“Is that what I was last night?” Her eyes glinted. “Sheer opportunity?”
It only took a moment to get his hands around her waist. He lifted her up onto the countertop. “What you are,” he said roughly, pushing her knees apart so he could press close and kiss her everywhere. “Is temptation.”
She shook her head, taking his hand and bringing it to her breast, sighing in surrender when he tightened his fingers around the taut nipple. “That’s what you are.”
He kissed her, boldly invading her mouth the second their lips connected. She opened instantly—her low moan making him even harder. None of the passion had been assuaged last night. In fact it was worse, knowing how hot it would be. Damn. He lifted her off the bench and into his arms. “My place.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?” He asked the next night. Bags of ingredients spilled all over the counter in a mess. Where was her usual “everything just so” approach?
“Grainstorming.”
“What?”
She chuckled. “I’m trying to come up with new combination ideas.”
He looked at the counter now straining under the weight of some of the oddest looking fruit he’d seen. “There are combinations and there’s just plain weird. That’s in the weird category.” He pointed to a yellow spike-covered fruit.
“You’re afraid to try something new?” She shook her head. “So conservative, Jack.”
“I can try new,” he countered wickedly. “I can be very inventive.”
She used her wooden spoon to fend him off. “You’re not distracting me. I do need to grainstorm.”
“It might help with your creativity,” he reasoned idly. “Plus, it will help you work up an appetite for your tasting sessions.”
“Later.” She fluttered her fingers round the handle of the wooden spoon—a thoughtful look in her eye. “This is just, you know…”
“A fling.” He nodded. “Of course.”
Because neither of them had the time nor need for anything more.
He sat on a stool and watched her play with the weird ingredients. She asked him about his day and he found himself talking through the plans for his newest property. Somehow that led him to talk to her about the troubles Tom had those few years ago when he fell in love and was crushed enough over the breakup to fall into a party crowd and almost lose his place on his rowing squad. And she listened and smiled and didn’t offer any platitudes, which he was grateful for.
“What about muesli bars?” he asked, turning the conversation to her work—finding he was more and more interested in it. He was even thinking on it during the day, turning over ideas and ways in which he might be able to help.
“Full of sugar and fat.”
“The health thing is that important to you?” he asked. “It’s not that you’re on a food trend or wanting to cater to such an exclusive corner of the market?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I wish it wasn’t exclusive. I wish there was a way to make it cheaper so more people could benefit from a healthier breakfast, not some sugar and salt laden cereal.”
“You really want to make a difference?”
“Of course,” she looked up from her contemplation of the assorted ingredients. “Don’t you? Heart health matters.”
“Why does it matter so much to you?” It wasn’t personal, right? She didn't have any scars—he knew because he’d licked every inch of her body. But there must be a scar somewhere, because he saw her face fall.
For a long moment he didn’t think she’d say anything, but then with a soft sigh and a very small voice, she told him.
“My mother died of a heart condition when she was thirty-five.”
His blood froze. “Oh Libby, I’m sorry.”
“It gets worse,” she added, suddenly more spirited and even faking a smile. “My father died of a heart attack less than two months later.”
She might have been trying to lightly joke it off, but failed miserably. He put his arms around her, ignoring the bowl she held. She leant forward and rested her forehead on his chest for a moment. He liked it.
“I think it was a broken heart in some ways.” She was back to the whisper. “But in others it was simply poor health. I didn’t know at the time but his blood pressure was bad, his cholesterol, his stress…” she trailed off. “It was one of those ones you read about in the paper. Reasonably fit guy in his early forties goes for a run and doesn’t come back.”
“Where were you?”
“With him.”
He swore beneath his breath.
“I’d encouraged him,” she said. “He’d withdrawn so much after Mum died. I thought some fresh air would be good. That it would be good for him to get a little fitter.” She stopped talking.
Horror rendered him speechless—the poor woman had to carry that with her? His heart tore.
Even though she remained standing in his arms he could feel her withdrawing—as if she regretted what she’d told him, as if she didn’t want to delve any deeper into wounds that had left far more than skin-puckering scars.
“Were you angry with him for leaving you?” he asked quietly.
She was still for a long moment. And then nodded, a sharp jerk of her head. “With both of them.”
“I was angry with my mother,” he said painfully. Usually he resisted thinking about that time in his life, and almost never talked about it. But he wanted to reach Libby now—to let her know he almost understood. “Like she could help getting cancer?” He half-mocked his own devastation. “But I was so angry.”
“And then your father remarried.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t a betrayal,” he said, reassuring. “She was lovely. She was great to me. There was no wicked stepmother nightmare. She and Dad were happy and it was good to see that when he’d been so sad. But then Tom got sick. And then there was the accident.” And that had been a whole other nightmare. He breathed in, aiming to lighten the pressure in his chest. “You don’t have brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head.
“And there wasn’t really a circus troupe?”
“Actually there was.” She suddenly smiled, finally looking up at him. The bruised edge in her eyes smote his heart all over again.
“I went to boarding school after they died, and in the holidays I’d stay with my aunt in a seaside town in Devon. Every summer the circus came and I spent every day down there. I used to sit in school and dream of running away to the circus. But I never did learn to throw knives.”
“You couldn’t live with your aunt?” he asked.
“She was older, never had children and didn’t really want them. She felt boarding school was best. In some ways I guess it was.” She paused. “You didn’t send Anne and Tom to boarding school.”
“We needed to be together,” he said softly. “They’d been through enough. I was paranoid about Tom having a relapse and Anne was young.”
“I wish I’d had a brother like you.”
“Libby,” he pulled her closer and let his hands go beyond polite boundaries. “I’m really glad I’m not your brother.”
Laughing, she tilted her chin for his kiss.
“You know you d
on’t have to stay here each night,” Libby said three nights later. “You still don’t trust me?”
“It’s not safe for you to be here alone after hours.” He didn’t even look up from his infernal emailing as he spoke.
“Why, what am I going to do?”
“It’s a Saturday night, drunk jerks walk past every other minute—they spot you?” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t leave any woman alone in here any night of the week.”
So it wasn’t about spending time with her? It was just for her safety? Any woman’s safety? She sucked in a small breath. Good to know. She swallowed and braced herself for his reaction to her news. “I’ve had a letter from my insurance company.”
He looked up then. “And?”
“Check attached.”
“That’s great.” His whole face lit up.
“I’ll be able to rent new premises and increase production.” Libby forced a smile. She was pleased about it. Really pleased. She’d been validated and vindicated. And she wouldn’t have to use this bakery after hours for much longer.
“That’s fantastic news.” Jack looked at her and then back to his iPad. “You’ll be rebuilding the business in no time.”
So there she had it. He wasn’t bothered about her time here coming to an end soon. Well, good. Because neither was she.
She looked at where he sat opposite, still working on his damn tablet. Other than when he was inclined to play with her, he always sat fully focused on whatever it was he was checking. All of a sudden it really ticked her off. “Do you ever not work?”
He glanced up and looked at her blankly. “What do you mean?”
“Like when did you last have a holiday?”
“When did you?” he countered. “I think the pot is calling the kettle here.”
“That’s only because I’m starting up. I still know how to have fun.”
“You’re spinning stories again.” He put the tablet on the bench. “When was the last time you went to a concert or a play or a football game? When did you last go clubbing? When did you last go to the pub on a Friday night with your workmates? When did you last have fun?”