Kat.
‘Marginally better,’ he conceded thickly.
‘What were you buying on the phone just now?’
‘Property.’
‘Is that what you do, then?’
‘Some of what I do. And stop trying to change the subject. Just go back down to the galley and wash up all the dishes which I’m told you left dumped on the side. And after that, you can make a start on dinner. Do you think you can manage that?’
The fact that he obviously didn’t think she could rankled, and a long-forgotten streak of pride made Kat nod her head. How difficult could it be to knock up a meal? ‘Of course I can manage,’ she said haughtily.
But once she’d made her way downstairs, Kat found herself wondering just what she had agreed to. What the hell could she cook for seven hungry men, including one she knew would be exacting and waiting to take her to task if she made the slightest mistake? Especially as she’d never cooked a meal for anyone in her life.
She thought back to all the different restaurants she’d eaten in over the years. Surely one of those could give her a bit of inspiration? What about that amazing, award-winning place in the centre of Paris, where they’d served a whole duck smothered with a delicious, creamy sauce and everyone around the table had sighed in delight? Couldn’t she do the same sort of thing with the giant fish which was currently wrapped in newspaper at the back of the fridge and which, according to Mike, had been bought from a passing fishing boat that very morning? Perhaps with some sort of salad to start, leaving room for the elaborate kind of pudding which all men seemed to love?
But events seemed to be conspiring against her, even though she attempted to use the remaining hours as constructively as possible. The oven took some getting used to—and in between all the juggling of ingredients and familiarizing herself with an astonishingly large store cupboard, there was still the table to lay.
‘Where does Carlos usually eat?’ she asked Mike distractedly.
‘It varies,’ answered Mike, snapping open a can of cold cola and then swallowing half of it. ‘Sometimes with us, sometimes up on deck. Depends if he’s working—usually he has some big deal on and rarely comes up for air, and it’s best to leave him be. He’s…well, he’s a bit of a loner.’ The engineer shrugged, and smiled. ‘But when he eats with the crew—well, he’s pretty laid-back.’
Kat didn’t respond to that. Personally, she found Carlos Guerrero about as laid-back as a piranha fish. but she was not going to let her own feelings ruin what she was determined was going to be a fantastic meal.
‘He seems to want breakfast at the crack of dawn—and my watch is broken,’ she said slowly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mike. ‘I can lend you an alarm clock if it helps. He’s dead hot on punctuality.’
Kat grimaced. ‘So I gather.’
The evening didn’t start very promisingly. All her timings were out so that the fish was cooked before the starter was even ready, the sauce she’d cobbled together had started to curdle and she forgot all about the accompanying vegetables until the last minute. With a grimace she lifted up the lid of the boiling potatoes—only for a cloud of steam to hit her in the face and make her feel as if she’d been thrown into a sauna.
There wasn’t even enough time for her to touch up her make-up and brush her hair before the hungry crew arrived. They crowded in a cluster around the table outside, onto which she’d just piled a haphazard collection of crockery and glasses.
And then Carlos appeared, looking infuriatingly cool and sexy. He had clearly found time to shower and change because the thick black hair was still damp and Kat thought she could detect the raw clean tang of sandalwood.
For a moment he just stood there, surveying the general air of disarray—and his mouth twisted.
‘Has someone trashed the boat while I’ve been showering, or are you trying to sabotage the meal in order to prove a point, Princesa?’
An image of Carlos in the shower was the last thing Kat needed to add to her already-shot nerves, and a renewed waft of sandalwood as he waved a disparaging arm around didn’t help. She gritted her teeth in a grim replica of a smile. ‘Would…would you like to sit down?’
‘Where?’ he questioned pointedly.
Kat leant over and cleared a space at the table. ‘Right there. Dinner is about to be served.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Horrible, sarcastic tyrant! I’ll show him, vowed Kat silently, as she went back into the cramped galley to prod at a boiling potato which unfortunately still had the consistency of a rock. She tipped salad onto eight plates and drizzled on some of the dressing she’d made, trying desperately to remember what was supposed to go in it, but afraid to ask for fear of looking stupid.
But she knew the moment that everyone had started eating that something was wrong.
‘Is every thing…okay?’ she questioned.
There was a brief but loaded silence.
‘Salad dressing which tastes of washing-up liquid is an interesting innovation, querida, but perhaps it’s easy to see why it hasn’t yet come to dominate the market,’ came Carlos’s sarcastic assessment, and Kat felt like hurling a dish at his arrogant face as the rest of the crew burst into relieved laughter and pushed their barely touched plates away.
The main course was no better. The fish was stone-cold, the potatoes still rock-hard and the overambitious sauce had congealed into a horrible mess around the plate. As Carlos pointed out, it was a waste of a perfectly good fish, and once again Kat ended up scraping most of it into the garbage.
She felt hot from the heat of the kitchen when she appeared on deck again after crushing amaretto biscuits and cooking some mixed berries which now resembled roadkill. They looked up at her expectantly. Seven faces in all, but Kat could see only one. It swam before her line of vision with cold ebony eyes that mocked her which made her aware that her face must be flushed and her hair falling down.
‘Everyone ready for pudding?’
‘What kind of pudding?’ questioned Mike.
‘I’m calling it “Berry Surprise”,’ said Kat brightly.
Carlos took a mouthful of wine and put his glass down, a sardonic smile curving the edges of his lips. ‘Please, no more surprises—not tonight—I don’t think I could take it.’ There was an answering peal of laughter from the other men before he fixed her with a cool stare. ‘I don’t really think you’re up to it—at least, not tonight. Perhaps you could bring some cheese and fruit upstairs and I’ll eat there instead.’
She wanted to tell him to get it himself. That she wasn’t his slave. But in a way, that’s exactly what she was. And if she threw some sort of tantrum about her treatment, wouldn’t that only increase his glaring contempt for her?
And stupidly, his assessment hurt. Really hurt. I don’t really think you’re up to it. With those few wounding words he had made her feel so…so inferior. And the trouble was that he had been right. Was he a man who enjoyed
