Joan Kilby - Party of Three

She woke a few hours later, her mind churning, wondering alternately whether she and Ben would get along at all or whether they would get along too well. Had she leaped out of the frying pan and into the pressure cooker, so to speak?

Would that be so bad?

She let her imagination run rampant, and the mental images got her so hot she threw off the covers. But while the fantasy of making love with Ben held some appeal, she felt instinctively it would be a mistake to take up with him on the rebound. She needed to figure out where she kept going wrong with men before she embarked on another romance.

Engaging in sex without love would cloud her judgment and delay finding Mr. Right. She was too old to waste time on Mr. Right Now.

Dear Reader,

Just as food nourishes the body, so does love nourish the soul. In Party of Three, Chef Ben Gillard seduces Ally Cummings with food and nourishes her with love. Gradually she rediscovers her passion for life, and in doing so opens up a whole new life for Ben and his son, Danny.

I had a ball writing this book. I was given the opportunity to observe the inner workings of a restaurant kitchen, take part in an olive harvest and spend a romantic weekend in the country with my husband, all in the name of research.

Party of Three takes place in a resort town in my adopted country of Australia. It was a pure pleasure for me to use a local setting. So make yourself something good to eat, pull up a chair and have a few laughs with Ally and Ben.

I love to hear from readers. You can write to me at P.O. Box 234, Point Roberts, WA 98281-0234 or visit me online at www.joankilby.com.

Sincerely,

Joan Kilby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I’d like to thank Chef James Redfern of Montalto Restaurant

for allowing me to observe his kitchen during lunch service

and giving so generously of his time, experience and

expertise. Thanks also to the rest of the staff of Montalto

Restaurant and Winery for their help in

answering my many questions.

I’m very grateful to George Mistriotis and

his family for a warm welcome and a most enjoyable and

informative day on his olive farm.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EVERY MORNING at precisely seven forty-five Ally Cummings tapped the glass of the antique brass ship’s barometer that hung in her house high atop Wombat Hill. George, who was always trying to psychoanalyze her, claimed she was anal retentive with father issues, but she simply liked to know what lay ahead.

Tap, tap. The needle swung left; the barometric pressure dropped twenty millibars.

Change was coming.

Deep inside, a tiny voice insisted, About bloody time.

Then her eyebrows drew together in a frown and her lips pursed as she brushed that thought aside. She didn’t care for surprises.

George walked past, flipping the wide end of his blue silk tie through the loop and pulling it tight. “Are you working late tonight?”

Every Friday like clockwork George asked her that same question. Every week she gave her standard answer. “I have to stay to close the office at eight. Will you be all right on your own until then?”

“I’ll manage,” he said and headed for the kitchen.

Ally twisted the diamond engagement ring on her left hand. Ever since George had moved in she’d had that horribly familiar sinking feeling their relationship was doomed. Surely it couldn’t be happening again. George was perfect for her—predictable, reliable, as wedded to routine as she was. Yet, inexplicably her feelings had cooled.

This wasn’t the first time she’d lost interest once she had the man in the bag, so to speak, but it was the first time she’d gone so far as to get engaged before dumping the guy. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t cruel or callous; she didn’t want to hurt people.

She followed George out to the kitchen and put on a pan of water while he read the paper. She wasn’t much of a cook but she always made breakfast because she liked her eggs done just so, the whites set and the yolk soft, but not too soft. A lot of people felt like that; it wasn’t only her.

George usually fit easily into her routines but today he grumbled when she put his poached egg in front of him. “Don’t feel like this. I’ll just have toast.”

“But, George, Friday is Egg Day.” Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were Egg Days. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were Muesli Days. It was called having a balanced diet. Sundays she left open just to show George she could be spontaneous.

“Egg Day,” he admonished her from behind the business section of the newspaper, “is a construct of your id, an attempt to impose order on a chaotic universe.”

Ally suspected he made things like that up but she couldn’t ever be one hundred percent sure. She hadn’t spent seven years studying psychiatry, as he was all too fond of pointing out. His perfectly cooked eggs cooled on the plate while he spread boysenberry jam on a piece of wholewheat toast.

The waste killed her. “We should get a dog.”

“Don’t want a canine,” he mumbled around a mouthful. A dab of jam trembled on his bottom lip and fell onto his white shirt. “I’m a cat person.”

Siggy, George’s gray Persian, lay curled in the clean cast-iron frying pan. Lazy, selfish, pampered beast. For one glorious Walter Mitty moment Ally saw her hand turning the gas up high and Siggy leaping off the stove with an outraged yowl.

Ally blinked herself free of the image. What deeply repressed psychosis would George diagnose from that? As if she would harm an animal. Scooping up the cat, who mewed in protest, she deposited him gently on the tiled floor. He stalked off, tail upright as a flagpole, tip twitching.

“In a few years you can have a baby,” George offered magnanimously.

Ally itched at the patch of dry flaky skin on the inside of her elbow where her eczema was playing up again. The doctor said skin conditions were often stress-related and she was beginning to think he was right. She wanted children but she no longer wanted to have them with George.

When she didn’t reply George lowered his newspaper and peered at her. He had soft brown eyes that she used to think were sensitive but now realized were merely nearsighted. “When are we going to get married?” he said. “It’s time we set a date, especially now that I’ve moved in with you.”

“There’s plenty of time,” she said, fiddling with her ring.

“You’re always living in the future,” he complained. “Why can’t you be like Kathy and inhabit the moment?”

Inhabit the moment? Was this some new psychobabble buzz phrase? “I can’t believe you’re comparing me unfavorably to your secretary, the woman you call Jezebel behind her back. She’d try to seduce the Pope if he came to town.”

“At least she doesn’t dress like a nun in civvies.”

Ally glanced at her white blouse, navy skirt and low comfortable shoes. Good quality, neat and clean. What was wrong with that? She wasn’t like her sister, Melissa, who wore silks and satins from the vintage dress shop where she worked, or her mother, Cheryl, Vogue elegant in all black, all the time. She definitely wasn’t like her father, Tony, who used clothes the way an actor did costumes, with a different getup for every role he played in his various money-making schemes.