Passionate Fantasy. Sharon Kendrick
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thank you. Just mineral water,’ she said, much too quickly, and, suddenly nervous, knocked over the small crystal salt-cellar by her hand, and it tipped on to its side, salt spilling out in a small pile, a snowy little mountain growing on the crisp damask of the tablecloth.
There was a short silence while a waiter rushed over, brushed up the residue and replaced the saltcellar, and she couldn’t miss the searching look Darius Speed gave her, the eyes narrowed as if he hadn’t expected clumsiness from her; and normally he would have been right. Normally.
‘Tell my why you applied for this job,’ he said, a cool impartiality making the deep voice devoid of any emotion.
He mustn’t suspect, she thought desperately. He mustn’t.
‘You pay well,’ she said, and she saw him give a small nod as though he understood the language of hard currency very well. ‘Enough for me to save up and see the rest of Australia.’
‘You could have done that in one of the established restaurants—of which Perth has many—some of them with world-class reputations. And you could have learnt from one of the master chefs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d have ended up chopping garlic in one corner of the kitchen. Working on my own gives me professional autonomy—and I like that.’
‘Do you?’ He nodded, and continued to subject her to that steady, cool stare, his eyes now the colour of pewter, shadowed by thick, dark lashes. ‘And is there anything you’d care to ask me— Kitty?’
Don’t seem too eager. He wouldn’t give the job to just anyone. This kind of man would value someone only if she valued herself. She took a sip of iced mineral water, returning his cool stare with one of her own. ‘I’m surprised that you need a fulltime chef. Being a single man, that is.’
‘You assume that I’m single, then? Been reading the papers again?’
‘Not at all,’ she shot back. ‘I made the assumption because, if you were married, then I would certainly have expected your wife to take part in the choice of chef.’
‘Because cooking is a woman’s province, perhaps?’
‘Because of equality within the relationship,’ she countered. ‘And some of the world’s greatest chefs are men, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Indeed. Very generously conceded, Kitty. And you’re right—I am single.’ He smiled, and sipped his own mineral water. ‘I’m writing a screenplay,’ he said, ‘as well as auditioning for a film I’ll be making, starting in January. I’m also researching a documentary on Rottnest Island, which the Western Australian government has asked me to make. So there will be film people in and out of the house. I keep very odd hours, because when I work I work. I also entertain people from all over the world, and I prefer to do that at home. In restaurants, there are often ...’ His eyes shot over to the other side of the room, where Ffyona Arnold was sitting, ignoring her dining companion and gazing at Darius. When she saw him look over, she gave him a hopeful smile, but he did not return it.
‘There are distractions,’ he continued surprisingly, and Kitty knew a moment’s confusion. He sounded as if he disapproved of the kind of ‘distraction’ that Ffyona Arnold represented—and yet surely, according to what Caro had told her, he would be pleased to meet a woman who would jump into bed for less than the price of dinner?
‘Sometimes I may fly in at some unearthly hour,’ he went on, ‘and require you to put a meal together for me, so the job needs a live-in cook. Does that bother you?’
The look was penetrating. She gave a nervous swallow. ‘Not at all. It’ll save rent.’
Another twist of the mouth. ‘You aren’t worried about giving up your independence?’
‘I don’t know anyone in Perth, really,’ she lied, and then, because she was afraid that she would blush and give herself away, she moved away from that particular subject. ‘The only thing I feel you ought to know is that I can’t guarantee that I’ll stay with you for any more than a year.’ Or more than a week, if she could get the script by then! ‘Would that matter to you?’
He didn’t smile. ‘It would suit me perfectly. If I may be frank—by that time you’ll probably have begun to irritate me, and I you. I have a very low boredom threshold.’ He ignored her shocked intake of breath at his blatant rudeness. ‘The job’s yours, Kitty. Do you want it?’
Her skin beneath the jade silk T-shirt felt suddenly shivery, even though the temperature in the restaurant was equable. The tips of her breasts tingled strangely, as if her reflexes were instinctively telling her to steer clear. For one moment she was tempted just to push her chair back and walk out through that door, not caring what he or the other diners thought. But then a vision of Caro imposed itself on her mind. Dear, kind Caro. Caro on the brink of tears. Her life’s work pirated by a man with no scruples.
She met the spectacular grey stare, and blinked, as if afraid that those intelligent eyes had been perceptive enough to understand her silent tussle. ‘I’d be pleased to accept,’ she said quietly.
‘Good.’ He gave a nod in the direction of the back of the restaurant, and Kitty saw a tall, slim man with brown hair rise from a discreet corner table and come towards their own.
‘This is Simon,’ said Darius Speed, ‘my secretary. I believe you’ve already spoken. He will fill you in on all the details of your employment Over dinner. Afterwards he will arrange for one of my cars to drop you at your home. Please feel free to order what you want. I have urgent business which I must attend to. Goodbye.’ Another brief, firm contact as he shook her hand.
Kitty watched while he threaded his way through the restaurant, the attention of every single female in the room drawn to his tall, muscular physique.
And then Kitty saw something else. Did Simon notice, she wondered, or was it just her?
Seconds after Darius had disappeared into the plant-filled vestibule towards the exit, someone followed him. A woman encased in clinging black satin.
It was Ffyona Arnold, the autograph-hunter— she had left her companion to follow him—a rapacious look of anticipation all over her pretty, vacant face.
‘CAN you take me to Dalkeith, please?’ Kitty mentioned the name of the well-known Perth suburb to the taxi-driver.
He grinned. ‘No worries. Whereabouts?’
‘Jackland Parade.’ She gave the name of the street, and the driver gave a long, low whistle.
‘Millionaires’ row?’ he queried, and looked more closely at her as he handed in her two suitcases. ‘Hit the big time, have you, love?’
Kitty flicked a thick ginger plait back over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got a job there,’ she told him.
‘Lucky you,’ he commented as he turned the key in the ignition.
Lucky? Her hands were cold and clammy. The way she felt at the moment, she was lucky she hadn’t been committed to the nearest asylum to have her brain examined.
In the week since her successful interview with Darius Speed, Kitty had had time to reflect on the wisdom of attempting her madcap scheme. The man with the quicksilver grey eyes had disturbed her in more ways than one, but mostly it had been her recognition of his keen intelligence which had filled her with dread.
In the end it had been Caro who had talked away her fears, telling her that it would be simple. She could be in and out of there in a month, maybe a week if she was lucky, with the film-script in her hand, and the eternal gratitude of her friend.
‘But what if he suspects? Or, even worse, guesses why I’m there?’
Caro had shrugged in her happy-go-lucky way. ‘How can he?’ she had quizzed. ‘You’ll