‘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