Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

In a minute a waiter appeared with a silver tray on which sat two flutes of champagne. They hadn’t even seen a menu and she hadn’t heard Jack order anything, so she raised her brows.

“I told Jerome about you,” said Jack.

“You did?”

“Of course. I asked him to make us a meal. He’ll send out whatever he thinks we should eat along with the wines to go with each course. Are you willing?”

She leaned closer. “Other than the six orgasms you already gave me today, you could not have done anything that would thrill me more.”

He reached across the table for her hand. They clicked glasses and drank. “To the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

She nearly snorted French champagne through her nose. Her gaze darted to his and she was shocked at the expression she read. His eyes glowed and for a second she was shaken by the power of the connection she felt.

Tiny nibbles began to arrive. Always Jack had something different from what she did, so they shared. The sensuality of the food, of sharing with a man who got food in the way she did, was exquisite. With no menu choices to worry about, they were free to concentrate on each other and on the surprises coming out of the kitchen.

They sat long over their food and wine and coffee. It felt like she’d known him forever, and yet, because she hadn’t known him more than a week, there were all her stories to tell. All his stories to hear.

When the restaurant had begun to clear, she was about to suggest they leave, when yet another tray came up with a three cognacs. Three?

And there was Jerome Smollet. Even if she hadn’t read about him in Chef magazine and recognized him from his picture in various publications, she’d have known him from the way dining patrons oohed and aahed as he stopped to chat. He made his slow way across the room, working it like a pro, in a manner she had to admire. He didn’t seem to hurry, but he didn’t spend more than a minute or two at each table.

When he got to theirs, she saw that he was younger than she’d realized. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He shook hands with Jack, who’d risen at his approach.

“Jerome, I’d like you to meet Rachel Larraby.”

“It is such an honor to meet you,” she said, feeling quivery and girlish.

“I’m a big fan of yours, too. I ate in your restaurant in L.A. a couple of years ago.”

“You did?”

“I wanted to send a message to the kitchen, but I lacked courage. You were so famous and I was virtually unknown.”

“I knew who you were. I wish you’d sent a message back.”

He nodded his head graciously. “Well, we meet at last.”

“Okay, I have to know, was there sake in the sauce you served with the black prawns?”

And they were off. Two foodies talking about their passion.

Jack sat back, listening to the conversation but taking little part, watching her with that look. The one that warmed and chilled her at the same time.

On another man, that expression would be lovesickness. But on Union Jack? The one who was always a groomsman, never a groom?

Couldn’t be.

Jack ought to have been bored rigid. He loved food. Loved good restaurants, enjoyed eating and tasting what he ate, but he wasn’t passionate about how every mouthful was constructed. He didn’t want the magic spoiled by seeing how the trick was done. But watching two consummate chefs sharing their art was an education in itself. And he had the opportunity to sit back and watch Rachel. Did she even realize how special she was?

She had one of Europe ’s star chefs at her feet.

And she completely had him at her feet. She’d looked startled when he’d made the toast. Was she really so unwilling to accept what had happened between them?

He’d been waiting his whole adult life for the woman who would do this to him. He hadn’t remotely wanted to drive down to Hart House on wedding business for his flighty sister. And look what had happened. He’d been attacked by the temperamental chef in the kitchen and within hours, it seemed, had fallen in love with her.

Love at almost first sight was corny, mildly embarrassing, but his one consolation was that the woman he’d fallen for was someone who lived with passion. Who connected with him so immediately, so intimately, that he knew she was feeling everything he was feeling.

It was amazing to find, after all these years, that the popular songwriters had it nailed. Love really was a lightning bolt out of the blue, love was all he needed, it was every song, every poem, every greeting card message. He looked at Rachel and his whole being said, Yes.

Jack believed in marriage and he was ready, at thirty-four, to settle. To spend less time away and a little of his hefty savings on holidays with the woman he loved, on a larger home, perhaps, or a holiday home. Even, he thought, as he looked at Rachel with her generous spirit and loving ways, on a nursery.

He’d be terrified, but he could see Rachel with a baby in her arms. Their baby. And the notion filled him with pride.

He’d waited a long time, longer than any of the lads. But she’d been worth waiting for.

When they finally got out of the restaurant, they were the last patrons to leave and he honestly thought Jerome and Rachel would have talked right through to breakfast if he hadn’t broken up the party.

He bundled Rachel into a cab for the short ride home and settled back, already trying to decide what he wanted to do first when he got her naked.

“He offered me a job.” Rachel whispered the news as though if she spoke it aloud the offer might disappear.

“I know. I heard him.”

“You did?” She turned to him in the cab, all eagerness and uncertainty. “You actually heard him offer me a job?”

“Yes. Jerome thinks you’re brilliant. He wants you in his kitchen.”

“So I didn’t dream it.” Suddenly she turned to him, suspicious. “You didn’t put him up to this, did you?”

“Hey.” He held up his hands. “I can get a dinner reservation. That’s all. I had no idea he even knew who you were.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Believe me. If he offered you a job, he was sincere. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to work with him?”

“Me, for one.” She settled her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, “for the most amazing day and night of my life.”

“You’re welcome.” He put an arm around her, inhaling the smell of her, enjoying the feel of her hair tickling his chin. He couldn’t wait to get home and let that hair down, slip off her clothes, and get at that glorious body. Deep down, underneath the fierce desire that was pumping through his veins, was an unfamiliar feeling, but one he recognized all the same. Tenderness. He’d given her something special, and her excitement was palpable. But she’d given him something, too. He’d forgotten what it was like to have that enthusiasm for work. That passion for life.

He had a feeling that life with Rachel would be a constant banquet. A never-ending tasting menu.

“Are you tempted?”

She slipped a hand between his legs, rubbing significantly. “Yes, I’m tempted.”

“The job,” he said, moving his hands up her side so his fingers brushed the underside of her breast. “I’m talking about the job.”

“I’d need a work permit or something before I could stay.”

“Or you could always marry an Englishman,” he said cheerfully.

She glanced at him sharply and removed her hand from his crotch. “Maybe.”

What was that all about? He’d have liked to ask her, but his head was fuzzy from good food, good wine, and the fact that she’d caused most of the blood to drain from his head, thereby impeding his mental function.