Her sister didn’t argue with her about her looks. “I’m not used to it being so long. When did you last have a haircut?”

“When I had a regular paycheck.”

They’d always been different, she and Max. She was the one who worked summers at the deep fryer at Kentucky Fried Chicken while Max worked in the showroom of their uncle Wilf’s car dealership. When they got older, they stayed different. While she was in chef school learning how to remove the intestines from scampi, debone a chicken, and make stock from the bones and yucky parts, Max was taking the communications program at Berkley, after which she slid right into the glamorous world of television.

Now Max was a respected producer with a great wardrobe living in a castle with a guy who was in spitting distance of being an honest-to-God prince.

And she, Rachel, was unemployed, divorced, and suffering from a bad hair millennium.

“Well,” her sister said, in a brisk voice Rachel knew from experience would be full of plans, “now you’re here, we’ll get you all fixed.”

Listening to her made Rachel tired. She stifled a yawn.

“We’ll get your hair done. I found a fantastic place in London.”

“ London. You go to London to get your hair cut?”

“It’s not that far. A couple of hours on the train. There’s nowhere nearer. Trust me.”

“Maybe I’ll be okay with my hair. I’m thinking of growing it,” she lied. Mostly, she’d been avoiding anything more strenuous than pressing the remote with her thumb and crawling to the freezer for more ice cream.

As though she’d read her thoughts, Max said, “Your skin looks sort of pasty. Have you been eating properly?”

And, out of nowhere, irritation spurted. “No, I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been holed up in my apartment scarfing junk food. I’m a chef, and I can’t even be bothered to cook for myself. I cry at commercials-and not the long distance phone ones everybody cries at. I found myself in tears when the woman with her first job bought herself a Saturn. I feel like my skin is breakable.” She leaned back into the couch until she was staring up at the ancient ceiling. “I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

“We’ll get that fixed, too.” Max reached over and patted Rachel’s knee briskly. “You’re going to be a lot happier when you start work.”

“If anybody still remembers me when I get back home.” She thought of the now-defunct restaurant where she’d invested so much of herself and let a scowl settle on her face.

“I was thinking you might do some cooking while you’re here.”

Rachel had known that I-know-what’s-best-for-you expression too long to be fooled by it. “I’d be happy to cook dinner for you and George.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a professional gig.”

“I came here for a rest.”

“Mom says you’ve been ‘resting’ since the restaurant closed.”

“Mom should mind her own business.”

“Rach, we’re worried about you.”

“Well, don’t. Apart from the small breakdown, I’m fine. I’m free. Free of that phony bastard I married, and free of eighteen-hour shifts.”

“The restaurant closing wasn’t your fault,” Max said gently.

“No. I know. Bad luck, bad management. Owners who didn’t have the same commitment.” But if it wasn’t her fault, then why did she feel like such an abject failure?

Max took the last Oreo and offered it to Rachel, who shook her head. Around the cookie, Max said, “Your reviews were fantastic, your food is amazing.”

“Thanks.”

Of course, despite having grilled her about her professional life, Max wasn’t nearly done torturing her. After finishing the cookie she said, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“You mean like a man?” The entire notion revolted her. She didn’t think she’d go out with a guy for a couple of years, at least. And as for weddings! She’d developed a severe allergy to tulle, cakes with pillars between the layers, and vellum stationary. Max, with the chorus of Ave Maria playing in her head, was not good company.

“I meant like a therapist.”

“I’m not crazy.” Though secretly she thought she must have been to marry Cal, and throw her heart and soul into a restaurant that wasn’t hers.

“I know you’re not crazy. I think you’re depressed.”

Rachel picked at the end of her thumbnail. “You’d be depressed, too.”

“I know. That’s why I have a therapist on speed dial.”

“You lived in L.A. too long.” But, amazingly, Rachel was smiling. It must have been a while since she’d tried it because her smile muscles felt lax and out of shape. Kind of like the rest of her.

“Anyway, now that you’re here, we’ll have fun, you’ll rest, but George is trying so hard to make this estate pay for itself that he takes in catering jobs. It would be so great if you could help out-”

That was fair. If her possible future brother-in-law and host needed catering help, it wouldn’t kill her. “I’ll do anything but weddings.”

If Maxine’s dominant quality was persuasiveness, Rachel’s was stubbornness, and she glared at her sister.

Outside, two volunteer docents walked by sharing an umbrella.

“The catering job I’m thinking of is to celebrate a merger,” Max said.

Max had been in TV long enough for Rachel to be suspicious. “What kind of merger?”

“Look, it’s a dinner reception for a hundred people. You worry about the food. You can do something absolutely amazing. They won’t believe your food.”

“What kind of merger?”

“Two separate entities becoming one.”

“Will there be champagne involved?”

“I think champagne is very likely.”

“A multilayered cake with two tiny people perched on top, perhaps?”

Max made a face. “I hope they have more imagination.”

“It’s a wedding.” Rachel shot to her feet. “I don’t do weddings!”

“Honey, you’ve got to get back on the horse.”

“Get on a horse? I’m supposed to get on a horse? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that your marriage is over, and I’m really, really sorry Cal turned out to have loose morals even by L.A. standards. But you can’t give up on all weddings.”

“Getting back on the horse after Cal left would be having sex again, not catering weddings. And for your information I have already done that.”

Max was staring at her. “You had sex and didn’t tell me?”

She flapped a hand. “Completely forgettable. I just needed to ride a different horse.”

“Who was he?”

“Friend of a friend. Like I said, no big deal.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

Max was suddenly grinning like a fool. “ England has excellent horses.”

Rachel spent three days getting the kitchen cleaned, organized, and stocked exactly as she wanted it. She’d been in England two weeks, and amazingly she was starting to feel better. The smell of crisp apples ready to be picked stirred her senses when she walked around the estate. The scents of lavender, rosemary, and thyme lay heavy in the autumn sunshine bathing the kitchen garden, and her hands itched to cook.

If Max was going to make her cater events then she was going to have the kitchen as efficient as possible. She’d brought her favorite chef’s knife with her, the one tool she hated to be without. Vaguely, she’d imagined cooking a few meals for Maxine and Earl George, never that she’d be catering a wedding. But holding out against Max at the best of times was tough. When she was emotionally pathetic, it was hopeless. In fact, there were lots of catering jobs large and small she could do while she was here, and after she’d heard about the mother-and-son catering disaster, she knew she had to step in and help her sister. On some level she even understood she needed to do this for her own healing.

The knife was lightweight Japanese steel and fit her hand so well it was like an extension of her fingers. The rest of the knives at Hart House were German, and so dull she’d made Max drive her into town this morning to get them sharpened.

A mistake she wouldn’t be making again anytime soon. How had she forgotten that Maxine couldn’t talk and drive at the same time in the States, never mind while driving on the opposite side of the road?

She shuddered in memory. She was hot, frazzled, had seen her life pass before her eyes too many times today, and had discovered something called a roundabout, a traffic circle of hell. She wished she hadn’t picked today to offer to cook for Maxine and George because Maxine had trilled her excitement and run off to invite a few friends.

The produce she’d discovered at a local greengrocer’s lay before her, along with the perfectly ripe soft cheese from the cheese shop. Marinating in the fridge was lamb so local she didn’t want to think about it too closely.

Somebody who’d cooked here recently had let the big orange cat who paraded around the place make a nuisance of itself. Rachel did not allow cats in her kitchen, but this old tabby was acting like the kitchen was his and if she fed him enough tidbits, he might consider letting her stay.

It was hot, too hot to close the door that led to a small yard and then the kitchen garden.

Still, she was cooking again. The knife felt like a forgotten lover back in her arms, the vegetables and fruits and fresh herbs scattered before her were like paints ready to be mixed and, by her hands, turned into art.

Some of her black mood drained and she found herself falling into the rhythms that gave her life work and made her work pleasure. While she prepared a sauce for the lamb, she mentally worked out the timeline for table service and made a list of the wines she’d need.

That done, she moved to the homelier task of peeling veggies. When she thought about how many aspiring chefs had fought for the sous chef jobs in her restaurant, she smiled to herself. How far the mighty had fallen. She didn’t really mind, though. The rhythm of the movements, the scrape of peeler on carrot, the smell of vegetables and herbs fresh from the earth pleased her.

The scrape of gravel informed her she had a visitor and her moment of Zen tranquility vanished. Damn cat.

“Out!” she yelled, determined to get rid of that infernal mooch once and for all. She grabbed a potato from the tile counter and threw it hard, high enough that it wouldn’t actually hit the cat, but simply let the animal know that her kitchen was out of bounds.

In fact, she discovered that she’d pitched the potato exactly at crotch height of a tall man when she heard a distinctly human oomph and spun around.

His instincts were quick, at least. He had his hands crossed over his privates as the missile hit the cupped backs of his hands and bounced to the floor with a hollow plop.

For a stunned second there was utter silence. She stood there, staring at a rangy, athletic man with close-cropped hair and a lean, intelligent face, with his hands crossed over his crotch. Slowly, he removed his hands and straightened.

“Unmanned by a spud,” the man said, looking down at the potato, which had rolled, as though embarrassed by its bad temper, under the butcher’s block.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were the cat,” Rachel said.

“Ah, that explains it.” He had a cultured voice. Crisper than George’s, though. More BBC America announcer than royal family. Sharp gray eyes, she noticed, and hair that would curl if he didn’t keep it so short. An athlete’s build. As she replayed the protective move with his hands, she realized she’d seen that same posture during shoot-outs in soccer games.

He was looking at her as though wondering whether he dared cross the threshold. Smart guy.

“This is the private part of the house,” she said, glad Max had warned her about the tourists who sometimes got lost. “The old kitchen is in the next building, around the corner. Do you want me to show you?”

“No, thank you. I came to see you.”

He looked at her with those heavy-lidded gray eyes, and for the first time since Cal Moody had broken her heart, she felt the stirring of…something. A little of that male-female thing that always led to no good in her experience.

“You came to see me?” she repeated stupidly.

“About the wedding. I understand from Maxine that you’ll be doing the catering.”

“Right, the wedding.” She picked up a carrot and attacked it with the peeler.

Her unwanted visitor knelt to the ground and picked up the potato, then walked briskly forward and placed it beside her. “Do I detect a certain animosity toward the upcoming happy event?”

Silently, she marveled at the sheer number of words guys like George and this dude needed to say the simplest things. She also reminded herself to remain silent about her feelings referring to the upcoming “happy event.” George and Max needed the money and it was up to her to make sure the catering was superb. That was all she had to do. So she forced herself to look up and try to keep her expression pleasant. She’d always stayed in the background of food preparation for good reason. She hated dealing with the customers.

“I’m sure the event will be so happy it will do cartwheels. I promise the food will be good.” And she went back to her carrot.

He rolled the potato back and forth under his fingers as though it were a bumpy and rather dirty marble. She couldn’t help noticing his hands. He had great hands. They looked tough and strong, like a fighter’s-or a chef’s. Better on a man than a woman. Hers were so scarred, burned, and generally mistreated that she never drew attention to them. On a guy, though, the roughed-up hands looked good-sexy. For a blind moment she imagined those hands on her, and then snapped herself out of her inappropriate sexual reverie.

What was wrong with her? She must be crazier than she thought.

She felt that he was watching her and wished fervently it had been the cat who’d intruded on her kitchen.

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?”

“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.

So she wasn’t in her restaurant with the professional sous chefs and servers; she’d prepared a simple but perfect meal and the ancient Homestead de George did have servants. She had everything ready, instructions for Mrs. Brimacombe, the regular cook, and a couple of hours to get herself ready.

What a blessing to sit down to her own meal and not in her chef’s garb. Even better, raiding Maxine’s closet was like a trip to Saks or Barneys, without any need of a credit card.

“Can I really choose anything?” This was said for form’s sake, while she and her sister stood in front of a loaded wardrobe. She and Max had shared clothes forever.

“Since when did you have to ask?”

“Since you started dressing so much better than I do. The chances that you’ll be borrowing anything of mine are remote.”

Max’s country attire today consisted of a pair of Rock & Republic jeans that hugged a body in much better shape than Rachel’s, a Stella McCartney shirt in turquoise worn with chunky beads, and, adorning her feet, a pair of black Marc Jacobs flats. Her makeup hadn’t smudged, her hair didn’t frizz. Rachel knew she must be a very good person to be able to love her sister.

“Looks like I’ve gone up a size and you’ve gone down one.” She looked at the gorgeous array of booty and pouted. “Probably nothing in here will fit anyway.”

“Nonsense. Neither of us have changed that much. You haven’t gained weight, you stopped working out. Besides, you’ve always had the curves in the family.”

Rachel turned to look at herself in Maxine’s full-length mirror and pulled her T-shirt tight against her belly. “I’ve been having a three-way affair with Ben, Jerry, and that cute European, Häagen-Dazs.” She sighed and dove into the glorious bounty.

“You’re already feeling better, aren’t you? Admit it. Coming to England was a great idea.”

She pulled out a black Dolce & Gabbana dress with tiny, expensive-looking white polka dots. “It was a great idea.”

She put the dress back and withdrew a suede skirt softer than melting butter. The label was in Italian. “TV sure pays better than chefing.”

Max watched her for a few minutes from the bed, then rose and gently nudged her aside. The wardrobes here hadn’t been built with Max’s clothing in mind and there certainly wasn’t room for two to stand abreast.

Max pushed a few things aside and reached for a loose wine-colored velvet jacket with gold stitching. It had a sexy elegance to it that was still relaxed. “There’s a skirt that goes with it, all loose and ethnic, and I wear it with these boots.”

“It’s so…” Rachel was almost speechless. “It’s so romantic and sexy.”

“I know. The color will look great with your skin tone and hair, don’t you think?”

“My hair is a disaster.”

“No, it’s not. It’s long and needs a trim and styling. But we can make you gorgeous until we get to the salon. I always liked your hair long.”

“I cut it for work.”

“Now you can let it grow if you want.” She shoved the clothes at Rachel. “Try everything on. Oh, here’s the blouse.”

It was something out of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, that blouse. All falling lace and soft linen. Victorian boho.

She yanked off her jeans and shirt and pulled on the clothes in a rush.

Max shook her head.

“What?”

“Watching you throw yourself into an outfit actually hurts me. It’s how you would feel if you witnessed a diner bolt your carefully prepared food like it was a Big Mac.”

Rachel grinned at her. “You were always the clotheshorse. Not me. Anyhow, I’m in a hurry to see it all on.”

They looked together as she preened in front of the mirror. Maybe the button was a little snug on the skirt, but otherwise the outfit could have been made for her. The rich wine color made her eyes glow and brought out the highlights in her hair. Her skin didn’t look so pasty now. It looked like old-fashioned porcelain. The style suited her, too. Loose and relaxed, but sexy. She turned in the mirror, letting the skirt sway. “I love it.”

“You look fabulous. Now, I insist that you spend some quality time in your bathroom with creams, cosmetics, and bath products.” Her sister’s forehead creased in sudden concern. “You do have decent makeup, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “You got some expert to do me over for that photo shoot in Gourmet, remember? And then you bought me all the products for my birthday.”

“Right.” Max’s eyes twinkled. “I’m a good sister, huh?”

“When you don’t make me want to kill you? You’re the best.”

“As soon as you’re ready, come back and I’ll do your hair for your big dinner date tonight.”

She bent to pull off the boots. “Why are you doing this? You just warned me about Jack and now you’re wrapping me up like a Christmas gift.”

Max inspected her nails. Then glanced up. “Truth?”

“No. I want you to lie to me like you usually do.”

Her sister took a breath. “The truth is you’ve seemed happier since he wandered into your kitchen than you have since you got here. I’ve told you what he’s like. You’re a big girl and can make your own decisions.”

Sometimes Rachel forgot how perceptive her sister was. She walked over and perched beside her on the bed. “I won’t break my heart over him.”

“Of course not.”

She traced a unicorn in the blue tapestry bedspread. “But I might be interested in some uncomplicated vacation sex.”

Max stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Like I said, England has a fine tradition of turning out studs.”

“So you’re not going to give me a hard time about this?”

“As your big sister, I reserve that right into perpetuity.”

Rachel felt suddenly and unaccountably misty. “I have missed you so much,” she said, throwing her arms around Maxine.

“Me, too.” They hugged tightly. “Everything’s going to work out. You’ll see.”

“I’m unemployed, broke, divorced, and wearing a borrowed dress to dinner in a castle.”

“Things worked out okay for Cinderella,” her upbeat sister reminded her.

A knock on the door had them pulling apart. “Come in,” Maxine said, and George appeared. “Ah, sorry, didn’t know you had company,” he said, and prepared to depart.

“No. Don’t leave,” Rachel said. “I was on my way out.”

“I hope you don’t mind having one more guest for dinner.”

“Not at all. I only hope my cooking’s okay. I’m not used to the oven.”

“I’m sure it will all be lovely. And if it isn’t, we’ll blame poor old Mrs. Brimacombe,” he promised her.

“Jack seemed very eager to, um, sample Rachel’s wares,” Maxine said.

“Yes.” George glanced at her. “He’s quite taken with you.”

“We know, George,” Maxine said. “Did you tell him to stay tonight?”

“Yes, of course.” He walked over and put a hand on Maxine’s shoulder. They were always touching each other, Rachel noticed. A brush of the fingers here, a pat there. She doubted they were even aware of it. They weren’t a couple she’d have imagined would work. They were so different, and yet looking at them together, she knew the mysterious couple thing she’d never been able to get right worked for them.

“Do you know,” George said, “he keeps a packed case in his Jag? He often has to fly to the continent with only a couple of hours’ notice.”

“What does he do exactly?”

“He’s a financier. Always doing complicated things with money. I think he’s involved with hotels at the moment. Or is it vineyards?” George shook his head. “Both, I expect.”

Jack was rather looking forward to dinner as he crunched across the gravel parking area to fetch his case. In it was a change of clothes, toothbrush, toiletries, even a modest supply of condoms. Jack didn’t believe in missing opportunities, in business or in pleasure.

The housekeeper showed him to his room. It was done in greens, and the earl’s coat of arms was emblazoned on the mantel of the stone fireplace which had, fortunately, been modernized so he could flick on a gas fire if he wanted heat or atmosphere.

The bed looked as ancient as the mantel, but he was pleased to find a new and firm mattress beneath the heavy, carved oak headboard.

He made a couple of calls and text-messaged Chloe to let her know that the tent was going to be brilliant, and that the chef catering her wedding had been brought over from America specially from a five-star restaurant. That ought to appeal to her. She was spoiled rotten, his little sister, and everyone knew it, including Chloe.

Duty done, he showered in the en suite bath and dressed.

They were meeting for drinks in the drawing room, and there he wandered after first checking his watch to make certain the public visiting hours were over. He’d once been trapped by a schoolteacher from East Grinstead who’d mistaken him for the earl and harangued him for twenty minutes about organic farming practices.

No lurking teachers or, in fact, anyone appeared to impede his progress and he found himself in good time for before-dinner cocktails.

George and Max were the only ones in the room.

“You’re looking gorgeous, Maxine,” he said, stepping forward to give her a light kiss. She did, too, in a sleek black dress and heels.

“Thank you. Rachel’s checking on dinner. She doesn’t trust Mrs. Brimacombe,” Maxine told him and then glared at George. “Which is all your fault.”

“All I did was tell her that Mrs. B.’s style of cooking is to boil everything to buggery.”

“Quite right,” Jack said. “The foundation of British cuisine, in fact.”

“I thought that was fish and chips.”

“No, darling. You’re thinking of sausages and mash.”

Maxine said, “I’m still waiting to try toad in the hole.”

“And wait till you’ve tried Mrs. B.’s bubble and squeak,” George said. “Which, believe me, you will. And that’s not as bad as-Ah, here she is now.” They all turned to the doorway.

Jack had expected that Rachel would clean up quite nicely, but he’d had no idea how well. He was fairly gob-smacked. The surly chef was stunning, with voluptuous curves in all the right places, sparkling eyes, and a mouth made for temptation. Her hair was pinned up, but a few wild curls played around her face and neck. He itched to get his hands into that thick, lustrous hair.

Whatever mysterious thing she’d done with makeup brought out her eyes and accentuated those full and extremely kissable lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She seemed to grow even prettier with the compliment, and glanced, half laughing, at her sister.

A tiny pause was filled by George, ever the consummate host, who said, “Dry sherry as usual, Rachel?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“Everything all right with dinner?” Max enquired.

“Your helper didn’t throw everything in a pot and put it on to boil?” George added.

“No. There was a little muttering, but no mutiny.”

Voices could be heard in the hall, and then Arthur Denby entered, followed by an elegant, fine-boned woman. They’d never met, but Jack knew from George that she was a relatively famous American writer of terrifying thrillers. He didn’t know what he’d expected-wild eyes and witchlike hair, he supposed, and that she’d be dressed all in black. But this woman, wearing a cashmere sweater and slim camel-colored trousers, could have been a solicitor or a banker. She had that calm, capable, and intelligent look about her.

He was introduced to Meg Stanton, shook hands with her and Arthur, whom he hadn’t seen in months, and then chose a seat beside Rachel.

What would this odd lot find to talk about, he wondered.

It turned out that Rachel was a fan of Meg’s, and Meg had twice eaten in Rachel’s restaurant when she’d visited Los Angeles.

“Your cooking is amazing.”

“Not as amazing as your books. I couldn’t go into the meat freezer for weeks after I read Gristle and Bone. Honest.”

Meg chuckled, obviously delighted to have scared somebody that badly who’d paid good money for her book. And people thought his business was cutthroat.

“When’s your next book out?” Max wanted to know.

“A couple of weeks.” Meg glanced at Arthur and a look passed between them that had Jack betting on yet another wedding before he’d had time to get his tux back from the dry cleaner’s. “I’m leaving for a book tour next week. Arthur’s coming with me.”

Rachel sat forward in her chair, so thrilled to be talking to a favorite author that she was unaware of his scrutiny. He knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. With the animation in her expression, the hair, the makeup, the clothes, she was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, in a real way.

He needn’t have worried they’d all have nothing in common. They were talking and laughing as though the six of them had known each other forever.

Wiggins, whom Jack always thought had learned his butlering from watching too many Noel Coward plays in summer rep at Brighton and Newcastle upon Tyne, stepped into the room.

“Dinner is served, your lordship.”

There was a half glance, almost of apology, at Maxine. Jack wondered how soon it would be before Wiggins was announcing, “Dinner is served, your ladyship.” From the way George and Maxine acted around each other, Jack-who considered himself an expert, having been involved in so very many weddings in the last few years-suspected Wiggins wouldn’t have long to wait.

Another wedding.

Soon, he’d be the last of the old guard. Well, except for Haverstock, who’d last been heard of in a submarine off Antarctica. Unless he hooked up with a polar bear or a penguin, Jack felt safe. Though Haverstock was just mad enough that he might yet surprise them.

They adjourned to the small dining room, and Jack was seated beside the writer and across from Rachel. If she was nervous about her food, she didn’t show it. He was curious to see if a woman who included among her talents neutering men with fresh produce from five yards could also cook.

He wasn’t going to be critical. He’d eat and find something to admire even if the entree tasted like dung cakes.

It didn’t.

The first course told him that Rachel could indeed cook.

Carrot soup you could get anywhere, but then he tasted it. She’d flavored it in a way that made his tongue weep with joy. She mentioned the herbs in the kitchen garden and he wondered how she’d turned those weedy-looking clumps into magic.

“Oh, mmm. This is fantastic,” Meg moaned. “I remember reading that in your restaurant you only used organic ingredients and they had to be grown or produced within a certain radius.”

“That’s right. Fifty miles was my limit. I believe everything tastes better when it’s fresh and local.” Rachel gestured to the plates. “Everything on tonight’s menu is made from local produce. It was fun trying different things.”

Max looked at George. “This is a great marketing hook, too, you know. If we always try and serve local, it supports our farmers and growers.”

“Probably more expensive, though.” Jack felt somebody should mention it.

“Can you put a price on better flavor? Vitamin retention? Local goodwill?” Rachel asked.

In fact, it was his job to do just that, but when he put her food in his mouth he felt churlish arguing with her. The woman was a bloody genius.

The lamb was done with a sauce he didn’t recognize, but which she informed them had quince in it. He wanted to lick the plate when he was done. Dessert was a tarte tatin made, she hastened to assure him, with apples that grew right here on the property, and even the soft cheese was local, served with pears and a Sauterne from the cellars that, like all the wine George had chosen, was not local. Some of the bottles were older than those drinking them.

Conversation and laughter flowed until the candles were low, coffee was drunk, and one of the most pleasant evenings Jack had spent in a long while wound down.

It wasn’t only the food and the conversation that had made the evening exceptional. There was an energy flowing between him and the sexy chef across from him that kept things interesting. He’d catch her eye and see speculation. When he spoke, she listened intently. He found himself doing the same, though, in truth, he learned everything about her he needed to from her food.

Bold, sensuous, creative. He wanted very much to know her better.

Tonight, if her teasing and increasingly bold glances were any indication, he would.

Chapter Five

Meg and Arthur left soon after coffee, promising to stay in touch from the States. Rachel could see that George and Maxine were dying to go up to bed, too. Probably they were being polite and waiting for her and Jack to go up, but she wasn’t quite ready to say good night to the man with whom she’d been secretly-or maybe not so secretly-flirting all evening.

Finally she said, “I think I’ll check on the kitchen. Make sure Mrs. Brimacombe left everything in good order.”

“I’m sure she will have,” said George.

“I like to make a final check of my kitchen. Occupational hazard,” she said. As she rose she said, as though it was an afterthought, “Jack, would you like to come with me? I can show you that local cheese you were so interested in.” Okay, it wasn’t the smoothest line she’d ever thought up, but it worked.

He was on his feet before she finished speaking. “I’d love to. I’ll say good night, then, George, Maxine. Thanks for a great evening.”

“Pleasure. See you tomorrow.”

“Probably not. I’ll head out early to miss the traffic.”

“Right. Give us a ring, then, if there’s anything more on the wedding.”

“Will do.”

Max said good night, but her attention was on Rachel, who sent her sister a tiny wink and hoped she’d mind her own business. Amazingly, for once she did, and suddenly Rachel found herself outside with Jack. Alone. The quickest way to the kitchen was obviously through the house, but they both knew it wasn’t local cheese they were interested in.

The evening was cool, fall slowly fading.

The full moon looked like an ancient gold coin; the sky was haphazardly dotted with stars where the clouds hadn’t obscured them. The air carried the scent of the river, trees, and grass. Their footsteps crunched on the pea gravel.

She tipped her head back and breathed in. “I love it here,” she admitted.

“It’s so quiet after London.”

“And L.A.,” she agreed.

“Do you miss it?”

“ L.A. or the restaurant?”

“Both, I suppose.” From the conversation this evening, he’d learned the sad history of her not-so-brilliant career.

She thought about his question. Tried to answer honestly. “Yes. And no. I miss the work. I loved what I was doing, but I didn’t like the people running the place. So I guess my feelings were mixed. I miss some things about L.A. Being near the ocean is great. I don’t know, there’s an energy there that’s kind of nuts but invigorating, you know?”

“Sure.”

“I really needed to get away, though. I was in a bad place.” She caught herself and laughed. “And if that isn’t a California expression, I don’t know what is.”

She could see his lips curve in the moonlight. She was aware of him in every pore of her body. Felt him looking at her when her gaze slipped away, tingled when his arm brushed hers. “What does it mean exactly?”

“Me being in a bad place?” She sighed. “You really want to know?”

“Of course. I’m…curious about you.”

The notion warmed her blood. Nobody was curious about her these days but her mother and Max. And really, the term she’d use for them would be nosy. Interfering. Bossy! Curious was a balm to a bludgeoned ego.

“My restaurant closing kind of kicked the teeth down my throat. I guess I’d forgotten it wasn’t really mine. I worked so hard, it was like I was obsessed, and when things got bad I worked harder. I’m so tired.”

“There was more to it than that, though, wasn’t there.” His words were soft, encouraging her to blurt more than she’d intended.

“Are you really this perceptive or has my beloved sister been spilling my secrets?”

“Your sister warned me away from you. It’s the only clue she gave me that there’s some mystery. I got my biggest clue from the way you acted with me in the kitchen. You seemed violently antimarriage, which naturally made me curious as to why.”

“I’m sorry about that, by the way. If you hadn’t startled me, and I hadn’t thought you were the cat-”

“No, really. Perfectly understandable mistake,” he said in that smooth, well-bred way that for some reason made her want to laugh.

“I got divorced,” she finally admitted. “It came through a couple of months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a rat. It’s only that having two such spectacular failures so close together kind of screwed me up. You know?”

“Of course. So now, due to disappointments both personal and professional, you’ve pledged yourself to a life of celibacy, from which all men are excluded and you will only use your considerable cooking talents as a chef for private parties.”

She laughed, delighted with him.

“No,” she said, turning to him. “I’m not giving up on the idea of another restaurant, and I am certainly not giving up on sex.” What the hell? If there was ever a moment to take the initiative, it was this one. What did she care what he thought of her? This wasn’t about courtship or love or any of those old-fashioned notions she’d once believed in. This was about admitting that the blood flowing through her veins was hot, and that she was still a young woman with needs.

The man beside her, drawing her in with the intimate message in his eyes, was reminding her urgently of how much she was a woman with needs.

“I have not taken a vow of celibacy,” she promised him.

“Really?” He sounded as interested as she could have hoped. He moved closer until they were almost touching.

“Really,” she said, and taking his face in her hands, she leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

She brushed his lips softly with her own. She meant it to be a not-so-subtle message saying, I’m available if you’re interested. But the second their mouths met, something happened. Shocks, sparks, shooting stars. All that stuff she no longer believed in showered around her, in her.

He made a surprised sound and pulled her forward, hard enough that she was snapped against him, body to body. He took over the kiss.

Whoo-wee, did he ever. She felt almost lifted off her feet by the impact. His mouth was warm, firm, sexy, and delicious.

Standing there in the golden glow of a harvest moon, in the shadow of a castle, wearing her borrowed finery of velvet and gold and lace, she felt as much a fairy tale princess as any woman ever had.

Why not be swept off her feet? For a few days or weeks, even a few hours? What was the harm? What could it hurt?

So she let herself go, melting against him, the way the beetroot aioli had melted over her medley of autumn vegetables. Opening her mouth to him, to taste his flavor and texture.

Her heart stuttered, her blood pounded. She’d forgotten she could feel so alive.

“I want you,” he mumbled against her skin. “God, I want you.”

“I know. I want you, too,” she admitted, wondering if she’d ever in her life felt this urgent, this desperate. His hands ran up and down her back, over her hips. His mouth plundered and feasted.

She clutched his shoulders, then ran her hands through his short hair. His scalp was hot and she knew he was as feverish for this as she was. When his hand cupped her breast, she leaned into his warmth and touch. Wanting more.

“Where’s your room?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Too close to my sister’s. Yours?”

“In the guest wing. We’ll go there.”

“Yes. Okay, yes.”

“Where are you taking me?” he asked as they continued walking in the opposite direction of the massive front door. “The servants’ entrance?”

“The kitchen.”

“Right, of course.”

She’d told Maxine and George she was checking out the kitchen, and though she suspected they knew it was a ruse, she tried to be a woman who told the truth. Besides, the kitchen drew her, she realized as she walked into the restored order of a clean kitchen between meals.

If the body had a core, as her Pilates instructor insisted, then so, she reasoned, did a house. Or even a castle. To her, that core was the kitchen. Somehow, walking into the order and efficiency of this place, where she created both art and nourishment, fed her in some indefinable emotional way.

She liked that she’d met Jack in the kitchen. She liked that he was here with her as she walked around, making sure the sink sparkled, putting the basket of eggs in the refrigerator. She and Mrs. Brimacombe were going to come to blows, she suspected, over eggs.

Jack watched her, this elegant, voluptuous woman at her homely tasks. She’d changed subtly when she entered the kitchen. She moved with a sense of purpose and control. Pride, he realized, when she ran a hand across the counter, as though patting it good night.

Arousal was a funny thing, he’d found. The older he got, the more he’d learned to appreciate the finer aspects. More than the blood-pounding urge to take and conquer, he’d discovered the slower, softer pleasures of desire. The subtle shifts in feeling, the myriad ways one woman is so wonderfully different from another. So he could watch Rachel with the fever of impatience to have her, and at the same time hang onto his ability to appreciate all the tiny things about her that added to her appeal.

She was a mystery, this woman he’d known only a few hours. Such a mystery. On the one hand he wanted to treasure the moments she remained a mystery, and yet he was as anxious to discover all her secrets as a boy on Christmas morning, holding that special package from Father Christmas.

The urge to rush forward now, quickly, pulled against the desire to go slowly, take his time, savor, so there was a fine tension inside him.

When she was done with her checking and rearranging, she flipped off the lights, plunging them into darkness.

Wordlessly, they slipped through the door that led from the kitchen into the main house.

It was quiet. The soft night lights that George had installed illuminated the way for visitors who might otherwise end up lost and wandering the old pile until daybreak.

They crept by the marble bust of a Roman emperor, watched on their way by five-hundred-year-old ancestors of George’s looking down on them in various aspects from virtuous nobility to licentiousness. He imagined the naughty ninth earl giving him a nudge-nudge-wink-wink as he made his way, with Rachel’s hand in his, through the long gallery to the guest wing.

Even the tireless Wiggins seemed to have taken himself off to bed, or perhaps was enough of the discreet, trusted servant to make himself scarce when a man took a lady who was not his wife to bed.

They didn’t speak on the way; he felt the warmth of Rachel’s hand in his, heard the slight swish of velvet as she walked.

They entered his room and he noted that the bedside lamp was on, the bed turned down. As in a good hotel, but also, he knew, the way things had been done in Hart House for generations.

Maybe they’d had to downsize the staff, but little courtesies to guests would be one of the last things to go.

Rachel let go of his hand and gazed around, as though surprised to find herself here.

He slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of one of the wing chairs, and switched on the fire.

She’d walked to the window. Then, obviously realizing she couldn’t distract herself with the view outside, turned.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her. “No ice, I’m afraid. But there’s”-he looked at the bottles arranged on a silver tray-“port, cognac, scotch.”

“No. Thank you.”

He walked over to her and did what he’d been dying to do all evening. He pulled the pins from her hair. She trembled when he touched her, but didn’t stop him, so he took his time and watched in delighted fascination as the thick curls tumbled around her shoulders. He’d imagined the hair would go on forever, all the way down her back, but no. It brushed her shoulders, thick and wild.

Pushing his hands into it, he found it silkier than he’d imagined, but exactly as sexy.

He gazed down at her, eyeing the mouth he was about to kiss, his body so on fire he could barely think straight, when she said, “I think I would like a drink.”

He noted what he should have seen before. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, her posture tense.

“Of course,” he said, releasing her. “ Cognac?”

“Yes, fine.”

He poured two glasses, handed her one. She didn’t sip for pleasure; he rather thought she gulped for courage.

He sat in the armchair, leaning back, letting her know in as subtle a way as he could manage that a chat and a drink was fine with him. It wouldn’t be his choice, but he tried to be philosophical. At least he’d seen her with her hair down. It was a start.

She didn’t sit, but wandered the room, touching things. Running her fingers over the bedcover.

When she finally came back to him, she put her drink down on the table. He felt he was losing her, felt he had to make a final try to keep her with him, even for nothing more than talk.

“You have lovely hands,” he said, watching them curled around her glass.

She laughed. “No, I don’t.” She stuffed them out of sight, at her sides.

He reached for her wrist and she let him bring it closer. “I noticed at dinner. You were the only woman not wearing nail lacquer.”

“That’s because I don’t like to draw attention to my least attractive feature.”

“But they’re lovely.” He smoothed the fingers onto his palm and she let him. “These are the hands of an artist.”

“You’re nuts. They’re burned, scarred, banged up by years in kitchens.”

He stroked her fingers. “A warrior’s hands, then.”

“More so than an artist’s.”

“Well, I think you are a little of both.”

He brought her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, loving the smooth, soft feel of her skin, the skip of her pulse beneath his lips.

He noticed a white scar with a line of Xs emerging from the base of her thumb. He traced it with his fingertip and felt a quiver run through her. “What happened there?”

“I was in a hurry. Tried to core an apple with a carving knife and the apple broke. I don’t recommend it. I think I had seven stitches.”

“So noted,” he said, and kissed the line of Xs.

“Is this one a burn?” He traced the discolored, puckered shininess on the side of her hand.

“Yes,” she said, her voice growing husky. “Industrial oven accident.”

He touched his tongue to the mark.

Chapter Six

He’s making love to my hands, Rachel thought in amazement, my ugly, scarred, chef’s hands.

Jack was bent over her, studying her like a very sexy palm reader. His hair was short, but thick. She glimpsed the back of his neck, the pale skin corded with muscle. She felt the warmth coming off his body, smelled the clean, somehow English scent of him.

“These are your war wounds. Honorably acquired and therefore beautiful.” He kissed the misshapen nail on her left hand and she told him without being asked about the time she’d slammed it in the restaurant fridge. She watched him bending over her hands, so intent on her. So interested. Amazement washed over her along with a wash of lust that left her weak-kneed.

Sex in her marriage had been about getting to the main event as fast as possible, reaching orgasm and going to sleep. She thought she and Cal must have had the most time-efficient marriage bed in the state of California. She’d got to the point where she could slide a batch of cookies or muffins in the oven and go have sex. They’d both have their climax, Cal would be snoring, and she’d be back in the kitchen with minutes left before the oven timer chimed.

Cal hadn’t been much for experimentation in bed-he’d found what worked and stuck with it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t felt the same about marriage in general.

Now, here she was, with a man who considered her scarred hands worthy of kissing. His tongue touched her fingertips and heat traveled through her body. When his lips brushed her palm, warm and slightly damp, she wanted to whimper. She started to tremble, deep inside. She’d been on the verge of leaving, thinking she was crazy to throw herself into bed with this man she’d only met a few hours ago.

But he’d seduced her by making love to that part of her that was the most accomplished and the least attractive. And somehow, she knew that a man who took this much time over a woman’s palm was not going to beat a batch of cookies to the finish.

“If this was a movie,” she said, “some schmaltzy music would play right now and I’d say, ‘Come with me to bed.’”

“Have you been with anyone since your husband?” he asked her softly.

Her hand jerked within his grasp. “That’s pretty personal.”

“So is what we’re about to do.”

She blew out a breath. He let go of her hands but not of her, tracing the curve of her waist until his palms rested lightly on her hips. She liked the warm feeling of connection between them while he looked up with those wonderful, serious, but not-serious eyes.

And looking back at him she found she needed the truth between them. “Yes, I have. I really needed to get the taste of Cal out of my system, frankly.” She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the ancient table where their barely touched drinks sat side by side. “It was quick and clinical.”

“Sounds rather like mouthwash.”

She thought back to the shortest affair of her life. “More like washing my own mouth out with soap.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

She looked down at him, felt the warmth of his hands against her hip, felt breathless with the anticipation that a man who could appreciate and find beauty in her hands was going to be something very special in bed.

“Yes,” she said, bending over to kiss him. “I do.”

His hands were back in her hair, and he kissed her with such enthusiasm that she lost her balance and tumbled onto his lap.

He tasted of cognac, complex, rich, and fiery.

His fingers played in her hair, rubbed her scalp until she wanted to purr, then he began to undress her.

Conscious that she was wearing borrowed feathers and Max might not appreciate them being tossed all over the floor, she rose and backed slowly away, slipping the velvet jacket from her shoulders. It wasn’t going to be easy or natural to perform a stripper routine in this style of clothing, but she figured she’d give it her best, and if he thought it was odd that she stopped to hang each piece up neatly, she hoped he’d merely think it was part of her act, one more way of increasing his anticipation of seeing her naked.

Gack. She sucked in her stomach at the thought. If he thought her scarred, burned, and banged-up hands were a turn-on, he was going to flip at her flabby abs and I-stand-on-my-feet-all-day-in-a-kitchen sturdy legs.

She got the jacket hung up neatly, and before she could turn back to him, she felt his hands on her, tracing her ribs, stroking up to cup her breasts. The feeling was so exquisite that she forgot to worry that her boobs had gained weight along with the rest of her when her life hit the toilet.

He didn’t seem to be all that put off by the expanse of flesh now cupped in his palms. In fact, judging from the contented sounds he was making and the very definite hardness pressing against her hip, he was a big boob kind of guy.

He undid her buttons and peeled the blouse off her. Then, as she was getting ready to rescue Max’s peasant blouse, he leaned past her and hung it neatly.

Her skirt soon hung beside it.

There was something surprisingly fun about undressing and hanging each other’s clothes. “I feel like your personal butler,” she said as she hung his dress shirt.

“If I had a butler as gorgeous as you, I’d never leave my room.”

She slid his trousers off, liking the sight of muscular, furry legs. He was such an elegant-looking man that it was a surprise to find thigh muscles thick and athletic. “You play sports?”

“Used to. Now George and I are in a football league for sorry old-timers who can’t give up.”

“It’s good that you keep in shape,” she said, trying not to stare at another thick muscle that appeared in excellent shape. He was a boxer man, which didn’t surprise her, his choice a muted navy cotton with white pinstripes. So businesslike. Pin-striped boxers.

Who would have thought, even a year ago, that she’d find herself in an honest-to-God earl’s historic mansion, with a sexy Brit staring down at her with that particular combination of sweetness and, oh, that so very English word, naughtiness. Excitement skittered through her and she thought she might be getting over her long-running black mood.

“I am absolutely delighted that I decided to come down today,” he said.

She rose, close enough that a lot of her brushed a lot of him as she made her way to standing. “And I am very happy that you invaded my kitchen today,” she admitted.

He kissed her. She thought she could go on kissing him forever. He was possibly the best kiss she’d ever had. Before she’d decided to her satisfaction that he was in fact the best kiss she’d ever had, her breasts felt a little breezy and she realized he’d dispensed with her bra. Rather swiftly and subtly.

His hands were on her, squeezing gently, touching her nipples as though they were both fragile and precious, so the throb of desire began to build.

He lifted one, then the other, to his mouth. There was enough there that they easily reached.

“You are so beautiful,” he said in a soft, reverent tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such amazing breasts.”

And from feeling fat and out of shape, she suddenly felt like a voluptuous earth mother, womanly and bring it on, baby sexy.

She’d always loved sex, was almost embarrassingly responsive, but with him she felt it all as a gift.

She fell back on the bed, free-falling as though into a pool, letting her arms reach above her head. When she hit the mattress, she felt her breasts bounce with the impact, felt a little bit of jiggling where she’d really prefer no jiggle to be, but her soon-to-be lover seemed mesmerized with her body.

He stripped her of her panties in one smooth move and then stared down at her.

Somehow his expression told her that he liked what he saw. She started to get up so she could return the favor and remove his boxers, but he stopped her with a gesture. “No, don’t move. Don’t move a muscle.”

How could she not feel seductive and special when he couldn’t tear his eyes away? When he ripped off his boxers without looking once at what he was doing?

She looked though-oh-and looked some more. He was gorgeous. Fit, tough, toned, and with his body so evidently eager for her that she began to melt.

When he climbed onto the bed, she felt she would go mad if he didn’t touch her, didn’t kiss her, didn’t take her, and now.

But he surprised her, kissing her sweetly, as though he had all the time in eternity to do nothing but kiss her.

As her passion built, she moved closer, pressing herself against him for the pleasure of feeling her skin against his. He was so warm, his skin silky smooth in places, hair-roughened in others.

She’d never in her life felt worshipped, but tonight she did. He looked at her the way he’d looked at the Rembrandt, his favorite in George’s collection, he’d told her.

He tasted her the way he’d tasted her food, with eager anticipation, then slow savoring, followed by delighted satisfaction.

He played at her breasts, kissing and licking them until she felt they were swelling with the excitement that filled her. She began twisting as heat built within her. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, yes, oh, please.” She didn’t even know what she was murmuring as he continued to toy at her breasts. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know…

“Wait,” she cried, but it was already too late. The wave seemed to begin at the soles of her feet and to roll upward, taking everything along for the ride.

“Am I hurting you?” He raised his head, first in concern, then with a smug grin as he saw the state she was in.

He went back to her breasts in spite of her breathless suggestion that he come inside her. He didn’t seem to hear her, and then suddenly it didn’t matter, it was too late, and the world began to tremble, her body began to spasm, and she cried out as an orgasm shook her.

He stayed with her through the major quake and the aftershocks, then came back up to kiss her mouth, holding her as her heart slowed.

“I’ve heard about women like you,” he said. “Always wanted to meet one.”

She groaned, torn between embarrassment and satisfaction. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I had a lot of pent-up horniness.”

“Don’t ever apologize for enjoying yourself in bed.” He announced it like a lesson.

And she was feeling good enough that she opened her eyes wide. “Is that a rule?”

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “Jack Flynt’s rules for living. Rule number one.”

She felt a little lazy, a lot turned on, and wild to see what was next on the agenda. “What’s rule number two?”

“Ah,” he said, kissing his way down the underside of her breasts to her belly. “Jack Flynt’s rule number two is to extract the maximum pleasure from a woman.” He nibbled her belly until she giggled helplessly. “To find every one of her weak spots and exploit them shamelessly.”

He nudged her thighs apart and the restlessness increased again. If he was going to do what she thought he was going to do, it was her absolute favorite thing on earth. But she’d already come once, surely he’d want to…

“Oh,” she cried as he put his mouth on her, and began to remind her why this was her absolute favorite thing in the world. He kissed her intimately, savoring her with his mouth the way he’d enjoyed her food earlier.

She wanted to hold back, to take the time to enjoy and luxuriate in the exquisite experience of his mouth on her, but he was stroking her, swirling his tongue over and around her hot button, and she knew she couldn’t last. When she began to thrash, she felt the beginnings of delight take her, and suddenly, he changed his technique. Now he was light, stroking with little touches like butterfly wings that only teased, keeping her hovering over the peak but not giving her enough momentum to fly.

“Oh, oh, that’s so good,” she moaned, her head thrown back, feeling a drop of sweat roll between her breasts.

He spread her wide and she didn’t care, she didn’t care that her thighs were built for stamina, not bathing-suit modeling, and that she had too much lust as well as too much of everything else. She let him look. Let him touch, feel, taste.

Every second he kept her on the edge was agony, and yet the most intense pleasure. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t float this high without bursting into flame, and still he controlled her, holding her airborne, but not quite setting her free.

It seemed to go on forever; her heart stuttered, her breath caught, her body grew tenser, and then, when she thought she would absolutely expire from the sweet torture of those feather-light touches, he gripped her hips, holding her in place, and tongued her with deep, strong strokes. If he hadn’t held her, she was certain she’d have hit the ceiling as he took her over the edge, letting her soar, staying with her until she was spent.

She waited for him to come inside her, her eyes shut and her body floating lazily in lapping waves of pleasure. She needed to open her eyes, at least one eye, and remind him about condoms, but for a second she wanted to stay here in the afterglow, enjoying the bliss.

She jerked and her eyes flew open when she felt his tongue on her again. “I can’t!”

“You can.” He was so sure. It was as though he’d known her body as long as she had.

And, of course, she could. Only after she’d sobbed out his name did he kiss his way up her body and reach over her for the condoms he’d placed on the bedside table.

“Rule number three,” he murmured. “Always give a little extra of yourself.”

“I have some rules too, you know,” she said, watching, propped on her elbow as he sheathed himself.

“What are they?”

“One, never let a guy have too much control,” she said. Tucking her strong, sturdy legs around him, she flipped him to his back and mounted him. When she took him into her body, she couldn’t resist kissing him, feeling so intimately connected to this man on his first entering her body.

“Rule number four,” he said, “never take love lying down,” and he flipped her.

She laughed as they rolled back and forth, teasing each other, exciting each other, her taking him and him taking her, until they ended side by side, his hand on her hip, hers on his shoulder. He stared into her eyes and the intimacy was almost more than she could bear. She kissed him, allowing her eyes to close, and they rocked to oblivion.

She snuggled up against him. Loving the feel of his body against hers, the way his heart still pounded, which she’d caused.

Today had ended up being a surprisingly good day-the best she’d had in ages. Also exhausting, she realized, as she began to drift.

She jerked herself awake.

“I should get going,” she said after a minute.

His arm tightened around her. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

She stared at his profile, shadowy in the dark. He had a strong, almost beaky nose and a no-nonsense jut of a chin. She wished she could read his mind. She wished she knew her own. To stay or not to stay.

So many things urged her to stay. Her body, replete and satisfied, but not so satisfied that she couldn’t imagine waking in the middle of the night to another bout of amazing sex. But then, what if Maxine was up early? Or George or, God forbid, Wiggins.

“Let me think about it for a minute,” she said.

“Is there anything I could do to convince you?” he said, skimming his hand down her front, bringing her tired body suddenly back to aching life.

“Yes,” she said, pushing up against his hand. “You could definitely convince me.”

He rolled her over, and she found she couldn’t care less about what her sister or George or even Wiggins might think when she stumbled back to her room tomorrow morning.

He had her peaking before she’d even thought about it. She cried out an almost obscene number of times before they’d finally exhausted themselves and each other.

As they lay snuggled together, her head comfortably resting on his chest, his hand making idle patterns on her back, he said, “You are, without doubt, the most amazingly responsive woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of taking to bed.”

“I got a little carried away,” she admitted, turning her face into his chest.

“My dear, you have a body that was made for pleasure.”

“I wish you could have seen it a year ago.”

“Why?”

“A year ago I was running. I was more toned, more trim. Not so flabby.”

“Flabby?” He raised his head so he could look into her face. “I’ve never known a woman who couldn’t find something wrong with herself. You are perfect. I think you’re the most truly sensuous woman I’ve ever known. You make art out of food, you take pleasure in eating, in touch, in your body, and in your partner’s. You are a rare and special woman.”

She wanted to believe him, she did, but she’d had a crappy year and her self-confidence wasn’t exactly hitting an all-time high. “You don’t think I’m fat?”

He shook his head. “I think you are perfect.”

Well, she was far, far, far from perfect, but if he wanted to think that, hell, if he just wanted to claim he thought she was perfect while they were lying here together naked, she was not in the mood to stop him.

With a sigh, she snuggled against him and closed her eyes, her lips still curved in a smile of satisfaction.

She awoke in the cold, gray light of dawn. She wouldn’t have woken at all had she not felt cold, for which, she realized, she could blame Jack, who had left the bed. So long as she’d been curled against him, warm and occasionally very, very hot, she’d been content. Now she found herself alone under crisp white sheets. She not only felt cold, but extremely naked.

The shower was running. By squinting her eyes at the clock she saw that it wasn’t even six. She could roll over and go back to sleep, and chance that Jack would catch her drooling on her pillow, or that the housekeeper would find her here when she came to do the room. No. Better to haul herself out of bed now, at once.

Rachel had never been a morning person. Working in the restaurant business hadn’t made her any less nocturnal, but she managed to heave herself out of bed and shove herself back into her clothes before the shower had been turned off.

Jack crept out of the bathroom a few minutes later with a furtive glance toward the bed. “You don’t have to worry about not waking me,” she assured him. “I’m up.”

“Ah,” he said, looking as good in a towel as he had in nothing at all. “Sorry to disturb.”

“It’s okay. I should get back to my room. Before, you know…”

He nodded. He glanced at the clock and shed the towel with no embarrassment, dressing with speed. He didn’t even kiss her good morning. Obviously, his thoughts were already in London.

“Well,” she said, “I’d better get going.” She took a step toward the door. It had been fabulous, amazing. The best night of her life. She wasn’t going to spoil it by wishing for more.

“Rachel, wait,” he said, before she’d taken more than a step. “I want to see you again.”

Her heart leapt. Oh, thank God. “I’d like that,” she said.

“Why don’t you come up to London?” He slipped into a clean shirt. “I’ll take you to dinner and the theatre.”

She sighed in pure bliss. “Sounds good.”

“All right. I’ll give you a ring. Have you got a mobile?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a California number.” And she reeled off her cell phone number. He pulled out his and programmed her into memory. Cool.

“I could make you breakfast,” she said, suddenly not wanting him to go.

He shook his head, buckling the belt on his trousers. “No time. The M5 will be murder if I don’t get away soon.”

She felt very unhappy with the M5. But Jack wanted to see her again. That was something.

“I never gave you a menu for your sister’s wedding,” she said, suddenly feeling like the worst caterer in the British Isles.

“Believe me, anything you make will be brilliant. You’re a genius with food.”

He came over and kissed her soundly, then grabbed his bag, which she now saw was neatly and completely packed, slipped into his shoes, and left.

It was six o’clock in the morning, and she was the only person awake in Hart House.

She didn’t feel like sleeping, but she didn’t feel like hanging around here, either.

She made sure any trace of her was gone, including tucking in all the blankets and remaking the bed so it looked like only one side of the bed had been used. Satisfied, she crept out of the door and stealthily made her way back to her own room, where she changed out of Maxine’s clothes once more, showered, and hauled on her usual jeans and a favorite black cotton shirt.

She let her hair hang free and put on a little makeup. Nothing like a night of great sex to put a person in a good mood, she thought as she realized she was feeling better than she’d felt for months.

So the restaurant had closed, so she’d failed at marriage. Her life wasn’t over. She was young, talented, attractive enough that a man like Jack Flynt could spend the night making love and paying extravagant compliments to her.

Life was good.

Feeling grateful to Maxine and George for putting up with her for the past few miserable weeks, she decided to surprise them with breakfast.

Max, annoyingly, was right. She’d needed to get back to cooking. Now she couldn’t seem to stop. Something simple, she decided. An omelet with fresh herbs from the garden.

Chapter Seven

Rachel told herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t expect Jack to call. Wouldn’t expect anything. Just because he’d said he wanted to see her again did not mean that he was obsessively going over every detail of their night together the way she was, or even that he did in fact want to see her again.

Phrases like that should come with subtitles, as in a foreign movie. “I’d like to see you again,” he’d say. Translation: I’m really not that into you. Don’t expect more. “I’ll call you,” meaning You’ll never hear from me again. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.” I’ve already forgotten your name.

It didn’t matter. Hadn’t she hooked up with him exactly with a casual affair in mind? All she wanted was some uncomplicated fun. A chance to prove to herself and her battered ego that she was still a contender.

So even as she rolled her eyes and scoffed when Max made some comment about how well she and Jack had hit it off, she felt warm all over.

And if she carried her cell phone with her everywhere, never let it out of her sight for a second, no one had to know why.

Somehow she’d fallen into the business of the estate. Well, with Max for a sister, it was impossible not to. The woman was so full of energy and plans for raising revenue-a surprising number of which seemed to include food, and therefore Rachel’s input-that she kept busy. Too busy to mope and feel sorry for herself. Even better, she was appreciated. George had appeared horrified at first to find Rachel was the chief caterer on the estate, but she hazarded a shrewd guess that Max had informed him that work would be good for her poor, depressed sister, because he never argued again. What he did was thank her, repeatedly and sincerely, for all her help.

It had been a long time since anyone had taken the time to thank her.

And he did it so charmingly. If his charm was inherited, no wonder his family had managed to thrive through centuries of turbulent history. Her sister, she had to admit, had chosen herself a great guy. How nice to know they were still out there.

Max had hinted that she and George weren’t getting married until Hart House was operating in the black. How could she not want her sister to be happy? So she cooked, she catered, she sourced local suppliers, she planned.

She was in the old stables with Maxine, working out details of a corporate retreat for a big computer manufacturer who wanted to put on a medieval fair, including jousting. Her job was to create a menu of authentic medieval food, then figure out how to feed it to three hundred workers who’d no doubt be exhausted from jousting, fencing, archery, barging on the river, and learning to party like it was 1399.

“It’s going to be simple fare, obviously,” she said to Max. “Back then, they’d roast whatever animals they’d raised or hunted, eat local produce. No potatoes, obviously, since they hadn’t discovered America yet. Honey for sweetening, I imagine. I wonder what spices were imported then? I’ll check.” She was scribbling notes to herself when her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jack Flynt here.” He had a business voice on, she noted. “Did I ring you at a good time?”

Since he sounded so businesslike, and she was so happy to hear from him, she felt flirtatious. Turning away from Max, she took a few steps toward the open door, hoping her nosy sib would assume she was searching out better reception. “It depends what you have in mind,” she said.

A short pause. “Naturally, I rang you to make lewd, filthy suggestions.”

“Then you picked the perfect time,” she said.

He laughed. “I may not say them”-he dropped his voice-“since I’m about to go into a meeting with the Italian trade commissioner, but I’m definitely thinking them.”

“Me, too,” she admitted.

“Can you come up to town on Saturday? We’ll poke around and I’ll take you to dinner.”

He’d called. And when he’d said he wanted to see her again, he’d actually meant he wanted to see her again. She wanted to throw her phone in the air and scream with excitement. “Yes, I’d love it.”

“Great. Bring your toothbrush. I’ll drive you back down on Sunday.”

“A whole weekend? That sounds serious.”

“Once I get you naked, my sweet, I’ll show you serious.” He raised his voice. “Yes, I’ll be right there,” and then a few phrases in Italian. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Ciao.”

She turned to find Max standing much closer than was even remotely polite. “Was that Jack?”

“You have no subtlety whatsoever, do you?”

“Too many years in television. Well?”

Rachel nodded, wondering if she looked as pleased with herself as she felt. “He’s invited me up to London for the weekend.”

“Oh, my God. I knew it. You slept with him, didn’t you?”

She nodded, unable to stop the smile that bloomed.

“And?”

“It was fantastic.”

“Best ever?”

The grin widened. “No contest. I swear, one more orgasm would have killed me.” She sighed, already thinking ahead. “A whole weekend.”

Max’s delight dimmed a notch and a worried frown creased her forehead. “You know his reputation, don’t you?”

“Yes, sister dear, you warned me about him. I get it. But you know what? I don’t care. He wants a casual, no-strings-attached affair and so do I.” She stuck her phone back on the clip at her waist. “You were right to manipulate me into coming here.”

“I didn’t-”

She silenced Max with a look.

“It was for your own good,” Max mumbled.

“I know. And I’ve finally had a chance to get over myself enough to see that I’m free. Free of a man who didn’t deserve me and a restaurant that wasn’t mine. So maybe I’m not such a failure after all.”

“Hallelujah. She gets it,” Max said, throwing up her hands.

“Maybe I can take some time for myself for a while. Time to have fun and hang out with unsuitable men who are great in bed. I can find another job. One day, I still hope to open my own restaurant. Until then, I can learn from better chefs. Maybe take some management training, so I won’t make the same mistakes I’ve witnessed.”

“Wow, three weeks in England and you’re a changed woman.”

“I really needed this, Max.” She felt her eyes go misty as she walked up to her sister. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

Maxine’s eyes filled, too. “Always.”

Rachel had been to London before. Once to take a course from a renowned chef and once when she’d come to visit her sister when Max was on location. But she’d never looked forward to London quite so much. She’d never had an amazing lover waiting.

Her train arrived at Victoria Station Saturday at noon. And there he was.

At a conservative estimate, there were three gazillion people in the station, rushing here and there, or loitering waiting for their trains, eating at one of the cafés, or yacking on phones in every language ever spoken.

Among all that flow of humanity, she spotted Jack almost immediately. For a moment it was as though there was a hiccup in time. There was silence, the world stilled, all those cell phone talkers were muted, all the rush of motion halted. There was only she and the man who had so easily helped her find her way back to herself.

She walked forward, so did he, and time was allowed to do the same.

Would he kiss her in front of all these people? Did she want him to?

He did. And she did. And as their lips met, she leaned into him. Oh, he was already so familiar, and her body wanted to get as close as it could to him.

“Hi,” he said, taking her weekender bag in one hand and linking his fingers in hers with his other. “What do you want to do today? See the changing of the guard? Visit the Tower? Madame Tussauds?”

“We could, but I saw all that last time I was here.”

“What about Notting Hill, then? Excellent shops, interesting architecture, good places to eat.”

“In what part of London do you live?”

He grinned down at her. “Notting Hill.”

She grinned back. “Excellent choice.”

“Good. We can drop your bag off and then go out and see the sights.”

She gawked like a tourist as they drove through London traffic. She loved the excitement of the city. The splendid old buildings, the surprising green spaces, the London bobbies, the Tube stations, the black cabs.

His home was a brick townhouse in a row of same, all looking Victorian and genteel. Inside, his décor tended to modern, sleek and much neater than any other man she’d ever come across. This was the kind of place where she knew she wouldn’t have to shut her eyes before venturing into the bathroom, or do some Yogic, centering breathing before opening the refrigerator.

“Do you want anything before we venture out?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen.

If a woman was launched on a short-term affair that centered around sex, then she wasn’t going to waste her time on salmon sandwiches and tea. She stepped closer. Looked him in the eye. “I want you.”

“Thank God,” he said, and swept her into his arms. “I thought you might think I was a randy bloke who wanted nothing but a shag.”

She laughed, half breathless as he pushed her coat off her shoulders and pulled her sweater over her head. “Aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. But I didn’t want you seeing through me quite so quickly.”

There was a pool of sunlight splashed on the floor of the living area. It made the hardwood gleam and brought out the rich reds and blues in a Turkish rug. There he led her, pausing to flip a quilt she hadn’t noticed from the back of a gray couch. With one flick he had it open and floating to the ground like a picnic blanket.

The thought flashed through her mind that it was a familiar move. And the quilt was washable. Very practical for a quickie in the living room. One of the intricate wooden boxes arranged on a nearby shelf no doubt contained condoms and there was a handy box of tissues tucked in behind it.

A flicker of…something-sadness? regret?-she banished. She’d gone into this with her eyes open. She knew what he was. He was a good-time guy, a charming rogue who’d love her and leave her unless she left him first. Which, she reminded herself, was exactly what she wanted. Some fun, some great sex, some laughs, no tears or recriminations when it was over.

And a man who had a sex station, likely in every room of his home, was a man you could trust to run an affair smoothly.

She helped herself to a cushion off the couch, in a pattern that harmonized with the rug. Stepped out of the rest of her clothes and sank cross-legged to the cushion, watching with pleasure as he stripped.

“Which little box holds the condoms?” she asked him.

If he was surprised that she’d guessed, he showed it only by the slightest flicker of an eyelid. “The middle one.”

“What’s in the others?”

“Why don’t you have a look?”

Knowing a dare when she heard one, she rose, as gracefully as a naked, not-in-very-good-shape woman can rise from a cross-legged position, and walked to the three boxes, knowing he was watching her, feeling his eyes on her larger-than-necessary ass. She went for the middle box first, and based on their last encounter, removed two condoms. Then she opened the second box, wondering if, like Pandora, she might end up wishing she hadn’t peeked.

But there was nothing more threatening than a vibrator with a variety of attachments. She glanced at him over her shoulder with her eyebrows raised.

He grinned at her. “Definitely not something you need,” he said.

She lifted the lid of the third box and found a selection of flavored and scented lubricants and massage oils.

“Not bad for living room décor,” she said, feeling happy that he didn’t have anything that went beyond her comfort zone.

“Bring over whatever you like the look of.”

“Maybe later,” she said, and launched herself at him.

This sex did not need any aides.

His hands were all over her, hers all over him. He pushed her into the sunlight, so she was utterly exposed to him, and he seemed to glory in her.

Never had she felt so beautiful or delighted that her body responded so quickly. He kissed her deeply, running his hands over and over her breasts and belly. When he reached between her thighs she opened for him, sighing at his touch, blooming beneath his fingers. Her first orgasm took the edge off but also dropped her to a deeper level of sensation. Her skin was ultrasensitive, so she was aware of the subtle heat of the sun coming through the window, of the soft cotton of the quilt beneath her, aware of each quivering inch of her body as he touched her.

He didn’t take the time to play as he had before; she sensed that his urgency was too keen. He took her, straight on, pushing in and up, filling her, reaching so deep inside that he began to feel like a part of her.

She watched his face change as his passion built, the way his eyes darkened and seemed to look inside her. Tiny sounds were coming from her throat, little sighs and helpless moans. She was climbing, trying to wait for him, but so excited she wasn’t sure she could.

“Let go,” he panted, kissing her, licking into her mouth. “Let go.”

As he said it he changed the angle so he was rubbing her clit and nudging her G-spot, and it didn’t take anything else to send her over the edge with a wild cry. Her body went crazy, bucking and rolling, pushing up, up, even as he thrust. She was clinging to him, feeling her body spasm around him, and then the motion grew even more frenzied as he threw back his head and groaned, spilling deep inside of her.

She wrapped her legs around him and held him tight against her. “Don’t leave,” she whispered, and he seemed to understand what she needed, continuing to move until she cried out once more against his shoulder.

“Any more waiting in the wings?” he whispered.

She snorted. Then started to laugh. “I can’t help it.”

“Darling, don’t ever change.”

“I was a little…uh, needy, I guess.”

“I was fairly needy myself.” He sighed. “Now I’ve got a few of my wits back, I can kiss you properly.” And he did. So properly that it was another hour before they were ready to leave.

“Should I dress for dinner?” she called out to him from the bathroom upstairs. It was en suite to his bedroom, which was as sleek, masculine, and neat as the other rooms.

“Yes.”

She had no idea how fancy dinner would be, so she’d packed a classic little black dress and borrowed a red pashmina shawl from Maxine. Her quick shower had caused her hair to bush out, of course, but she was used to that, and pinned it back with quick efficiency.

She felt well-sexed, as attractive as it was possible for her to look, and excited about the rest of the weekend. She had no idea what the rules were for this kind of casual relationship, but a whole weekend with Jack seemed like an enormous treat and one she wasn’t going to waste a moment of. By next weekend, she might well have been supplanted by an acting student from RADA or a European banking colleague.

When she emerged downstairs, he was talking on his cell phone. He waved to her and kissed his fingers to his mouth to her, Italian style.

“No, of course I understand.”

She could tell it was a woman he was talking to and turned away to examine the books in his bookcase. She couldn’t have said, afterward, whether he read philosophy or graphic comics-all her attention was on eavesdropping.

Instead of furtively skulking around the corner, Jack followed her into the room, phone still glued to his ear. He seemed to be doing a lot of reassuring and calming. Finally he said, “Look. Everything’s going to be fine. Try not to worry so much. All right. Love you, too. Good-bye, darling.”

Her spine stiffened. Every muscle in her body stiffened. Darling? Were these the rules of casual dating in Notting Hill? You banged one woman and within the hour were calling somebody else darling?

When he clicked off the phone, she smiled brightly. “I hope I’m not overdressed.”

He’d opened his mouth to speak and now closed it. Blinking at her. “Don’t you want to know who that was?”

She kept her face carefully neutral. “I don’t think so.”

He still looked at her oddly. “Well, you should. It was my sister.” He grimaced. “She’s having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?” It was his sister. Yeah, sure it was. But what if it was his sister? Wouldn’t she feel like a suspicious fool. “What do you mean she’s having second thoughts?”

“The wedding. The one you’re catering? She’s having second thoughts about getting married.”

“Oh. That sister.” Okay, so it really was his sister, and he was right. If the wedding was off, Maxine was going to be seriously peeved. A lot of work had gone into that catering plan and the arrangements. The wedding, which would naturally be heavily featured in the society pages, was going to be a real showstopper, the kind of event that could set a trend. Maxine had hoped to see a lot of big, expensive weddings grace the grounds of Hart House. If Jack’s sister cancelled…

“How serious do you think she is? Would she actually cancel the wedding?”

“Hard to tell with Chloe. She’s chucked a wobbly in front of Mario, her fiancé. If he didn’t bend to her will, she’ll be in a right snit.”

“Wow. I hope for George and Maxine’s sake she goes ahead with her wedding.” Rachel wasn’t entirely sure what wobblies were, but felt confident Max wouldn’t want them chucked at Hart House.

“Let’s not worry about it now. She and the fiancé have had a row. Most likely they’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

Rachel probably ought to have been worried for Hart House’s sake, but she was too glad to find that the woman Jack had called darling was in fact his sister.

Not that she was in any doubt about his lifestyle, or under any illusions about the future, but it was nice to know he had more class than to talk to one lover in the presence of another.

“Right, we can catch a few shops, and then we’ll go to dinner.”

“Sounds good. I worked up quite an appetite.”

“Do you fancy walking? You’ll see a bit of the area that way.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be great.” They set out and she saw the market stalls full of everything from produce to third and fourth-hand evening bags. The street was busy with Smart Cars and Mini Coopers and cabs. They passed bakeries, independent record shops, tiny restaurants, and a sea of very trendy pedestrians.

“I thought you might be interested in that shop over there.”

She followed his pointing finger. A store selling nothing but cookbooks. “Oh, how cool.” She ran forward and peered into the window. “They’re closed.”

“Never mind. We can come back tomorrow.”

She pressed her nose against the window a little longer, seeing cookbooks she’d never heard of. Mostly European and British ones. “I think I could spend days in there.”

“If I hadn’t ravished you all afternoon, we’d have got there before closing. Oh, well, at least we haven’t missed our dinner reservation.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fleur de Lys.”

She stopped dead, so quickly that a man running in the opposite direction with a bouquet of flowers almost crashed into her. “Fleur de Lys? Are you kidding me?” She was so excited she was squeaking.

Jack allowed himself a tiny smirk. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? I’m floored. Flabbergasted. You can’t get a reservation there for months. I know, because I e-mailed them from the States. The chef, Jerome Smollet, is the most amazing chef in Europe.” She was so excited she was talking faster and faster and her words were running together. Finally she dragged in a quick breath. “Are we talking about the same Fleur de Lys?”

“I helped with the financing,” he said. As though that answered it all. Which, she supposed, it did.

She didn’t care that they were in the middle of Portobello Road and that this was a casual, short-term relationship. She threw her arms around Jack’s neck and kissed him.

“This is a great surprise. It’s the best surprise ever.” Her heart was pounding. “This is better than meeting the queen.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. “You’re a lot of fun, Rachel, do you know that?”

Everything about Fleur de Lys thrilled her. She loved the blue and gold door, the black and white entrance hall, the air of laid-back, trendy elegance. The hushed atmosphere of diners who appreciate food and know they are about to have their palates pampered. The maitre d’ recognized Jack and welcomed him.

This was one of the top five restaurants in the world and the maitre d’ knew Jack by name. Okay, she was impressed.

They were led to a wonderful, intimate table for two in a corner that still gave her a good view of the room.

In a minute a waiter appeared with a silver tray on which sat two flutes of champagne. They hadn’t even seen a menu and she hadn’t heard Jack order anything, so she raised her brows.

“I told Jerome about you,” said Jack.

“You did?”

“Of course. I asked him to make us a meal. He’ll send out whatever he thinks we should eat along with the wines to go with each course. Are you willing?”

She leaned closer. “Other than the six orgasms you already gave me today, you could not have done anything that would thrill me more.”

He reached across the table for her hand. They clicked glasses and drank. “To the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

She nearly snorted French champagne through her nose. Her gaze darted to his and she was shocked at the expression she read. His eyes glowed and for a second she was shaken by the power of the connection she felt.

Tiny nibbles began to arrive. Always Jack had something different from what she did, so they shared. The sensuality of the food, of sharing with a man who got food in the way she did, was exquisite. With no menu choices to worry about, they were free to concentrate on each other and on the surprises coming out of the kitchen.

They sat long over their food and wine and coffee. It felt like she’d known him forever, and yet, because she hadn’t known him more than a week, there were all her stories to tell. All his stories to hear.

When the restaurant had begun to clear, she was about to suggest they leave, when yet another tray came up with a three cognacs. Three?

And there was Jerome Smollet. Even if she hadn’t read about him in Chef magazine and recognized him from his picture in various publications, she’d have known him from the way dining patrons oohed and aahed as he stopped to chat. He made his slow way across the room, working it like a pro, in a manner she had to admire. He didn’t seem to hurry, but he didn’t spend more than a minute or two at each table.

When he got to theirs, she saw that he was younger than she’d realized. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He shook hands with Jack, who’d risen at his approach.

“Jerome, I’d like you to meet Rachel Larraby.”

“It is such an honor to meet you,” she said, feeling quivery and girlish.

“I’m a big fan of yours, too. I ate in your restaurant in L.A. a couple of years ago.”

“You did?”

“I wanted to send a message to the kitchen, but I lacked courage. You were so famous and I was virtually unknown.”

“I knew who you were. I wish you’d sent a message back.”

He nodded his head graciously. “Well, we meet at last.”

“Okay, I have to know, was there sake in the sauce you served with the black prawns?”

And they were off. Two foodies talking about their passion.

Jack sat back, listening to the conversation but taking little part, watching her with that look. The one that warmed and chilled her at the same time.

On another man, that expression would be lovesickness. But on Union Jack? The one who was always a groomsman, never a groom?

Couldn’t be.

Chapter Eight

Jack ought to have been bored rigid. He loved food. Loved good restaurants, enjoyed eating and tasting what he ate, but he wasn’t passionate about how every mouthful was constructed. He didn’t want the magic spoiled by seeing how the trick was done. But watching two consummate chefs sharing their art was an education in itself. And he had the opportunity to sit back and watch Rachel. Did she even realize how special she was?

She had one of Europe ’s star chefs at her feet.

And she completely had him at her feet. She’d looked startled when he’d made the toast. Was she really so unwilling to accept what had happened between them?

He’d been waiting his whole adult life for the woman who would do this to him. He hadn’t remotely wanted to drive down to Hart House on wedding business for his flighty sister. And look what had happened. He’d been attacked by the temperamental chef in the kitchen and within hours, it seemed, had fallen in love with her.

Love at almost first sight was corny, mildly embarrassing, but his one consolation was that the woman he’d fallen for was someone who lived with passion. Who connected with him so immediately, so intimately, that he knew she was feeling everything he was feeling.

It was amazing to find, after all these years, that the popular songwriters had it nailed. Love really was a lightning bolt out of the blue, love was all he needed, it was every song, every poem, every greeting card message. He looked at Rachel and his whole being said, Yes.

Jack believed in marriage and he was ready, at thirty-four, to settle. To spend less time away and a little of his hefty savings on holidays with the woman he loved, on a larger home, perhaps, or a holiday home. Even, he thought, as he looked at Rachel with her generous spirit and loving ways, on a nursery.

He’d be terrified, but he could see Rachel with a baby in her arms. Their baby. And the notion filled him with pride.

He’d waited a long time, longer than any of the lads. But she’d been worth waiting for.

When they finally got out of the restaurant, they were the last patrons to leave and he honestly thought Jerome and Rachel would have talked right through to breakfast if he hadn’t broken up the party.

He bundled Rachel into a cab for the short ride home and settled back, already trying to decide what he wanted to do first when he got her naked.

“He offered me a job.” Rachel whispered the news as though if she spoke it aloud the offer might disappear.

“I know. I heard him.”

“You did?” She turned to him in the cab, all eagerness and uncertainty. “You actually heard him offer me a job?”

“Yes. Jerome thinks you’re brilliant. He wants you in his kitchen.”

“So I didn’t dream it.” Suddenly she turned to him, suspicious. “You didn’t put him up to this, did you?”

“Hey.” He held up his hands. “I can get a dinner reservation. That’s all. I had no idea he even knew who you were.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Believe me. If he offered you a job, he was sincere. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to work with him?”

“Me, for one.” She settled her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, “for the most amazing day and night of my life.”

“You’re welcome.” He put an arm around her, inhaling the smell of her, enjoying the feel of her hair tickling his chin. He couldn’t wait to get home and let that hair down, slip off her clothes, and get at that glorious body. Deep down, underneath the fierce desire that was pumping through his veins, was an unfamiliar feeling, but one he recognized all the same. Tenderness. He’d given her something special, and her excitement was palpable. But she’d given him something, too. He’d forgotten what it was like to have that enthusiasm for work. That passion for life.

He had a feeling that life with Rachel would be a constant banquet. A never-ending tasting menu.

“Are you tempted?”

She slipped a hand between his legs, rubbing significantly. “Yes, I’m tempted.”

“The job,” he said, moving his hands up her side so his fingers brushed the underside of her breast. “I’m talking about the job.”

“I’d need a work permit or something before I could stay.”

“Or you could always marry an Englishman,” he said cheerfully.

She glanced at him sharply and removed her hand from his crotch. “Maybe.”

What was that all about? He’d have liked to ask her, but his head was fuzzy from good food, good wine, and the fact that she’d caused most of the blood to drain from his head, thereby impeding his mental function.

Surely she’d felt, as he had, the clobber of destiny, the absolute knowledge that they were each other’s future?

He reminded himself of two things. One, he’d known the woman one single week. Only a madman declared his love so soon. Two, the woman was skittish about men in general and love in particular.

So he’d do something that was foreign to his nature. He’d wait.

When the cab dropped them off, he looked up at his house and said, “Oh, bloody hell.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t leave a light on in the lounge when we left.”

She grasped his arm and whispered. “Do you think it’s robbers?”

He shook his head, hearing his teeth snap together. “Worse.” Of all bloody nights. He ran up the stairs and Rachel followed slowly. “Shouldn’t we call the cops?”

“Not unless you want to arrest my sister for illegal entry into her brother’s flat and impeding his sex life. Which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad idea.”

“Your sister is here?”

“The woman’s got the most amazing bloody timing.”

Rachel glanced back at the cab about to pull away. “Maybe I should find a hotel for the night.”

He grabbed her hand. “No. I want you to meet my sister.” He shrugged, trying to make the best of things. “I’d hoped you’d do it in a more civilized manner, but it can’t be helped now.”

He held onto her hand while unlocking the front door, then, to make absolutely sure it was Chloe and not some lout nicking things, he shouted, “Hallo?”

“Thank God you’re finally home,” Chloe’s voice floated down to him. “I’ve been waiting ages!”

“My sister,” he said, half sorry it wasn’t thieves so he could impress Rachel with his manliness in getting rid of them, and be spared his impetuous sister’s latest turn-up.

She didn’t wait until they’d gotten inside properly before wailing, “I’m not marrying Mario. He’s vile. I threw that utterly vulgar ring back in his face and told him this morning, I won’t marry him. I should have realized when the man gave me a diamond the size of Lithuania that he simply wasn’t for me. I mean, really, it was so over the top that I literally couldn’t lift my arm!” As the words flowed, so did the hope he’d had that she might be here only for a bed.

“Chloe,” he said, and then a little louder when the flow of words wouldn’t dry up, “Chloe. Shut up.”

By this time, he and Rachel had climbed the stairs and his sister’s very pretty and very spoiled face was frozen in a state of surprise.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, in the tone she’d have used if he’d brought her a martini made with gin instead of vodka. “Did you have to bring a woman home tonight? Of all nights?” She gazed at him with her big, violet blue eyes opened wide in an utterly helpless expression that made far too many men weak at the knees, and only warned her brother that trouble was ahead. “I need you.”

“Rachel, please forgive my appallingly bad-mannered little sister. Chloe, this is Rachel. She is a top chef from America who is going to cater your wedding.” He put a slight emphasis on the word is.

“Hello, Rachel,” Chloe said from between pouting lips.

“Hi, Chloe.”

Great. The first meeting of the two women he cared about most in the world wasn’t a rousing success. They hadn’t exactly thrown each other at their respective feminine bosoms and wept for joy.

There was a pause. “You’ll have to forgive me,” said Chloe. “I’m very distraught, having just broken my engagement.” Her voice wobbled on the edge of tears. It was one of her more successful tricks, but he was up to them all and merely crossed his arms at his chest and gave her a don’t try it look.

“I’m really sorry about your engagement,” Rachel said, glancing at Jack. “I’m sure you want to talk to your brother privately. I’ll go and stay at a hotel.”

“That would probably be best,” Chloe agreed, brightening immediately.

“If anyone’s going to a hotel it will be you, little sister. Rachel was invited.”

She was all in black, to suit the drama of the occasion, though he thought she’d gone a bit heavy on the eyeliner. “But I need you.”

“What you need, my sweet, is a man who won’t let you rule him, then drive you mad when he’s not commanding enough.”

She sniffed. “You don’t understand.”

“Probably not. Never mind. I am going to make you some hot milk, put you in the guest room, and take Rachel to bed. In the morning, we’ll talk.”

“Jack,” Rachel said, turning to him with wide, shocked eyes. “How can you be so cruel? Your sister just ended her engagement. Try and be a little supportive.”

Chloe blinked, and suddenly, before his bemused gaze, he saw the instant bonding he’d wanted. She sniffed. “He can be such a beast, my brother, but he’s the only one I could turn to in my hour of greatest need. Don’t let him throw me out.”

He’d offered her hot milk and a bed, not tossed her out on the street, but it didn’t seem to matter. Rachel was promising to stand by his sister and he was clearly to be cast as that horrible brother who didn’t understand. Chloe patted the couch beside her, and soon she and Rachel were seated side by side and Rachel was getting the full benefit of Chloe in crisis mode.

With a shrug, he went into the kitchen and made cocoa, something he’d been doing for Chloe since she broke her first heart at thirteen.

When he returned, the two women were deep into the minute dissection of Chloe’s relationship, with some very good advice from Rachel, who wasn’t as blind to his sister’s antics as he’d feared.

He gave them an hour, because he was a good brother and he loved his sister. But he was also a man blindly in love with a woman he’d recently met, and burning to be naked and intimate with her. Sixty long minutes passed, and the cocoa was nothing but a memory when he began yawning extravagantly and turning out lights.

When that went unnoticed, he said, “All right, Chlo. Let’s get you tucked into the guest room.”

“All right. I mustn’t interrupt your date, must I? Thank you, Rachel. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

His cleaning staff kept the guest room ready and the bed freshly made, and Chloe used his flat like a second home often enough that some of her things were permanently installed, so the only difficult part was actually getting her in the room and getting her new best friend Rachel out again.

Another quarter of an hour and he’d managed it. And finally, finally, he had his woman alone with him in his bedroom.

“Sorry about that,” he said when they had the door shut. Just in case Chloe remembered something else she absolutely must tell Rachel, he surreptitiously locked it.

“It was fine. I liked her a lot.”

“She’s completely spoiled, but deep down she’s very sweet.”

He unwrapped the red shawl Rachel still had round her shoulders, folded it, and placed it on a leather ottoman in the corner.

“Will she really cancel the wedding?” she asked as she unzipped her dress. It struck him that they were acting like a long-term couple, chatting things over while they got ready for bed. He was glad they’d got the urgent shagging out of the way earlier, so he could savor the sight of Rachel undressing before him in this matter-of-fact way that somehow struck him as dead sexy.

Odd, how love changed a man’s view of things.

He’d never found himself filled with such tenderness as when he lay her back on his bed, never found his emotions tangled with his physical desires as he now did.

She lay beneath him, her hair a dark cloud on the pillow around her, her eyes large and serious. He wanted to say things he’d never said to another woman, but he wasn’t sure she was ready. And yet, when he entered her, felt her so hot and wet, clinging to him as though she’d never let go, surrounding him, he felt pulled into her much more than physically.

He loved her slowly, at a less harried pace than they’d yet managed, filling himself with her sounds, her tastes, her scents. She gave herself over completely to the moment, to the sensation. She was the most utterly sensual woman he’d ever known.

He fell asleep curled around her, his hand on her breast so he could feel the heavy beat of her heart against his palm.

Chapter Nine

Rachel wasn’t a morning person, but there was something about waking up to Jack kissing his way down her spine that added a definite lift to the morning doldrums.

“Morning,” she said lazily, stretching as his mouth did delicious things to her.

His reply was indistinct, but she could work it out in context.

When he flipped her to her back, she was more than ready.

“Ssh,” she said when he banged his elbow against the wall. “I don’t want Chloe to hear.”

“It’s a bit like having a child in the next room. Which is truer than you might think.”

“Be nice to her. She’s going through a hard time.”

“When you know her better, you’ll understand that drama is as necessary to Chloe as Perrier Jouët.”

Why did he keep saying these things to her? When you know her better? As if that was going to happen. A week or two from now, some Lufthansa flight attendant would be with Jack, writhing under the buzz of the living room vibrator, lathered up in lemon-scented massage oil. And she’d be topping her special blinis with caviar for the next scheduled function at Hart House. Did he think she was one of those women-if there were such women-who wanted to hear lies and platitudes?

She might have called him on it, but he was deep inside her body, and when he moved he nudged her G-spot, she couldn’t possibly think of anything at all.

Afterward, she ran her hands idly down his back while they caught their breath, her head on his chest. “I feel so good I never want to move.”

He played with her hair, and without pausing said, “Then don’t.”

She’d had enough of this. Now that she could think, it was time to put an end to this nonsense.

“Are you suggesting I should stay in this bed for the rest of my natural life?”

“Don’t be daft.” He shifted her and raised himself onto an elbow so he could look at her. “But you could stay with me forever.”

Her heart stuttered, which irritated her. “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes à la sophisticated woman of the world.

He didn’t respond à la sophisticated man of the world, but stayed where he was. She felt he was struggling to say something, and finally he did.

“I love you, Rachel,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, his hand touching her shoulder as though he couldn’t bear not to touch her.

“Oh, give me a break,” she snapped.

He blinked, and his hand fell away. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am not one of those women who needs love words. I’ve always known what this is and I accept it. Please don’t piss me off with a load of false sentiment. It only cheapens this relationship.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean. You think love cheapens sex?”

“I think false declarations take away from the basic honesty of what this relationship is.”

His gaze sharpened. “And what is it exactly?”

“A purely physical, mutually beneficial convenience.”

Outside, she heard traffic, the low vroom of an airplane. Church bells from a distance.

“So, you don’t love me?”

There was a pause. Her heart beat so hard it hurt. “No.”

He touched her breast lightly, softly. “Your heart is completely untouched?”

Her swallow sounded loud in the sudden quiet. “Yes.”

“I see.”

“Oh, don’t give me that brave, wounded bullshit. Every guy I’ve ever known wants exactly what you’ve got. Sex”-she gave a tiny, smug smile-“lots of sex, with no strings attached.”

Instead of laughing, or stomping off, or engaging in any remotely predictable behavior, he traced her cheek with one finger. His eyes were serious and understanding. “I’ve never known a woman who yearns for love more than you do, and is more terrified of it.”

She leapt off the bed and her laugh was harsh and sudden. “I don’t have time for this. I need to-”

She found herself cut off as he flipped her to the bed so fast her back hit the mattress before she remembered moving.

He was on top of her, not pinning her exactly, but forcing her to make a big deal of it if she wanted to move. She didn’t feel like making a big deal about it. She wished she were clothed, though, and that her heart wasn’t beating quite so fast. It made her feel vulnerable and a little foolish.

“I don’t need love,” she said, staring up at him. “I don’t want it.”

“I’ve seen you around your sister and George, you know, and even around Arthur and Meg.”

“And when have I ever given any indication that I want what they have? That I want to be so besotted, so blinded by emotion that I lose my common sense?”

“Oh,” he said, “your words do a fine job of portraying what a cynic you are, but your eyes give you away.”

She rolled those eyes now, to give him a good idea what she thought of his notion.

“I thought at first it was irritation I was witnessing, but it’s not, is it?”

“You tell me. You seem to have the keys to my inner thoughts and feelings after knowing me for one week.”

“It’s jealousy.”

Fury, hot and molten, spurted within her. She shoved at his shoulder, so he moved away, letting her up.

“I’ve been married. I couldn’t be less jealous. It’s pity you witnessed. Pity for anyone fool enough to fall in love knowing that the chances of disaster outweigh any hope of lasting happiness by about two to one.”

“You had a rotten marriage, Rachel. It happens. It happens all the time to clever, successful people who you would think would choose wisely. But for every bad marriage there’s a good one, one that makes you keep believing. I think Max and George have every chance of happiness. You can see that, too, that’s what’s making you sick with jealousy.”

“That’s an awful thing to say. I love my sister. I’m not jealous of her.”

“She has something you want. Worse, you know it’s within your reach.” He reached out his arm to illustrate his point. “And that makes you crazy with fear.”

She snorted. “Make up your mind. Am I jealous, afraid, or yearning? Pick one.”

“You, my darling, are all three.”

“I can’t figure you out. Why are you doing this?” She shook her head. “Of all people, you are the last one I would have dreamed would play the love card.”

“It’s not a card, darling, and this isn’t a game. I think I’ve finally found the woman I was always certain I’d meet. It was a bit of a surprise that she turned out to be you, but there it is.”

She straightened, tossed back her hair. “So what are you saying? You want to marry me?”

He looked at her for a long time. “And what if I am?”

Her skin started to prickle all over, as though she were breaking out in hives.

“If you believe in love and marriage so much, then why did George and Max both warn me that you’re a womanizer? Why are you always in the wedding party but never the one getting married?”

“Because I never found the right woman.” He rested back on his elbows. “I wouldn’t keep turning up in wedding parties if I didn’t believe in and respect the institution, now would I?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. Give me credit for some integrity.”

“So you’re saying that in all this time you’ve never met a woman you wanted to marry?”

“I always believed that I’d meet a girl one day, and I’d know. Pow. There’d be some cosmic bang, sparks would shower the air, and I’d know that she was the one.”

“You mean you’re a total romantic?” She was horrified. She felt she’d been led astray somehow, lied to in the most basic way, but of course he’d never lied. She’d merely assumed that his lengthy bachelordom meant one thing when, in fact, it meant another.

He grimaced. “It sounds a bit soft when you put it that way, but yes, I suppose I am. In the last couple of years, I admit, I began to feel that it wouldn’t happen after all.”

She almost dreaded what would come next, but still had to ask. “And?”

His smile was tender, and uncomfortably intimate. “And then I met you.”

“I don’t recall seeing sparks flying, or a cosmic shake-up when we met.”

“If you’d had a potato hit you in the balls, believe me you’d have felt a cosmic shake-up, and seen stars.”

She grinned, as he’d meant her to, and the atmosphere lightened a little. But she also felt utterly confused and vaguely wronged. “I don’t know what to say.”

He turned his head, regarding her. “At the risk of sounding ridiculous, can I ask if you felt anything at all?”

“When we first met?”

“Mmm.”

She thought back to the first moments when he’d come across her, irritable and twitchy in the kitchen. The sense she’d had of instant attraction. Not more. Surely not more. “I felt attracted to you,” she admitted.

He flopped back onto the bed so he was staring up at the ceiling. “You never think, when you read about meeting the one person who was meant for you, that it might be a one-sided affair. Nobody ever warns you that you might feel love at first sight while the other person thinks, ‘What a wally.’”

“Since I don’t know what a wally is, I certainly never thought of you that way. Like I said, I was…attracted.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“I wasn’t. At the time. Very inconvenient. I felt like I’d been kicked around by life, and then Maxine had manipulated me into coming to England to work on, of all things, a wedding. I admit I was pretty down, and Max is a relentless do-gooder when she thinks she knows best for a person. Which is far too often.”

“So your sister encouraged you to have it off with me?”

“No. She hated the idea. She thought I’d be too vulnerable, that I might end up hurt again.”

“And you knew different?”

Did she? Had she? It was so difficult now to look back to a week ago and recognize anything she’d felt. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I thought or felt except that you made me feel excited about something and a holiday affair seemed uncomplicated. Easy.”

“Easy because you could walk away at the end of it with a few good memories?”

“Don’t make it sound so…I don’t know, so…”

“Cynical?”

“But I’m not cynical. I’m practical.”

“You, my dear, are terrified of love.”

“Oh, just get over it.”

“I hope I don’t have to. I believe that you and I may have found that rare and amazing thing. True love, the kind that lasts.”

She scratched her leg. Maybe the hives weren’t visible, but she could feel them, beneath the skin. Emotional hives. Great. She’d invented a new mental illness.

Chapter Ten

“Can we please talk about something else?”

He should have kept his mouth shut. He’d known she wasn’t ready. Now all he could think about was that he loved her and she either didn’t love him back or couldn’t admit to loving him.

For a number of reasons, he hoped the latter was true.

He could conquer her fear, he was certain. Indifference was impossible to contemplate. Surely, after all this time, he ought to be able to tell when a woman really cared?

Or was he projecting his own feelings onto her?

He had so little personal experience of being in love that he was out of his depth. All he knew was that instead of having Rachel throw herself onto his chest and whisper those magic words of love back to him, as he’d more than half hoped she would, she was lying beside him, stiff as a board, staring up at the ceiling, in the same posture he was in.

“I met you a week ago,” she said, sounding aggrieved.

“Look, I don’t say it makes sense. Only that it is.”

“I thought this would be easy, uncomplicated.”

“Do you want easy and uncomplicated?”

“Yes!”

“I’m sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to. But I think you’re going to have to begin thinking of this in a new light.”

“They warned me that you were the love ’em and leave ’ em type. Which happens to be exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

“If you pass up what we have, you’re more of a coward than I believed.”

“Okay, I can’t do this right now. I simply cannot do this.” She rolled out of bed and unzipped her overnight case, dragging out the jeans and sweater she’d brought.

He leapt off the bed and followed her. “Look, forget I said that. You’re not a coward. I’m a complete and total git. Where are you going?”

“Home.” Irritation sluiced through her system. “No. Not home. Back to the castle where I will stay in my kitchen hiding behind the ashes whenever any Prince Charming comes near.”

“But you’ve barely seen Notting Hill. And I want to take you for afternoon tea at the Ritz. You’ll love it.”

He was stalking up to her, naked, when she reminded him, “Chloe is here. She needs you.”

“Rachel.”

“Let me go now. I’ll call you.”

For a long time he stared at her, his eyes full of concern. “All right. I’ll get dressed and drive you back to Hart House.”

“No. I’ll take a cab to the station and get a train.”

She was so panicked she barely knew herself. She knew she wasn’t being rational, or fair, or remotely mature, but the urge to flee was so strong she couldn’t resist it.

She was dressed in seconds and within five minutes had brushed her teeth, dragged a brush through her hair and stuffed the tangle of curls into a clip, swiped lip gloss over her passion-swollen mouth, and flicked the mascara brush over her lashes.

When she returned to the bedroom, he wasn’t there.

She packed her dress and Maxine’s pashmina into her case and left the room.

She found Jack in the kitchen with his sister. Chloe wore the most gorgeous silk robe and looked like a movie star from the twenties. Rachel almost expected her to light up a cigarette on a long holder.

Jack wore a look on his face that tore at her heart. And that made her furious. They’d only known each other a week. This was ridiculous, unfair, manipulative. She was a recently divorced, unemployed mess. She didn’t have the mental or physical energy for a complicated love life.

“Have some coffee,” Chloe said. She was messing around with a French press and it was obvious that somebody else usually made her coffee.

“No. Thank you.” She looked at Jack. “If you could just call me a cab?”

“I’ll drive you to the station.”

“You should spend some time with your sister.” She paused, feeling like a total, miserable bitch. “All right. Maybe you could drive me to the station.”

They were no sooner pulling out of his parking garage than he said, “Rachel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you off.”

“No. It’s me who is sorry. I didn’t expect, I didn’t know…” She heaved a sigh and tried again. “I would really like for you not to think I am a total loser.”

He sent her a wry grin. “I’d like you not to think the same about me.”

She laughed. “Agreed.”

“How long do I have?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When’s your return ticket home?”

“Oh. It’s open. I can stay up to twelve weeks, I think.”

“Well, that’s not so bad. I’ve got some time to convince you to stay.”

She looked at him, truly curious. “So if I said right now, yes, let’s get married…”

“I’d be driving straight back so I could cancel all my appointments tomorrow and we’d get married.”

“How can you be so sure? No one’s ever wanted me like this.”

He sent her a look that melted her heart. “Maybe no one’s ever loved you enough.”

Wow. There was a zinger. As much as it hurt to admit it, she thought he was right. “I’ve failed so much in the last year. I don’t have much faith in my own judgment.”

“Never mind. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take it as slowly as you like.” He turned to her in alarm. “You won’t stop shagging me, will you?”

She glanced at him, all crisp and clean and gorgeous, not a big overblown mess like she was. “I may be stupid, but I’m not crazy.”

He pulled into the station. “You know, if I didn’t have Chloe waiting at home, I’d drive you down in spite of your protests.”

“I know you would. But the train’s fun for me. And-”

“Yes, all right. You need some time.”

He’d stopped the car at a drop-off point by the taxi rank. Now he got out and retrieved her bag. He stood before her and she saw this tall, gorgeous, successful Londoner who loved her. Or at least who believed he did enough to say so.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around him and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. “I had a really wonderful time. Thank you for last night. Thank you for everything.”

“I’ll ring you.”

“And be nice to Chloe.”

“I’m always much nicer to Chloe than she deserves.”

Rachel chuckled. “She’s lucky to have you.”

He gave her a quizzical glance.

“No, really. She is. And”-she took a deep breath-“thank you. For loving me.”

“My pleasure.”

Chapter Eleven

“You’re back early,” said Max when Rachel finally tracked her sister down in the long gallery.

“Jack’s sister Chloe showed up.”

“Ah, yes, the bride. Definitely puts a cramp in the affair to have little sis hanging around.”

“Yeah, I need to talk to you about that.”

“You don’t have to,” Max said. “Chloe rang. God, listen to me. She rang. I’m turning into a Brit. Anyway, she’s canceling the wedding. Can you believe it? Our big society wedding, the one that was going to put us on the map. Gone. Poof. And I already put a deposit on the tent.”

She’d done a lot more than put a few pounds down on a tent, but she was obviously trying to stay cheerful, even though, the way things were going, she and George were going to be too old to get married before they ever dragged Hart House into profitability.

“We’ll figure something out.” Jack’s words echoed unpleasantly in Rachel’s mind. Was it possible that she was jealous of Maxine? She hadn’t exactly been super-supportive of her sister, and yet, look at her. She was glowing. “You’re really happy here, aren’t you?”

Max laughed. “Amazing, isn’t it? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but things keep getting better.”

She knew Max had made up her mind not to marry George until they were in the black, and maybe it was stupid, but Maxine was not one to budge after she’d made up her mind. So it was up to Rachel to help bring in the bucks. Already, she knew they’d made a sizable dent in the bank loan. What they needed was a big, splashy success.

“Don’t cancel that tent. There must be a replacement couple who want a splashy wedding. Let’s brainstorm later. I’m going to shower.”

“It’s not your problem, Rach.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay, maybe I’m not being clear. In my subtle way I’m giving you my blessing. George is a wonderful man and you two belong together. I’ve been pretty whiny and self-involved recently so maybe I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I could have been, but I’m telling you right now that I’m going to do everything I can to help raise revenue. With the two of us on full throttle?” She grinned. “ England doesn’t have a chance.”

She patted her sister’s shoulder as she walked by. “Now close your mouth and start thinking.”

Rachel had contemplated Jack’s words all the way down on the train. First, she had to take in the astonishing fact that he’d said her loved her, and even more astonishing, that she believed him. Then she replayed the accusations he’d lobbed her way. She was scared, jealous, yearning for love. When she got past the sting, she thought maybe he wasn’t completely wrong.

Even if he was right and she was too terrified to accept love for herself, she could at least be big enough to help her sister reach her happy ending.

A little scary warmth stole through her every time she replayed the moment when he’d looked at her with his sexy eyes all serious and said he loved her. And what about her? Was he right? Was she so terrified of love that she’d turn it away?

A person didn’t fall in love in a week, she told herself furiously. One didn’t!

She showered, and then went into the kitchen and baked shortbread cookies with chunks of candied ginger, a lemon pound cake, and thick, gooey espresso brownies. The baking soothed her and the scents coming from the oven lifted her mood. The kitchen was her place, where she felt in control, and while she worked her mind was free to brainstorm money-making ideas for Hart House.

“Rachel?” She heard George calling her and turned to find him striding into the kitchen. He was so impossibly cute. “I thought I’d find you here.” He stopped to breathe. “God, it smells fantastic in here.” He scoffed a shortbread cookie in a practiced fashion. “Can you come into the drawing room?”

“I’ve still got one batch of cookies to bake.”

“Oh, do come. I’m opening a rather nice bottle of bubbly.”

“All right.” She felt more like being alone-a recluse, in fact. Having her meals sent to her on trays and writing in her journal. She’d have to buy a journal somewhere. What she needed was an elegant journal bound in leather where she could write her thoughts and feelings with a fountain pen. She smiled to herself. She’d just bet that Chloe was at this very moment writing in her journal.

Instead, she was going to have to play nice with two people she adored, but who were going to have her believing in love again if she wasn’t careful. Champagne was for celebrating. George couldn’t have picked a worse time to pop a cork.

George seemed chattier than usual as they walked back to the great house. Given that Chloe had cancelled her extremely expensive and already planned wedding, she was surprised at how buoyant he seemed.

When Rachel walked into the parlor, Maxine was closing her cell phone. “Mum and Greg say hi,” she said.

“You talked to them on Friday. Why are you-”

Then Maxine looked up at her and she noticed the glow. She’d never seen Max look so beautiful, or so happy.

She glanced at George, who’d broken into the widest, most heartfelt grin she’d ever seen.

“Oh, my God,” she squealed. “You’re not?”

“I am. We are. We’re getting married.”

The two of them screamed like five-year-olds who’d drunk too much pop, and were suddenly hugging, laughing, and crying, and hugging some more.

When Rachel pulled away, she glanced at George, who was looking a little shy but pleased. “I’m so happy for you both,” she said, and threw her arms around George, too. “I think you’ll be an excellent big brother. I always wanted one.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said simply, and she believed him with all her heart.

“But how did you get Maxine to agree? She’s got this thing about paying off the debt first.”

“I managed to convince her that she was wrong. No one should postpone happiness for silly reasons.”

The words sent an odd pang through her. Was she doing that? Pushing away happiness for stupid reasons? Like she’d decided never to love again because it had gone wrong once?

George hugged her back and then extricated himself to open the champagne. The business of opening and pouring gave them all enough time to pull themselves together.

He handed them each a flute of golden, bubbling wine. He’d obviously raided the family cellars for something fabulous.

“I’d like to toast my future wife. The woman I’d almost ceased to believe existed. My countess. My love.”

Rachel watched him, heard the sincerity of his words, but what struck her was the way he was looking at Maxine. It was so familiar, that look, and she realized it was the way Jack had looked at her this morning when he’d told her he loved her.

Love. How could you avoid it when it hit you any more than you could hold onto it when it was gone?

“I wish you every happiness,” she said, feeling emotion choke her. She turned to her sister, feeling that it was all becoming too much. “And I don’t care if you do become a countess. I’m not curtsying to you.”

“Throw her in the dungeon, Earl!”

And by dint of being very silly they managed to bring the atmosphere down from its almost painful high to a more rollicking foolishness.

“So when did you decide to get married?”

“We started talking about all the work we’ve already done for Chloe’s wedding. It wasn’t any old wedding, but a pretty big society deal. I told George what you’d said. That we should start working the phones for another society wedding to slot in its place.”

Max reached for his hand. “And he said that perhaps our wedding would do. He said he’s not as rich as the guy Chloe’s going to marry, but his family is much older.”

“You’re such a snob, George,” Rachel said.

Maxine grinned at her. “And there’s bad news for you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I know. Even though I am fundamentally opposed to the entire patriarchal institution, you’re going to make me cater your wedding.”

“Worse. You’re a bridesmaid.”

Chapter Twelve

Jack didn’t ring Rachel for a week. He cursed himself up and down for being such a stupid prat as to blurt out the fateful words that had made Rachel run from him. He decided a woman that petrified of love needed space and time to come to terms with the possibility that she was in it.

Of course, she loved him. He was almost positive that she must. He’d rushed things, that’s all. He, who’d somehow managed never to fall very hard in thirty-four years, had gone arse over teakettle for a rather bad-tempered chef with violent tendencies almost the moment he met her.

When he could stand it no longer, he rang and she sounded pleased to hear from him. Phew, he thought. First hurdle passed. She hadn’t hung up and told him she never wanted to see him again. And she hadn’t gone back to America. He suggested a date for next Friday and she accepted.

He took her into Salisbury, to an ancient pub he thought she’d like. The food was good, and he didn’t think Los Angeles could boast many places as old. The spires of the cathedral rose in gray majesty and the day was perfect.

With George and Max’s wedding as well as Chloe’s rather surprising decision to study painting in the south of France, there was plenty to talk about. None of it personal.

He’d brought her a cookbook from the shop round the corner from him, the way he’d have brought another woman flowers. She was so pleased with her present that she kept opening it and reading bits of recipes to him.

After the pub lunch, they strolled the narrow streets of the medieval village and toured the cathedral. He wondered if it was a mistake to visit a cathedral, such a grand, solemn place that rather reminded one of the serious ceremonies of life. Birth, death…marriage. But she seemed entranced by the cathedral and when the choir began to practice, she held his hand and stood, rapt.

When he took her home, he was prepared to make do with a quick snog and drive back to London. She gave him her mischievous smile. “Why don’t I practice on you? I’ll cook something from my new book. For dinner tonight.” He helped her in the kitchen, finding pleasure and companionship in being her sous chef. They ate dinner with Max and George, and then she took him to her room, where they made love with quiet sweetness. Her mind might not have been ready to face up to her love, but her body told him everything he’d hoped to hear. They ate breakfast on their own, rising much later than anyone else.

After that it became a regular thing for them to spend Friday evenings, which turned into Saturdays, together. Sometimes they had the entire weekend, but she often did the catering for a small wedding, or an afternoon tea for the ladies of the straw hat society or some such thing. He regretted the hours they could have spent together, but not the way he could see her becoming more and more a part of the estate.

He thought it was a very good thing for her to be exposed to so much successful love as she was surrounded by, not only at the great house, but also in the pub where Arthur and Meg’s affair progressed most satisfactorily. They were back from America and the novelist was hard at work on the next bit of terror she planned to unleash on unsuspecting readers.

Where they’d settle permanently was anyone’s guess. He thought Arthur would follow Meg anywhere.

Would he? he wondered. If Rachel wanted to go back to California, would he be willing to go with her?

He wasn’t sure if being willing to relocate was a true test of love, but he rather thought he would. If his choice was London without her or L.A. with her, he thought he’d be wearing Oakleys, striping his nose with zinc, and ordering half-caps with wings quite happily on Sunset Strip.

One Friday, as he arrived at the estate after a hellish slog down the M5, George said, “Can I have a word?”

The earl had obviously been on the lookout for him, for he’d even beaten Wiggins to the door.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack said, loosening his tie.

George took him into a book-lined library that his father had used as a study. George kept an office on a different floor, out of the way of the tourists, so the library still had the formal atmosphere of the old earl.

George chatted idly about football, but Jack could see there was something on his mind, and after two and a half hours of driving that had consisted of jerking forward a few feet then idling for several minutes, he was more than ordinarily anxious to see Rachel.

Finally he interrupted a pointless treatise on Manchester United’s last match. “What is it you want, George?”

“Well, the thing is, I’d like it very much if you’d be one of my groomsmen. For the wedding.”

The irritation that had begun to build dissipated immediately. He felt the grin spread on his face and shook George’s hand heartily. “I’d be delighted. Thank you for asking me.”

“I hesitated, because I know you’ve been in about a hundred wedding parties.”

“Not so many. Not quite fifty, I should think. But I’d be truly happy to stand up for you.”

“Thanks.” George blew out a breath. “There’s such an awful lot to think about with a wedding. You were starting to look so cross I thought you’d refuse.”

“Actually, I thought you were about to ask me what my intentions were with regard to your future sister.”

“God, no. None of my business, really,” George said, walking behind his father’s desk and pouring out two stiff whiskeys. He handed one to Jack and sipped his own. Then he said, “At least, well, I suppose it is my business in a way. Not that the lady would thank me for interfering.”

He glanced at Jack, obviously enjoying his position of power, however bogus. “Just out of interest, what are your intentions?”

“Oh, I’m going to marry her.”

Jack had the satisfaction of seeing his old friend snort thirty-year-old single malt up his nose and cough until his eyes watered.

“Really? But you never marry them. They always marry someone else.”

Jack settled into one of the leather wing chairs and regarded George. “You know the way you feel about Maxine?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, as it all came clear. “You, too?”

“I thought it would never happen.”

“Stunning when it does.”

They sipped for a quiet moment. “And what do you reckon for Manchester ’s chances in this week’s match against Cheltenham?”

And so the two were comfortable again, having done as much emotional sharing as they were ever likely to.

The year had ticked over and spring was unfurling all over the estate. Rachel hadn’t gone home. He never asked how she managed to stay in the country, or for how long. He’d rushed his fences once; he wouldn’t do it again. Instead, he tried to show her how their life could be. He introduced her to his friends, he flew her to Paris for a very decadent weekend, and they’d all spent Christmas at Hart House, including various brothers and sisters and George’s odd relatives.

He was waiting, he knew. And wooing the hell out of the woman he loved.

Maxine and George’s wedding day dawned as blue and glorious as the wedding of a titled gentleman marrying his true love on an ancient English estate ought to dawn.

Rachel was probably as happy about the fact as the bride was. They’d worked out contingency plans in case of rain, there was a big tent on the grounds, and loads of room in the house, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Max wanted to get married in the village church and celebrate the event on the grounds of Hart House. The society photographers would be there, and blooming roses and sparkling water photographed so much better than sodden branches and dripping umbrellas.

And, of course, Rachel’s food would present so much better without a drenching.

Her dress-thank God for Maxine’s excellent taste-was a soft, sage green. Designer simple, it fit her perfectly and brought out the green in her eyes.

The bride wore antique satin and carried the softest pink roses.

The ancient church was hushed as they walked in. Rachel followed two flower girls, and while George looked down the aisle behind her to where Max would appear, Jack looked at her, so she felt as every step brought her closer that she was making a tiny vow. Their gazes held and she saw his lips curve, ever so slightly.

It was a strange moment to have an epiphany about her own heart while celebrating her sister’s union, but perhaps it was appropriate. For she saw Jack standing there at the front of a church, ready to celebrate a marriage, and she knew without a doubt that he was waiting for her. As she’d been waiting for him.

The next wedding Union Jack took part in was going to be his own. It might not happen for a while, but she knew in her heart it was right.

I love you, she told him with her eyes.

I know, his said back.

They stood together while Maxine took George to be her lawfully wedded earl and George took Max to be his lawfully wedded countess.

The tiny village church contained royalty, TV people from L.A., Meg and Arthur, who’d flown home for the event, and family and friends. Rachel’s eyes widened slightly as she recognized Chloe, who’d flown back for the wedding. Like the latest Prada bag, she sported the latest darkly handsome boyfriend.

There’d been enough media to guarantee a lot of publicity on both sides of the Atlantic. Rachel strongly suspected that Maxine, ever the overachiever, had accomplished her goal. The Hart House Wedding Package was booked through the summer at rates that had made George’s eyes bug out when he’d first heard them.

Of course, Rachel didn’t believe in a perfect love, but she had to admit while watching her sister and her brand-new brother-in-law walk down the aisle, with quiet joy pretty much radiating off them, that they had found something very special.

Then she felt Jack take her arm and walk her down the aisle behind them, and she knew she’d found something special, too.

Will you take this man? The words of the wedding service echoed in her head as they emerged into sunshine and a shower of rose petals.

Did she have the courage to risk her heart again? To let go of a painful past and take a chance on an unpredictable future?

Will you take this man?

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“What’s that, darling?” Jack asked, turning to look at her with that special look he kept just for her.

“Yes,” she repeated, while bells rang and rose petals floated and laughter danced on the air. “Yes, I believe I will.”