A Taste of Passion. Ashley Lister
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is, I want to see what a graduate does in my patisserie. It’d be champion to hear of any improvements you could suggest once you’ve baked in here. And I’d love to sample your interpretation of my muffins.’
Trudy nodded and came to an abrupt decision. She could think about Hart and his desirability later. For now she had a chance to concentrate solely on baking whilst she had the facilities of an immaculate world-class kitchen at her disposal.
Setting the temperature on a small oven, finding a bowl, sieve, blender and a pair of spatulas, she pointed quizzically towards a door marked PANTRY and cocked an eyebrow.
Hart nodded and told her to help herself. In his broad dialect the words came out as: Elp thi sen. Then he disappeared through the doorway of the head chef’s office. When the sounds of light jazz began to dance through the kitchen she realised he’d been picking music for them.
The jazz was cultured and sophisticated and easy on the ear: Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘September Song’. Trudy had not yet worked in a kitchen where the chefs didn’t have music playing softly in the background and she thought the sultry elegance of the jazz worked well for the chic meals that Hart’s kitchen produced.
From inside the chef’s office he called, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Scotch, if you’ve got it.’
He grunted dour amusement. ‘I might be able to locate a bottle of that somewhere in here.’
She was in the pantry, willing herself not to be overwhelmed by the choices available. The air was sweetened with a million mixed fragrances. The shelves were overstocked with brightly coloured packages and clearly labelled packets. Snatching a pair of eggs, a scoop of flour and a couple of other pieces, she tripped back to the kitchen.
Her feet moved instinctively in tempo with the music.
She allowed her hips to shake slightly with the rhythm and lightly rolled her shoulders to match the beat. The rhythm was heady and exciting and Fitzgerald’s voice was always reminiscent of something exotic and sexy.
She came face-to-face with Hart, took the lowball of proffered Scotch from his hand, and twirled in a light dance as she made her way towards the counter where she was working.
Hart grinned.
The wrinkles around his eyes creased heavily making him look both older and more desirable. Trudy shut that thought from her mind, unwilling to let it run its logical course just yet. Later, she told herself, there would be time to reflect on William Hart’s desirability. Now, she had a job to do.
She sniffed tentatively at the neat pale gold that sat at the bottom of the lowball he had given her. The fragrance of quality malt was acerbic and so heady she felt intoxicated from the bouquet. It was what Charlotte called a vampire smell because, she said, whilst it was pleasing at this time of night it only ever smelled of suffering and regret on a morning.
‘It’s a Chivas Regal.’ Hart’s words sounded moist on his lips and she knew he was already savouring his own drink.
‘It smells divine,’ she muttered.
She was trying not to let herself be distracted. After pouring the wet ingredients into the bowl – eggs, honey and creamed butter – she had begun the process of sifting hand-milled flour.
‘Can I do anything to help?’
She was in a Michelin-starred kitchen and William Hart was asking her if he could do anything to help. Trudy wondered if she was dreaming. Even if she was dreaming, at that moment she decided she didn’t want to wake up. She was basking in the thrill of the experience. In future years, when anyone asked her how she celebrated her graduation, she felt sure it would be difficult not to boast about this turn of events.
‘No help needed,’ she told him. ‘I’m golden.’
It was one of the phrases that she and Donny and Charlotte used repeatedly. Charlotte had first introduced it because she was tired of saying she was OK. Donny and Trudy had picked up on it and now the word was a natural choice.
‘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