Книга - Anything but Vanilla…

Anything but Vanilla...
Liz Fielding


Even more tempting than ice-cream! Sorrel Amery is determined to make her summer event the talk of the town, and she knows just the way into people’s hearts – Champagne sorbet! It’s the perfect strategy…until the ice cream parlour’s owner runs off, leaving Sorrel’s plans melting faster than a sundae in the summer sun. All Sorrel wants is to get back into her comfort zone, but when the luscious Alexander West arrives to help pick up the pieces, her life gets shaken up more than ever before! Especially as this globet-trotting adventurer is determined that nothing in Sorrel’s life should ever be boring old vanilla again…







Even more tempting than ice cream!

Sorrel Amery is determined to make her summer event the talk of the town, and she knows just the way into people’s hearts—champagne sorbet! It’s the perfect strategy… Until the ice cream parlour’s owner runs off, leaving Sorrel’s plans melting faster than a sundae in the summer sun.

All Sorrel wants is to get back into her comfort zone, but when the gorgeous Alexander West arrives to help pick up the pieces her life gets shaken up more than ever before! Especially as this globe-trotting adventurer is determined that nothing in Sorrel’s life should ever be boring old vanilla again…


ANYTHING BUT VANILLA…






Sorrel had assumed Alexander would take the spoon from her, but instead he leaned forward and put his lips around it.

His hair fell forward and brushed against her wrist, giving her goose bumps. He put his hand beneath hers to steady it when it began to shake, then raised heavy lids to look straight into her eyes.

They were dangerously close.

She’d taken an involuntary step back, shocked by such a powerful response to a man who, while undeniably attractive, she was not predisposed to like. But lust had nothing to do with liking. It was an unthinking, mindless live-now-pay-later physical response to the atavistic need of a species to reproduce itself. A lingering madness, as outdated, as unnecessary, as troublesome as the appendix. Something she’d have had removed if it was an option.

And yet, with his palm cradling her hand, face-to-face, the effect was amplified; not so much a ripple as a tsunami…


Anything but Vanilla…

Liz Fielding








www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT LIZ FIELDING

Liz Fielding was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain—with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between. She finally came to a full stop in a tiny Welsh village cradled by misty hills, and these days mostly leaves her pen to do the traveling.

When she’s not sorting out the lives and loves of her characters, she potters in the garden, reads her favourite authors and spends a lot of time wondering, What if…?

For news of upcoming books—and to sign up for her occasional newsletter—visit Liz’s website, www.lizfielding.com (http://www.lizfielding.com).

This and other titles by Liz Fielding are available in ebook format—check out www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the authors with whom I share my writing life. They are my support group, a cyber hug away when the writing is tough and, when life gives you lemons, they’re always on hand to make lemonade.


Contents

Chapter One (#ub7d9e7da-ae8e-5114-93ca-b3bc7ba7c772)

Chapter Two (#u0fe4b1ab-4dca-5e5c-bd10-0900240598b1)

Chapter Three (#ub181108e-862f-57f6-9bad-786d8fea4139)

Chapter Four (#ud7bd9c28-cbda-596a-8653-8506ee9b614d)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE

There’s nothing more cheering than a good friend when we’re in trouble—except a good friend with ice cream.

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

‘Hello? Shop?’

Alexander West ignored the rapping on the shop door, the call for attention. The closed sign was up; Knickerbocker Gloria was out of business. End of story.

The accounts were a mess, the petty cash tin contained nothing but paper clips and he’d found a pile of unopened bills in the bottom drawer of the desk. All the classic signs of a small business going down the pan and Ria, with her fingers in her ears, singing la-la-la as the creditors closed in.

It was probably one of them at the door now. Some poor woman whose own cash flow was about to hit the skids hoping to catch her with some loose change in the till, which was why this wouldn’t wait.

He topped up his mug with coffee, eased the ache in his shoulder and set about dealing with the pile of unopened bills.

There was no point in getting mad at Ria. This was his fault.

She’d promised him that she’d be more organised, not let things get out of hand. He was so sure that she’d learned her lesson, but maybe he’d just allowed himself to be convinced simply because he wanted it to be true.

She tried, he knew she did, and everything would be fine for a while, but then she’d hear something, see something and it would trigger her depression...get her hopes up. Then, when they were dashed, she’d be ignoring everything, especially the scary brown envelopes. It didn’t take long for a business to go off the rails.

‘Ria?’

He frowned. It was the same voice, but whoever it belonged to was no longer outside—

‘I’ve come to pick up the Jefferson order,’ she called out. ‘Don’t disturb yourself if you’re busy. I can find it.’

—but inside, and helping herself to the stock.

He hauled himself out of the chair, took a short cut across the preparation room—scrubbed, gleaming and ready for a new day that was never going to come—and pushed open the door to the stockroom.

All he could see of the ‘voice’ was a pair of long, satin-smooth legs and a short skirt that rode up her thighs and stretched across a neat handful of backside. It was an unexpected pleasure in what was a very bad day and, in no hurry to halt her raid on the freezer, he leaned against the door making the most of the view.

She muttered something and reached further into its depths, balancing on one toe while extending the other towards him as if inviting him to admire the black suede shoe clinging to a long, slender foot. A high-heeled black suede shoe, cut away at the side and with a saucy bow on the toe. Very expensive, very sexy and designed to display a foot, an ankle, to perfection. He dutifully admired the ankle, the leg, a teasing glimpse of lace—that skirt was criminally short—and several inches of bare flesh where her top had slithered forward, at his leisure.

The combination of long legs and dark red skirt, sandwiched between cream silk and lace, reminded him of a cone filled with Ria’s home-made raspberry ripple ice cream. It had been a while since he’d been within touching distance of temptation but now, recalling that perfect mix of fresh tangy fruit and creamy sweetness, he contemplated the idea of scooping her up and running his tongue along the narrow gap of golden skin at her waist.

‘I’ve got the strawberry and cream gelato and the cupcakes, Ria.’ Her voice, sexily breathless as she shifted containers, echoed from the depths of the freezer. ‘And I’ve found the bread and honey ice cream. But there’s no Earl Grey granita, champagne sorbet or cucumber ice cream.’

Cucumber ice cream?

No wonder Ria was in trouble.

He took a final, appreciative look at the endless legs and, calling the hormones to heel, said, ‘If it’s not there, then I’m sorry, you’re out of luck.’

Sorrel Amery froze.

Metaphorically as well as literally. With her head deep in the freezer and nothing but a strappy silk camisole between her and frozen to death, she was already feeling the chill, but either Ria had the worst sore throat in history, or that was—

She hauled herself out of its chilly depths and turned round.

—not Ria.

She instinctively ran her hands down the back of a skirt that her younger sister—with no appreciation of vintage fashion—had disparagingly dismissed as little more than a pelmet. It was, however, too late for modesty and on the point of demanding who the hell the man leaning against the prep-room door thought he was, she decided against it.

Silence was, according to some old Greek, a woman’s best garment and, while it was not a notion she would generally subscribe to, hot blue eyes above a grin so wide that it would struggle to make it through the door were evidence enough that he’d been filling his boots with the view.

Whoever he was, she wasn’t about to make his day by going all girly about it.

‘Out of luck? What do mean, out of luck?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Ria?’ Brisk and businesslike were her first line of defence in the face of a sexy male who thought all he had to do was smile and she’d be putty in his hands.

So wrong—although the hand propping him up against the door frame had a workmanlike appearance: strong, broad and with deliciously long fingers that looked as if they’d know exactly what to do with putty...

She shivered a little and the grin twitched at the corner of his mouth, suggesting that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Wrong again.

She was just cold. Really. She hadn’t stopped to put on the cute, boxy little jacket that completed her ensemble. This wasn’t a business meeting, but a quick in-and-out pick-up of stock.

While the jacket wouldn’t have done anything for her legs, it would have covered her shoulders and kept her warm. And when she was wearing a suit, no matter how short the skirt, she felt in control. Important when you were young and female and battling to be taken seriously in a world that was, mostly, dominated by men.

In suits.

But she didn’t have to impress Ria and hadn’t anticipated the freezer diving. Or the audience.

The man lounging against the door frame clearly didn’t feel the need for armour of any kind, beyond the heavy stubble on his chin and thick brown hair that brushed his shoulders and flopped untidily around his face.

No suit for him. No jacket. Just a washed-out T-shirt stretched across wide shoulders, and a pair of shabby jeans moulded over powerful thighs. The sun streaks that brightened his hair—and the kind of skin-deep tan that you didn’t get from two weeks on a beach—only confirmed the impression that he didn’t believe in wasting his time slaving over a hot desk, although the suggestion of bags under his eyes did suggest a heavy night-life.

‘Ria’s not here.’ His voice, low and gravelly, lazy as his stance, vibrated softly against her breastbone, as if he’d reached out and grazed his knuckles slowly along its length. It stole her breath, circling softly before settling low in her belly and draining the strength from her legs. ‘I’m taking care of things.’

She fumbled for the edge of the freezer, grasping it for support. ‘Oh? And you are?’ she asked, going for her ‘woman in command of her environment’ voice and falling miserably short. Fortunately, he didn’t know that. As far as he knew, she always talked in that weirdly breathy way.

‘Alexander West.’

She blinked. ‘You’re the postcard man?’

‘The what?’ It was his turn to look confused, although, since he was already leaning against the door, he didn’t need propping up.

‘The postcard man,’ she repeated, desperately wishing she’d kept her mouth shut, but the nickname had been startled out of her. For one thing he was younger than she’d expected. Really. Quite a lot younger. Ria wore her age well, but wasn’t coy about it, describing her fortieth birthday as a moment of ‘corset-loosening’ liberation. Not that she’d ever needed a corset, or would have worn one if she had. ‘That’s what Nancy calls you,’ she explained, in an attempt to distance herself from her surprised reaction. ‘Ria’s assistant? You send her postcards.’

‘I send postcards to Nancy?’ he asked, the teasing gleam in his eyes suggesting that he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and the reason for it.

‘To Ria. Very occasionally,’ she added. Having regained a modicum of control over her vocal cords, if nothing else, she wanted him to know that she wasn’t impressed by him or his teasing.

It wasn’t the frequency of their arrival that made the postcards memorable, but their effect. She’d once found Ria clutching one to her breast, tears running down her cheeks. She’d waved away her concern, claiming that it was hay fever. In November.

Only a lover, or a child, could evoke that kind of response. Alexander West was a lot younger than she’d expected, but he wasn’t young enough to be her son, which left only one possibility, although in this instance it was a lover who was notable only by his absence. His cards, when they did arrive, were mostly of long white tropical beaches fringed with palm trees. The kind that evoked Hollywood-style dreams of exotic cocktails and barefoot walks along the edge of the shore with someone who looked just like Mr Postcard. Sitting at home in Maybridge, it was scarcely any wonder Ria was weeping.

‘Once in a blue moon,’ she added, in case he hadn’t got the message.

Sorrel knew all about the kind of travelling man who took advantage of a warm-hearted woman before moving on, leaving her to pick up the pieces and carry on with her life. Her own father had been that kind of man, although he had never bothered with even the most occasional postcard. Forget moons—blue or any other colour—his visit was on the astronomical scale of Halley’s Comet. Once in a lifetime.

‘A little more frequently than that, I believe,’ he replied. ‘Or were you using the term as a figure of speech rather than an astronomical event?’ Fortunately, the question was rhetorical because, without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘I’m not often in the vicinity of a post office.’

‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’ she said, making an effort to get a grip, put some stiffeners in her knees.

Not at all.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ West let go of the door and every cell in her body gave a little jump—of nervousness, excitement, anticipation—but he was only settling himself more comfortably, leaning his shoulder against the frame, crossing strong, sinewy arms and putting a dangerous strain on the stitches holding his T-shirt together. ‘I thought perhaps you were attempting to make a point of some kind.’

‘What?’ Sorrel realised that she was holding her breath... ‘No,’ she said, unable to look away as one of the stitches popped, then another, and the seam parted to reveal a glimpse of the golden flesh beneath. She swallowed. Hard. ‘The frequency of your correspondence is none of my business.’

‘I know that, but I was beginning to wonder if you did.’ The gleam intensified and without warning she was feeling anything but cold. Her head might be saying, ‘He is so not your type...’ She did not do lust at first sight.

Her body wasn’t listening.

It had tuned out her brain and was reaching out to him with fluttery little ‘touch me’ appeals from her pulse points, the tight betraying peaks of her breasts poking against the thin silk...

No, no, no, no, no!

She swallowed, straightened her spine, hoping that he’d put that down to the cold air swirling up from the open freezer. She continued to cling to it, not for support, but to stop herself from taking a step closer. Flinging herself at him. That was what her mother, who’d made a life’s work of lust at first sight and had three fatherless daughters to show for it, would have done.

Since the age of seventeen, when that legacy had come back to bite her and break her teenage heart, she had made a point of doing the opposite of whatever her mother would do in any circumstance that involved a man. Especially avoiding the kind of rough-hewn men who, it seemed, could turn her head with a glance.

Sorrel had no idea what had brought Alexander West back to Maybridge, but from her own reaction it was obvious that his arrival was going to send Ria into a meltdown tizzy. Worse, it would cause no end of havoc to the running of Knickerbocker Gloria, which was balanced on the edge of chaos at the best of times. The knock-on effect was going to be the disruption of the business she was working so hard to turn into a high-end event brand.

Presumably Ria’s absence this morning meant that she was having a long lie-in to recover from the enthusiastic welcome home she’d given the prodigal on his return.

He looked pretty shattered, too, come to think of it...

Sorrel slammed the door shut on the images that thought evoked. It was going to take a lot more than a pair of wide, here-today-gone-tomorrow shoulders to impress her.

Oh, yes.

While her friends had been dating, she’d had an early reality check on the value of romance and had focused on her future, choosing the prosaic Business Management degree and vowing that she’d be a millionaire by the time she was twenty-five.

Any man who wanted her attention would have to match her in drive and ambition. He would also have to be well groomed, well dressed, focused on his career and, most important of all, stationary.

The first two could be fixed. The third would, inevitably, be a work in progress, but her entire life had been dominated by men who caused havoc when they were around and then disappeared leaving the women to pick up the pieces. The last was non-negotiable.

Alexander West struck out on every single point, she told herself as another stitch surrendered, producing a flutter of excitement just below her waist. Anticipation. Dangerous feelings that, before she knew it, could run out of control and wreck her lifeplan, no matter how firmly nailed down.

‘What, exactly, are you doing here?’ she demanded. If the cold air swirling around at her back wasn’t enough to cool her down, all she had to do was remind herself that he belonged to Ria.

She was doing a pretty good job of cool and controlled, at least on the surface. Having faced down sceptical bank managers, sceptical marketing men and sceptical events organisers, she’d had plenty of practice keeping the surface calm even when her insides were churning. Right now hers felt as if a cloud of butterflies had moved in.

‘That’s none of your business, either.’

‘Actually, it is. Ria supplies me with ice cream for my business and since she has apparently left you in charge for the day...’ major stress on ‘apparently’ ‘...you should be aware that, while you are in a food-preparation area, you are required to wear a hat,’ she continued, in an attempt to crush both him and the disturbing effect he and his worn-out seams were having on her concentration. ‘And a white coat.’

A white coat would cover those shoulders and thighs and then she would be able to think straight.

‘Since Knickerbocker Gloria is no longer in business,’ he replied, ‘that’s not an issue.’ Had he placed the slightest emphasis on knicker? He nodded in the direction of the cartons she had piled up on the table beside the freezer and said, ‘If you’ll be good enough to return the stock to the freezer, I’ll see you off the premises.’

It took a moment for his words to filter through.

‘Stock? No longer in... What on earth are you talking about? Ria knows I’m picking up this order today. When will she be here?’

‘She won’t.’

‘Excuse me?’ She understood the words, but they were spinning around in her brain and wouldn’t line up. ‘Won’t what?’

‘Be here. Any time soon.’ He shrugged, then, taking pity on her obvious confusion—he was probably used to women losing the power of speech when he flexed his biceps—he said, ‘She had an unscheduled visit from the Revenue last week. It seems that she hasn’t been paying her VAT. Worse, she’s been ignoring their letters on the subject and you know how touchy they get about things like that.’

‘Not from personal experience,’ she replied, shocked to her backbone. Her books were updated on a daily basis, her sales tax paid quarterly by direct debit. Her family had lived on the breadline for a very long time after one particularly beguiling here-today-gone-tomorrow man had left her family penniless.

She was never going back there.

Ever.

There was nothing wrong with her imagination, however. She knew that ‘touchy’ was an understatement on the epic scale. ‘What happened? Exactly,’ she added.

‘I couldn’t say, exactly. Using my imagination to fill the gaps I’d say that they arrived unannounced to carry out an audit, took one look at her books and issued her with an insolvency notice,’ he said, without any discernible emotion.

‘But that means—’

‘That means that nothing can leave the premises until an inventory has been made of the business assets and the debts paid or, alternatively, she’s been declared bankrupt and her creditors have filed their claims.’

‘What? No!’ As her brain finally stopped freewheeling and the cogs engaged, she put her hand protectively on top of the ices piled up beside her. ‘I have to have these today. Now. And the other ices I ordered.’ Then felt horribly guilty for putting her own needs first when Ria was in such trouble.

Sorrel had always struggled with Ria’s somewhat cavalier attitude to business. She’d done everything she could to organise her but it was like pushing water uphill. If she was in trouble with the taxman, though, she must be frightened to death.

‘That would be the champagne sorbet that you can’t find,’ Alexander said, jerking her back to her own problem.

‘Amongst other things.’ At least he’d had his ears as well as his eyes open while he’d been ogling her underwear. ‘Perhaps they’re still in the kitchen freezer?’ she suggested, fingers mentally crossed. ‘I don’t imagine that she would have been thinking too clearly.’ Then, furious, ‘Why on earth didn’t she call me if she was in trouble? She knew I would have helped.’

‘She called me.’

‘And you came racing, ventre à terre, to rescue her?’ Her sarcasm covered a momentary pang of envy for such devotion. If he’d been devoted, she reminded herself, he’d have been here, supporting her instead of gallivanting around the world, beachcombing, no doubt with obligatory dusky maiden in attendance. Sending Ria the odd postcard when he could be bothered.

‘Hardly “belly to the earth”. I was in a Boeing at thirty thousand feet,’ he replied, picking up on the sarcasm and returning it with interest.

‘The modern equivalent,’ she snapped back. But he had come. ‘So? What are you going to do? Sort things out? Put the business back on a proper footing?’ she asked, torn between hope and doubt. What Ria needed was an accountant who couldn’t be twisted around her little finger. Not some lotus-eater.

‘No. I’m here to shut up shop. Knickerbocker Gloria is no longer trading.’

‘But...’

‘But what?’

‘Never mind.’

She would do her level best to help Ria save her business just as soon as the Jefferson job was over. Right now it was her reputation that was on the line. Without that sorbet, she was toast and she wasn’t about to allow Ria’s beefcake toy boy to stand in her way.


TWO

Ideas should be clear and ice cream thick. A Spanish Proverb

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

‘Do you mind?’ Sorrel asked, when he didn’t move or step aside to allow her through to the preparation room.

Alexander West was considerably taller than her, but not so tall—thanks to her four-inch heels—that she was forced to crick her neck to look him in the eye. A woman in business had to learn to stand her ground and, if she were ever to be made Chancellor of the Exchequer, her first act on taking office would be to make four-inch designer heels a tax-deductible expense.

‘Actually, I do,’ he said.

Terrific. A businessman would understand, be reasonable. Alexander West might be a travelling man who could, no doubt, make himself understood in a dozen languages, but he wasn’t talking hers.

Never mind. She hadn’t got this far without becoming multi-lingual herself...

‘Please, Mr West...’ she began, doing her best to ignore his disintegrating T-shirt, his close-fitting jeans, the scent of warm male skin prickling her nose, loosening her bones...

It was tough being a woman in business. Tough running events. A woman had to use whatever tools came to hand. With banks it was her ability to put together a solid business plan; with clients it was her intuitive understanding of what they wanted; with uncooperative staff at hotels she occasionally had to resort to the sharp edge of her tongue, but only as a last resort. The most effective tool in the box she’d always found to be a smile and this wasn’t the moment to hold back. She gave him the full, wide-screen, Technicolor version she’d inherited from her mother. The one known in the family as ‘the heartbreaker’, although in her case the only heart that had suffered any damage was her own.

‘Alexander...’ She switched to his first name, needing to make an ally of him, involve him in her problem. ‘This is important.’

She had his attention now and his smile faded until all she could see was a white starburst of lines around those hot blue eyes where they had been screwed up against the sun. Like a tractor-beam in an old science fiction movie, they drew her towards the seductive curve of his lower lip, pulling her in...

‘How important?’ he asked. His voice, dangerously soft, grazed her skin and mesmerized; her breath snagged in her throat as the warmth of his body wrapped around her. When had she moved? How had she got close enough to feel his breath against her cheek?

Bells were clanging a warning somewhere, but her mouth was so hot that she instinctively touched her lower lip with her tongue to cool it.

‘Really, really...’ her voice caught in her throat ‘...important.’

Even as her brain was scrambling an urgent message to her feet to step back his hand was at her waist, sliding beneath the skimpy top, spreading across her back, each fingertip sending shivery little sparks of pleasure dancing across her skin. Arousing drugging sensations that blocked the danger signals and, as he lowered his mouth to hers, only one word was making it through.

‘Yes...’

It murmured through her body as his lips touched hers, slipping through her defences as smoothly as a silver key turning in a well-oiled lock. Whispering seduction as his tongue slid across her lower lip, dipped between her teeth and her body arched towards him wanting more, wanting him.

She lifted her arms but as she slid them around his neck he broke the connection, lifting his head a fraction to look at her for a moment and murmur, ‘Not raspberry...’

Not raspberry?

He was frowning a little as he straightened so that he was looking down at her. Five-inch heels. She needed five-inch heels...

‘And not that important.’

As his hand slid away from her she took a step back, grabbed behind for the freezer for the second time, steadying herself while her legs remembered what they were for. And for the second time that morning wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

‘Not important?’ No, not that important...

Oh, God! Forget raspberry—if she ever blushed she wouldn’t be raspberry, she’d be beetroot. It was the skirt all over again, only that had been him looking. This had been her losing all sense as her wayward genes, the curse of all Amery women, had temporarily asserted themselves and reason, judgement, had flown out of the window. It was that easy to lose your head.

Just one look and she had wanted him to kiss her. Wanted a lot more. Stupid, crazy and rare in ways he couldn’t begin to understand, Alexander West had read something entirely different into her motives. Had thought that she was prepared to seduce him to get what she wanted...

‘It’s just ice cream,’ he said, dismissively.

Just?

‘Did you say “just ice cream”?’

Focus on that. Ice...

‘How did you get in here?’ he demanded, irritably, ignoring the question. ‘The shop isn’t open.’

The change of mood was like a slap, but it had the effect of jarring her senses back into place.

‘I used the side door,’ she snapped, almost as shocked by his dismissal of ice cream as something anyone could take seriously as a sizzling kiss that had momentarily stolen her wits. And which he had swept aside as casually.

No way was she going to tell him that Ria had given her a key so that she could collect her orders out of hours. She wasn’t going to tell him anything.

It was only the absolute necessity of verifying that Ria had completed her order that kept her from doing the sensible thing and walking out. Once she knew it was there, she could come and pick it up later when he had gone.

‘It was locked,’ he countered.

‘Not when I walked through it.’ The truth, the whole truth and very nearly nothing but the truth. ‘Unlike the front door. You’re not going to get Ria out of trouble if you shut her customers out,’ she added, pointedly.

Alexander West gave her a long, thoughtful look—the kind that suggested he knew when he was being flimflammed. He might look as if he were about to fall asleep where he stood, but, as he’d just demonstrated, he was very much awake and apparently leaping to all manner of conclusions.

Not without reason where the key was concerned.

As for the rest...

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

‘I did pay for my order in advance,’ she said, doing her best to blank out the humming of her pulse, determined to divert his attention from a smile that had got her into so much trouble—and which she’d stow away with the suit, labelled not suitable for office wear, the minute she got home—along with her apparent ability to walk through locked doors. Just in case he took it into his head to use those long fingers, strong capable hands, to do a pat-down search.

Her body practically melted at the thought.

‘Maybe,’ she said, her voice apparently disconnected from her body and brisk as a brand-new yard broom, ‘since you appear to have taken charge in Ria’s absence, you could find the rest of it for me?’

Better. Ignore the body. Stick with the voice...

‘You paid in advance?’

Much better. He wasn’t just diverted, he was seriously surprised and his eyebrows rose, drawing attention to the hair flopping over his forehead and practically falling in his eyes.

Sorrel found herself struggling against the urge to lean into him, to reach up and comb it back with her fingers, feel the strength of that hot body against hers as she put her arms around his neck and fastened it tidily out of the way with an elastic band.

Fortunately, she didn’t have a band handy but, not taking any chances, she kept her fingers busy tucking a stray wisp of her own hair behind an ear. Then, just to be safe, she rubbed her thumb over the little ice-cream-cornet earring that had been a birthday gift from her ideal man, Graeme Laing. The well-groomed, totally focused man for whom travelling meant brief business trips to Zurich, New York or Hong Kong.

Travelling for business was okay.

‘It is normal business practice,’ she assured him.

‘“Normal” and “business practice” are not words I’ve ever heard Ria use in the same sentence,’ Alexander replied.

‘That I can believe, but I’m not Ria.’

‘No?’ Her assertion didn’t impress him. He didn’t even ask what kind of business she was in. Clearly his interest in her didn’t stretch further than her underwear. He had to have known—his kiss had left her clinging to the freezer for support, for heaven’s sake—that she had been lost to reality, but he hadn’t bothered to follow through, press his advantage.

He’d simply been proving the point that she would do anything to get her ice cream.

He had been wrong about that, too. She hadn’t been thinking about her order, or the major event that depended upon it. She hadn’t been thinking at all, only feeling the fizz of heat rushing through her veins, a shocking need to be kissed, to be touched...

She cut off the thought, aware that she should be grateful that he hadn’t taken advantage of her incomprehensible meltdown.

She was grateful.

Having got over his shock at Ria’s unaccountable lapse into efficiency, however, Alexander shrugged and the gap along his shoulder seam widened, putting her fledgling gratitude to the test.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Show me a receipt and you can take your ices.’

‘A receipt?’

That took her mind off his disintegrating clothing, and the sudden chill around her midriff had nothing to do with the fact that she was leaning against an open freezer.

‘It is normal business practice to issue one,’ he said.

She couldn’t be certain that he was mocking her, but it felt very much like it. He was pretty sharp for a man with such a louche lifestyle, but presumably financing it required a certain amount of ruthlessness. Was that why he felt responsible for Ria’s problems? She was full of life, looked fabulous for forty, but good-looking toy-boy lovers—no matter how occasional—were an expensive luxury.

‘You do have one?’

‘A receipt? Not with me,’ she hedged, unwilling to admit to her own rare lapse in efficiency. ‘Ria will have entered the payment in her books,’ she pointed out.

‘Ria hasn’t made an entry in her books for weeks.’

‘But that’s—’

‘That’s Ria.’

‘It’s as bad as that?’ she asked.

‘Worse.’

Sorrel groaned. ‘She’s hopeless with the practicalities. I have to write down the ingredients when we experiment with flavours for ice cream, but even then you never know what extra little touch she’s going to toss in as an afterthought the minute your back is turned.’

‘It’s the extra little touch that makes the magic.’

‘True,’ she said, surprised that someone who thought ice cream unimportant would know that. ‘Sadly, there’s no guarantee that it will be the same touch.’ While she wanted the magic, she also needed consistency. Ria preferred the serendipitous joy of stumbling on some exciting new flavour, which made a visit to Knickerbocker Gloria—the glorious step-back-in-time ice-cream parlour that was at the heart of the business—something of an adventure. Or deeply frustrating if you came back hoping for a second helping of an ice cream you’d fallen in love with. Fortunately for the business, the adventure mostly outweighed the frustration.

Mostly.

‘You have to learn to live with the risk or move on,’ Alexander said, apparently able to read her mind.

‘Do I?’ She regarded him with the same thoughtful look that he had turned on her. ‘Is it the risk that brings you back?’ she asked.

His smile was a dangerous thing. Fleeting. Filled with ambiguity. Was he amused? She couldn’t be certain. And if he was, was he laughing at himself or at her pathetic attempt to tease information out of him? Why did it matter? His relationship with Ria had nothing to do with her unless it interfered with her business.

It was interfering with her business right now.

He was standing in the way of what she needed, but she needed his co-operation. In a moment of weakness, she had allowed her concentration to slip, but she wouldn’t let that happen again. She didn’t care what had brought Alexander West flying back to Maybridge, to Ria. She only cared about the needs of her own business.

‘When it comes to ice cream,’ she said, not waiting for an answer, ‘Ria’s individuality is my biggest selling point.’

Having practically torn her hair out at Ria’s inability to stick to a recipe, she had finally taken the line of least resistance, offering something unrepeatable—colours and flavours that were individually tailored to her clients’ personal requirements—to sell the uniqueness of her ices.

It did mean that she had to work closely with Ria, recording her recipes at the moment of creation to ensure that she delivered the ices that her client tasted and approved and didn’t go off on some last-minute fantasy version conjured up in a flash of inspiration. It wasn’t easy, she couldn’t be here all the time, but it had been worth the effort.

‘Where is Ria?’ she asked, again. ‘And where’s Nancy?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘She has to drop her daughter off at school, but she should have been here an hour ago to open up the ice-cream parlour.’

‘She was, but, since there’s no possibility that the business will continue, it seemed kinder to suggest she use her time to explore other employment opportunities.’

‘Kinder?’ He’d fired her? Things were moving a lot faster than she had anticipated. ‘Kinder?’ she repeated. ‘Have you any idea how important this job is to Nancy? She’s a single mother. Finding another job—’

‘Take it up with Ria,’ he said, cutting her off in full flow. ‘She’s the one who’s disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ For a man so relaxed that he looked as if he might slide down the door at any minute, he moved with lightning speed. That capable hand was at her elbow as the blood drained from her face and long before the wobble reached her knees. ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

‘Nothing. Bad choice of words.’ He knew, she thought. He understood that beneath Ria’s vivid clothes, her life-embracing exuberance, there was a fragility...

He was close again and she caught the scent of the lavender that Ria cut from her garden and laid between her sheets. Ria... This was about her, she reminded herself. ‘She can’t hide from the taxman.’

‘No, but, if you know her as well as you say, you’ll know that when things get tough, she does a good impression of an ostrich.’

That rang true. Ria was very good at sticking her head in the sand and not hearing anything she didn’t want to know. Such as advice about being more organised. About consistency in the flavours she sold in the ice-cream parlour, saving the experimental flavours for ‘specials’. ‘Have you any idea which beach she might have chosen? To bury her head in.’

‘That’s not your concern.’

No. At least it was, but she knew what he meant. Since Ria had left him in charge he must have spoken to her and doubtless knew a lot more than he was saying.

‘I’ve been trying to organise her,’ she said, bitterly regretting that she hadn’t tried harder. She might not approve of the ‘postcard’ man, but she hated him thinking that she didn’t care. ‘It’s like trying to herd cats.’

That won her a smile that she could read. Wry, a touch conspiratorial, a moment shared between two people who knew all Ria’s faults and, despite her determination not to, she found herself smiling back.

‘Tell me about it,’ he murmured, then, as she shivered again, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Absolutely.’ But as her eyes met his the wobble intensified and she hadn’t a clue what she was feeling; only that ‘okay’ wasn’t it. Alexander West was too physical, too male, too close. He was taking liberties with her sense of purpose, with her ability to think and act clearly in a crisis. ‘I’m just a bit off balance,’ she said. ‘I’ve had my head in the freezer for too long. I stood up too fast...’

‘That will do it every time.’

His expression was serious, but his eyes were telling a different story.

‘Yes...’ That and a warm hand cradling her elbow, eyes the colour of the sea on a blue-sky day. A shared concern about a friend. ‘Tell me what you know,’ she said, this time to distract herself.

He shook his head. ‘Not much. I got back late last night. The key was under the doormat.’

‘The key? I assumed...’ She assumed that Ria would have been on the doorstep with open arms. ‘Are you telling me that you haven’t seen her?’ He shook his head and the sunlight streaming in from the small window above the door glinted on the golden streaks in his hair. ‘But you have spoken to her? What exactly did she say?’

‘There was an electric storm and the line kept breaking up. It’s taken me three days to get home and she was long gone by the time I got here.’

Three days? He’d been travelling for three days? Where in the world had he been? And how much must he care if he’d travel that distance to come to her rescue? She crushed the thought. She wasn’t interested in him or where he’d come from.

‘Where? Where has she gone?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Someone must know where she is,’ she objected. ‘She wouldn’t have left her cats to fend for themselves.’

That provoked another of those fleeting smiles. ‘Arthur and Guinevere are comfortably tucked up with a neighbour who is under the impression that Ria is dealing with a family emergency.’

‘I didn’t think she had any family.’

‘No?’ He said that as if he knew something that she didn’t. He didn’t elaborate, but said, ‘This isn’t the first time she’s done this.’

‘Oh?’ That wasn’t good news.

‘She’s had a couple of close calls in the past. I had hoped, after the last time, she’d learned her lesson. I did warn her...’ Warn her? ‘It’s not fair on the people who rely on her. Suppliers, customers...’ Perhaps realising that he was leaving himself open to an appeal from her, he stopped. ‘She knows what’s going to happen and doesn’t want to be around to witness it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why else would she have taken off?’

Sorrel shook her head. He was right. There was no other explanation.

‘In the meantime nothing can leave here until I’ve made an inventory of the assets.’ As if to make his point, he finally moved and began returning the large containers of ice cream to the freezer.

‘Hold on! These aren’t assets.’ Sorrel grabbed the one containing tiny chocolate-cupcake cases filled with raspberry gelato. ‘These are mine. I told you, I’ve already paid for them.’

‘How? Cheque, credit card? I’ve been to the bank and Ria hasn’t paid anything in for weeks.’

She blinked. The bank had talked to him about Ria’s account? They wouldn’t do that unless it was a joint account. Or he had a power of attorney to act on her behalf. Was that what Ria had left for him?

She didn’t ask. He wouldn’t tell her and besides she had more than enough problems of her own right now. And the biggest of them was waiting for an answer to his question.

‘Not a cheque,’ she said. ‘Who carries a cheque book these days?’ He waited. ‘I, um, gave her...’ She hesitated, well aware how stupid she was going to look.

‘Please tell me you didn’t give her cash,’ he said, way ahead of her.

It had been a rare, uncharacteristic lapse from the strictest standards she applied to her business, but the circumstances had been rare, too. Alexander had no way of knowing that and with a little shrug, a wry smile that she hoped would tempt a little understanding, she said, ‘I will if you insist, but it won’t alter the fact.’

‘Then I hope,’ he said, not responding to the smile, ‘that you kept the receipt in a safe place.’

She had hoped he’d forgotten about the receipt. Clearly not.

Brisk, businesslike...

Busted.


THREE

There are four basic food groups; you’ll find them all in a Knickerbocker Glory.

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

‘I was in a rush. There was an emergency.’ It was no excuse, Sorrel knew, but you had to have been there. ‘I told her she could give me the receipt when I picked up the order.’

He didn’t say anything—he clearly wasn’t a man to strain himself—but an infinitesimal lift of his eyebrows left her in no doubt what he was thinking.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’

No, no, no... Get a grip. You’re the professional, he’s the...

She wasn’t sure what he was. Only that he was trouble in capitals from T through to E.

‘I’d called in to tell Ria that the Jefferson contract was signed,’ she said, determined to explain, show him that she wasn’t the complete idiot that, with absolutely no justification, he clearly thought her. That was twice he’d got her totally wrong and he didn’t even know her name... ‘I had the list of ices the client had chosen and we were going through it when my brother-in-law called to tell me that my sister had been rushed into Maybridge General.’ His face remained expressionless. ‘As I was leaving, Ria asked if she could have some cash upfront. It was a big order,’ she added.

‘How big?’ She told him and the eyebrows reacted with rather more energy. ‘How much ice cream did you order, for heaven’s sake?’

So. That was what it took to rouse him. Money.

Why was she surprised?

‘A lot, but it’s not just the quantity,’ she told him, ‘it’s the quality. These ices aren’t like the stuff she sells in Knickerbocker Gloria, lovely though that is.’ Having finally got his attention, she wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to state her case. ‘Certainly nothing like the stuff that gets swirled into a cornet from our van.’

‘You have an ice-cream round?’

Oh, Lord, now he thought she was flogging the stuff from a van on the streets.

‘No. We have a vintage ice cream van. Rosie. She’s a bit of a celebrity since she started making a regular appearance in a television soap opera.’ Put that on a postcard home, Alexander West.

‘Rosie?’

‘She’s pink.’ He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he might as well have done. So much for making an impression. ‘The ices we commission from Ria are for adults,’ she continued, determined to convince him that she wasn’t some flaky lightweight running a cash-in-hand, fly-by-night company. ‘They need expensive ingredients. Organic fruit. Liqueurs.’

‘And champagne.’

‘And champagne,’ she agreed. ‘Not some fizzy substitute, but the real thing. It’s a big outlay, especially when things are tight.’

‘So? What was the problem with your debit card?’

‘Nothing. Ria’s card machine was playing up and, since I couldn’t wait, I dashed across the road to the ATM.’

‘You fell for that?’ he asked in a way that suggested she could wave goodbye to her credibility as it flew out of the window.

Sorrel let slip an expletive. He was right. She was an idiot.

Not even her soft-as-butter sister, Elle, would have been taken in by that old chestnut. But this was Ria! Okay, she was as organised as a boxful of kittens, but so warm, so full of love.

So like her own mother.

Right down to her unfortunate taste in men.

She sighed. Enough said. Lesson learned. Move on. But it was time to put this exchange on a business footing. Alexander West hadn’t bothered to ask who she was, no doubt hoping he could shoo her out of the door quick sharp, and forget that she existed.

Time to let him know that it wasn’t going to happen.

‘How is your sister?’ he asked, before she could tell him so. ‘You said she was rushed into hospital? Was it serious?’

‘Serious?’ She blinked. Hadn’t she said?

Apparently not. Well, his concern demonstrated thoughtfulness. Or did he think it was just an excuse to cover her stupidity? The latter, she was almost sure...

‘Incurable,’ she replied, just to see shock replacing the smug male expression that practically shouted, ‘Got you...’ ‘It’s called motherhood. She had a girl—Fenny Louise, seven pounds, six ounces—practically on the hospital steps. Her third.’ She offered him her hand. ‘I know who you are, Mr West, but you don’t know me.’ Despite a kiss that was still sizzling quietly under her skin, ready to re-ignite at the slightest encouragement. ‘Sorrel Amery. I’m the CEO of Scoop!’

Her hand, which had been resting protectively on the frosted container, was ice cold, a fact she realised the minute he took it and heat rocketed up to her shoulder before spiralling down into parts that a simple handshake shouldn’t reach.

Was he plugged into the National Grid?

‘Scoop?’ There went the eyebrow again.

‘It’s not a question,’ she informed him, briskly, retrieving the hand rather more quickly than was polite. ‘It’s an exclamation.’ She began to return the containers to the freezer before both she and their contents melted. None of them were going anywhere in the immediate future. ‘We deliver an ice-cream experience for special events. Weddings, receptions, parties,’ she explained. ‘This order is for a tennis party Jefferson Sports are hosting at Cranbrook Park to show their new range of summer sports clothing and equipment in action to the lifestyle press. The house has recently been restored,’ she added, ‘and converted into a hotel and conference centre.’

‘Jefferson Sports?’

‘They’re a major local company. Manufacturers and retailers of high-end sports gear, and clothing. Camping equipment...’

‘I know who they are.’

‘Then you’ll understand the importance of this order,’ she said, determined to press the advantage now that she had snagged his interest. ‘It’s a media event. The idea is that the gossip magazines and women’s pages will publish a lot of pretty pictures, which will get everyone rushing out to buy the sexy new racquets, pink tennis balls and the clothes that the tennis stars will be wearing at Wimbledon this year.’

‘Pink?’

‘Pink, mauve, blue...designer colours to match your outfit.’

‘Please tell me that you’re kidding.’

‘You think there will be outrage?’ She risked a smile—just a low-wattage affair. ‘Letters to The Times? Questions raised about the legality of the balls? All bags of publicity for Jefferson Sports.’

‘Always assuming that it doesn’t rain.’

‘The forecast is good, but there’s a picturesque Victorian Conservatory, a classical temple, a large marquee and a load of celebrities. The pictures will be great whatever the weather.’

She’d seized the opportunity to promote their company to Nick Jefferson when he’d called at her office to book ‘Rosie’ for his youngest child’s birthday party. Rosie had been a hit and, when he’d invited her to tender for this promotional party, she’d beaten off the competition with her idea for a ‘champagne tea’ delivered in mouth-sized bites of ice cream—witty, summery, fun.

There were going to be major sports stars amongst the guests, all the usual ‘celebrities’ as well as a couple of minor royals, and the coverage in the gossip magazines and Sunday newspapers would give them exposure to their core customer base that not even the biggest advertising budget could deliver.

Without Ria’s ices she would not only miss that opportunity, but, if she didn’t deliver, her reputation would be in ruins and all her hard work would have been for nothing.

‘Mr West...’ calling him Alexander hadn’t worked and she was in dead earnest now; it was vital to convince him ‘...if I don’t deliver a perfectly executed event for Jefferson my reputation will disappear faster than a choc ice in a heatwave.’ Worse, it could backfire on the rest of the business. ‘If that happens, Ria won’t be the only one up the financial creek without a paddle and...’ since he’d already admitted that he was in some way responsible for Ria’s problems there was no harm in playing the guilt card ‘...you’ll have two insolvencies on your conscience.’

‘If you relied on Ria,’ he replied, unmoved, ‘you deserve to sink.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’ She had always been aware that there was an element of risk working with Ria, but until now she’d been managing it. Or thought she had.

‘It’s a harsh world.’

‘So you’re going to let the taxman take us both down?’

‘If we don’t pay our taxes, Miss Amery, everyone loses.’

‘I pay mine!’ she declared, furiously. ‘On the dot. Along with all my bills. What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Well, you’re never here, are you? Do you have a job, Mr West, or do you just live on handouts from gullible women?’

‘Is that what you think? That I’m the reason Ria is in trouble?’

His voice, soft as cobwebs, raised the gooseflesh on her arms. Had she got it totally wrong?

Renowned for being calm in a crisis, she was totally losing it in the face of the kind of body that challenged her notion of what was attractive in a man. Slim, elegant, wearing bespoke tailoring...

He was so not her type!

Not in a million years.

She mentally hung a Do Not Touch notice around his neck, counted to three and took a deep breath.

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ The ability to hang on to a calm demeanour in the face of disaster was a prime requisite of the events organiser, but right now she was running on her reserve tank with the red light flashing a warning. ‘Can we at least check and see if she’s made the sorbet?’ she suggested, resisting the urge to rub her hands up and down her arms to warm them and instead reaching for a white coat and slipping it on. Settling a white trilby over her hair. A statement of intent. ‘It has a very short shelf life and by the time you and the Revenue sort out the paperwork it will be well beyond its best-before date. So much sorbet down the drain. A waste of everyone’s money.’

‘I’m sure you’re only worried about yours.’

He was losing patience now, regarding her with undisguised irritation, and she regretted her rush to cover up. The slightest shrug would have sent a strap sliding from her shoulder.

It wasn’t the way she did business, but then he wasn’t the kind of man she usually did business with. Any distraction in a crisis... Now she was aware of the danger she would stay well out of reach.

‘If you insist,’ she continued, using the only other way of grabbing his attention that was open to her, ‘I’ll pay for it again.’ Heavy stress on the “again”. ‘I’d rather lose money on this event than my reputation.’

He didn’t leap to accept her offer despite the fact that it would help pay the outstanding tax bill.

‘That would be in cash, too, of course.’ And, since this was her mistake, it would be taken from her own bank account. She would have to forget all about that pair of pink Miu Miu sandals at the top of her shoe wish-list. There were always more shoes, but there was only one Scoop! Her sister had created it and she wasn’t going to be the one to lose it. ‘Since Ria’s bank account has presumably been frozen,’ she added, as a face-saving sop to his pride.

She assumed it would go straight into his back pocket but she’d already insulted him once—in response to gravest provocation—and doing it again wasn’t going to get her what she wanted.

She held her breath and, after what felt like a lifetime, he moved to one side to allow her to pass.

She crushed her disappointment that cash would move him when her appeal to his sense of fair play had failed. That a lovely woman should be in thrall to a man so unworthy of her. Not that she was surprised. She’d suffered the consequences of men who took advantage of foolish women.

Wouldn’t be here but for one of them.

Once they’d checked the drawers of the upright freezers in the kitchen, however, she had a bigger problem than Ria’s inevitably doomed love affair to worry about.

‘No sorbet,’ Alexander said, without any discernible expression of surprise, ‘and no cucumber ice cream, although I can’t bring myself to believe that’s a bad thing.’

‘Savoury ice cream is very fashionable,’ she said, more concerned about how long it would take her to make the missing ices than whether he approved of her flavour choices.

‘I rest my case,’ he replied, clearly believing that they were done. ‘You can take the ices you say are yours, Miss Amery. I won’t take your money, but I will have your key before you go.’

He held out his hand. She ignored it. She wasn’t done here. Not by a long chalk. But since he was in control of the ice-cream parlour, he was the one she had to convince to allow her to stay.

‘What will it take?’ she asked, looking around at the gleaming kitchen. ‘To keep Knickerbocker Gloria going?’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

She frowned. ‘That’s hardly your decision, surely?’

‘There’s no one else here.’

‘And closing it is your best shot?’

‘It would take a large injection of cash to settle with the creditors and someone with a firm grip on the paperwork at the helm.’ He didn’t look or sound optimistic. Actually, he looked as if he was about to go to sleep propped up against the freezer door.

‘How much cash?’

‘Why?’ He was regarding her sleepily from beneath heavy-lidded eyes that looked as if they could barely stay open, but she wasn’t fooled for a minute. She had his full attention. ‘Don’t tell me you’re interested.’

‘Why not?’ He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. He had her down as an idiot who thought she could get what she wanted in business by flirting. A rare mistake. Now she was going to have to work twice as hard to convince him otherwise. ‘At the right price I could be very interested, although on this occasion,’ she added, ‘I won’t be paying in cash and will definitely require a receipt.’

Sorrel heard the words, knew they had come from her mouth, but still didn’t believe it. She didn’t make snap decisions. She planned things through, carefully assessed the potential, worked out the cost-benefit ratio. And always talked to her financial advisor before making any decision that would affect her carefully constructed five-year plan.

Not that she had to talk to Graeme to know exactly what he would say.

The words ‘do not touch’ and ‘bargepole’ would be closely linked, followed by a silence filled with an unspoken ‘I told you so’. He had never approved of Ria.

Maybe, if she laughed, Alexander West would think she’d been joking.

‘You’re a fast learner,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that.’

Too late.

‘How generous.’ Possibly. Of course, it could have been sarcasm since he wasn’t excited enough by her interest to do more than lean a little more heavily against the freezer. For a man whose aim in life was to keep moving, he certainly didn’t believe in wasting energy. Presumably his exploration was confined to the local bars set beneath palm trees on those lovely beaches.

‘What kind of figure were you thinking of offering?’ he asked.

Thinking? This was not her day for thinking...

‘I’ll need to see the accounts before I’m prepared to talk about an offer,’ she said, her brain beginning to catch up with her mouth. ‘How long is the lease? Do you know?’

‘It’s not transferable. You’d have to negotiate a new lease with the landlord.’

‘Oh...’ She was surprised he knew that, but then it had been that kind of day. Full of surprises. None of them, so far, good. ‘No doubt he’ll take the opportunity to increase the rent. They’ve been low at this end of the High Street but footfall has picked up in the last couple of years.’ There had been a major improvement project with an influx of small specialist shops attracting shoppers who were looking for something different and were prepared to pay for quality. Knickerbocker Gloria had been a vanguard of that movement and had done well out of it. Very well. Which made the sudden collapse all the more surprising. ‘No doubt he’ll want to take advantage of that.’

‘It’s taken a lot of money to improve this part of the town. He’s entitled to reap the benefit, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so. Who is the landlord?’ she asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Yes.’ The corner of his mouth lifted a fraction. ‘I am.’

With her entire focus centred on the tiny crease that formed as the embryonic smile took form, grew into a teasing quirk, her certainty on the putty question was undermined by a distinct slackening around her knees and it took a moment for his words to sink in.

He was...

What?

‘Oh...Knickerbocker Gloria...’ She pulled a face. ‘So that’s my foot in my mouth right up to the ankle, then?’

The smile deepened. ‘I’ll bear in mind what you said about increasing the rent.’

‘Terrific.’ She was having a bad day and then some.

‘I’m always open to negotiation. For the right tenant.’

‘Is that how Ria managed to get such a good deal?’ she asked.

‘Good deal?’

He didn’t move, but her skin began to tingle and her mouth dried...

‘Her rent is very...reasonable.’ There was no point dodging the bullet. The words had come out of her mouth even if she hadn’t meant them in quite the way they’d sounded. Or maybe she had. The thought of Ria haggling over money was too ridiculous to contemplate. ‘Even for the wrong end of the High Street.’

‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You’re moving from the suggestion that she’s paying me for services rendered, to me subsidising her, likewise?’

There were days when you just shouldn’t get out of bed. This was rapidly turning into one of them.

Forget ankle. They were talking knee and beyond.

‘You’re not...?’ she said, unable to actually put the thought into words.

‘I’m not. She’s not. I don’t understand why you’d think we were.’ His eyebrow rose questioningly.

‘The fact that she sent for you when she was in trouble and you came,’ she suggested.

‘We’ve known one another a long time.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s more than that.’

His shoulders shifted in an awkward shrug that in anyone else she would have put down to embarrassment. ‘I have a responsibility to her.’

‘Because you’re her landlord?’

‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I found her weeping over the last card you sent her.’

‘Damn.’ He sighed. ‘That wasn’t about me but it does begin to explain what’s been happening here.’

‘Does it?’ She waited but he was lost in thought. ‘When can I see the accounts?’ she asked, finally.

He came back from wherever he’d been in his head. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Don’t I look serious?’

‘Seriously?’ He took a long, slow look that began at her shoes, travelled up the length of the white coat with a long pause at her cleavage before coming to a rest on the unflattering hat. ‘Sorry,’ he said finally, reaching out and removing the offending headgear. ‘There is no way I can take you seriously in this thing.’

‘Seriously,’ she repeated, not so much as blinking despite a heartbeat that was racketing out of control at the intimacy of such a gesture. The man was an oaf—albeit a sexy oaf—and she refused to let him fluster her. Okay, it was too late for that; she was flustered beyond recovery, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow him to see that.

He shrugged. ‘Seriously? You look like someone who said the first thing that came into her head.’

‘That is something I never do.’ Or hadn’t... Until now.

Like the kiss, it was an aberration.

A one-off.

Not to be repeated.

It was turning into quite a morning for firsts. None of them good.

‘On the form you’ve shown so far, I’d suggest that you never think before you speak.’

He might have a point about that. At least where he was concerned. She’d been leaping to conclusions and speaking before her brain was engaged ever since she’d turned from the freezer and seen him watching her.

His attention was all on her now as he spun the hat teasingly on a finger. She snatched it back but didn’t put it back on her head.

‘I’m having an off day,’ she said.

‘Just the one? You’ll forgive me if I suggest that on present form you’re not capable of running the business you already have, let alone taking on one encumbered by debt.’

‘Actually, I won’t, if it’s all the same to you.’ Her offer might have been somewhat rash, but she wasn’t going to let him slouch there and judge her on a completely uncharacteristic performance. He might have got closer to her than any man since Jamie Coolidge had done her the favour of relieving her of her virginity when she was seventeen, but he knew nothing about her. ‘My competence is no concern of yours. If I go to the wall, I won’t be texting you to come and rescue me.’

‘I have your word on that?’

‘Cross my heart and spit in your eye,’ she said, ignoring the shivery sensation that seemed to have taken up residence in her spine.

‘Crossing your fingers might be more useful,’ he suggested.

‘I can’t create a spreadsheet with my fingers crossed,’ she pointed out, sticking to the practicalities. The practicalities never answered back, never let you down, never took the fast road out of town... ‘You have to admit, this is the obvious answer to both our problems.’

‘I’m admitting nothing. Surely you could get your ice cream made somewhere else?’ he persisted. ‘You said that you have the recipes.’

‘Some of them,’ she admitted. Not nearly enough. Not the chocolate chilli ice Ria was supposed to deliver for a corporate shindig the following week. And they were experimenting with an orange sorbet for a wedding. She needed samples so that the bride could choose. ‘But I need more than recipes. I need equipment.’

‘Not much. Ria began making ices in the kitchen at home.’

‘Did she?’ How long ago was that? How long had Ria and Alexander known one another? It was always harder to pin an age on a man. They hit a peak at around thirty and, if they looked after themselves, didn’t start to sag until well into middle age, which was grossly unfair. He was definitely at a peak... Down, girl! ‘Are you suggesting that I might do the same?’

‘Why not?’

‘Perhaps because I’m not running a cottage industry, but a high-end events company?’ she replied. ‘And, since my ices are for public consumption, they have to be prepared in a kitchen that has been inspected and licensed by the Environmental Health Officer rather than one that closely resembles an annexe to the local animal shelter.’

‘Animal shelter?’ His bark of laughter took her by surprise. ‘For a moment you had me believing you.’

‘The animals are my sister’s province.’

‘Babies and animals? She has her hands full.’

‘A different sister.’

‘There are three of you?’ he asked, apparently astonished.

‘Congratulations, Mr West. You can do simple arithmetic.’

‘When pushed,’ he admitted. ‘My concern is whether the world can take you times three.’

So rude!

‘No need to worry on the world’s account,’ she replied. ‘My mother dipped into a wide gene pool and we are not in the least bit alike in looks or temperament.’

She could see him thinking about that and then making the decision not to go there.

‘Wouldn’t sister number three give you a hand scrubbing the kitchen down?’ he asked. He was beginning to sound a touch desperate. ‘Who would know?’

‘I would,’ she said, her determination growing in direct proportion to his resistance. As a last resort she could probably use the kitchens at Haughton Manor, but they didn’t have an ice-cream maker and why should she be put to even more inconvenience when she had a custom-built facility right here? ‘Anyone would think you don’t want me to rescue Knickerbocker Gloria.’

‘Anyone would be right,’ he replied. ‘I don’t.’


FOUR

Man cannot live on ice cream alone. Women are tougher.

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

Sorrel was momentarily taken aback by his frankness. But only momentarily.

‘Fortunately, Mr West, that’s not your decision to make. I’m sure Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs would be more than happy to negotiate with me if it means they’ll get their back taxes paid.’ She paused, briefly, but not long enough for him to respond. ‘You are aware that fines for non-payment are levied on a daily basis?’

‘I had heard a rumour to that effect.’

‘And, for your information, while I do keep records of the recipes that Ria has developed for my clients, they are her intellectual copyright. I can’t just hand them over to another ice-cream manufacturer and ask them to knock me up a batch.’

Always assuming she could find one who could be bothered.

It hadn’t been easy to find anyone prepared to work with her to create her very special requirements. Sorbets tinted to exactly match the embroidery on a bride’s gown. Ices the colours of a company logo, or a football-team strip. Who wouldn’t suggest she needed her head examined when asked to produce the ice cream equivalent of a cucumber sandwich, but accepted the challenge with childlike glee.

And even if she had been that unscrupulous, there was no way she’d allow herself to be put in this position again. If Knickerbocker Gloria folded she would have to set up her own production plant from scratch. It would take time to find the right premises, source equipment, train staff and be inspected before she could be up and running. And time was the one thing she didn’t have.

And she’d still be missing the one vital ingredient that made what she offered so special. Ria.

She might very well have said the first thing that came into her head, but taking over Knickerbocker Gloria, putting it on a proper, well-managed footing, could save both Ria and Scoop! And if, in the process, she wiped that patronising expression from Alexander West’s face, then it would be worth it.

‘Not without her permission,’ she added. ‘And unless you can tell me where she is right now that is a non-starter.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Jefferson party is tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Now she had his attention.

‘I believe I mentioned that the sorbet has a very short shelf life.’

‘So you did.’

‘I wasn’t sure that you were listening.’

‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘you’ve had my undivided attention from the moment you walked in.’

‘Yes, I had noticed.’

‘If you will go around half dressed...’

Half dressed?

‘This is not half dressed! On the contrary. I’m wearing a vintage Mary Quant suit that belonged to my grandmother!’

‘Not all of it, surely?’

‘The jacket is in my van. I didn’t expect to be more than five minutes. Now, are there any more comments you’d like to make about my clothes, the hygiene headgear designed by someone who hates women or the way I run my business? Or can we get on?’

He raised his hands defensively. Then, clearly with some kind of death wish, said, ‘Your grandmother?’

‘She was a deb in the sixties. Vidal Sassoon hair, Mini car, miniskirts and, supposedly, the liberation of women.’

‘Supposedly?’

‘Since I’ve met you, I’ve discovered that we still have a long way to go. And, while we’re putting things straight, this is probably a good time to mention that any negotiations to purchase the business will be conditional on the completion of the Jefferson order.’

‘In other words,’ he said, grabbing the opportunity to get back to business, ‘you’re just stalling me out.’ He leaned back against the freezer, crossing his sinewy arms so that the muscles bunched in his biceps, tightening the sleeves of his T-shirt again. They looked so...hard. It was difficult to resist the urge to touch... ‘Until you’ve got what you want,’ he added.

‘No!’ She curled her fingers tightly into her palms. Well maybe. ‘Until I can talk to Ria.’

She knew Ria had friends in Wales from her old travelling days. She went back a couple of times a year and was probably holed up with them in a yurt, drinking nettle beer, eating goat cheese and picking wild herbs for a salad. A place that Sorrel knew, having tried to contact her there back in the summer, didn’t have a mobile-phone signal.

Right now, though, she had to deal with her gatekeeper, Alexander West. It was time to stop drooling like a teenager and act like a smart businesswoman.

‘I’ll rent the premises by the week while we negotiate terms. I will expect anything that I pay to be deducted from the sale price, of course.’ He didn’t move. ‘I’m sure the Revenue would be happy to recover at least a portion of the money owed? Or were you planning on paying it yourself?’

His silence was all the answer she needed.

‘So? Do we have a deal?’ she asked. ‘Because right now I’m firefighting a crisis that isn’t of my making and I’d really like to get on with it.’

Even as she said it she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. She was supposed to be the whiz-kid entrepreneur. It was her responsibility to ensure that delivery of the product was never compromised and it had been her intention to find a back-up supplier for Scoop!—one that could match Ria’s quality, her imagination, her passion.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone. At least not locally.

She’d done the rounds when she’d decided to launch this side of the business, looking for someone who would work with her to create the flavours, colours and quality that she wanted to offer her clients. But these were small, one-off, time-consuming special orders and only Ria had been interested.

‘Is there really no way of keeping Knickerbocker Gloria as a going concern?’ she asked, when he remained silent. ‘I really need Ria.’

‘Make me an offer I can’t refuse,’ he said, ‘and you can offer her a job.’

He shrugged as if that were it. Game over. He was wrong.

What she had in mind was a partnership. If she took care of the paperwork, kept the books in order, handled the finances—her strengths—Ria would be free to do what she did best.

‘Maybe I can come up with an offer she can’t refuse,’ she replied.

‘Don’t count on it.’ He finally pushed himself away from the freezer door, very tall and much too close. While she was sending a frantic message to her feet to move, step back out of the danger zone, he reached forward, took the hat from her hands and set it on her head at a jaunty angle, captured a stray curl that had a mind of its own and tucked it behind her ear, holding it there for a moment as if he knew that it would spring back the moment he let go. Then he shook his head. ‘You’d be better off with your hair in a net.’

‘Yes...’ Her mouth, dry as an August ditch, made all the right moves but no sound came out. She tried harder. ‘You’re right. I’ll see if I can find one. Thank—’

‘Don’t thank me. Nothing has changed. It’s just your good luck that I know Nick Jefferson.’ And it was Alexander who took a step back. ‘I’m doing this for him, not you, so you’d better deliver the best damn champagne sorbet ever.’

‘Or what?’ she asked. Clearly saying the first thing that came into her head was habit forming.

‘Or you’ll answer to me.’

Promises, promises...

The thought whispered through her mind but in the time it took for the connections to snap into action, for her brain to wonder what he’d do if she failed to deliver, Alexander West was back in the office with the door closed, leaving her alone in the prep room.

Probably a good thing, she decided, sliding her fingers behind her ear, where the warmth of his hand still lingered.

Definitely a good thing.

She might have inherited come-day-go-day genes from both her parents, but she had her life mapped out and there was no way she was following her mother down that particular path. Certainly not with a man who, like her father, would be gone long before they’d reached the first stile. Back to his beach-bum lifestyle. Funded by the rent Ria paid for this shop, no doubt. Except she probably owed him money, too. Was that what had brought him flying back? The chance to get her out and install a new tenant at a higher rent?

* * *

While Sorrel Amery had been beguiling him with a smile that had gone straight to his knees, Alexander’s coffee had gone cold. He drank it anyway. The alternative was going back out into the preparation room to refill the coffee machine, something he was not prepared to do with Ms Amery in residence.

A hot body, a sexy mouth, and with enough wit to fill his nights back in civilisation very satisfactorily—he would normally have been happy to follow through on a no-holds-barred kiss that had come out of nowhere. She was perfect. In every imaginable way. Even down to the glowing chestnut hair for which she’d presumably been named.

Jet-lagged, tired, as he was, she’d turned him on as if she’d flipped a light switch, but while his body might be urging him to go for it, take what was so clearly on offer, he had a week at most to put this right, catch up with his own paperwork and get back to work. And despite what she clearly thought, he didn’t mix business with pleasure—he would be leaving again in days and he’d given up on one-night stands. Anything more needed constant care and feeding and he didn’t stay in one place long enough to put in the work.

He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the immediate problem. Not difficult. The problem would be not thinking about her...

What on earth someone as grounded as Nick Jefferson was doing letting Sorrel Amery loose on an important product promotion, he could not imagine.

Cucumber ice cream, for heaven’s sake! He shook his head. It had to be the work of some idiot in Jefferson’s marketing department; an idiot with a weakness for chestnut hair, translucent skin and legs up to her armpits. No doubt she’d turned on that straight-to-hell smile and the poor sucker had gone down without a fight. Or maybe she had. She’d gone from nought to fifty in second gear and he’d barely touched her...

The thought shivered through him.

He hated it.

Wanted it.

Wanted her with that hot mouth on him, those long legs wrapped around him...

He dragged his hands over his face, rubbed hard in an effort to stimulate the circulation and tear his thoughts away from the bright chestnut curl he’d tucked behind a very pretty ear decorated with a small cream and gold enamelled ice cream cone. There was no denying that everything about her was positively edible, but he wasn’t having her for dessert.

She could have a week to make her sorbet and sort out some other arrangement to make her ice cream. He would be concentrating on winding up the business.

He didn’t have much time.

Ria’s lows were countered by soaring highs and it wouldn’t be long before she was having second thoughts. In the meantime, he had no choice but to treat Sorrel Amery like the rest of the creditors and dig her out of the hole she’d been dumped in.

A tap on the door reminded him that in her case it would take more than a cheque to make her disappear. As if to rub in the message, she didn’t wait for an invitation. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need Nancy’s phone number.’

‘Help yourself,’ he said, keeping his head down, determined to keep his distance. He picked up an envelope and slit it open, focusing on the job in hand.

‘Have you seen...?’

He pointed the letter opener at the shelf behind the desk.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stretching across the desk.





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