Ellie Darkins – Frozen Heart, Melting Kiss (страница 1)
“It’s fine now,” she said, trying to pull her hand away. But Will kept a firm hold on it, using it to pull her fractionally closer, until her chest was pressed against him.
And then he froze. He dropped her hand and turned away from her, and she glimpsed his hard-set expression twisting into a grimace.
Relief and disappointment flooded Maya, and she leant back against the sink. She kept her eyes on the floor until she could look up at him with an indifferent expression.
“Let’s carry on,” she managed eventually.
For the first time she could remember she wished she wasn’t in her kitchen. She wished she could escape upstairs, hide away from this man and the dangerous effect he had on her. But she’d committed to help him, and she wouldn’t go back on her word.
Frozen Heart, Melting Kiss
Ellie Darkins
ELLIE DARKINS spent her formative years as a committed bookworm, devouring romance novels. After completing her English degree (which had Mills & Boon® novels on the syllabus!) she decided to make a living from her love of books. As a writer and freelance editor her work now entails dreaming up romantic proposals, hot dates with alpha males and trips to the past with dashing heroes.
When she’s not working she can usually be found manning the desk or sampling the coffee at her local library, or out for a run—listening to an audiobook, of course.
For Betty
Contents
‘YOU ARE GOING to try this one.’
Maya Hartney forced the corners of her mouth up into a professional smile while she waited for Will Thomas to bite. Behind her back she clasped her hands to stop herself chewing at a nail.
She’d tried dozens of combinations of dishes for this tasting, even though squeezing in an extra job next month was pushing her business to its limits. But it had been impossible to say no when Rachel, Will’s assistant, had pleaded with her so earnestly to consider catering for an Appleby and Associates gala dinner.
These moments, waiting for a client to try one of her dishes, were nerve-racking but necessary. Once they’d taken a bite her nerves gave way to sheer pleasure. She loved to watch people enjoy her food. Ever since the first time it had happened, years ago, when she’d first cooked for her university housemates, it had given her a physical thrill. The joy that her food brought showed in the small smile people gave as they closed their eyes and savoured the taste for a moment. Now, ten years later, she lived and worked for that moment.
And she’d never had reason to doubt her food’s capacity for bringing joy. Until now.
Will Thomas had already refused to try her starter, and her flutter of nerves congealed into a lump of dejection as she realised he probably wouldn’t try this course either.
Maya swallowed awkwardly, thinking hard, wondering where she had gone wrong. Her late night last night had seemed worth it, if it meant she had this dish just right, but there must be something that she’d misjudged. She bit her lip for a second as she ran through the possibilities in her mind and her pulse picked up speed as she considered improvements she could make. Maybe the dressing was a little too acidic? But then he hadn’t even tried it, so he wouldn’t know that. It must be the presentation that needed more work. The rest of the meal would have to be perfect to get this pitch back on track.
It had nothing to do with the fact that her mouth had watered the first second she’d seen Will Thomas and he’d met her gaze with steel-grey eyes. It was because she’d felt the chill of his presence since the second he’d arrived, and her whole body had wanted her to resist it. To fill the room with light and colour so that the cold couldn’t take hold of her. She’d fought too hard against it to let it in now.
There wasn’t a splash of colour anywhere in the office: grey walls, grey carpet, glass table and black leather chairs. She’d not experienced a chill like this for ten years, and would be a happy woman if she never felt it again. There was colour in every part of her life these days, displacing cold grey memories; now this room threatened to undo a decade’s positive thinking.
When Will Thomas had walked in the room had suddenly made perfect sense. Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, black hair with just a few flecks of silver at the temples. Grey eyes that bore an expression as clinical as their surroundings. Despite all this attraction had prickled at her skin, along with a warning, and she’d had to take a breath to steady herself.
His gaze had left his smartphone only briefly, dropped from her face to trace the contours of her curves and finally she’d seen a brief spark of heat in his eyes. The light had been there for just a fraction of a second before he’d caught it, extinguished it, and taken a step away from her, his eyes snapping back to his phone.
She’d crossed her ankles to stop herself taking a step forward, sensing that he wanted space, trying to respect that. Her eyes, though, had seemed desperate to pursue Will Thomas, to roam over the lines and planes of his face, down to where his shirt, crisp and starched and white, was open at the collar.
She’d introduced her starter: a salad of hand-harvested scallops, pan-fried and served with rocket and prosciutto, finished with a dressing it had taken two full evenings to perfect. He’d given it a derisive look and asked her to move on, his fingers twitching on the screen of his phone. Email withdrawal, she assumed. She’d catered for enough business dinners to recognise the symptoms. But the knowledge that he was choosing to check his emails over trying her food made her restless. Her food always spoke for her—what was she meant to do with someone who refused to listen?
On this man those chiselled cheekbones and intriguing silver eyes were entirely resistible.
She closed her mouth and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from a very unprofessional outburst.
He had to try this dish. She was certain that it would fix their impasse. If he would just give the food a chance she could still win him over. She’d sourced tender duck from a nearby farm and selected only the most beautiful vegetables from her local supplier. The herbs had come from the garden of her cottage in the Cotswolds and the sauce, a delicate balance of wine, red berries and orange, was—as of last night’s final run-though—perfect.
She wanted it to be right, needed it to be perfect, because if she could no longer rely on her food what else did she have to offer?
Taking a step towards him, she brandished the fork.
‘You are going to try this one,’ she repeated with renewed determination.
She tried to paste the smile onto her face again to soften the blow, but there was no disguising the fact that this was an instruction, not a request, and her frustration had made her words short and sharp.
Will met her gaze and seemed to study her; his eyes narrowed while he inspected her features, as if weighing up his opponent. He slipped the smartphone into his pocket and took the fork from her.
‘Do I have a choice?’
Maya couldn’t be certain but a ghost of a smile had seemed to flicker at the corner of his mouth. His eyes left her face only briefly as he forked a mouthful of the meat and dipped it into the sauce. She grew warm under his relentless scrutiny and thought again of that moment when she’d first seen him. His eyes had widened when he’d noticed her standing in the conference room, as if he couldn’t quite take her in, as if he didn’t understand her. She didn’t want to be difficult to understand. She had no interest in being enigmatic. What she needed was for him to like this dish, to restore her belief in her food—in herself.
For a moment as he chewed she thought she’d done it, that her food had broken this man’s icy resolve. He closed his eyes for a moment, and she was sure he was savouring the flavours she’d worked so hard to blend and perfect. His body stilled, his breathing was slow, his fingers were at rest on his phone. The muscles of his face hinted at a smile. But then in an instant it was gone; his eyes snapped open and she saw only indifference.
‘That’s fine.’
Fine? Fine? Perhaps she’d imagined it, she thought. That moment when it had seemed, however briefly, that he had been won round. Or maybe she hadn’t, and he was just determined for some reason not to enjoy her food, whatever she put in front of him. Anger at his uninterest prickled—how could he be so determined not to enjoy something she had poured her joy and happiness into?