A TASTE OF PASSION
Sweet Temptation Book 1
Ashley Lister

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

It was possibly the most wonderful thing that Trudy had ever found in her mouth. She was momentarily struck silent as her senses savoured the experience. The chatter continued around her. The clatter of cutlery and crockery was an ambient crackle beneath the muted murmur of conversations and the sound of people steadfastly dining. The world, she supposed, was continuing to revolve. But all Trudy could focus on was the sublime flavour that filled her mouth.

It was how she imagined heaven might taste.

‘Sweet Temptation,’ Charlotte and Donny said in unison. They clinked their champagne flutes together and then nudged them absently against Trudy’s extended glass. Neither noticed that she had been struck dumb by an epiphany.

‘Here’s to profitable trading in the first year of business,’ Donny declared.

‘To a business as successful as this one,’ Charlotte countered, gesturing with her glass to the restaurant around them.

Every seat was full. Waiters and waitresses, dressed in immaculate black shirts and pants, bustled hurriedly from table to table. Trudy, Charlotte and Donny had only managed to get reservations because Charlotte’s parents were wealthy, had influence, and possessed the foresight to have booked this table several months in advance. Despite the chintz of the décor, Boui-Boui had a deserved reputation for sophistication, prestige and culinary excellence that made it successful and popular.

Donny surveyed the restaurant with a contemptuous sneer. He had been blessed with darkly handsome good looks which he exploited to their fullest advantage. Some of Trudy’s friends described him as Machiavellian whilst others said he was merely attractive because he had a bad boy’s charm. Some had even been so bold as to suggest he had the cruelty to match his devilish good looks. But Trudy had only ever thought of him as Donny, one of her flatmates and an occasional study-buddy.

She didn’t believe she would ever think of him in any other way.

‘To our first Michelin star,’ Donny decided.

‘And our second,’ Charlotte added.

The pair of them finally noticed that Trudy was not participating in their extended toast. Her eyes were wide. She had her lips closed to jealously guard the prize on her tongue. Her cheeks bulged and she was aware that the condition made her features unflattering. But she was inwardly cataloguing the flavours, identifying the ones she knew and trying to deduce the identity of a fantastic and mysterious element in the muffin that her senses hadn’t previously encountered.

The constituent eggs were fresh and creamy and so obviously free range she was sure they had come from the handful of black rock chickens she had seen clucking and strutting towards the coops in the grounds around Boui-Boui.

The flour had the heady rasp of organic, hand-milled wheat.

She could tell little about the sugars involved. Their flavours were lost beneath the blend of citrus stings and blueberry zings that sat in the muffin’s heart and sweetened every light-yet-coarse crumb.

But there was something else.

It was something that elevated the flavour to an experience like nothing she had previously encountered. It was something so exciting and unexpected she thought it was like being an artist and discovering a previously unseen colour, or being a musician and hearing a previously unheard chord.

There were echoes of citrus and vanilla and …

‘Trudy?’ Charlotte frowned with obvious concern.

Whenever Charlotte frowned a small V creased the bridge above her retroussé nose. The V wrinkled her otherwise smooth brow and caused her dark eyes to narrow. The concern always accentuated the sharpness of her angular cheekbones. The expression, instead of making her look caring, made her look like a brooding brunette ballbreaker. The expression was the polar opposite of Charlotte’s sweet-natured personality.

‘Is everything OK, hon?’

Trudy shook her head. Everything was not OK. Her world had been turned upside down by this revelation.

She had spent three years studying food. This meal was intended as a celebration between her and her two dearest friends now that they had graduated with their culinary arts degrees. Yet this was the first time Trudy had experienced a taste as profound and intense as the one that now filled her mouth. Reluctantly, almost feeling bereaved because she didn’t want to part with the new flavour she had just discovered and was now savouring, Trudy swallowed. She glanced frantically around the restaurant. When her gaze fell on the maître d’ she beckoned the woman to join them.

‘Trude?’ Donny had a hand on her wrist. He looked worried. ‘Do the cakes taste really shitty? Are you going to complain?’

She stared at him in bewilderment. Donny’s question made no sense. How could he use the word ‘shitty’ to refer to the muffin she had just tasted? It wasn’t shitty. It wasn’t even perfection. It was beyond perfection.

‘Trudy,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘You’re freaking us out here.’ Her voice was a balance of urgency and concern. She remained in control but she was clearly worried about the excess of Trudy’s reaction. ‘What’s wrong, hon? Can’t you tell us?’

The maître d’ appeared at the table. She was tall, imposing and meticulous in her formal black business suit. Her thin features and improbable beauty suggested she might have had cosmetic work done to maintain her youthful appearance. Her smile conveyed professionalism and authority with a mild suggestion of approachability.

‘May I help?’

She spoke with the refined tones and clear articulation of a newsreader. If Trudy hadn’t seen that the woman was the restaurant’s maître d’, she would have guessed her occupation as an elocution teacher.

Trudy patted a knuckle lightly against her lips. After-echoes of the flavour remained in her mouth. The flurry of sensations was so rich and thrilling she had to swallow twice for fear of drooling her response.

‘Miss?’ The maître d’ was beginning to appear concerned. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘May I talk to the pâtissier?’ Trudy asked. ‘That muffin was …’

Her voice trailed off. The muffin was one of the most stupendous flavours she had ever tasted. Expressing the thought with those words, even though they were true, seemed somehow excessive and inappropriate.

‘I’d like to talk with the pâtissier,’ she insisted. ‘But, if I can’t talk with him or her, may I please have the recipe?’

‘The recipe?’ The maître d’ shook her head and laughed. The sound was soft, polite and only lightly underscored with scorn. Her words came out as though she was reciting an oft-repeated mantra. ‘It’s not the policy here at Boui-Boui to share recipes with customers. Whilst the management are obviously thrilled that you enjoyed –’

‘Please,’ Trudy broke in. ‘I’ve just graduated. I’ve been studying food for the past three years. But I’ve never tasted anything as exquisite. I need to learn more about it. If I can’t have the recipe then please let me talk with –’

‘I’m sorry,’ the maître d’ said. Her voice remained polite but it was now edged with a firmness that said the subject was no longer open for further discussion. ‘I’ve told you Boui-Boui’s policy on this matter. Unless there’s anything else?’

Trudy’s mouth worked silently for a moment.

Charlotte placed a hand on hers and spoke to the maître d’. ‘No,’ Charlotte said with measured politeness. ‘There’s nothing else at the moment. Thank you for informing us about the restaurant’s policy.’

Chapter 2

Trudy headed to the bathroom to freshen up. She left strict instructions that her muffin wasn’t to be touched and she told Charlotte and Donny that she would return shortly.

‘Do you want me to come with you, hon?’

Trudy shook her head. She was holding back tears of frustration and determined not to let them win. She wasn’t going to be defeated by a maître d’ and a muffin. She had never let herself be beaten by anything. ‘I need three minutes,’ she told Charlotte. ‘Then I’ll be right.’ She held up the three middle fingers of her right hand. Her thumb and little finger were curled together in her palm. It was such a commonly repeated action between herself and Charlotte the gesture had taken on the familiarity of a gang sign.

‘Three minutes.’

Charlotte blinked acknowledgement and returned the gesture. Three minutes.

Carefully, Trudy made her way through the rustic space of Boui-Boui’s dining area. The décor’s focus had been on the familiar tropes of an idyllic country kitchen. The woodwork was clean and clunky beneath gingham tablecloths and lacy chintz placemats. Trudy avoided waiters and inhaled the exotic and exciting aromas of a hundred skilfully prepared flavour experiences as she headed towards the washrooms. With her senses still reeling from the overload of the muffin, it felt as though her nostrils were cataloguing each familiar element they now encountered. She caught the thrilling bite of a smoked serrano chilli pepper that was both daunting and tempting. She was momentarily distracted by the blended bouquet of Herbs de Provence, smiling as she identified the delicate balance of thyme, basil, fennel, marjoram and rosemary. Every flavour was sharp, developed to its most efficient, and absurdly appealing. Every sensory experience in the room, save for one, seemed instantly identifiable.

Trembling from the excess of experience, Trudy hurried into the washroom and closed the door behind her. She splashed water on her cheeks and studied her reflection.

It had been a momentous day.

She had received her first class honours degree. The ceremony had been solemn but each commemorating address bristled with the prospect of the tremendous opportunities that now lay ahead. She was with her closest friends and they were discussing their shared plans to make a future together in the catering industry as a joint enterprise called Sweet Temptation. Everything before her brimmed with promise and hope and the potential for success and she refused to let the day be spoilt by the barrier of an enigmatic muffin and a stubborn maître d’.

Trudy stood over the restroom sink and scowled at her reflection.

Her short blonde crop had been styled to perfection that morning. It had maintained the majority of its shape, despite the fact that she’d been sat wearing a mortarboard for the best part of three hours. The light make-up she wore remained in place, accentuating the depths of her smoky grey eyes and drawing attention to the cranberry pout of her lips.

Her resolve hardened.

No one earned a first class honours degree by accepting refusals. No one achieved anything of worth by simply allowing people to stand in the way. She was going to make a success of Sweet Temptation with Charlotte and Donny and part of being a success would involve pushing herself to break artificial boundaries imposed by those around her. Standing a little taller than before, and making sure every step she took landed with powerful force, Trudy left the washroom and marched back across the dining room to take her seat at the table.

She had a plan.

‘Are you OK, hon?’

‘I’m OK,’ Trudy told Charlotte. She considered the remains of the muffin that waited for her. She tore off a crumb and contemplated it thoughtfully. ‘I’m OK. But I’ll say goodnight to you two now.’

‘Are you going somewhere?’ Donny asked. ‘We don’t mind going with you.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Trudy told him. ‘I just figured you two might want to leave. I’ll be staying here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me.’

Donny rolled his eyes. He glared at Charlotte. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going to make a scene.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Trudy’s not going to cause a scene. Not again. Not like the Wilkinson incident.’ Turning to Trudy she said, ‘Please don’t do this, hon. Not now. Not today.’

‘Please,’ Donny agreed. ‘Tonight of all nights, we should be out celebrating. I’ve got us tickets for Stanzas.’

Trudy set her jaw. There was no sense explaining that Charlotte and Donny were bringing money and business acumen to their proposed partnership whilst she was only able to contribute the same culinary knowledge they had all learnt whilst studying together. It was an argument they’d had before and she didn’t want to sit through it again. She simply wanted to talk with the kitchen staff and discover the identity of the mystery ingredient from the muffin. Once she knew what it was she would be able to work on reproducing something similar in her own kitchen.

It wouldn’t be an identical muffin.

She wouldn’t steal the recipe.

But she would be able to include that maddening, unidentifiable ingredient.

‘I’ll be waiting here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me,’ Trudy explained. ‘I’ve got no intention of causing a scene. And once the pâtissier has told me everything I want to know, I’ll catch up with the pair of you and we can continue celebrating.’ She frowned and added, ‘Does it have to be Stanzas?’

Donny looked set to argue but Charlotte held up a hand to silence him. She reached into her purse and withdrew a series of notes.

Trudy allowed her friend to pay. This meal was Charlotte’s treat. Charlotte could afford the extortionate prices charged at Boui-Boui. Or, to be more accurate, Charlotte’s parents could afford the extortionate prices. As this really was a day for celebrations, Trudy didn’t mind taking advantage of their generosity.

Donny picked up Trudy’s mobile from the table and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re low on power.’

‘I have a spare battery in my bag. If there’s an emergency, if I need anything, I can give you a call.’

He squeezed her shoulder. The gesture was reassuringly fraternal. She caught the refreshing zesty scent of his CK1 cologne. It was a smell she knew and trusted and she caught herself smiling as she inhaled. The smell of Donny was always comforting.

‘Congratulations again,’ Charlotte said, pecking Trudy lightly on the cheek. ‘The first was deserved. You’re one of the most talented chefs I know.’

‘I will make this work for us,’ Trudy promised. Her gaze went frantically from Charlotte to Donny and then back again as she tried to impart the sincerity of her claim. ‘I will make this work for us. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I don’t doubt it, hon.’

And then Charlotte and Donny were gone and Trudy was alone at the table.

The maître d’ appeared by her side. If she was puzzled to find Trudy alone her expression didn’t register any surprise. ‘Will there be anything else?’

Trudy gestured at the plate before her.

‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier responsible for this muffin.’

The maître d’ frowned. ‘I thought I made this clear before. The restaurant policy is quite specific on this matter. Patrons are not entitled to recipes or private discussions with members of the kitchen team. It’s simply not our policy here and I apologise if –’

‘I’ll wait,’ Trudy said. She put the final crumb of muffin into her mouth and then smiled against the thinly concealed glower worn by the maître d’. Chewing quickly before swallowing Trudy added, ‘Please may I have another of these citrus and blueberry muffins whilst I’m waiting?’

Chapter 3

An hour passed. The maître d’ paused three times at Trudy’s table. Each time she paused the exchange they shared was always identical.

‘May I get you anything else?’

‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier.’

‘I’ve already explained that’s not possible. Boui-Boui’s policy is explicit.’

‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’

A second hour passed. The world beyond the windows of Boui-Boui turned dark as the summer’s evening faded to night. The diners around Trudy finished their meals, paid and passed on complements to the chef, and then meandered towards the exits.

The trade, steady throughout the evening, began to falter.

Waiters and waitresses passing Trudy’s table eyed her with mixed expressions of pity, panic, bemusement and unease. They had clearly been discussing her in the kitchens. She was undoubtedly considered to be the mad woman on table thirteen. She clearly had some bug up her backside about muffins and recipes. She was a loose cannon worth watching in case she went properly crazy.

Untroubled by their opinions, Trudy closed her eyes and savoured the moment. Boui-Boui had an international reputation for excellence. William Hart, restaurateur, chef and culinary legend was the owner. Hart had delivered a seminar at Trudy’s university and she could still remember his dulcet tones as he reverently discussed the need for every chef to understand the core elements of the profession. He had spoken for an hour and it had been one of the most memorable lectures that Trudy had attended. To find herself sitting in Hart’s celebrated restaurant, trying to unravel the mysterious flavours contained within one of his kitchen’s creations, was almost like some form of surreal graduation prize. If she had been given a choice between this situation, or going out drinking with Donny and Charlotte at Stanzas, Trudy knew that she would have chosen a solitary seat in Boui-Boui every time.

‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.

The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.

One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.

‘The head chef has given me permission to lock the doors with you inside.’

Trudy glanced at the maître d’. ‘You’ve spoken with the head chef? May I speak with the head chef?’

‘No. As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’

‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’

The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.

Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’

‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’

‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’

‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.

Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.

Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.

Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.

Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.

Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.

The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.

She was now the only customer in the restaurant.

The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.

‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’

Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’

The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.

Chapter 4

‘What do you want?’

Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.

‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’

‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’

It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.

His accent trilled softly against her ear like the rasp of a favourite blanket. Maddeningly, she knew his voice was one she had heard before and that she knew well. She racked her brains, desperately trying to think where she had heard it and how she knew this stranger.

‘What do I want?’ Trudy repeated. It was difficult to believe that the full details of her request had not been passed on to the senior kitchen staff. She brushed past that detail refusing to let her ire show. ‘Perhaps you might be able to tell me?’ she began excitedly. ‘Are you the pâtissier?’

Even as she asked the question she knew that wasn’t correct. The waitress had told her that the pâtissier was a woman called Kali.

‘No. I’m not the pâtissier. I’m head chef. This is my restaurant.’

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Whatever she had hoped to say suddenly seemed unimportant as she realised she was in the presence of a legend. She was briefly thankful for the darkness because it meant she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the fact that she was flustered with this discovery. She was in the presence of her idol.

‘William Hart?’

‘Yes.’

‘The William Hart?’

‘Unless he owes you money, yes.’

Her heart had been racing before. Now it thundered so loud she was sure he would be able to hear it in the darkened silence between them. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Mr Hart. You came to the university and delivered a seminar. It was most inspirational.’

He grunted as though the matter was of no importance.

‘What do you want?’ In his broad accent the question came out as: Waz tha one? ‘It’s late, I’m jiggered and, whilst I’ve got no problems locking you in here for the night, I’d be better suited if you simply chuffed off back to where you’ve come from. Let those of us who work for a living get some shuteye.’

She tried squinting at him in the darkness. His dialect and unfamiliar word choices made it difficult for her to work out if he was angry or amused or possessed by some other emotion. If there had been better lighting between them she would have been able to read his eyes and establish if he was sincere in his threat to lock her inside the restaurant.

‘I wanted to learn something about the ingredients in your citrus and blueberry muffin.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Are you lakin’ with me?’

She shook her head and then realised he wouldn’t be able to see the movement in the darkness. ‘I don’t think I’m laking with you. I’m not fully sure I understand what that means.’

‘Lakin’?’ He sighed. ‘Are you joking? Are you playing with me? Are you having a laugh? Are you messing me about? Did you really spend your entire evening sat at this table because you wanted to know what’s in one of my blueberry muffins?’ He chuckled dourly and added, ‘I’ll tell you now, lass, the answer to that one was buried somewhere in the question.’

Trudy frowned. She could tell he was mocking her and she supposed her unorthodox behaviour did merit some level of derision. Nevertheless, she was determined not to be dismissed as a foolish blonde who hadn’t worked out that a blueberry muffin contained blueberries.

‘I recognise so many flavours in this product,’ she said quickly. ‘I can taste the organic, free range eggs. I can taste hand-milled wheat as well as blueberries and citrus zest.’ A revelation suddenly came to her and she said, ‘I’ve even worked out that those sugars that were initially confusing me are an acacia honey.’

He drummed his fingers on the table.

Her vision was beginning to adjust to the lack of light in the room and she could see the lines that weathered his face. His eyes were wrinkled by the suggestion of constant smiles. She could see he had raised one steel-grey eyebrow, as though encouraging her to continue. She wanted to believe he was grudgingly impressed with her abilities but the lighting in the dining area was too dim for her to read much from the shadows that cloaked his face.

‘Well done,’ he said drily. ‘You can taste flavours.’

‘But that’s the problem,’ she insisted. She quashed the urge to let him hear the impatience in her tone. ‘I can’t name all of them. There’s one remaining flavour that I haven’t yet been able to identify. That’s why I’m still sitting here. I need to know the identity of that missing ingredient.’

His smile glinted brilliant white in the shadows. The darkness made it impossible for her to see if there was any kindness in his eyes. The expression made her think of a shark on the scent of blood.

‘When I delivered my seminar at your school –’

‘University,’ she corrected.

He waved a hand as though the distinction was unimportant. Continuing without pause he asked, ‘Can you remember what I spoke about?’

She didn’t have to hesitate. The lesson he had imparted on that day had been one that matched her own beliefs about the ideals of cuisine. Goosebumps bristled at the nape of her neck as she remembered William Hart delivering his message to her and a lecture theatre of two hundred students. ‘I remember it vividly. You told us to respect the flavours.’ Her voice lowered to a reverential whisper as she repeated the words. ‘You said that a chef needs to be conversant with flavours. As conversant with flavours as a concert pianist is conversant with classical music. As conversant with flavours as a writer is conversant with works of great literature. You said that it’s the duty of every great chef to respect and understand every flavour in the kitchen. Respect the flavours.’

‘It sounds sexier when you say it,’ he admitted. ‘But, despite the respect you clearly have for flavours, you still don’t recognise that added flavour in my citrus and blueberry muffin?’

She started to shake her head and then stopped. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise the flavour. She did know it – or something similar. Her chest began to swell as she realised why she had associated emotions such as excitement and happiness with the flavour.

Her heartbeat quickened.

Her smile grew broader.

It was a Christmas flavour.

‘It’s a type of cinnamon, isn’t it?’

He laughed. ‘Is it chuff? It’s not just a type of cinnamon. It’s the type of cinnamon. It’s Sri Lankan cinnamon.’

Her brow creased as she tried to recall all that she had learnt about cinnamon and apply that knowledge to her memory of the flavour in the citrus and blueberry muffins. ‘From the cinnamomum tree,’ Trudy remembered. ‘It’s not one of the more common variants of cinnamon like the Indonesian or Vietnamese.’

She watched his silhouette nod approval. ‘You do know your stuff.’

Hearing those words from the lips of William Hart, growled in his impenetrable northern voice, was almost more impressive an accolade than the honours degree that she had received earlier in the day. She knew, when she finally retired to bed this evening in the house she shared with Charlotte and Donny, Hart’s sincere praise would be at the forefront of her thoughts as she drifted to sleep.

Trudy stroked her tongue along her teeth. Now that she knew the identity of the flavour she felt as though she would be able to recreate the muffins in her own kitchen. It took an effort of self-restraint not to leap from her seat to hurry home to start baking. Of course, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be able to make a start until the morning, after a trip to the local market where she could maybe track down a specialist spice supplier who might stock Sri Lankan cinnamon, but …

‘Thank you,’ she said earnestly. ‘Thank you so much for sharing that with me. I don’t think you know how much it meant to me.’

His silhouette shrugged. ‘I can see we share a passion. I enjoy sharing things with people who share my passions. I assume, since you’ve hung around here this long, you have time to let me show you my kitchen?’

Chapter 5

It was only when the lights came back on that Trudy remembered William Hart was attractive. Disturbingly attractive. Admittedly, he was old enough to be her father. Taking into account the lined face and steel-grey hair she figured he was in his late forties or early fifties. But his age seemed immaterial.

He was hot.

There was a timeless quality to William Hart that she had noticed when he delivered the seminar at her university. His diamond-blue eyes shone with bright enthusiasm. His smile, set in a square and manly jaw, glinted with a boyish promise of inappropriate mischief. At the university she had thought he was physically imposing but, at the time, she had ascribed that to the fact he was standing on a podium, wearing a generously-cut suit beneath a double-breasted tweed overcoat. Now she could see his substantial presence came, not from his clothes, but from his broad and manly chest and his considerable height. From what she could glimpse beneath his white shirt and dark sports jacket, there didn’t appear to be any excess fat on his lean frame.

Her heartbeat had been slowing back to its normal rhythm.

The realisation that she was alone in Boui-Boui with the desirable William Hart sent it racing again. Muscles deep in her loins began to tingle with wanton and unbidden anticipation. She desperately willed herself to stop brooding on his handsomeness. He was likely married or in a relationship and she told herself it should be obvious that a man of his years would have no interest in her.

‘This way,’ he said, extending a hand.

She allowed him to hold her fingers, thrilling to his touch and hoping he couldn’t see that she was mesmerised at being in the presence of a respected idol. When he led her towards the kitchen she felt self-conscious about every step and how he might interpret her movements.

If she walked too close to him would he think she was needy or infatuated by his celebrity? If she stayed too far away would he think she had no interest in him? Or that she didn’t know who he was? Would it be less complicated, she wondered, to simply embrace him and devour him with kisses so he could see that she worshipped him?

That final idea made her smile.

It also made the muscles in her loins clench a little more hungrily.

He pushed through a door marked IN and held it open for her as fluorescent lights splashed their illumination across a bright and shiny kitchen. The room was a gleaming array of stainless steel work surfaces and sleek, polished tiles. The glossy lustre of the starship cleanliness juxtaposed harshly against the rustic exterior of Boui-Boui’s dining room with its gingham tablecloths and country house décor.

It was like stepping between worlds.

Trudy couldn’t stop herself from grinning as Hart led her by the hand through the first of the aisles past cooling hotplates and quietly ticking ovens. The walls of each station were decorated with magnetic strips where dangerously sharp kitchen blades hung and glinted beneath the fluorescents. The handles were colour-coded in bright reds, yellows, blues, greens, blacks and whites. She saw food hygiene posters on the walls above wash stations, explaining that red blades and boards were intended for raw meat, yellows were solely for cooked meats, and all the other colours of blades and utensils had their own specific purpose. The faraway chugging and churning sounds of an industrial dishwasher squelched rudely from an adjacent room. The air in the kitchen was stained with the memory of recent cooking and the pungent tang of studiously applied cleaning products.

Trudy tried to suppress her grin as she walked around the kitchen.

Hart nodded towards the glass windows of an office. The glass door was closed and labelled with the words: Head Chef.

‘I work and watch from in there,’ he explained. ‘I can oversee the hotplates and the service windows. I can inspect everything going to front of house from my office and nothing ever leaves these kitchens without my approval.’

She knew her eyes were wide with disbelief. She was being shown around the kitchens of a three star Michelin restaurant. More than that, she was being given a private tour by the celebrated William Hart. And he was hot.

The significance of the moment was almost too much for her thoughts to process.

She was reminded of the thrill she had experienced at Christmas, as a small child, when her parents had first taken her to meet Santa Claus. Then she had been meeting someone whom she revered and respected to such a magnificent degree the man was more than human: he was a legend. She was reminded of all those thoughts and more when she looked at William Hart.

Slyly, she took a glance at him.

Outside the kitchen he had moved with the graceful confidence of a ballet dancer. Inside, he patrolled the room like a panther strutting around its lair. He moved arrogantly, his possessive hold on her fingers tightening. He pointed at various aspects of the room, explaining which chef de parties were responsible for which stations, how many commis each required, and sharing his thoughts on how well each area was working and how it could be made more efficient.

The timbre of his voice was a constant, reassuring grumble. Some of his word choices, flummox, fettle and faffing, made her wonder if she was listening to a foreign language. But each unusual word only made her curious to learn more about William Hart and everything he had to say.

As he led her deeper into the gleaming depths of the room, then through a separate doorway, he flicked another switch and revealed a further bank of polished counters, sauté burners, fridges and ovens.

‘This is the patisserie. This is where Boui-Boui’s pâtissier works.’

He hadn’t needed to explain that detail. Trudy had figured as much because this was her area of specialist expertise. The pâtissier in a commercial kitchen was usually given a separate room. Fluctuating temperatures in a typical kitchen could prove disastrous to the delicate creations being forged by those who worked with desserts.

If the air was too cold a soufflé could sink.

If the air was too hot a soft sponge could harden. Ice creams, chocolates and all manner of crafted sugar creations depended on a consistency of temperature that wasn’t guaranteed in a busy kitchen working on fish, meats and veg. The environment needed to be fully controlled to ensure the dishes being produced met the consistently high standard demanded by the pâtissier.

The patisserie was joined to Hart’s office. The glass door on this side was closed and also labelled with the words: Head Chef. Looking at the closed door Trudy understood that Hart took his role seriously and kept a judgemental eye over every item being produced in his kitchen.

As Trudy walked around the patisserie she watched Hart take an apron from a hook on the wall. He smiled slyly as he offered it to her. Trudy could see the apron was decorated with the restaurant’s logo: an appliqué of a silver spoon dripping golden liquid to form the words Boui-Boui.

She was momentarily too surprised to know how to respond.

The garment hung between them like an unaccepted challenge.

Surely, William Hart was not genuinely offering her the chance to wear one of his restaurant’s aprons? It was a day when she had graduated, committed herself to a business partnership with her best friends and since discovered a new yet familiar flavour. It was a day when she had talked baking with William Hart and been given the privilege of a private tour around his prestigious kitchens. She could not imagine any experience ever bettering those she had enjoyed so far this day.

A lewd twist of her imagination presented her with one idea that could potentially better the day’s experiences. She blushed and admonished herself for such a lurid train of thought. She didn’t know where the idea had come from but she knew it was extremely inappropriate even if it did hold a delicious, dark appeal.

Seeing her hesitation, Hart took the apron and placed the neckpiece over her head. He was so close she could detect the lemony notes of his cologne. He smelled as delectable and appetising as his own citrus and blueberry muffins. She wondered if he would taste as sweet if she were to draw her tongue against his bare flesh. The idea came from nowhere and her blushes deepened when she realised she was thinking such things.

She turned her back on Hart and allowed him to tie the waistband of the apron. He stood with his head close to her ear and she could hear the slow draw of each breath he took. She held herself motionless for fear that any movement she made might break the magical spell of the moment or reveal the wicked thoughts that were suddenly rushing through her mind and exciting wanton responses through her body.

‘Why do you want me wearing an apron?’

He whispered his reply against the nape of her neck. ‘You want to try making those muffins, don’t you?’

She swallowed.

She drew in her waist, only ever satisfied with aprons when they were cinched uncomfortably tight, and she allowed him to pull the ties and secure them with a bow. His knuckles pressed firmly into the hollow at the small of her back. Trudy knew that the deep intake of breath accentuated the swell of her breasts but she didn’t figure William Hart was likely to complain. The thought that he might be enjoying her company as much as she was enjoying his, that he might be as sexually excited by her nearness as she was by him, ignited a swell of smouldering arousal in the pit of her stomach. When Trudy released her breath it came out as a trembling and expectant sigh.

Her heartbeat was racing.

Her cheeks flushed as though she suspected he had glimpsed the wicked direction of her thoughts. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was so close he could have been drinking in the scent of her short-cropped hair.

‘Honestly? Mr Hart –’

She paused abruptly, wondering if he was going to say, ‘Call me Bill,’ or, ‘It’s just William to friends.’ He didn’t say either of those things. Instead he considered her expectantly, as though waiting for her to finish her sentiment.

‘– are you really letting me bake a batch of muffins in here?’

He shrugged. ‘Only if you want.’

‘Why would you let me?’

He studied her earnestly. His eyes, in this light they were the steely grey of a polished kitchen counter, glinted with lightly tempered mirth. ‘You spent two hours sitting alone in my restaurant so you could have one question answered about some mysterious ingredient in a chuffing bun. You’ve shown me that you clearly know your flavours. If you were in that seminar I addressed it’s clear that some aspects of your education have been properly addressed.’

She smiled at his obvious conceit. Tilting her head arrogantly she asked, ‘It’s not because you fancied having a young blonde doing your bidding in the kitchen?’

‘That might be part of the attraction,’ he allowed. ‘But not for the reasons you’re suggesting. You’re too young and inexperienced for a man with my appetites. Even if you were older, I’m not sure you’d be able to cope with the demands I place on those who do my bidding in the kitchen.’

Her cheeks seared.

She had no idea what he was intimating but the words were an incendiary to the smouldering coals of her arousal. Her need for him had been powerful before. Now it was unquenchable.

Hart did not seem to notice her reaction. ‘Truth is, I want to see what a graduate does in my patisserie. It’d be champion to hear of any improvements you could suggest once you’ve baked in here. And I’d love to sample your interpretation of my muffins.’

Trudy nodded and came to an abrupt decision. She could think about Hart and his desirability later. For now she had a chance to concentrate solely on baking whilst she had the facilities of an immaculate world-class kitchen at her disposal.

Setting the temperature on a small oven, finding a bowl, sieve, blender and a pair of spatulas, she pointed quizzically towards a door marked PANTRY and cocked an eyebrow.

Hart nodded and told her to help herself. In his broad dialect the words came out as: Elp thi sen. Then he disappeared through the doorway of the head chef’s office. When the sounds of light jazz began to dance through the kitchen she realised he’d been picking music for them.

The jazz was cultured and sophisticated and easy on the ear: Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘September Song’. Trudy had not yet worked in a kitchen where the chefs didn’t have music playing softly in the background and she thought the sultry elegance of the jazz worked well for the chic meals that Hart’s kitchen produced.

From inside the chef’s office he called, ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Scotch, if you’ve got it.’

He grunted dour amusement. ‘I might be able to locate a bottle of that somewhere in here.’

She was in the pantry, willing herself not to be overwhelmed by the choices available. The air was sweetened with a million mixed fragrances. The shelves were overstocked with brightly coloured packages and clearly labelled packets. Snatching a pair of eggs, a scoop of flour and a couple of other pieces, she tripped back to the kitchen.

Her feet moved instinctively in tempo with the music.

She allowed her hips to shake slightly with the rhythm and lightly rolled her shoulders to match the beat. The rhythm was heady and exciting and Fitzgerald’s voice was always reminiscent of something exotic and sexy.

She came face-to-face with Hart, took the lowball of proffered Scotch from his hand, and twirled in a light dance as she made her way towards the counter where she was working.

Hart grinned.

The wrinkles around his eyes creased heavily making him look both older and more desirable. Trudy shut that thought from her mind, unwilling to let it run its logical course just yet. Later, she told herself, there would be time to reflect on William Hart’s desirability. Now, she had a job to do.

She sniffed tentatively at the neat pale gold that sat at the bottom of the lowball he had given her. The fragrance of quality malt was acerbic and so heady she felt intoxicated from the bouquet. It was what Charlotte called a vampire smell because, she said, whilst it was pleasing at this time of night it only ever smelled of suffering and regret on a morning.

‘It’s a Chivas Regal.’ Hart’s words sounded moist on his lips and she knew he was already savouring his own drink.

‘It smells divine,’ she muttered.

She was trying not to let herself be distracted. After pouring the wet ingredients into the bowl – eggs, honey and creamed butter – she had begun the process of sifting hand-milled flour.

‘Can I do anything to help?’

She was in a Michelin-starred kitchen and William Hart was asking her if he could do anything to help. Trudy wondered if she was dreaming. Even if she was dreaming, at that moment she decided she didn’t want to wake up. She was basking in the thrill of the experience. In future years, when anyone asked her how she celebrated her graduation, she felt sure it would be difficult not to boast about this turn of events.

‘No help needed,’ she told him. ‘I’m golden.’

It was one of the phrases that she and Donny and Charlotte used repeatedly. Charlotte had first introduced it because she was tired of saying she was OK. Donny and Trudy had picked up on it and now the word was a natural choice.

‘Golden,’ Hart laughed. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

She didn’t know what he meant by that so she let the comment go.

‘Whilst you’re working on those muffins, why don’t you tell me about yourself?’ he suggested.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘You could start with your name.’

She introduced herself as Trudy McLaughlin and told him about her lifelong desire to become a chef. She had baked in her late father’s kitchen, learning beneath his professional guidance. Trudy had entered competitions at an early age and won some prestigious local prizes. She explained about her goals and ambitions and told him how much she had enjoyed developing her skills and knowledge on a culinary arts degree. She stopped short of telling him about Sweet Temptation and the idea of building an online culinary empire with Charlotte and Donny for fear of boring him with every aspect of her life and aspirations.

She didn’t know if it was the situation, his companionship or the mood of the evening but she found it easy to talk with Hart. When he came and stood behind her to watch how she blended ingredients, she didn’t find his presence unsettling. Ordinarily she didn’t like to have her personal space invaded by strangers. But, when his arms came around from behind her, and he gently guided her hands so she was stirring at a more acute angle, Trudy savoured his nearness.

‘Make the strokes broader,’ he whispered. His words touched the lobe of her ear like gentle kisses. ‘The finished result will give more satisfaction if you make the strokes broader.’

She did as he asked.

Savouring the sensation of having his body pressed against hers as he guided her hands to work to his instructions, Trudy lowered her voice and asked, ‘Do we both want to be giving more satisfaction this evening?’

He chuckled softly.

She caught the scent of the Chivas Regal on his breath. It reminded her that she’d not yet taken a sip of her drink. She was suddenly driven by the need to taste the flavour of the Scotch on his kiss. The idea inspired a flurry of dark and desperate urges that sparkled deep in the centre of her sudden need for him.

‘Smells divine,’ he grunted.

She blushed. ‘Thank you, but I was only following your recipe.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the muffins.’

It was as much as he needed to say before she turned to face him. His lips were tantalisingly close and the desire to kiss him was overwhelming. She hesitated for less than a second and then pushed her mouth against his.

Chapter 6

Later Trudy would admit that she amazed herself in the kitchen with her show of restraint. She pulled away from the kiss and, with a promise in her smile, placed a finger on his lips. Saucily, she tilted her hips against him. She could feel the insistent threat of his erection concealed beneath his trousers. The hard flesh bulged between them as desperate as her own swelling need for him. It was a delightful and unexpected reminder that they were both fuelled by the same powerful and demanding urges. She wanted to shiver as she realised what the discovery meant: William Hart finds me desirable.

Then she turned and finished prepping the muffins.

The patisserie was already heady with the scent of the Sri Lankan cinnamon. Her lips needed constant moistening as her nostrils drank in the intoxicating flavour. She had liberated blueberries from the pantry and was looking for an orange when he joined her.

They were alone together in the kitchen.

But the narrowness of the dark pantry meant they had to be even closer.

Trudy trembled.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Orange,’ she admitted. ‘Lime or lemon if you’ve got no orange –’

She was going to carry on listing potential alternatives but he reached for something large and red from behind her and then placed it in her palm.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Rangpur,’ he said simply. ‘It’s sometimes called lemandarin. It’s a hybrid form between mandarin oranges and lemons.’

‘Shut the front door,’ Trudy whispered. She studied the fruit in her hand, incredulous that such a thing could exist – and that she’d never encountered it before. She sniffed the biting zest of its flesh, drinking in the acidic orangey fragrance, and fretful that the powerful flavour might prove too strong for the muffins she wanted to create. Then, realising the rangpur was being offered by a leading chef, she figured she could gamble confidently on the unknown ingredient.

‘Rangpur,’ she repeated, as she stepped past him and back into the kitchen. ‘Haven’t I learnt a lot tonight?’

‘The lessons have barely begun,’ he muttered.

She shivered as her thoughts lingered on the subtext of his words. She didn’t know what else he thought he could teach her in the kitchen but she knew she wanted to learn every lesson he had in mind.

The thought made her pulse quicken.

She grated the zest from the plump and succulent rangpur. Its fragrance was a powerful orange that would have been too bitter to tolerate as a main flavour. Trudy marvelled that she was now on the verge of creating the same divine delicacies she had sampled earlier in William Hart’s restaurant. She hoped, given her own approach to baking, the flavour would have something extra that came from the way she chose to combine ingredients.

If that happened, Trudy knew it would be an incredible accomplishment.

She folded the remaining ingredients into the bowl.

She creamed.

She mixed.

She stirred.

She found an electric whisk and blended. She rubbed her fingers thoughtfully along the brittle, fragile cinnamon quills. Their fragrance was as delicate as all the other mysterious ingredients she had discovered this evening. Reverently, she crumbled half a dozen quills into the mix. After mentally checking her understanding of the recipe, and convincing herself that she had everything in place, Trudy dropped a dozen pretty pastel pink paper cases onto a baking sheet and then used spatulas to place sponge mix into each waiting case.

The mixture stood stiff but she could sense its lightness in every scoop that she ladled into a case. The blueberries came next, to then be topped by a quarter more of the remaining sponge mix. She finished the muffins with a layer of the citrus rinds from the rangpur and a small handful of the remaining blueberries.

William Hart watched with a scowl of good-natured approval.

‘Are you happy with them?’

She placed them, not on the middle shelf, but on the shelf below. The trick to get the best from muffins, she had found, was to bake one shelf lower in the oven. It produced a result that remained thoroughly cooked and properly risen but with an improved sense of moistness that made the sponge all the more succulent. Pressing the door closed she said, ‘I’ll be happy if they turn out half as good as those your pâtissier made for me.’

She stood up and replaced the oven mitts on their hook. Swiftly, she pulled her smartphone from her pocket, and used a timer app to set a fourteen minute alarm.

‘Very efficient,’ he muttered. He sounded grudgingly impressed. ‘And what do you propose doing whilst you’re waiting for the muffins to rise?’

Ordinarily she would have used the time to clean her kitchen. She had messed up a modest collection of utensils, bowls and spatulas and the counter needed to be wiped down. However, it had taken a tremendous effort of will power to resist William Hart for this long and Trudy was adamant that she wouldn’t torture herself with unnecessary abstinence for a moment longer.

She stepped back into his embrace.

‘I thought we could continue with that kiss, Mr Hart.’

‘Call me Bill, for this evening, and I might let you.’

‘Bill,’ she repeated, testing the name on her lips and finding it sat pleasantly there. ‘Bill.’

He placed a finger on her lips and shook his head. ‘It’s Bill for tonight,’ he said. ‘It won’t be Bill on every occasion.’ And then he had his arms around her. One hand held her waist, pulling her closer to him and clutching tight. The other hand rested in the middle of her back. The fingers there crept slowly upwards, tiptoeing up the ridges of her vertebrae on a lazy dance to the nape of her neck. She wanted to melt in his embrace and yield to the animal desire he so effortlessly evoked.

His kiss was all she had hoped it would be.

Their mouths met in an exploration of raw and ravenous passion. His jaw was unshaven, making his kisses scratch lightly against her soft lips and adding a frisson of delightful discomfort with every caress to her face.

Trudy could feel her nipples hardening, as though they were straining to get close to him. Because their bodies were shielded by the barriers of his shirt and jacket, and her apron, blouse and bra, it felt as though there were too many layers between them.

She began to pull his buttons open, exposing his muscular chest and its coating of curled grey and white hairs. When she moved her mouth away from his, then pressed her kisses against his chest, her arousal grew even more profound.

‘I want you,’ he grunted.

‘I’m yours.’

She didn’t know where the admission had come from. But she was sure that she meant the words. She had never needed anyone more than she currently needed William Hart. The longing for him heated between her thighs like a beacon of sultry, broiling need. Her heartbeat raced at such a panicked speed she felt lightheaded with the swell of desire.

They staggered through to the adjacent head chef’s office, neither seeming willing or able to break the embrace, each battling to keep hold of the other as they struggled to find somewhere convenient so they could develop their intimacy.

Trudy didn’t take any time to study the room.

She realised Bill was guiding her towards a leather settee that stretched along one wall. She figured that would be a sufficiently comfortable spot for what she hoped they could do together. But, beyond that idea, her thoughts hadn’t progressed any further than the simple animal desire to be intimate with him.

She longed to have Bill’s naked body pressed against her own.

The wetness between her thighs was sudden and excessive. Her body felt so hypersensitive she was acutely aware of the rasp of the cotton crotch of her panties drawing against the moistened centre of her sex.

The music blared more loudly in his office.

Ella had stopped singing but the music remained light jazz: a smooth combination of piano, bass and sax. The sounds were pleasant and undemanding. They were familiar and yet somehow nameless. The music was slightly discordant and yet somehow perfect. She could feel the pulse of her arousal beating in time to the bass’s swelling rhythm. She could feel the urgency of her need quickening with the music’s accelerating tempo.

She broke their tight embrace to allow him to unfasten the apron and pull it over her head. Then she was trying to push herself back against him so she could again savour his kisses and explore his mouth with her tongue.

He eased her onto the settee.

She had expected to find herself laid across the sumptuous cushions with her back on the seat and Hart above her. Instead she was sitting down and he was kneeling on the floor between her spread thighs. He had managed to unfasten a handful of buttons on her blouse and his fingers had ingratiated themselves into the cups of her bra.

The sensation of his firm hands, sliding easily and confidently against her stiff nipples, was almost too much. She felt dizzy from the electric thrill of his caresses teasing at her breasts and pushing her closer and closer to a point of sensational, sexual climax.

Her breathing deepened.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She moved her legs a little further apart for him.

The pressure of his erection seemed larger than before. When she traced it with her fingers, clutching hungrily at his groin as she tried to discover more about him, her longing grew unbearable.

The tips of her fingers found the zipper of his pants. As she continued to steal kisses from his lips, Trudy tugged the zipper downwards. It took a moment of fumbling but, finally, she released his erection.

‘Ms McLaughlin!’

She caught her breath, shocked by how exciting it was to hear him call her Ms McLaughlin whilst they were engaged in such an intimate act.

‘Was that really what you wanted to do?’ Bill asked.

‘Hell, yes.’

They chuckled together as her fingers explored his shape. He was long and hard and hot in her palm. The pulse contained within his length throbbed with a determination that matched her own avaricious desire.

Trudy drew a faltering breath and silently begged him to satisfy her. She stroked her fingers lightly and lazily along his exposed length. The shaft undulated in response.

His hand had crept up the inside of her panties.

With one artful caress he stroked her sex’s centre. Absently, as though he was a master of such subtle movements, Bill teased the crotch to one side and slipped his middle finger against the hot folds of her lips. The sensation of his bare flesh touching her most intimate parts was enough to heighten and exacerbate her need.

She groaned.

His other fingers, so close to her centre, teased through the light down of hairs that coated her sex. She could feel the whisper of his knuckles brushing against the curls and teasing the follicles. Every suggestion of sensation seemed somehow amplified and more intense than anything she had ever previously experienced.

The one finger that rested at the lips of her sex pressed forward.

Trudy moaned.

The folds parted for him, giving up the secret of her sex in a flush of greedy, moist arousal. When he dared to press the finger more firmly against her, and then push it inside, she almost screamed with the rush of satisfaction that threatened to erupt.

She pulled him close to her face and devoured his mouth.

He returned the kiss, the intimacy clearly made difficult because of his broad smile and the awkwardness of their posture.

She had been holding his erection, savouring the sensation of his length sitting in her palm. With the thrill of his finger sliding into her sex she had lost her hold on him. Hurriedly, almost panicked, she fumbled between their bodies and found the thrust of his hardness. He still had a finger inside her, its gentle movement pushing her close to unexpected heights of elation.

But she wanted more.

Much more.

Without allowing herself to think about the consequences, only certain that she needed him, Trudy pulled him towards herself.

He placed a hand between them.

‘Let’s be safe about this, shall we?’

The finger that had been filling her sex was suddenly pulled away. It left an aching emptiness that she needed him to fill. She didn’t understand why he had stopped or what he meant by ‘safe’ until she saw him produce a condom. She nodded consent as he slipped the sheath from the pack and then unrolled it over his hardness. A moment later he was pressing the firm end of his erection back against the sopping lips of her sex.

She could not recall ever being so desperate to have someone inside her.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispered. Even lowered, his voice was textured with authority. The gritty timbre of his northern accent was a thrill against her ear. ‘Are you sure you want this?’

Trudy could not recall being more sure of anything. Ever.

She hooked her heels behind him and urged him closer. As he adjusted the position of the end of his hardness against her sex she waited for a heartbeat, savouring the anticipation as she held him on the verge of penetration.

The prospect of what she knew was going to come was intoxicating.

‘I’m sure,’ she told him.

He grinned, unhurried and clearly happy to wait for her to take the lead on this occasion. Slowly, Trudy eased herself onto him.

The rush of pleasure was instantaneous. Trudy could feel his thickness spreading her inner muscles wide and filling her. The aching need for satisfaction was replaced by the certain knowledge that he had already pushed her to the brink of climax and beyond. Her body pulsed through a cataclysmic rush of release from the simple act of his slowly sliding into her.

Was he really such a good lover? Or had she been secretly harbouring a desire for William Hart and this was the fulfilment of a previously unspoken fantasy? Trudy couldn’t decide which explanation was the more likely.

In that moment she knew it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the satisfaction of the experience.

She pressed her kisses more ferociously against his mouth. When he pulled her closer, his strong hands holding the base of her spine and the back of her neck, she felt a second explosion of euphoria rush through her being.

It was another orgasm. Another monumental release.

A flood of excitement rushed from her sex. The waves of pleasure wracked her frame. They left her trembling with a delight that tingled in every extremity. The release was so powerful she feared she might pass out. Her inner muscles rippled with a flurry of ecstatic responses that were so intense she wasn’t sure if they were divine or devastating.

She only knew she wanted more.

But, as she basked in the afterglow of her orgasm, and as she savoured the insistent rhythm of him riding back and forth inside her, Trudy could hear the intermittent beep of her smartphone’s alarm. She groaned inwardly when she realised the alarm was telling her that the muffins were now ready.

Chapter 7

Trudy was determined to take on the quad killer. That would be this morning’s challenge. She tiptoed quietly around Eldorado, the house she shared with Donny and Charlotte, as she readied herself to do battle. She didn’t want either of her friends to know what she was doing. Today the quad killer would be a private test: something that she needed to do on her own.

Charlotte’s parents had generously subsidised the rental of Eldorado, allowing the trio to reside in a substantial, attractive property in a fairly exclusive location. Trudy and Charlotte had rooms on the upper floor whilst Donny lived in the converted basement. The ground floor was a communal living space where they occasionally met for breakfasts and chitchat or to discuss the finer points on their plans for eventual world domination of the global catering industry.

The walls and furnishings remained predominantly coloured in the same bland magnolias, oatmeals and beiges that had been there when they moved in.

The floors were hardwood.

The décor was sparse and minimalist and open plan.

It was a stylish area to entertain friends and, most importantly, it was easy to keep clean and tidy. The only problem with the ground floor level was, unless she carefully tiptoed, that the hardwood floors screamed and groaned an announcement of her every movement like some form of security siren.

Trudy checked that her keys were zipped into the pocket of her hoodie before closing the door behind her. It was barely 5:30 am. She had been home this morning for less than three hours. The world outside the door was held in the blackest night between darkness and dawn. Trudy savoured the chill of the icy weather caressing her skin. Then she began to jog steadfastly through the grey morning mist.

Every breath came out as a visible reminder of the early summer morning’s frostiness.

The brim of her black baseball cap was pulled low. Her features were hidden inside the shadows of her black hoodie. Wearing black Lycra leggings and black trainers, she figured she looked as anonymous as the shadows as she hurried along the pre-morning roads. She wanted to blend with the early-morning lightlessness and complete her run without being observed. The way she felt this morning, Trudy wanted to continue the remainder of her existence without ever being observed again. Remaining permanently unobserved, she thought, would be safest for all.

You fucked William Hart.

The soundtrack for her MP3 was set to a list of tunes intended to accompany an energetic workout. There were lots of glam rock pieces, each one heavy with power chords and inspirational lyrics. She turned up the volume so the music had a chance to drown out the catcalls of her conscience.

You fucked William Hart.

Her cheeks burned crimson. She cranked the volume higher and began running harder. Every footfall shook as it landed heavily on the ground. She forced herself to think about each step of the circuit that lay ahead. It was never a good idea to tackle the quad killer with anything less than absolute mental focus. This morning she needed something to concentrate on other than the punishing memories of the previous night. The quad killer – devilish, demanding and dangerous – struck her as the ideal distraction. Not that the memories were particularly punishing. In truth, the majority of them were rather pleasurable. But she didn’t like to dwell on the easy way she had given herself to him.

You fucked William Hart.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to banish that thought.

In a moment of typical dramatic flair, Charlotte had labelled this route the quad killer. It was a six mile run that went up some steep hills, over stretches of gruelling fields, and through a couple of treacherous woodland trails. Trudy believed it to be one of the most invigorating and challenging cardiovascular workouts she and Charlotte had ever negotiated. The name quad killer was apt because it always left the front of Trudy’s thighs in an agony of overstretched and trembling exertion. It left her quivering and on the brink of ceasing to function. This morning, more than any other she could remember, Trudy needed the quad killer to distract her thoughts. There were some things that she simply didn’t want to think about.

You fucked William Hart.

After she and William Hart finished having sex, Trudy had felt an almost irresistible urge to apologise or at least explain herself. She didn’t usually have sex with people she’d known for less than an hour. Her only previous lover, Peter, had been her one and only former boyfriend. She’d been committed to Peter for two years before they became intimate. Their relationship had lasted a further twelve months and she’d been devastated when he said it was time for them to go their separate ways.

Aside from one embarrassing drunken fumble with Terry, a blind date that Charlotte had organised, Trudy had never displayed anything like the uninhibited abandon that she shared with William Hart in the kitchen of Boui-Boui.

But she hadn’t dared put those thoughts into words. It was easier to simply cringe from the shame of having made herself so easily available to him and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

A car approached her on the road. The headlights were dusty and faraway in the pre-dawn mist. Even as it sped past her its presence seemed oddly muffled and otherworldly.

It was amazing that it had happened, she thought. The sudden desire she’d had for Bill, as well as the fact that he reciprocated her feelings and they’d been sufficiently fortunate to be in a convenient location where they could do something about their mutual attraction, had been a combination of events that would lead someone else to win the lottery. Yet, despite the fact that sex with him had felt good – incredibly good – she conceded, Trudy did not feel like a lottery winner.

If not for the fact that she was tackling the quad killer, Trudy would have curled into a ball and sobbed bitter tears of recrimination and frustration.

She left the first stretch of uphill climb and leapt easily over a low dry-stone wall. She kept one hand on the rough stone for balance. Then her feet were stomping on the unyielding and uneven surface of a deep-ploughed field.

It was early enough to still count as dark. There was a suggestion of morning sunlight somewhere on the horizon but it was nothing more than a baffled brightness in the wrong part of an unseen sky. A bank of low-lying cloud made the world around her an impenetrable fog of confusion.

She ran more briskly.

A ramblers’ path lead through the field up to the forest. It was a stretch of well-trodden grass that had worn to a thin and sometimes-muddy walkway. The surface was uneven and potentially calamitous. Trudy knew, if she didn’t pay attention to every step, there was a danger she could lose her footing, twist an ankle or fall and cause herself serious injury.

This was one of the reasons why she had forced herself to take on the quad killer this morning. It demanded so much concentration there was little scope for reflection or self-condemnation. She kept her face down and focused on her run as she hurried into the primordial depths of the forest.

The mist was cold against her cheeks. She could feel each icy speckle that touched her as she ran. The moist fragrance of the trees was rich in her nostrils. She could smell damp earth, dewy leaves and the heady scents of pollen and sap.

They were all musky perfumes that she normally enjoyed.

But this morning Trudy wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the smells. Her thoughts, when not fixed on the circuit she was attempting to complete, seemed able to focus on only one thing.

You fucked William Hart.

The music continued to thump through her skull at a deafening volume.

She knew each and every one of the power ballads in her exercise regime. Most mornings, when breathlessness wasn’t a problem, she would sing along. This morning, Trudy couldn’t find the enthusiasm to mutter a single syllable.

The muscles in her legs began to ache.

Maddeningly, rather than help take her thoughts away from William Hart, every increasing strain reminded her of the way her muscles had responded beneath his touch. Every glimmer of discomfort made her think of the previous evening when her muscles had been equally well exerted but reacting to far more pleasurable stimulation.

Her stomach folded.

Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head in an attempt to banish the memory.

His fingers had traced appreciatively over the sculpted muscle of her quads. They had slipped upwards, disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt and touching the crotch of her panties. His fingers had teased the elastic to one side as he continued to explore her with the practised hand of an expert lover.

Trudy had savoured every magnificent moment.

Regardless of the regrets she now harboured, regardless of the doubts she had about what she had done, how Hart might interpret her actions, and what her friends were likely to think should they ever find out, the evening had been a sensational experience that she would happily revisit if she was given the opportunity.

William Hart wasn’t just an attractive man.

He was a skilled lover and Trudy wanted to get to know him better. She decided then she would learn more about the man and, if the opportunity presented itself, she would see if he was worth the commitment of a relationship.

Admittedly, he was older than her. She didn’t know his exact age but she was sure he was at least twice her age. She suspected that one of her friends or one of his would likely say something judgemental about the huge disparity between their ages. Trudy cringed from the idea of that potential argument.

There were other potential barriers to their happiness such as their different social situations and world experiences. But it was the difference in their ages that she knew would prove most problematic. Nevertheless, she did want an opportunity to get to know him better and, Trudy thought, if the opportunity didn’t present itself, she would find a way to force circumstances so she could get to know him better.

For the first time that morning she felt a smile creep across her lips.

She realised she was already planning a way to address the matter.

The embarrassment of what she had done was diminished by the prospect of how it could be potentially developed. She tilted her head upwards and felt the weight of unnecessary tension slip from her neck. She’d had no idea that the concerns had been weighing on her like a milkmaid’s yoke.

A hand fell on her arm.

Chapter 8

Trudy shrieked and pulled away. She lost her footing and came close to falling over. A strong hand caught her forearm and stopped her from tumbling to the ground. She felt a wrench pulling on her shoulder harsh enough to make her moan.

‘Slow down,’ Charlotte warned. ‘You need to be careful on this stretch of the run. The ground here is positively lethal.’

Trudy regained her balance. She tugged one of the buds from her ear and the loud music of the day was suddenly split in two. From one ear she could hear heavy metal. From the other there were the tentative calls of the morning’s first bird song and the sound of her own startled breathing. She pushed the brim of her cap upward so she could see her friend.

Charlotte was dressed in an immaculate navy blue running outfit, trimmed with white and scarlet piping. As always, she looked golden. Even without make-up she looked bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Her brown eyes were clear and there was only a small V of concern creasing her brow. Her retroussé nose was wrinkled as she assessed Trudy.

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Charlotte demanded. ‘Are you taking on the quad killer?’

Trudy shrugged and then nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. If she did open her mouth she was fearful she would blurt, ‘I fucked William Hart!’

Charlotte’s eyebrows inched upward as she waited for a response.

Trudy nodded again and then looked away.

‘Take it slowly and I’ll come with you,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done the quad killer. It’s probably been six months or more.’ There was a knowing smirk in her voice as she added, ‘Didn’t we last do this run just after you broke up with Peter? Or did it happen after I introduced you to Terry?’

Trudy didn’t bother replying. She guessed Charlotte was trying to make a point. She turned down the volume on her MP3 player and left one earbud out. Slowing her pace she began to tackle the run without the hasty and manic energy she had been previously employing. The lack of swift progress struck her as maddening.

‘You missed a great night,’ Charlotte said, falling into step beside her.

Trudy did not respond. She had wanted to avoid Charlotte this morning. There was a strong danger Charlotte might ask questions that Trudy didn’t want to answer. Now she was here, Trudy thought it was best to let her friend chatter on in the fragmented way she always used when they were running together.

‘We went into town. Caught up with the class. Maybe half of them.’ Her speech fell into the rhythmic pattern of her sprint through the woodland trail. Her sing-song tones made the banalities of mundane conversation seem almost musical. ‘Just a few of us. Gemma and Daryl. Wendy and Henry. They were in Stanzas.’

Trudy nodded. She knew they had been planning to finish the night at Stanzas. Somehow that seemed appropriate. Stanzas was the local nightclub most frequently favoured by university students. Cheap beer and a reputation for tolerated decadence made it the essential place to visit off campus. She had spent several nights in Stanzas throughout the duration of her degree. Most of the memories were good ones. On any other occasion she might have smiled at the mention of Stanzas.

This morning she didn’t feel like smiling. Not whilst she was in Charlotte’s presence. There was always a danger that Charlotte might read something from a smile. Something that Trudy wanted to keep hidden.

She quickened her pace.

Charlotte tapped her shoulder and silently gestured for Trudy to slow down. ‘Donny pulled Gemma,’ Charlotte said. She didn’t add the word ‘again’. Trudy didn’t think there was any need for her to say the word. She could hear the note of reproof underscoring Charlotte’s voice.

Charlotte went on quickly. Trudy thought her friend was hurrying to speak before she said something that exposed her true feelings about the shameless fuckbuddy relationship shared by Donny and Gemma.

‘Two lecturers came. One got Wendy drunk.’

‘Which lecturer?’

Trudy wasn’t really interested but she figured, if she asked some questions about events in Stanzas, it would keep the focus away from what had occurred at Boui-Boui. More specifically, she hoped it would keep the focus away from what had occurred between her and William Hart.

‘Professor Simmonds.’ Charlotte sounded aghast. ‘It’s so disgusting. He’s in his thirties. He bought Wendy beer. He’s such an old lech. He plied her with –’

‘There’s only two years between them,’ Trudy broke in.

Charlotte snorted. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Trudy remembered Wendy mentioning it before their finals. Wendy had fancied Simmonds since the first year of their studies. Out of respect for him, and because she didn’t want to make things professionally awkward for the lecturer, Wendy had kept her distance. But, Trudy supposed, now that the woman had graduated and Simmonds was no longer her professor, Wendy was perfectly entitled to share a beer or more with the man. At the back of her mind she privately hoped that Wendy and Simmonds would get together and be very happy.

She liked to see people happy.

‘I’m sure of that,’ Trudy said flatly. ‘There’s two years between them.’

Charlotte jogged beside her in silence for a moment. ‘Still think it’s creepy,’ she said eventually. ‘If it is two years –’

‘Which it is.’

‘He seems more mature. A lot more mature.’

Trudy threw an extra effort into running. She didn’t want to hear any of this. Not this morning. She had wanted the solitude of the demanding quad killer. She had wanted the distraction of a muscle-searing, energy-depleting workout. She had wanted to lose herself in the exertion and excitement of pushing herself too hard and too far. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Charlotte passing judgement on what was wrong with every relationship that had begun last night.

‘Pete was in Stanzas.’

Trudy’s shoulders slumped. Great. Now it was time to have the conversation about her ex. She gritted her teeth and forced her tone to sound indifferent. ‘How was Peter?’

‘Dating a first year. What’s wrong with these men? Are they all perverts? Screwing young women.’

Trudy stopped running and rounded on Charlotte. Finally, she understood.

‘How did you know?’

Charlotte came to a halt and laughed. The mirth was made thin by exertion but it remained fairly obvious. Merriment shone in her eyes. She put her hands on her thighs and leant forward and chuckled softly before speaking.

‘I can always tell when you get laid. I’m a light sleeper. I could hear that you were in the shower at two in the morning when you got back. The fact that you’re doing the quad killer tells me you’re feeling conflicted about getting lucky. You did the quad killer after you broke up with Peter. You did the quad killer after that embarrassing night’s fumble with Terry.’ She paused to lean against a tree and stretch out her legs. ‘I think you see this run as the spiritual atonement for your imagined sins.’

Trudy glared at her. ‘That psychology module you took is still proving useful.’

Charlotte’s grin inched wider. ‘You really screwed William Hart? He’s pretty hot. What was it like?’

Trudy looked away. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You didn’t screw him?’

‘Well …’

Trudy tried to think of how she could phrase her response. She wanted to be artful and say that they had made love. But she knew that wouldn’t be entirely true. She and William Hart had given themselves over to base, animal instincts. There had been an instant attraction and neither of them had let themselves be restrained by the formalities of propriety or common sense. She wasn’t sure that such an act could really be called making love. But she felt sure it had been more than simply screwing. On some level she felt sure it had been a lot more. But there was no way to shape that thought into a convenient phrase that would stop her friend from asking questions.

‘I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to finish my run.’

Charlotte pulled her into a hug. Her arms were cold from the morning mist but it was impossible not to feel the waves of friendship that were apparent in her embrace. She rubbed her hands briskly and reassuringly against Trudy’s back.

‘I was just teasing before,’ she whispered. ‘If you need to talk about anything. If you need an ear or a shoulder or just a friend, you know that I’m here for you, don’t you?’

Trudy thought about the words and realised Charlotte was telling the truth. Regardless of what else happened she believed the brunette would always be a friend she could rely on. Trudy returned the hug, ready to swoon with relief.

‘Did you find out the identity of that mystery ingredient?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you make them for Sweet Temptation?’

Trudy started to respond and then stopped. There would be ethical implications involved in stealing William Hart’s recipe for the benefit of Sweet Temptation. She hadn’t yet had breakfast and already she was trying to deal with quandaries like the semantics of sex and sexual politics and now the ethics of appropriating recipes in the catering business.

‘Let’s finish the quad killer,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t have the exact recipe to those muffins but I have my own interpretation of them.’

Charlotte shrugged and then nodded. ‘Even better. Stealing recipes from the shoulders of giants.’ Before starting to run again she jogged on the spot from one foot to the other. ‘You know we’re in the Admiralty Room this afternoon, don’t you?’

Trudy nodded. Charlotte had scheduled a meeting with her parents at a local hotel. She had made a point of booking the prestigious Admiralty Room at the Hadfield Hotel. Donny kept telling them he was anxious to get the business up and running as soon as possible and he wanted to demonstrate that Sweet Temptation was a perfect investment opportunity. Whilst it was known that Charlotte’s parents would have ploughed money into their daughter’s schemes without any supporting information, Trudy knew that Charlotte did not want to build her dream on handouts and charity.

‘It’ll be great if you can bring your interpretation of those muffins to the presentation,’ Charlotte said. ‘That way everyone will know what you’re capable of producing.’

Trudy considered this and nodded. Once she’d finished the run she would get ingredients from the market, prepare the muffins that were needed and then attend and support Donny’s presentation. Their joint commitment to making Sweet Temptation a success was important and that needed the focus of her attention this morning.

After the presentation Trudy vowed that she would allow herself some time to think about what she had done with William Hart and try to establish whether or not it had been a mistake.

It hadn’t felt like a mistake.

It had felt so good that she desperately wanted to repeat the experience. But the prospect of repeating the experience was something she wouldn’t let herself think about until after she had helped her friends.

Chapter 9

An hour later Trudy was showered and refreshed. The quad killer was once again vanquished, her muscles ached from the exertion, and she no longer worried that Charlotte might think less of her for what she’d done with William Hart. Charlotte was, as always, the understanding and sympathetic big sister that Trudy had never had.

On their return to Eldorado, Charlotte said she wanted to spend the morning working on the web designs for Sweet Temptation. The corporate logos were nailed and she was comfortable with the behaviour of most of the software she had written as it worked with the major browser. However, Charlotte wanted to see if she could iron out a couple of wrinkles that occurred between the Sweet Temptation interface and some of the disparities she was facing with mobile technology.

‘Do you need my help?’ Trudy asked doubtfully.

Not unkindly, Charlotte laughed at the suggestion. ‘I’ll concentrate on the web design,’ she said firmly. ‘You focus on the company’s product. I thought you were going to unravel the mystery of those muffins you were obsessing about last night?’

Grateful, Trudy nodded. She knew so little about computers she was relieved that Charlotte had politely declined her offer. She changed into comfy jeans, a shapeless jumper and a pair of modest heels. The market never demanded high fashion and this morning all she wanted was the chance to find some Sri Lankan cinnamon, get a couple of pieces of fresh fruit, and then have an opportunity to get back to the house and spend a couple of hours experimenting in the kitchen with the new flavour she had discovered.

The afternoon’s investment presentation, and the need to make a definite decision about how to progress her relationship with William Hart, remained in a faraway future that she had no intention of considering until much, much later in the day.

The market was one of the town’s oldest features. According to the promotional literature a market had stood in the same location for the best part of a millennia or more. With the crowded buildings jostling for priority on the narrow streets, and the arms and guild symbols that stood above the majority of doorways, Trudy could sense the ancient and archaic heritage that was ingrained into every building stone and each cobbled walkway.

The sky was a sporadic collection of blue patches peeping between the overhanging rooftops. Long shadows trailed into the market’s deepest depths and narrowest corners. Those narrowest corners were lit by the murky glow of dim bulbs and the occasional flashes of sultry neon. Trudy took a familiar route past the deli counters and coffee shops. She smiled cheerfully at the stallholders she knew. She nodded polite greetings to those who looked vaguely familiar. She exercised a diplomatic and disarming grin for those perpetual strangers who still regarded her with suspicion.

For the last three years of her studies the market had been a comforting shopping hub where she knew she could search for the new, the exotic or the fashionably exciting. She had rarely been disappointed by an excursion to the market. It stocked everything she had ever wanted – and always seemed to have those surprises that she had never known she needed. Sure that some of the stalls at the back of the market were speciality spice stalls, Trudy felt confident she would not be disappointed on this occasion.

Her brisk pace quickened. She imagined herself tripping lightly through the market to the sounds of a jazz tune that she had recently heard. She couldn’t immediately recall where she had heard the music but it was a piece that she thought of as being so magical it could only be described as sexy. She wondered if it might be a tune that had been sung by Ella Fitzgerald.

‘Trudy? Trudy McLaughlin?’

There was something instantly recognisable about the gruff northern twang of William Hart’s voice. She turned and saw him beaming at her. His smile was as charming and dangerously irresistible as it had been the night before. His smile made her think that everything in the world was going to be OK. His smile made the muscles in her loins twitch with a hungry pang of longing.

He stood in front of a cured meat stall, dressed in a pair of smart trousers over polished shoes. The V-necked sweat shirt that sat beneath his sports jacket seemed to hug his broad and manly chest. He had one arm raised and his open hand waved for her attention.

For an instant Trudy wasn’t sure what name she should use when addressing him. Courtesy made her want to call him Mr Hart. Respect for his celebrity, as one of the area’s most renowned chefs, made her want to call him William Hart. She remembered that, the previous evening, he had told her to call him Bill. But, she also remembered, he had cryptically said she could only call him Bill on that night.

‘Mr Hart,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

His smile brightened.

She wanted to blush. The previous evening could also have been described as an unexpected pleasure. She had no idea why she had picked those words. She suddenly felt foolish and worried that she had said too much and acted without discretion. Her cheeks flushed crimson.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked quickly.

He gestured at the market around them. ‘I’m lakin’ round here every morning. You?’

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. She felt guilty for making the admission because it sounded as though she was involved in an act of recipe stealing. But she couldn’t bring herself to deceive him. That would have been even more unthinkable.

‘I’m trying to track down some of the Sri Lankan cinnamon you showed me last night.’

He laughed good-naturedly. ‘Chuffin’ gorgeous, isn’t it?’

‘Gorgeous,’ she agreed, hoping her use of the word didn’t sound like she was mocking his accent.

Within a moment he had an arm linked in hers and was escorting her through the market with the same masterful confidence he had shown when guiding her around Boui-Boui. The citrus notes of his cologne touched her nostrils, awakening the deep and dark longing in her loins that his mere presence excited. Trudy could not recall ever being more conscious of the smouldering heat that nestled between her legs. Hart seemed to have an easy ability to ignite her desire and make her acutely aware of the needs he inspired. She began to feel lightheaded as she walked alongside him, dizzied by the arousal he caused.

Market stallholders shouted cheerful greetings to Hart as he passed. A couple of them acknowledged Trudy, knowing her as a regular visitor, but most of them seemed anxious to capture Hart’s interest and sell him their goods.

He handled their greetings with friendly humility. Trudy knew he was a respected local celebrity, a chef who occasionally lectured at the local university, a restaurateur with Michelin stars and the former host of a couple of cookery shows from one of the satellite channels.

But, Trudy noticed, Hart didn’t exploit his status for special treatment.

Instead he simply shook hands, exchanged greetings and jokes, and made his way casually through to the rear of the market. His pace was unhurried. He seemed confident in the respect he had, without appearing to arrogantly believe that he deserved it. His humility was disarming and attractive.

He led her to a spice store at the back of the hall: West and White. It was an old place, the sign above the door said the company had been in business since 1870. Inside, Hart scowled defensively at the young woman behind the counter. She looked to be about Trudy’s age and there was something in her face that made Trudy think she had met the woman before.

‘Imogen,’ Hart began.

After the easy way in which he had dealt with everyone else in the marketplace, she thought his stilted interaction with the woman seemed singular. She frowned, trying to work out what could possibly have made things so uncomfortable between Hart and the woman behind the counter.

‘I’d like to speak with Finlay West, please.’

‘I didn’t think you were here to speak with me,’ Imogen returned stiffly. There was the cry of a baby from the back of the room and Imogen rushed away, blushing with her gaze lowered.

Hart gave Trudy an uneasy glance. He looked as though he was going to make a joke about Imogen’s reaction when the proprietor, Finlay West appeared.

West was elderly and bearded. He ignored Hart at first and spoke only with Trudy. He asked her about her degree and, when he learnt she’d done a module on the medicinal qualities of certain foods, West discussed her opinion on the health benefits of ginger and turmeric.

Trudy was happy to argue her opinions and, because West knew his subject, the conversation flowed easily. At one point West interrupted, asking Trudy if he could get Imogen to make them beverages whilst they continued.

Hart shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. He shook his head as if telling Trudy that he saw no reason to prolong the conversation with Finlay.

Suppressing a grin, Trudy thanked Finlay and declined. She could hear the sounds of a baby sobbing in the backroom and figured Imogen had enough work looking after a child and working in a shop without having to cater to the tea-drinking demands of West’s customers.

‘Mr Hart has been kind enough to show me one or two things in his kitchen,’ she explained. ‘I wouldn’t want to impose further on his time than I already have.’

West shrugged. ‘I’m sure Mr Hart can tolerate impositions from someone as pretty as you.’ Cryptically, he added, ‘Just make sure he doesn’t impose on you beyond what you want from him.’

Before Trudy could ask what the comment meant, West had turned to Hart and asked, ‘So, what is it I can do for you this morning?’

‘Sri Lankan cinnamon.’

West raised an eyebrow and smirked. ‘No banter? No chitchat? No discussion on the finer points of –’

‘Sri Lankan cinnamon.’

Untroubled by the apparent rudeness, Finlay shrugged and went into the backroom. He returned a moment later with a sealed, airtight box. The label on the side said C. zeylanicum. Trudy could see through the clear sides of the box. It was filled with golden rolls of cinnamon quills, harvested from the inner bark of the tree she guessed. They were identical to the ones she had used in the muffins she baked with Hart the previous evening.

When Finlay opened the box the air that was released was the smell of Christmas indulgence. It was a mouth-watering aroma that reminded her of so many things she had enjoyed the previous evening. The fragrance stopped her from fretting about the mysterious comments West had made before asking Hart for his order.

‘We’ll take a dozen quills each,’ Hart decided.

Finlay nodded. ‘Trust this man’s judgement on cinnamon,’ he told Trudy. ‘He knows his spices.’ He started away from the counter and paused before adding, ‘You can probably trust him with some other things too. He’s not as bad as rumours suggest. His only real fault is his stubbornness.’

‘I couldn’t be as bad as most rumours suggest,’ Hart grumbled. ‘If I were I’d be in prison.’

Finlay chuckled at that as he wrapped the cinnamon quills carefully in plain brown paper. When Trudy attempted to pay for hers Hart shook his head and pushed the package firmly into her hand.

‘It’s a gift from me,’ he said as he then opened the door and ushered Trudy out of the shop.

She smiled and thanked him.

‘No need to thank me,’ he assured her. He moved his face close to her ear. ‘There’s a favour I’m wanting from you.’

He spoke in a low, confidential tone. He pressed his lips close to the nape of her neck when he spoke. The tickle of each word inspired a delicious memory of the previous evening. His words had tickled with this level of intimacy when he had been pushing his length deep into her sex.

‘I need to get a couple of steaks for tonight. It’s for a special meal. You can repay me by giving me your advice. What would you recommend?’

‘Steaks?’ She responded without hesitation. ‘Sirloin. Boned and rolled. You can’t go wrong with a good sirloin.’

‘You don’t think a couple of fillet mignon cuts would be better?’

It was not said as a challenge, or as though he doubted her ideas. She could tell he was just positing alternative opinions in the same way Finlay West had been testing alternative ideas when they had been discussing the anti-inflammatory properties of ginger.

‘It’s for someone very special,’ he added.

She scowled and attempted an indifferent shrug. ‘If you want to work with fillet mignon I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I heard someone say you work in a restaurant with a reasonable reputation. But I’ve never yet tasted a fillet mignon better than one of my sirloins.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘A confident and skilful chef. Are you free to cook it?’

‘What? When?’

‘On our date tonight, after Boui-Boui’s closed.’

Date? This evening? William Hart was asking her on a date? She pulled herself from his arm and turned to look at him to see if he was being serious. Did this mean that he thought she was more than an overly easy blonde that he’d managed to screw on first meeting? Or did he think that she would cook him a dinner and then fuck him for dessert?

‘We’re having a date?’

‘If you don’t mind being in the company of an old man.’

She didn’t mind being in his company. His age wasn’t even a consideration. He was attractive, successful and fun. He had also proven himself to be a surprisingly efficient lover, as the aching muscles in her groin could testify. Simply listening to his voice inspired electric tingles of longing to pulse through her loins and rekindle the ache in those muscles. But she didn’t want him to think that she could be summoned to Boui-Boui as some combination of competent cook and booty-call. Common sense told her that she should refuse the date and make it known that she wasn’t just there for his pleasure.

‘I have to tell you,’ she began. ‘About last night …’

He laughed.

She supposed she could forgive his mirth. Her words had sounded like an old line. She blushed and struggled to continue. ‘I don’t usually …’ She stopped herself. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. ‘I mean I haven’t ever done that before. Not on first meeting someone. Not ever. And it’s not that it wasn’t nice. Actually it was more than nice. But –’

His smile was not unkind. He held her by the upper arms and pulled her close. When his lips met hers Trudy couldn’t think of anything better than to have her embarrassed excuses kissed away by William Hart.

‘I’m aware that was something unusual and special for both of us last night,’ he assured her. ‘I don’t usually do that sort of thing on a first meeting either. That’s one of the many reasons why I want to see you again tonight.’

Her heartbeat raced. She pressed more firmly into the kiss, savouring the way he continued to hold her upper arms. Her nipples had hardened in response to him and she found herself excited by his nearness. The wetness in her loins was humid and insistent. Her need for him was as sudden now as it had been the previous evening. When she pressed close to him she could feel the thrust of his thinly concealed erection straining for her.

If they hadn’t been in such a public place, or if the market had been some other place where she and Hart were not both known as regulars, Trudy realised she could have easily and publically succumbed to the passion he aroused.

The realisation did not make her pull away from him.

Instead she savoured the sensations he inspired. His lips were on hers. His tongue was lightly exploring her mouth. The hands that held her arms were masterful and authoritative and she could have stayed in them forever.

‘I ought to spank your backside for the things you make me want,’ he growled. There was the threat of laughter beneath his words but she realised his suggestion was said in seriousness. ‘You make me want to do so many improper things.’

‘If you wanted to spank my backside I’d happily let you,’ she breathed.

The thought made the inner muscles of her sex tingle with a profound and hungry enthusiasm. She could imagine Hart’s broad hand landing smartly against the bare cheeks of her rear.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.