Passionate Fantasy. Sharon Kendrick
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badly—failing to recognise me. The implication being, I imagine, that I will respect a woman far more if she likes me for being just me, rather than for the attraction of my fame and my money.’
Kitty remembered one of her mother’s lessons. She counted to ten, but as she did so she began to savour putting into action her plan to extricate the script from this intolerably arrogant man! ‘Dear me,’ she said placatingly. ‘How difficult relationships can be—as I know to my cost! You don’t appear to have had very much luck either.’
It was the gentlest of put-downs. Obviously not what he was expecting her to say. He should have had the grace to look abashed.
He didn’t.
‘You don’t look like a chef,’ he observed again.
‘Don’t I?’ She gave a serene smile. ‘You would have preferred the stereotype, perhaps? A good ten pounds overweight, checked trousers, a white jacket with tall matching hat? Perhaps the tip of my nose covered in flour would have added the final convincing touch?’
There was the faintest smile, before the handsome face resumed a mocking mask. ‘Something like that,’ he said softly.
She looked straight into the flashing silver eyes. Oh, that voice, she thought reluctantly. Had she ever heard a voice like that before? Never. It sounded like chocolate and honey. Like music played by some deep, sexy instrument. With the faintest of underlying drawls which made it especially distinctive. She sighed. Why couldn’t he have looked like the back end of a bus? Much easier, surely, to deceive someone who didn’t bring you out in goose-bumps all over.
The silver-grey eyes were unwavering. ‘Now,’ he said crisply. ‘Before we go any further, I have to tell you that I’m looking for a chef and not an actress.’
She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked slowly.
‘Think about it.’
Comprehension slowly dawned. ‘You think—that I’m really an actress? That my applying for the job of cook is simply a ploy to get to meet you?’
‘You’ve got it in one,’ he murmured.
Of all the insufferable arrogance! Stealing from this man was going to be pure, undiluted joy! ‘You’ve seen my certificates,’ she said coldly. ‘You must know I’m bona fide.’
‘Oh, yes—I’ve seen them.’ He laughed then, a sort of bitter, empty laugh. ‘But you’d be surprised,’ he drawled, ‘just how many women try it on. The whole world, it seems, wants to break into the movie business. I ring out for pizza—the girl who delivers it belts out a number from last year’s musical. I go shopping, and the woman selling me the sweater asks can she visit me on set to audition. Not just women, either. I take a bus and the driver gives me a rendition of Macbeth’s soliloquy. Yes——’ he must have seen her disbelieving expression ‘—bus. I don’t travel exclusively by limousine. If I cut myself off from real life, then I can’t make real films.’
What a cynic! Kitty drew a deep breath. ‘Listen to me,’ she told him. ‘I cannot recite poetry or dance to save my life. When I start to sing, people leave the room in droves. I have no desire in the world to become an actress. Cooking is what I do best, and I enjoy it. At the moment I’m temping— mostly waitress work—handing out microwaved food with stupid names to people who don’t need it. I answered your advertisement because I want to go back to cooking, which is why I’m here, though heaven knows—a restaurant seems a bizarre place in which to conduct an interview——’
‘You think so?’ Unexpectedly he gave a wolfish grin and handed her one of the leather-bound menus which the maître d’ had placed silently on the table in front of him during their little discourse, as though he hadn’t dared to interrupt. ‘I can’t think of a better place to interview someone who works with food.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She nodded in comprehension as she took the menu and scanned it. ‘This is to be trial by bread and butter, is it? I’ll be pilloried if I commit a crime so heinous as ordering strawberries out of season, or liberally sprinkling my food with pepper and salt without having tasted it first ... ?’ She looked up to find that his eyes were fixed with amusement on her face. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone, and, in the few seconds that it took, her heart-rate underwent an alarming acceleration.
‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ he mused.
She stared down at the menu, the handwritten italic script just meaningless hieroglyphics to her confused eyes. No, she didn’t. This verbal jousting had been sparked by him. Him. And admit it, she thought, you enjoyed sparring with him. You liked the fact that you were able to make him smile.
‘She retreats,’ he commented. ‘Wondering whether she has taken one step too far.’
If it weren’t for Caro, she’d be taking more than one step, she fumed silently. She’d be taking several, right out of here, and away from Darius Speed with his alarming attraction.
‘What should I have?’ he queried casually. ‘What can a restaurant best be judged on?’
It was a relief to be able to concentrate on something other than what a hunk he was. Her special field. ‘Something fresh,’ she replied promptly, ‘which can’t be successfully reheated. Here I would try the eggs Florentine—poached eggs, béarnaise sauce and spinach—a simple dish which is heaven if it’s done properly, hell if it’s not.’
He nodded. ‘If——’
‘Mr Speed ...’
They both looked up. A woman, who looked as though she had been poured into a black satin dress, stood looking down at them. The hair which tumbled artfully over her shoulders was blonde, but with the falsely honeyed hue of bottled peroxide.
He raised dark eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ he enquired noncommittally.
‘Mr Speed,’ she gushed, ‘I’ve been a fan of yours for so long. I loved your last film, and——’
‘There’s a problem, Mr Speed?’ It was the professional voice of the Maȋtre d’.
‘No problem,’ he came back implacably. ‘What can I do for you, Miss ... ?’
‘Arnold,’ she gushed. ‘Ffyona Arnold—that’s with two fs and a y. Could I have your—autograph?’ She batted sooty lashes and gave a little-girl smile. ‘Please’?
‘Sure.’
Kitty thought she detected a faint sigh as he took a gold fountain-pen from the pocket of his jacket and accepted the card which Ffyona Arnold offered.
Was this what it was like, then—fame? wondered Kitty. That elusive twentieth-century symbol of success, chased by so many and given to so few. Was this all it was? Total strangers disturbing you in restaurants, transparent in their eagerness for something more than a mere signature?
‘What would you like me to write?’ he asked politely.
Ffyona Arnold gave another coquettish smile. ‘How about the chance to show you what I can do—acting-wise, I mean?’ She giggled hopefully, then must have seen the barely concealed look of boredom on his face. ‘Your phone number would do,’ she gushed.
Good heavens, thought Kitty, the woman must have the skin of a rhinoceros not to have picked up the negative vibes which were shimmering across the table from where the film-maker sat.
‘Sorry.’ He negated her request with a tone of chilly indifference, signing his name instead with a sweepingly confident flourish, and handed the card back with a polite gesture of dismissal.
After the disappointed woman had been firmly led away by the Maȋtre d’, he turned back to Kitty, and she could see the mild expression of distaste which curled his lips. Was that all for her benefit? she wondered. If he hadn’t been interviewing, would he have taken the woman up on her blatant offer?