Her black tie was not quite properly aligned with the collar of her white shirt, so she leaned in close to adjust it. She tugged the points of her gray weskit over the calf-length, pin-striped skirt, then did up the buttons of the black dinner jacket, making sure the stiff cuffs showed just the right amount of white below the sleeves. Black tights were pulled up well enough so that they didn’t wrinkle, and sensible, flat-heeled lace-up shoes shone with polish. Her hair was slicked down, close to her skull. She then confronted her image full on. She would do. It was a pity that she had no white rose to place in her buttonhole, but she would soon remedy that lack.
Downstairs, she explored the living spaces. The morning was still early, but light reflected off the snow, which meant that the house was not at all dark. In the fireplace, the ashes lay cold and gray. She looked in the direction of the black leather couch. If she ignored a certain late-night excursion, the last coherent memory she had from yesterday was of sitting there and falling asleep. On the coffee table, between the empty pizza box, a glass and a coffee mug, was a man’s wallet, presumably Mr. Carlisle’s. Hardly making a sound, she straightened the place up.
Into the not-too-small galley kitchen she stepped. Everything was state-of-the-art, sleek and modern. Freddi’s gaze swept appreciatively over smart wooden cupboards and shiny granite tops. Underneath was the antidrudgery angel’s gift to humankind, the dishwasher, and she put the soiled crockery and glassware inside. Against one wall stood the largest fridge she’d ever seen. Opposite waited an equally impressive stove that could have coped with the catering demands of a small restaurant. Mr. Carlisle must be totally into his cooking, probably a real foodie.
What a contrast this was from the hodgepodge of cupboards and appliances and single overhead light she’d left behind in Hampstead. She sighed.
The moment she’d discovered Simon shagging Polly’s friend she’d taken off, gone to Paris for the weekend. He’d acted incredulous and hurt when she told him this was the end. He’d sworn he wouldn’t stray again. Before making her final escape she’d retrieved nearly all her belongings, and then given her last few pounds to the airways to cover the overweight charge. That had surely been worth it. As long as Jack never found out she’d been associated with his cousin she’d be fine. She couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing how she’d allowed herself to be taken in by Simon.
All things considered, this wasn’t such a bad exchange. Jack’s taste in clothing could do with some refining, but she couldn’t fault his living style. Tabby had told her he had a trust fund from his father. Pity there was no such fortune in the impoverished Elliott family. Every penny earned went to hang on to the manor house and home farm—all that was left of a once sizable estate. Although their parents had scrimped to send both Freddi and Matthew to exclusive boarding schools, they just had to manage on their own now.
She sighed and got busy with the task at hand—preparing a good hearty breakfast.
From the stack of crockery in a glass-fronted cabinet she chose a suitable plate. Thinking to warm it, she pulled open the oven door and paused, considering the pristine interior. The shelves were still encased in plastic. Corrugated cardboard covered the elements. Revise the first conclusion. So far in its existence, Jack Carlisle’s oven was all flashy surface. That could possibly apply to the man as well. Time would tell soon enough.
She turned toward the fridge and opened it to take out the necessary ingredients. The interior of the appliance gleamed empty and was almost as unused as the oven. Freddi bit her lip. Slowly she shut the door again. One after the other, she began opening cupboards. Maybe she’d find a tin of fruit and a box of cereal in the pantry. No such luck. Even the bread bin contained only a sprinkling of bread crumbs and a plastic packet. How could she produce breakfast when there was no food available?
Arms folded, Freddi leaned back against the cabinets, looking up at the ceiling while she thought. This was a challenge. Just what she liked. Already she could feel her problem-solving energy prickling in her brain. After discarding the idea of spending valuable time looking for a store that was open this early, she gave a brisk nod. She knew just what to do. First, she picked up Jack’s wallet and checked it for cash. Plenty of good-size bills in there. Fine. Back up the stairs she headed, and returned with a couple of her reference books. Then she picked up the handy kitchen phone and dialed. A smile of satisfaction spread as she replaced the receiver. That was sorted. One full breakfast was on order, as well as a continental for the staff. If this was some kind of test, Mr. Jack Carlisle was soon going to discover it was well within the bounds of Elliott’s capabilities.
AT PRECISELY two and a half minutes to seven, Freddi curled her fingers around the wooden handles of the large tray. It was beautifully set and loaded with half a grapefruit, a bowl of cereal, milk and sugar, a plate of bacon and eggs, several slices of toast on the side, plus butter and marmalade and a generous carafe of coffee, all courtesy of a ritzy downtown hotel.
Outside Jack’s door, she stopped. This was one of those moments when she regretted allowing Tabby to persuade her to take a crash course in buttling. But there was no need to be nervous. He needn’t know she’d never done this before and didn’t intend to do it again. She’d go in, put the tray down, open the curtains and remove herself. A deep breath in and out and then she knocked sharply, three times.
“Yeah, come in.” His voice sounded scratchy. No reason for it to have such a strange effect on her, but it did. She’d never felt anything quite like these hitherto unknown physiological reactions she’d been experiencing since yesterday.
Stop right there, Elliott. Remember what Tabby said. This is really no big deal.
She pushed open the door. Straight away she knew she was in trouble.
4
RIGHT ACROSS THE ROOM, staring at her as if ready and waiting, Jack reclined in bed. Without the covering of the bandanna, his hair gleamed thick, wavy and black. Around him spread a sea of rumpled sheets. She wondered briefly if he’d had a rough night. But mostly, her attention was riveted on the sight of him, the impact of his presence, the dangerous way he looked this morning. Perhaps it was because of the dark shadow on his unshaven cheeks and chin, but it was mostly because of his expression. What did he do to make his eyes glitter like that? And how could he look so much like—like dynamite? His wide chest was bare, as was the rest of him, if her memory served her correctly. She dropped her gaze. Forget that, Elliott. Wipe it off the slate. Just concentrate on getting yourself and His Studliness’s tray across the expanse of carpet.
“Good morning, sir.” Her formal manner was well in place.
“Jack.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat still, arms folded, but watching her every move. She stopped beside the bed.
Now what? She’d just known this was going to be awkward; and somehow she was sure Jack was deliberately making it difficult. Inside she may be trembling, but she wasn’t going to reveal that. Ever since being sent off to boarding school at the age of eight, she’d been thoroughly educated in stiff-upper-lipness.
Her hold on the handles tightened. If she put the tray on his lap it might slide off, especially if he kept his arms folded and his ankles crossed. But there was not enough room between him and the edge of the bed to place it there. She swung away.
“I’ll leave the tray on the table for you, sir.”
“No, you won’t.”
She paused and stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said I wanted breakfast in bed, and that’s what I meant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack.”
She ignored that, but carried the tray with exaggerated deliberation around to the other side of the bed. Someday she was going to discover exactly what that tattoo on his upper arm looked like.
She stepped away