Читать книгу A Taste of Passion - Ashley Lister - Страница 12

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.