Читать книгу Wedding Party Collection: Once A Bridesmaid... - Avril Tremayne - Страница 11

FOUR

TO: Sunshine Smart

FROM: Leo Quartermaine

SUBJECT: Photos

Attached are the images we discussed yesterday, plus the restaurant layout with a sketchy floor plan.

I’ve also included a photo of the toilet paper. White.

I’ll be making pasta tonight, and bringing some homemade gelato.

LQ

TO: Jonathan Jones

FROM: Sunshine Smart

SUBJECT: All going swimmingly—and shoes!

Darling!

Checked out the venue yesterday—scrumptious. Caleb has photos.

Your shoe design is attached. As requested, not too over the top! Black patent with a gorgeous charcoal toecap. The shoes will work brilliantly with the dark grey suit and red tie.

I’m sending Caleb’s design to him directly—he says you don’t get to see his outfit before the big day! And you have the contact number for Bazz in Brooklyn to get the shoes made, so make an appointment, and quickly because he’s super-busy.

Leo’s are next. And, speaking of Leo...drumroll...tonight he’s cooking me dinner!

We’ll get onto the wedding menu tonight too. I’m thinking we should lean towards seafood, but with a chicken alternative for those who are allergic, and, of course, a vegetarian (dullsville) option.

Sunny xxx

PS: Was Marco Valetta always such a douche? Had dinner with him last night and he spent the whole meal talking about his inheritance—scared his father is going to gobble it up on overseas travel. Seriously, let the man spend his own money any way he wants! Marco thought he was going to get lucky, but after banging on all night about money and then suddenly switching to the subject of lap dances??????? As if!!!! He is SO off my Christmas card list. I’ll bet Leo Quartermaine would never be such a loser.

PPS: I saw a statistic recently that said about twenty-five million dollars is spent on lap dances each year in Vegas alone. Amazing!!!!

TO: Leo Quartermaine

FROM: Caleb Quartermaine

SUBJECT: Loving the Sunshine...

...and I don’t mean the New York weather, which is icky-sticky right now.

Just warning you, bro, that my custom-designed shoes are eye-poppers. I love them—but I’m the flamboyant type. Better prepare yourself!

Love the invitations, love the save-the-date, love the fact that you sent Sunshine a photo of the restaurant toilet rolls (yep, she told me). Think I love Sunshine too if she can get you to do that. Jon tells me half the male population of Sydney is in love with her—gay and straight—so I’m in good company.

Also glad about your hair—go, Sunshine! And glad about South.

Can’t wait to marry Jon. Seriously, I don’t care where or how we do it, as long as we do it. The party is just the icing on an already delicious cake.

Your turn now. Hope you’re out there hunting instead of spending every spare minute slaving over assorted hot stoves.

And please tell me the bunny-boiler Natalie is under control. If she turns up at the reception I am getting out the power tools and going for her.

CQ

Sunshine lived in an apartment in Surry Hills. The perfect place for people who didn’t cook, because wherever you looked there were restaurants. Every price range, every style, and practically every ethnicity.

Leo had sent a ton of supplies and equipment ahead of him, because he had a shrewd understanding of what he could expect to find in Sunshine’s cupboards—i.e., nothing much—and the thought of overbalancing the bike while lugging a set of knives was a little too Russian roulette for his liking.

He’d been cursing himself all day about offering to cook for her. Cursing some more that he’d offered to do it at her apartment—his own, with a designer kitchen and every appliance known to man, would have been so much easier. But then, of course, he wouldn’t get to see what her place was like. And, all right, he admitted it: he was curious about that. He imagined boldly coloured walls, exotic furniture, vibrant rugs, maybe some kick-ass paintings or a centrepiece sculpture.

He buzzed the apartment and she answered quickly.

‘Leo!’

He could hear the excitement in her voice. How did she do that? Could she really, truly, be that enthusiastic about everything?

‘Yep.’

‘Fourth floor,’ she said, and clicked open the door to the lobby.

She was waiting for him, apartment door wide open, when he got out of the lift.

Her hair was piled on top of her head—kind of messy, but very sexy. She was wearing an ankle-length red kaftan in some silky material that managed to both cling and flow. It had a deep V neckline and was gathered at the base of her sternum behind a fist-sized disc of matching beads. Voluminous sleeves were caught tightly at the wrists. She looked like a cross between a demented crystal healer and a Cossack dancer—but somehow bloody amazing.

His eyes, inevitably, dropped to her feet. She was barefoot. Good God! Stop the presses.

‘I am so looking forward to this,’ Sunshine confided, and puckered her lips.

Leo steeled himself, and after the tiniest hesitation she went right ahead and laid the kiss on him.

‘That pucker was enough warning, right?’ she asked with a cheeky smile. And then she rolled right on before he could answer. ‘And I was right—trout do not have especially thick lips. So! This way,’ she threw over her shoulder, and walked to the kitchen.

She gestured to three boxes on the counter. ‘Your stuff arrived about ten minutes ago.’

‘Good. I’ll unpack everything,’ he said, but he was more interested in the uninterrupted view into her apartment afforded by the open-plan kitchen.

And it was...disappointing.

White walls. No paintings. A serviceable four-seater dining suite in one section of a combined living/dining room in a nondescript, pale wood—pine, maybe. The couch was basic, taupe-coloured. A low coffee table in front of the couch matched the dining suite. There was a television atop a cabinet that matched the other furniture. Carpet a similar shade to the couch. Absolutely nothing wrong with any of it, but...no. Just no!

He nodded towards the living room. ‘What’s with the porridge-meets-oatmeal thing out there?’ he asked, shrugging out of his leather jacket, and tossing it onto one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen counter.

‘Oh, I thought you’d like it.’

Leo was speechless for a moment. Seriously? That was how she saw him?

When she came to his apartment she would see just how wrong she was!

Not that she would be coming to his apartment. But if she did...

Nope, he had to address this now or he wouldn’t be able to cook. ‘You’ve seen my restaurants—do they look like they’ve been furnished from a Design for Dummies catalogue?’

‘I guess I didn’t imagine you did that part personally. But there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with a neutral colour palette, you know! And... Well...’ She waved a hand at the living area. ‘This part wasn’t me, or it would be very different.’

‘So who was it?’

‘Moonbeam—and she just went for quick, basic, affordable. Out here and in her own room.’

‘But aren’t twins supposed to...you know...have the same taste?’

‘Negativo.’

‘So that’s a no, is it?’ Leo asked dryly.

‘A big no way, José.’

Eye-roll. ‘So, no?’

‘Okay! No.’ Matching eye-roll. And then she smiled softly. ‘Unlike me, Moon didn’t care about stuff.’

‘What did she care about?’

‘Life, the earth, the universe...et cetera.’

‘So it stands to reason she wouldn’t expect you to make a shrine out of a few pieces of pine, right? Why don’t you change it?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just...can’t.’ She looked at the boring furniture as though it were some Elysian landscape. ‘Don’t you ever want to freeze a moment? Just...freeze it? Hang on to it?’

‘No, Sunshine, never,’ he said. ‘I want to move on. And on and on.’

She turned to him. ‘You’re lucky to be able to see things that way.’

‘Actually, it’s the absence of luck that made me see things that way. The desire to change my luck. To have more—a better life. To get...everything.’

Their eyes caught...held.

And then Sunshine gave that tiny shake of the head. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘there’s quite enough me in this apartment. I just keep it behind closed doors because it’s scary for the uninitiated.’

Was she talking about her bedroom? ‘Closed doors?’

She pointed at a closed door at one end of the living area. ‘My office.’ Pointed at another closed door behind her. ‘Bedroom.’

Leo’s mouth had gone dry. Over a freaking room? No—over just the thought of a room! But he couldn’t help it. ‘Show me,’ he said.

She twinkled at him. ‘You’re not ready for that, Leo. But think a cross between Regency England and the Mad Hatter’s tea party in the office, and Scheherazade meets Marie Antoinette in the bedroom...’

He looked at the bedroom door hard enough to disgust himself. What did he think was going to happen? An ‘Open Sesame’ reveal? Why did he care anyway?

‘So! Leo! How do we start this gastronomic enterprise?’

Leo dragged his Superman-worthy gaze away from the bedroom door and refocused on Sunshine—the vivid, unique, laughing eyes; the luxuriant hair; her free-spirited yet glamorous dress; her naked feet.

‘You’re not wearing any shoes,’ he said. Duh! Of course she knows she isn’t wearing shoes! They’re her feet, aren’t they?

‘I’m generally barefoot when I’m at home. But I do have a lovely pair of black beaded high heels that I wear with this dress if I’m going out.’

He could picture her, tap-tapping her way into South with sparkles on her feet, the red silk billowing. He knew he was staring at her feet, but they were very sexy feet.

And then his eyes travelled up. Up, up, up... To find her watching him, her eyes dazed and wide, lips slightly parted.

She licked her lips.

‘Sunshine...’ he said.

‘Yes?’ It was more a breath than a word.

‘Um...’ What? What was he doing? What? ‘Feet.’ Doh! ‘I mean shoes!’ he said desperately. ‘I mean mine.’

She looked down at his feet. ‘I like them. Blue nubuk. Rounded, desert boot-style toe. White sole.’ Her eyes were travelling up now, as his had done. ‘Perfect with...’

Holy freaking hell. He hoped she couldn’t see his erection as she got to—

Argh. He saw the swallow, the blink, the blush. She’d seen it.

‘Jeans,’ she finished faintly.

Disaster. This was a freaking disaster. Say something, say something, say something. ‘I meant for...for the...the wedding,’ Leo said.

And, really, it was a valid subject. Because he was starting to get curious about what she would design for him. Although it would probably end up being the shoe equivalent of a Design for Dummies pine bookshelf: plain black leather lace-ups.

‘Oh!’ She took a breath, smoothed the front of her dress. ‘Well! I need to see what you’re wearing first, remember?’ She blinked, smiled a little uncertainly. ‘So! Pasta? I even bought an apron!’

Food. Good. Excellent. Something he could talk about without sounding stupid or crotchety or boring or...or crazed with inappropriate lust.

Because he could not be in lust with Sunshine Smart. They were polar opposites in every single possible, conceivable way. Like light and dark. Bright and gloomy. Joyful and... Oh, for God’s sake, get over yourself!

‘You’ve got pots and pans, right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And most of them are even unpacked.’

‘Most of them? How long have you lived here?’

‘Two and a half years.’

Leo ran his hand over his head. If he’d had hair he would have yanked it. Two and a half years was long enough to unpack all the pots and pans. ‘I need a medium saucepan and a large frying pan. And what about bowls? Plates? Cutlery?’

‘Oh, plates and stuff I have.’

‘You get all that out while I unpack the food.’

She started humming. Off-key.

Leo peeked as she opened cupboards and slid out drawers. Just the bare minimum.

He opened the fridge to stow the wine he’d brought—empty except for butter, milk, soda water, and a wedge of Camembert.

Freezer: a bottle of vodka and half a loaf of bread.

The kitchen had one of those slide-out pantry contraptions, which he opened with trepidation. A jar of peanut butter. A packet of lemon tea. A box of sugary kids’ cereal. A tin of baked beans that looked a thousand years old. And—sigh—three packets of two-minute noodles.

‘Right,’ she said proudly, and pointed to the pot, pan, bowls, and forks she had lined up on the counter. She reminded him of a hyperactive kitten being given a ball of wool to play with after being cooped up with nothing all day.

‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Twenty-five—why?’

‘You look younger. You act younger.’

‘So I’m fat and immature?’

‘You’re not fat.’

She laughed. ‘But I am immature? Just because I can’t cook pasta? How unfair. I’m not asking you to design a boot, am I?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just go and put on your apron,’ he said, and then wondered what he thought he was doing as she hurried towards a tiny alcove off the kitchen. What she thought she was doing! She wasn’t going to be in the kitchen with him! She didn’t cook! She had scoffed at the idea of cooking classes. So she didn’t need a goddamned apron.

But when she came back she was beaming, and he couldn’t find the will to tell her to go and watch TV while he made dinner.

He took one look at the slogan on the front of her apron—Classy, Sassy, and a Bit Smart-Assy—and had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile. He was not going to be charmed. Like Gary and Ben—and probably Marco. Iain. And the tinker, the tailor, the soldier, and the spy.

‘Come on, it’s cute—admit it!’ she said, possibly wondering about the strangled look on his face. ‘You know, I used to be called Sunshine Smart-Ass in school, so seeing this in the shop today was like an omen. Not a creepy Damien omen. I mean like a sign that I am going to nail this pasta thing.’

‘Smart-Ass. Why am I not surprised?’ Leo asked through his slightly twisted mouth. Damn, he wanted to laugh.

She’d messed up her hair, getting the apron on. He could see part of her temple, where her fringe had been pushed aside. He realised he was holding his breath. Because...because he wanted to kiss her there.

Half the male population of Sydney is in love with her, he reminded himself. And you are not—repeat not—going to become a piece of meat in the boyfriend brigade.

* * *

Leo unpacked his knives and chopping boards, liberated extra plates and dishes from the cupboard, unearthed additional gadgets from his magic boxes.

‘Come here so you can see properly,’ he said as he started arranging ingredients on the counter.

Sunshine moved enthusiastically to stand beside him. The wave of heat emanating from him was very alluring. She edged a little closer. Breathed in the scent of him, which was just...well, just him. Just super-clean Leo. Could she manage to get just a bit closer, so that she was just—nearly—touching him, without him panicking and hitting her with a cooking implement?

His arm, naked below the short sleeve of his T-shirt, brushed hers—that was how close she was, because there was no way he would have done that on purpose—and she felt like swooning. Wished, quite passionately, that she hadn’t worn sleeves so she could feel him skin to skin.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with exposure therapy either.

It was, plain and simple, about sexual attraction. Mutual sexual attraction—at least she hoped the impressive bulge in his jeans that had taken her by surprise earlier was Sunshine-induced and not some erectile dysfunction...like that condition called priapism she’d read about on the internet...

Not that she was going to ask him that, of course, because men could be sensitive.

But with or without erectile dysfunction, she wanted to have sex with Leo Quartermaine!

Was it because he was cooking for her? There was definitely something off-the-chain seductive about a man—a chef man—making her dinner.

But...no. It was more than that.

Something that had been sneaking up on her.

Something to do with the way he jumped a foot inside his skin when she kissed him on the cheek. The little tic at the corner of his mouth that came and went, depending on his level of agitation. The slightly fascinated way he looked at her, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. And listened to her as though he couldn’t believe his ears. The way he gave in a lot, but not always. And how, even when he let her have her way, the way he did it told her he might not always be so inclined, so she was not to take it for granted.

How bizarre was that? She liked that he gave in—and also that maybe he wouldn’t!

She even kind of liked the fact that he tried so hard never to smile or laugh—as though that would be too frivolous for the likes of him. It was a challenge, that. Something to change. Because everyone needed to laugh. The average person laughed thirteen times a day. She would bet her brand-new forest-green leaf-cut stilettoes that Leo Quartermaine didn’t get to thirteen even in a whole year! Not good enough.

Now that she’d acknowledged the attraction it felt moth-to-a-flame mesmeric, standing beside him. No, not a moth—that was too fluttery. More like the bat that had flown smack into the power line a block from her apartment. She’d seen it this morning, fried into rigidity, felled by a jolt of electricity.

Poor bat. Just going along, thinking it had everything under control, contemplating its regular upside-down hang for the night, then hitting a force that was greater than it and—frzzzzz. All over, red rover.

Poor bat—and poor her if she let herself get too close to Leo. Because she had a feeling he could fry her to a crisp if she let him.

Not that she would let him. She never got too close. That was the whole point of her ‘four goes and goodbye’ rule. Protecting her core.

Leo had managed to move a little away from her—which she rectified.

‘This is a simple fettuccine with zucchini, feta, and prosciutto,’ he said, clueless.

He moved once more, just a smidgeon. And Sunshine readjusted her position so she was just as close as before. Poor Leo—you really should just give up!

He managed another little edge away. ‘We’re going to fry some garlic, grated zucchini, and lemon zest, and then toss that through the pasta with some parsley, mint, and butter. Finally we’ll throw in some feta and prosciutto—again tossed through—with a little lemon juice, salt, and pepper.’

He was—gamely, Sunshine thought—ignoring the fact that she was practically breathing down his neck.

He cleared his throat. Twice. ‘This—’ he was showing her a container ‘—is fresh pasta from Q Brasserie. I thought about making it here, but that might have been too much for a two-minute noodler to cope with.’ He shot her a teeny-tiny smile—more of a glint than a smile, but wowee! Be still my heart, or what?

Sunshine watched as Leo started grating the zucchini with easy, practised efficiency. There was a long scar on his left thumb, and what looked like a healed burn mark close to his right wristbone. Assorted other war wounds. These were not wimpy hands.

And, God, she wanted his sure, capable, scarred hands on her. All over her. It was almost suffocating how much she wanted that.

She kept watching, a little entranced, as Leo set the zucchini to one side, then grated the lemon rind. Next he grabbed some herbs and started tearing with his beautiful strong fingers as he talked...

His voice was deep and kind of gravelly. ‘...into strips,’ Leo said.

Hmm... She had no idea what the start of that sentence had been.

He unwrapped a flat parcel—inside were paper-thin slices of prosciutto—and put it in front of her. ‘Okay?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ she said, figuring out that she was supposed to chop it, and grabbed a knife.

‘No,’ Leo said, and took the knife away.

Lordy, Lordy. He’d actually touched her.

Sunshine felt every one of the hairs on her arm prickle.

She was staring at him. She knew she was.

He was staring back.

And then he stepped back, cleared his throat again. ‘Tear—like this,’ he said, and demonstrated. Another clear of the throat. ‘You do that and I’ll...I’ll...find the...cheese.’

* * *

She was humming again as she massacred the prosciutto.

And blow him down if it wasn’t a woeful attempt at Natalie’s signature song—the truly hideous ‘Je t’aime-ich liebe-ti amor You Darling’.

He started crushing garlic with the flat of his knife as though his life depended on it.

She was still tearing. And humming. Please tell him she didn’t have the same insane cheesy love song obsession as Natalie. Who was not going to be performing at his brother’s wedding! Once when he’d been mid-thrust, and Natalie had sung a line of that awful song, he’d choked so hard on a laugh he’d given himself a nosebleed; that evening had not ended well.

‘Done,’ Sunshine said, and looked proudly at the ripped meat in front of her.

Leo winced.

‘What do you want me to do next?’ she asked, with that damned glow that seemed to emanate from her pores.

‘Salad,’ he said, sounding as if he’d just announced a massacre.

Which it was likely to be—of the vegetable kind.

‘We’ll keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Give these lettuce leaves a wash.’

Sunshine took the lettuce leaves and ran them under the tap, her glow dimming.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he took them from her.

‘Salad. It’s so...vegetarian.’

She looked so disgruntled Leo found himself wanting to laugh again. He swallowed it. ‘It’s just a side dish. And there’s meat in the pasta, remember?’

She wrinkled her nose. Oh-oh. Convoluted argument coming.

‘I’ll do it with a twist,’ he offered quickly. ‘I’ll put some salmon in it, and do a really awesome dressing that doesn’t taste remotely healthy. All right?’

Her nose unwrinkled. ‘Okay, if you go a little heavy on the salmon and a little light on the lettuce.’

He choked. ‘Am I designing that boot for you? No? Then just shut up and see if you can cut these grape tomatoes into quarters. They’re small, so be careful.’

She mumbled something derogatory about tomatoes, but made a swipe with the knife.

‘Quarter—not slice,’ Leo put in.

She nodded, wielded the knife again.

‘And not mash, for God’s sake,’ he begged.

Sunshine made an exasperated sound and tried again.

Leo turned his back—it was either that or wrench the knife from her—and concentrated on the salmon he’d packed as a failsafe, coating it in herbs, then laying it in a pan to fry.

Sunshine was onto the song about love biting you in the ass, throwing in the occasional excruciating lyric—and he wanted so badly to laugh it was almost painful.

Mid-song, however, she laughed. ‘Oops—that song is just too, too, too much, Hideous,’ she said.

Damn if he didn’t want to snatch her up and kiss her.

Instead he gave her some terse instructions on trimming the crunchy green beans to go into the salad, which she did abominably.

He put water on for the pasta, then turned back to the bench.

‘Next, we’ll—’ He stopped, hurriedly averting his eyes as Sunshine arranged the salad ingredients in a bowl. ‘We’ll just slide the salmon on top—’ shock stop as his eyes collided with the mangled contents ‘—and now I’ll get you to mix the dressing.’

He lined up a lemon, honey, seeded mustard, sugar, black pepper, and extra virgin olive oil.

Sunshine considered the ingredients with the utmost concentration. ‘So, I need to juice the lemon, right?’

‘Yes. You only need a tablespoon.’

‘How much is a tablespoon?’

Repressing the telltale tic, he opened the cutlery drawer and took out a tablespoon. ‘This is a tablespoon.’

‘Oh. How much of everything else?’

Limit reached. ‘Move out of the way. I’ll do it. I put a bottle of wine in the fridge. I think—no, I know—I need a nice big glass of it, if you can manage to pour that. Then go around to the other side of the counter, sit on that stool and watch. You’ve already thrown my kitchen rhythm off so things are woefully out of order.’

‘It seems very ordered to me.’

‘Well, it’s not.’

Sunshine shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You know, I feel like one of those contestants on your show.’

A thought too ghastly to contemplate!

Sunshine slid past him on her way to the fridge, brushing against his arm. God! God, God, God! Her brand of casual friendliness, with the kisses and the random touches, was something he was not used to. At all.

He didn’t like it.

Except that he kind of did.

* * *

Dinner resembled a physical battle: Sunshine leaning in; Leo leaning way out.

A less optimistic woman would have been daunted.

But Sunshine was almost always optimistic.

As they ate the pasta and salad they argued over assorted wedding details, from the choice of MC—‘What are you thinking to suggest anyone but yourself, Leo?’—to the need for speeches—Sunshine: yes; Leo: no!—to whether to use social media for sharing photos and videos of the function—over Leo’s dead body, apparently.

By the time the pannacotta gelato was on the table Sunshine was in ‘what the hell?’ mode. Seven weeks to go—they had to move things along.

‘So!’ she said. ‘Music!’

He went deer-in-the-headlights still. ‘Music.’

‘Yes. Music. I hear there’s no dancing, so we can scrap the DJ option.’

‘Correct.’

She pursed her lips. ‘So! I’ve located a heavy metal band. I also know a great piano accordionist—surprisingly soulful. And I’ve heard about an Irish trio. What about one of those options? Or maybe a big band—but did you know that a big band has fourteen instruments? And where would we put fourteen musicians? I mean, I know the restaurant is spacious, but—’

‘I know what you’re doing, Sunshine.’

She blinked at him, the picture of innocence—she knew because she’d practised in the mirror. ‘What do you mean, Leo?’

‘Suggesting horrific acts and thinking that by the time you get around to naming the option you really want I’ll be so relieved I’ll agree instantly.’

‘But that’s not true. Well...not strictly true. Because I have named what I really want. Natalie Clarke.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘Because why?’

‘Caleb doesn’t want her there.’

‘Is that the only reason? Because I can talk to Caleb.’

‘It’s the only reason you’re going to get.’

Sunshine gave him a bemused look. ‘Is this because you used to date her? You know, I’m good friends with all my exes.’

‘I, however, am not.’

‘Why not?’

Leo scooped up a spoonful of gelato. Ate it. ‘I just don’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’re just not that...that kind.’

‘Kind?’

‘Kind of person. People. Not the kind of people I’m friends with.’

She nodded wisely. ‘You’re choosing wrong.’

He took another mouthful of gelato. Said nothing.

‘Because you don’t want someone, really,’ she said. ‘You’re like me.’ Sunshine tapped her heart. ‘No room in here.’

Leo’s spoon clattered into his bowl. ‘I’ve got room. Plenty. But I want...’ He stopped, looking confused.

‘You want...?’

‘Someone...special.’

‘Special as in...?’

‘As in someone to throw myself off the cliff for, leap into the abyss with,’ he said, sounding goaded. ‘There! Are you happy?’

‘My happiness is not the issue here.’

He dragged a hand over his head. Gave a short, surprised laugh. ‘I want all or nothing.’

‘And Natalie didn’t?’

‘She wanted...the illusion. She wanted the illusion of it without the depth.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes—oh.’

‘Not that I think there’s anything wrong with not wanting the depth.’

‘Of course there’s something wrong with it,’ he said with asperity. ‘You’re wrong about the whole no-room, sex-not-love thing.’

‘Each to his or her own,’ Sunshine said. ‘And I still don’t see why Natalie can’t perform at the reception. You wouldn’t even have to talk to her. I could do the negotiations.’

He snorted.

‘Why the snort?’

‘Forget it.’

‘I am not going to forget it.

‘Look—’ He stopped, shot a hand across his scalp again. ‘No, I don’t want to go there.’

‘Well, I do!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Leo looked at her, exasperated. ‘Natalie is a bunny-boiler, okay? She would not settle for negotiating with you—she’d be aiming for me. Always, always me. Got it?’

Sunshine sat back in her seat. Stared. ‘No!’

‘Yes!’

‘But...why?’

‘How the hell do I know why? I only know the what—like eating at one of my restaurants every week. Driving my staff nuts with questions about me. Sending me stuff. So just leave it, Sunshine. I know another singer. Her name’s Kate. I’ll give you some CDs to listen to.’

‘Is she an ex?’

‘No. She’s just a good singer with no agenda.’

Sunshine sighed inwardly but admitted defeat. ‘Fair enough.’ She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. ‘Mmm. Next time maybe you should teach me how to make paella. I love paella.’

‘One problem with that plan,’ Leo said. ‘I am never entering a kitchen with you again.’

‘Oh, that’s mean.’

‘Think of the poor tomatoes.’

‘What was wrong with the tomatoes?’

‘Other than the fact that they looked like blood-spatter from a crime scene?’

Sunshine bit her lip against a gurgle of laughter. ‘What about the prosciutto? I managed to tear that the way you showed me.’

‘Flayed flesh.’

‘Ouch,’ Sunshine said, but she was laughing. ‘What about how I scooped the gelato?’

‘Please! Like ooze from a wound.’

‘It’s a good thing I don’t have any coffee, or we’d be up to poison.’

‘Since I didn’t see an espresso machine in that shell of a kitchen, poison sounds about right.’

Rolling her eyes, Sunshine pushed her chair back from the table. ‘Well, then, I will make you some tea—something all well-bred hippies can do. Unless you have some words to throw at me about scalded skin. The invitation is on the coffee table, waiting for your approval, so why don’t you check it out while I clear up? Something else I can do.’

She watched from the corner of her eye as Leo moved to the couch, sat, reached for the invitation.

He was smiling—full-on!—as he slid the pad of his thumb so gently across the card, as though it were something precious. Oh, he did look good when he smiled. It was kind of crooked, with the left side lifting up further than the right. A little rusty. And it just got her—bang!— right in the chest.

Fried bat, anyone?

Tearing her eyes away, Sunshine finished making the tea.

‘So! Is it okay?’ she asked, sliding two mugs onto the coffee table and sitting beside Leo.

He turned to her, smiled again. Heaven!

‘It’s great. The calligraphy too.’

‘I guess the next step is to discuss the menu.’

Leo picked up his mug. ‘I’m going with a seafood bias, given the location.’

‘Uncanny! Exactly what I was thinking.’

‘Canapés to start. Local oysters, freshly shucked clams served ceviche-style, poached prawns with aioli, and hand-milked Yarra Valley caviar with crème fraîche.’

‘Ohhhhh...’

‘Buffalo mozzarella and semi-dried tomato on croutons, honey-roasted vegetable tartlets, and mini lamb and feta kofta’

‘Mmm...’

‘Just champagne, beer, and sparkling water—we don’t need to get too fancy with the drinks to start. But any special requirements we can accommodate on request.’

‘Good, because Jon’s mother will insist on single malt whisky—and through every course. Nothing we say ever dissuades her.’

‘Well, it’s better than a line of coke with every course.’

She gaped at him. ‘Line of...?’

‘Natalie,’ he said shortly. ‘Another reason she will not be performing at the wedding. Just to be absolutely clear.’

‘That’s...’ She waved a hand, lost.

‘Anyway, moving on. The first course will be calamari, very lightly battered and deep fried, served with a trio of dipping sauces—lime and coriander, smoked jalapeno mayonnaise, and a sweet plum sauce.’

‘Oh, Leo, could you teach me how to make that at least?’

‘No. The main meal will be lobster, served with a lemon butter sauce and a variety of salads that I wouldn’t dare describe to you.’

‘Lobster! Oh.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You know, Leo, I saw the most intriguing thing about lobsters on the internet.’

‘Yes?’ He sounded wary.

‘They are actually immortal! They stay alive until they get eaten.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘Which means coming back as a lobster in the next life wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Except...’ Nose-wrinkle. ‘Well, I’m not sure that when they’re caught they’re always killed humanely. So you might be lucky enough to live for ever—or you might get thrown into a pot of boiling water and be absolutely screaming, without even having the ability to make a sound, because some sadistic cook couldn’t be bothered to kill you first.’

Leo gave a sigh brimming with long suffering. ‘Okay—barramundi it is,’ he said. ‘Coated with lemon and caper butter and wrapped in pancetta, served with in-season asparagus.’

‘That sounds divine. And so much more humane.’

‘I am not a lobster sadist,’ Leo said, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth.

‘Well, of course not.’

There was the tic. ‘And they are not immortal.’

‘Well, they might be—who would know? And they can, a hundred per cent, live to about one hundred and forty years. Which is almost immortal.’

He regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘How is it you’ve made it to twenty-five without being murdered?’

‘You’re definitely watching too many crime shows.’

‘Dessert,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m thinking about figs.’

‘Figs. Oh.’ Sip of tea.

‘“Figs oh” what? Is this the fruit version of your vegetarian hang-up? Because there will be sugar, you know.’

‘It’s not th— Actually, it is partly that. But, more to the point, I think fig pollination is kind of disgusting.’

He had that fascinated look going on.

‘Wasps,’ she said.

‘Wasps?’

‘They burrow into the fig and lay their eggs in the fruit, then die in there. Ergh. And it’s quite brutal, because on the way in the poor wasp can lose her wings and her antennae—it’s a tight fit, I guess. Come on—you have to agree that’s a bit repulsive. And sad too.’

Leo had closed his eyes. Tic, tic, tic.

A moment passed. Another. He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘So, we’ll serve a variation on the glacé I made for you at Q Brasserie—perhaps with a rose syrup base. And, because it’s a wedding, some Persian confetti.’

Sunshine beamed at him. ‘That’s just perfect.’

‘And remember I know your modus operandi, Sunshine Smart-Ass.’

‘But I don’t have one of those!’

Leo simply put up the ‘stop’ hand. ‘For the non-seafood-lovers there will be ricotta tortellini with burnt-sage butter sauce as an alternative first course, and either chargrilled lime and mint chicken or a Moroccan-style chickpea tagine for your fellow commune dwellers for the main course.’

‘Oh, even the chickpea thing sounds good. Because chickpeas are sort of like the meat of vegetables, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘What about the cake?’

‘Four options: traditional fruit cake, salted caramel—which we can do with either a chocolate or butterscotch base—or coconut.’

‘Oh! Oh! Could we do one of those cake-tasting things? You know, where you sit around and try before you buy? I would so love to do a cake-tasting.’

‘For the love of God, can’t we just ask the guys what they want?’

‘What would be the fun in that?’ Sunshine asked, mystified.

Leo ran that hand over his head. ‘I’ll talk to Anton—he’s my pâtissier.’

‘And I have the most amazing idea for the decoration. Kind of Art Deco—my current favourite thing. Square tiers, decorated with hand-cut architectural detailing, in white and shades of grey, with painted silver accents. Wait a moment—I’ve got a photo.’

Sunshine leapt off the couch and raced into her office, grabbed the photo and raced back out. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, thrusting it at him.

But Leo was looking past her into the office.

She’d forgotten to close the door.

‘Oh,’ she said, seeing through his eyes the green-striped wallpaper, the reproduction antique furniture painted in vivid blues, reds, and yellows, the framed prints of lusciously coloured shoes through the ages hung on the walls.

The urn with Moonbeam’s ashes. In his direct line of sight.

Oh, no! Sunshine raced back to close the door.

‘So!’ she said, her heart beating hard as she came back to sit beside him. ‘So! The cake.’

‘I’ll talk to Anton,’ Leo said absently, still looking at the closed door.

Sunshine decided drastic action was needed—just to make sure he didn’t ask to actually go in there.

Going with gut feeling—and, all right, secret desire—she hugged him.

He seemed to freeze for a moment, and then his arms came around her. He gathered her in for one moment. She heard, felt him inhale slowly.

Wow! He was actually touching her! Voluntarily! Except that this wasn’t exactly touching—it was more. Better! Absorbing! He was absorbing her! Talk about exclamation mark overload!

His arms were so hard. So was his chest. It should have felt like being pulled against a brick wall...and yet there was something yielding about him. His hand came up, touched the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair.

Good. But Sunshine wanted more. Much more.

She pulled out of his arms, sat back, looked at him. ‘I don’t know how you’re going to take this, Leo,’ she said, ‘but I want to have sex with you.’