Ashley Lister - A Taste of Passion

‘Golden,’ Hart laughed. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

She didn’t know what he meant by that so she let the comment go.

‘Whilst you’re working on those muffins, why don’t you tell me about yourself?’ he suggested.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘You could start with your name.’

She introduced herself as Trudy McLaughlin and told him about her lifelong desire to become a chef. She had baked in her late father’s kitchen, learning beneath his professional guidance. Trudy had entered competitions at an early age and won some prestigious local prizes. She explained about her goals and ambitions and told him how much she had enjoyed developing her skills and knowledge on a culinary arts degree. She stopped short of telling him about Sweet Temptation and the idea of building an online culinary empire with Charlotte and Donny for fear of boring him with every aspect of her life and aspirations.

She didn’t know if it was the situation, his companionship or the mood of the evening but she found it easy to talk with Hart. When he came and stood behind her to watch how she blended ingredients, she didn’t find his presence unsettling. Ordinarily she didn’t like to have her personal space invaded by strangers. But, when his arms came around from behind her, and he gently guided her hands so she was stirring at a more acute angle, Trudy savoured his nearness.

‘Make the strokes broader,’ he whispered. His words touched the lobe of her ear like gentle kisses. ‘The finished result will give more satisfaction if you make the strokes broader.’

She did as he asked.

Savouring the sensation of having his body pressed against hers as he guided her hands to work to his instructions, Trudy lowered her voice and asked, ‘Do we both want to be giving more satisfaction this evening?’

He chuckled softly.

She caught the scent of the Chivas Regal on his breath. It reminded her that she’d not yet taken a sip of her drink. She was suddenly driven by the need to taste the flavour of the Scotch on his kiss. The idea inspired a flurry of dark and desperate urges that sparkled deep in the centre of her sudden need for him.

‘Smells divine,’ he grunted.

She blushed. ‘Thank you, but I was only following your recipe.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the muffins.’

It was as much as he needed to say before she turned to face him. His lips were tantalisingly close and the desire to kiss him was overwhelming. She hesitated for less than a second and then pushed her mouth against his.

Later Trudy would admit that she amazed herself in the kitchen with her show of restraint. She pulled away from the kiss and, with a promise in her smile, placed a finger on his lips. Saucily, she tilted her hips against him. She could feel the insistent threat of his erection concealed beneath his trousers. The hard flesh bulged between them as desperate as her own swelling need for him. It was a delightful and unexpected reminder that they were both fuelled by the same powerful and demanding urges. She wanted to shiver as she realised what the discovery meant: William Hart finds me desirable .

Then she turned and finished prepping the muffins.

The patisserie was already heady with the scent of the Sri Lankan cinnamon. Her lips needed constant moistening as her nostrils drank in the intoxicating flavour. She had liberated blueberries from the pantry and was looking for an orange when he joined her.

They were alone together in the kitchen.

But the narrowness of the dark pantry meant they had to be even closer.

Trudy trembled.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Orange,’ she admitted. ‘Lime or lemon if you’ve got no orange –’

She was going to carry on listing potential alternatives but he reached for something large and red from behind her and then placed it in her palm.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Rangpur,’ he said simply. ‘It’s sometimes called lemandarin. It’s a hybrid form between mandarin oranges and lemons.’

‘Shut the front door,’ Trudy whispered. She studied the fruit in her hand, incredulous that such a thing could exist – and that she’d never encountered it before. She sniffed the biting zest of its flesh, drinking in the acidic orangey fragrance, and fretful that the powerful flavour might prove too strong for the muffins she wanted to create. Then, realising the rangpur was being offered by a leading chef, she figured she could gamble confidently on the unknown ingredient.

‘Rangpur,’ she repeated, as she stepped past him and back into the kitchen. ‘Haven’t I learnt a lot tonight?’

‘The lessons have barely begun,’ he muttered.

She shivered as her thoughts lingered on the subtext of his words. She didn’t know what else he thought he could teach her in the kitchen but she knew she wanted to learn every lesson he had in mind.

The thought made her pulse quicken.

She grated the zest from the plump and succulent rangpur. Its fragrance was a powerful orange that would have been too bitter to tolerate as a main flavour. Trudy marvelled that she was now on the verge of creating the same divine delicacies she had sampled earlier in William Hart’s restaurant. She hoped, given her own approach to baking, the flavour would have something extra that came from the way she chose to combine ingredients.

If that happened, Trudy knew it would be an incredible accomplishment.

She folded the remaining ingredients into the bowl.

She creamed.

She mixed.

She stirred.

She found an electric whisk and blended. She rubbed her fingers thoughtfully along the brittle, fragile cinnamon quills. Their fragrance was as delicate as all the other mysterious ingredients she had discovered this evening. Reverently, she crumbled half a dozen quills into the mix. After mentally checking her understanding of the recipe, and convincing herself that she had everything in place, Trudy dropped a dozen pretty pastel pink paper cases onto a baking sheet and then used spatulas to place sponge mix into each waiting case.

The mixture stood stiff but she could sense its lightness in every scoop that she ladled into a case. The blueberries came next, to then be topped by a quarter more of the remaining sponge mix. She finished the muffins with a layer of the citrus rinds from the rangpur and a small handful of the remaining blueberries.

William Hart watched with a scowl of good-natured approval.

‘Are you happy with them?’

She placed them, not on the middle shelf, but on the shelf below. The trick to get the best from muffins, she had found, was to bake one shelf lower in the oven. It produced a result that remained thoroughly cooked and properly risen but with an improved sense of moistness that made the sponge all the more succulent. Pressing the door closed she said, ‘I’ll be happy if they turn out half as good as those your pâtissier made for me.’

She stood up and replaced the oven mitts on their hook. Swiftly, she pulled her smartphone from her pocket, and used a timer app to set a fourteen minute alarm.

‘Very efficient,’ he muttered. He sounded grudgingly impressed. ‘And what do you propose doing whilst you’re waiting for the muffins to rise?’

Ordinarily she would have used the time to clean her kitchen. She had messed up a modest collection of utensils, bowls and spatulas and the counter needed to be wiped down. However, it had taken a tremendous effort of will power to resist William Hart for this long and Trudy was adamant that she wouldn’t torture herself with unnecessary abstinence for a moment longer.

She stepped back into his embrace.

‘I thought we could continue with that kiss, Mr Hart.’