Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

Voices could be heard in the hall, and then Arthur Denby entered, followed by an elegant, fine-boned woman. They’d never met, but Jack knew from George that she was a relatively famous American writer of terrifying thrillers. He didn’t know what he’d expected-wild eyes and witchlike hair, he supposed, and that she’d be dressed all in black. But this woman, wearing a cashmere sweater and slim camel-colored trousers, could have been a solicitor or a banker. She had that calm, capable, and intelligent look about her.

He was introduced to Meg Stanton, shook hands with her and Arthur, whom he hadn’t seen in months, and then chose a seat beside Rachel.

What would this odd lot find to talk about, he wondered.

It turned out that Rachel was a fan of Meg’s, and Meg had twice eaten in Rachel’s restaurant when she’d visited Los Angeles.

“Your cooking is amazing.”

“Not as amazing as your books. I couldn’t go into the meat freezer for weeks after I read Gristle and Bone. Honest.”

Meg chuckled, obviously delighted to have scared somebody that badly who’d paid good money for her book. And people thought his business was cutthroat.

“When’s your next book out?” Max wanted to know.

“A couple of weeks.” Meg glanced at Arthur and a look passed between them that had Jack betting on yet another wedding before he’d had time to get his tux back from the dry cleaner’s. “I’m leaving for a book tour next week. Arthur’s coming with me.”

Rachel sat forward in her chair, so thrilled to be talking to a favorite author that she was unaware of his scrutiny. He knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. With the animation in her expression, the hair, the makeup, the clothes, she was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, in a real way.

He needn’t have worried they’d all have nothing in common. They were talking and laughing as though the six of them had known each other forever.

Wiggins, whom Jack always thought had learned his butlering from watching too many Noel Coward plays in summer rep at Brighton and Newcastle upon Tyne, stepped into the room.

“Dinner is served, your lordship.”

There was a half glance, almost of apology, at Maxine. Jack wondered how soon it would be before Wiggins was announcing, “Dinner is served, your ladyship.” From the way George and Maxine acted around each other, Jack-who considered himself an expert, having been involved in so very many weddings in the last few years-suspected Wiggins wouldn’t have long to wait.

Another wedding.

Soon, he’d be the last of the old guard. Well, except for Haverstock, who’d last been heard of in a submarine off Antarctica. Unless he hooked up with a polar bear or a penguin, Jack felt safe. Though Haverstock was just mad enough that he might yet surprise them.

They adjourned to the small dining room, and Jack was seated beside the writer and across from Rachel. If she was nervous about her food, she didn’t show it. He was curious to see if a woman who included among her talents neutering men with fresh produce from five yards could also cook.

He wasn’t going to be critical. He’d eat and find something to admire even if the entree tasted like dung cakes.

It didn’t.

The first course told him that Rachel could indeed cook.

Carrot soup you could get anywhere, but then he tasted it. She’d flavored it in a way that made his tongue weep with joy. She mentioned the herbs in the kitchen garden and he wondered how she’d turned those weedy-looking clumps into magic.

“Oh, mmm. This is fantastic,” Meg moaned. “I remember reading that in your restaurant you only used organic ingredients and they had to be grown or produced within a certain radius.”

“That’s right. Fifty miles was my limit. I believe everything tastes better when it’s fresh and local.” Rachel gestured to the plates. “Everything on tonight’s menu is made from local produce. It was fun trying different things.”

Max looked at George. “This is a great marketing hook, too, you know. If we always try and serve local, it supports our farmers and growers.”

“Probably more expensive, though.” Jack felt somebody should mention it.

“Can you put a price on better flavor? Vitamin retention? Local goodwill?” Rachel asked.

In fact, it was his job to do just that, but when he put her food in his mouth he felt churlish arguing with her. The woman was a bloody genius.

The lamb was done with a sauce he didn’t recognize, but which she informed them had quince in it. He wanted to lick the plate when he was done. Dessert was a tarte tatin made, she hastened to assure him, with apples that grew right here on the property, and even the soft cheese was local, served with pears and a Sauterne from the cellars that, like all the wine George had chosen, was not local. Some of the bottles were older than those drinking them.

Conversation and laughter flowed until the candles were low, coffee was drunk, and one of the most pleasant evenings Jack had spent in a long while wound down.

It wasn’t only the food and the conversation that had made the evening exceptional. There was an energy flowing between him and the sexy chef across from him that kept things interesting. He’d catch her eye and see speculation. When he spoke, she listened intently. He found himself doing the same, though, in truth, he learned everything about her he needed to from her food.

Bold, sensuous, creative. He wanted very much to know her better.

Tonight, if her teasing and increasingly bold glances were any indication, he would.

Meg and Arthur left soon after coffee, promising to stay in touch from the States. Rachel could see that George and Maxine were dying to go up to bed, too. Probably they were being polite and waiting for her and Jack to go up, but she wasn’t quite ready to say good night to the man with whom she’d been secretly-or maybe not so secretly-flirting all evening.

Finally she said, “I think I’ll check on the kitchen. Make sure Mrs. Brimacombe left everything in good order.”

“I’m sure she will have,” said George.

“I like to make a final check of my kitchen. Occupational hazard,” she said. As she rose she said, as though it was an afterthought, “Jack, would you like to come with me? I can show you that local cheese you were so interested in.” Okay, it wasn’t the smoothest line she’d ever thought up, but it worked.

He was on his feet before she finished speaking. “I’d love to. I’ll say good night, then, George, Maxine. Thanks for a great evening.”

“Pleasure. See you tomorrow.”

“Probably not. I’ll head out early to miss the traffic.”

“Right. Give us a ring, then, if there’s anything more on the wedding.”

“Will do.”

Max said good night, but her attention was on Rachel, who sent her sister a tiny wink and hoped she’d mind her own business. Amazingly, for once she did, and suddenly Rachel found herself outside with Jack. Alone. The quickest way to the kitchen was obviously through the house, but they both knew it wasn’t local cheese they were interested in.

The evening was cool, fall slowly fading.

The full moon looked like an ancient gold coin; the sky was haphazardly dotted with stars where the clouds hadn’t obscured them. The air carried the scent of the river, trees, and grass. Their footsteps crunched on the pea gravel.

She tipped her head back and breathed in. “I love it here,” she admitted.

“It’s so quiet after London.”

“And L.A.,” she agreed.

“Do you miss it?”

“ L.A. or the restaurant?”

“Both, I suppose.” From the conversation this evening, he’d learned the sad history of her not-so-brilliant career.