starters,’ he added, seizing a couple of plates and starting towards the dining room. ‘Maybe other desperate refugees will realise and join us before I pass out.’
As Tallie followed him in, he paused, looking round the table. ‘Six places? You’re not eating with us?’
‘No, I’m quite definitely below the salt this evening. My own choice entirely,’ she added hastily as his brows rose. ‘I’d already eaten when I volunteered to cook.’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That’s awfully generous of you.’
She said stiltedly, ‘Well, Mr Benedict has also been very kind, allowing me to stay here.’
His mouth slid into a grin. ‘And I’d say that response lacks real conviction. But Mark’s an old mate, and if he’s … wary about being used, then it’s fairly understandable.’
‘So I gather,’ she said wryly, then paused as she remembered that her information had come from Mark’s cousin. And that this man she was chatting to was Penny’s—what? Partner? No, that wasn’t it. ‘Current companion’ was the phrase Mark Benedict had used, whatever that meant.
And just being agreeable to the help did not make him available—something she needed to remember unless, of course, she was planning to take a leaf from Josie’s book, which she would not dream of doing. Even if she looked halfway decent.
Your place, she told herself firmly, is back in the kitchen, cooking rice.
She made a business of looking at her watch. ‘Heavens, I must get on. Perhaps you’d tell Mr Benedict that dinner is served.’
As she turned to go, her smile was brief and impersonal. And, she intended, final.
All the same, she found herself hoping, now that the dinner party was actually under way, that it would be Justin who’d bring the used plates from the first course back to the kitchen and collect the platter of chicken, in its thick delectable sauce of tomatoes, peppers, olives, with tiny spicy cubes of Spanish sausage, and the bowl of perfectly fluffy golden rice.
But of course—inevitably—it was Mark Benedict.
He looked at her, brows lifting. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not a thing,’ she denied too swiftly, angry that she’d allowed even a glimpse of her disappointment to show. She indicated a pair of oven gloves. ‘Be careful, the dishes are very hot.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’ His glance was ironic. ‘I thought you’d prefer me to burn myself to the bone.’
She shrugged. ‘But then you might drop something, and I’ve worked too hard to see my food end up on the floor.’
‘I should have known,’ he murmured. He picked up the platter with care, breathing the aroma with lingering appreciation. ‘God, this looks fantastic.’
‘I hope it passes muster.’ She sounded prim, she thought as she busied herself taking the fresh plates from the warming drawer and putting them on the counter top.
Or maybe she was just being wary. It wasn’t a small kitchen by any means, but once again his presence in a room seemed to make it shrink in some inexplicable way, making her feel as if she needed to edge round it, pressing herself flat against the units in order to avoid physical contact with him. Which was absurd.
Yet it was only when he’d finally departed that she felt she could breathe properly again.
She hadn’t used all the wine in her casserole, and she poured the remainder into a glass and took a reviving sip of its cool Italian splendour. In reality, her job was done now, she supposed, but the missing caterers wouldn’t have left the kitchen in a mess with used pots, pans, knives and chopping boards, so she wasn’t planning to do so either.
I owe it to myself, she argued defensively, as she began to load the dishwasher. I want to see the thing through to the end. Everything like clockwork.
Besides, that wonderful glazed apple tart would be even nicer if it was warm, she reasoned, hunting for a pretty glass bowl to contain her whipped cream concoction.
And also, if she was honest, it would be good to rub Mark Benedict’s nose in her thoughtfulness and efficiency. Prove once and for all that she was no one’s ‘waif’—least of all his.
An hour and a half later, with the kitchen totally restored to order, Tallie filled the cafetière with a thankful heart. Mission accomplished, she thought. She could now vanish to her room and set about rescuing Mariana from her current dangerous predicament, trapped upstairs in a Spanish inn, which was little more than a house of ill fame, while Hugo Cantrell played cards in the room below with a bunch of equally villainous-looking locals, thus blocking her only means of escape, and, even worse, as a prelude to sampling the charms of the ladies on the upper floor.
Which now, of course, included Mariana—someone he was unlikely to have forgotten after their encounter at the waterfall.
It was annoying how easily this heroine of hers kept going off at a tangent, she thought restively, when she ought to be focusing far more on finding William, the man she loved, instead of allowing herself to be sidetracked so easily. Especially when, yet again, that track seemed to lead directly to arch-bastard Hugo.
But then I can hardly allow the course of true love to be too smooth, she reminded herself, or there’d be no plot. And Mariana had managed to dodge him unnoticed on the last occasion, which meant there would have to be a confrontation between them now …
‘We’re a coffee cup short.’
Tallie jumped and turned to face Mark, who was standing in the doorway, realising she’d been too deep in thought to hear his approach. ‘I’m sorry. I was sure I put out six.’
‘You did, but we need another for you, plus a brandy glass.’ He smiled at her and she felt the charm of it like the unwanted stroke of a hand on her skin. ‘We’re all waiting to drink your health.’
‘I already feel fine, thanks,’ she returned tautly, annoyed at her reaction. ‘And, as I’ve now finished here, I’d prefer to go straight to my room.’
‘I was hoping for a more gracious response.’ The green eyes narrowed. ‘Not that it matters. You’re coming with me to be properly thanked, even if I have to pick you up and carry you. Understood?’
It was as if Hugo Cantrell himself had suddenly materialised—walked off the printed page, she thought, aware that her heart was thudding like a roll of drums. And threatening to carry her—where? Off on his horse, thrown ignominiously over his saddle? Or across a darkened room to a waiting bed …?
She swallowed, then lifted her chin. ‘Do you never take “no” for an answer, Mr Benedict?’
‘I’d say that would rather depend on the question, Miss Paget,’ he drawled, as he collected the extra cup and saucer. ‘Now, shall we go?’
As she moved rigidly past him, he loosened the tea towel round her waist and removed it in one deft gesture.
And to offer any kind of protest would only make her look ridiculous, she thought, seething as she walked to the sitting room.
‘There’s nothing
