‘It would be nice to visit the restaurant again,’ Imogen admitted. She said the words in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘I made some good friends at Boui-Boui. Is Kali still pâtissier?’
‘Kali’s still making the best carrot cake in the world,’ Trudy said. ‘And I know she’d love to see you. Nikki asks after you too. She lost the purple-pink hair for a while and went raven black. But now she’s back to one hundred per cent fuchsia. I think the colour suits her.’
She was checking her mobile as she spoke.
There were two texts. The first had come from Harvey, asking if she could furnish him with a draft article by the end of the day. Trudy wondered if she would be able to manage that task during her lunch break while she was at Sweet Temptation. She was still puzzling over what to write about when she read the second text.
It was another message from Donny and this one seemed more threatening than his previous text: You’re about to find out that there’s a bigger bitch than you – it’s called payback.
She returned to Bill’s cottage, still trying to decide how to deal with Donny’s latest message. With the prospect of a beautiful day blossoming from the pastel-blue sky, she didn’t like the idea of dwelling on his juvenile threats. But she knew, if she didn’t do something, the situation was likely to get out of hand.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she grumbled. She repeated the words as she ran, using their rise and fall to help balance her pace. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ It didn’t help to maintain a great rhythm but she felt a growing sense of satisfaction from condemning Donny as she ran.
The last leg of her run took her past Aliceon’s cottage on the outskirts of Bill’s estate. It was a pretty building, steeped in the rustic charm of a thatched roof and surrounded by a dry stone wall. There were lemon trees on either side of the cottage’s bright-green doorway and wild roses, yellow and peach, climbing ivy-like up the walls.
Trudy wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the woman living so close. She told herself that was more because Aliceon was cold and unapproachable than because her previous relationship with Bill might affect Trudy’s developing attachment to him. But she wasn’t entirely sure she was telling herself the truth.
Admittedly, living so close to the restaurant meant Aliceon was always available to work at Boui-Boui whenever she was needed. But the fact that she had a key to Bill’s cottage, and no qualms about bursting in when she felt the situation merited such an unwanted intrusion, meant that Trudy lived with the constant worry of her making an unexpected appearance.
The racing-green convertible outside Aliceon’s cottage was blocked in by a large dark sedan. There was a man at Aliceon’s door. Dressed in a dark suit he looked as formal and foreboding as the menacing vehicle he had been driving. He carried an impressive looking briefcase and wore an austere frown.
Trudy thought of stopping to ask if Aliceon needed help. She knew it would be a neighbourly and considerate action. It was the sort of thoughtfulness she herself would have appreciated. But she had yet to see a situation where the maître d’ needed assistance from anyone. Aliceon could handle complaints, drunks, threats and the media with ease, confidence and self-assurance. Trudy thought it unlikely that the woman would be shaken by one surly-looking man on her doorstep.
Nevertheless, as she jogged past, Trudy tried to catch Aliceon’s eye, just in case she did need assistance. She could see Aliceon lurking within the shadows of her doorway. Her frame was slender when she was wearing her suit in Boui-Boui, but it looked spindly here wrapped tight in a towelling bathrobe. She was shaking her head in small terse gestures. Her lips were pursed into a solemn sneer of disdain.
When she did make eye contact, and Trudy found her gaze being met by Aliceon’s defiant glare, Aliceon simply ushered her guest into the cottage and slammed the door.
The rudeness didn’t trouble Trudy. Making a note to mention the anomaly to Bill, she jogged unhurriedly past and headed back to the cottage.
She slowed her pace further as she passed the chicken runs where the restaurant’s resident Black Rock chickens clucked and pecked. They were substantial creatures, beautiful with their scarlet combs, golden capes and silky black bodies. But, like all chickens, they were easily unsettled and Trudy didn’t want to cause them any distress.
Slowing her pace only served to remind her that she had done too much this morning. Weary from the effort, and close to staggering, she stumbled into the kitchen.
The room was noisy with the sound of the hissing espresso machine. Bill had been listening to a radio programme but he turned the volume down when she entered the room.
‘You took your sweet time this morning, didn’t you?’ He was glancing at his wristwatch. ‘How many miles are you running nowadays?’
‘I went to the market to see Finlay,’ she explained. She held up the bag that contained her cinnamon and the other ingredients and said, ‘I might have resolved the problem with the muffins.’
Bill raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the old bugger think they’re lacking?’
‘Cinnamon.’
Bill considered this. ‘Maybe.’ In his thick Yorkshire accent the word came out as meb-bee. ‘You should try that, but I still think it’s an issue with the coffee. You should be trying beans with a more exciting flavour than the Coffea Canephora.’
She dropped the spices on the kitchen counter, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I need to get a shower. I’m all sweaty from this morning’s run and I’m sure you don’t want me when I’m all sweaty.’
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Because he was sitting and she was standing his face was close to her breasts.
‘I like you sweaty,’ he confided.
Her heartbeat quickened. Her need for him blossomed with fast, fluid urgency. He had a hand on the small of her back and was pulling her closer. She always found there was something electric in the familiarity of his touch. He knew how to balance his natural authority with her body’s desire for sensitivity.
This morning was no exception.
The suggestion of impending intimacy flavoured the air like the smell of spices had flavoured each breath in Finlay West’s spice shop. Her need for him throbbed with a dull and steady pulse that was undeniable. It grew more insistent with each passing second.
With an exertion of willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Trudy shook her head. She resisted the desires he inspired and fixed him with a firm expression. ‘I don’t have time to play those sorts of games this morning, Mr Hart,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to get showered and do a quick experiment with this new pumpkin-pie-spice blend before I get down to HQ.’
He let his hand fall away from her as he checked his watch.
‘What if I say you’re allowed ten minutes in the bathroom? What if I say, after those ten minutes, I want you in this kitchen, Ms McLaughlin?’
She shivered and considered her reply carefully before responding.
‘If you said those things,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I suppose I’d have to obey your commands, Mr Hart.’
He lightly landed his hand against her rear.
‘I did say those things,’ he agreed. He glanced again at his watch and said, ‘You’ve got nine minutes and fifty seconds remaining, Ms McLaughlin. I think you’d better get moving.’
She could