She was momentarily too surprised to know how to respond.
The garment hung between them like an unaccepted challenge.
Surely, William Hart was not genuinely offering her the chance to wear one of his restaurant’s aprons? It was a day when she had graduated, committed herself to a business partnership with her best friends and since discovered a new yet familiar flavour. It was a day when she had talked baking with William Hart and been given the privilege of a private tour around his prestigious kitchens. She could not imagine any experience ever bettering those she had enjoyed so far this day.
A lewd twist of her imagination presented her with one idea that could potentially better the day’s experiences. She blushed and admonished herself for such a lurid train of thought. She didn’t know where the idea had come from but she knew it was extremely inappropriate even if it did hold a delicious, dark appeal.
Seeing her hesitation, Hart took the apron and placed the neckpiece over her head. He was so close she could detect the lemony notes of his cologne. He smelled as delectable and appetising as his own citrus and blueberry muffins. She wondered if he would taste as sweet if she were to draw her tongue against his bare flesh. The idea came from nowhere and her blushes deepened when she realised she was thinking such things.
She turned her back on Hart and allowed him to tie the waistband of the apron. He stood with his head close to her ear and she could hear the slow draw of each breath he took. She held herself motionless for fear that any movement she made might break the magical spell of the moment or reveal the wicked thoughts that were suddenly rushing through her mind and exciting wanton responses through her body.
‘Why do you want me wearing an apron?’
He whispered his reply against the nape of her neck. ‘You want to try making those muffins, don’t you?’
She swallowed.
She drew in her waist, only ever satisfied with aprons when they were cinched uncomfortably tight, and she allowed him to pull the ties and secure them with a bow. His knuckles pressed firmly into the hollow at the small of her back. Trudy knew that the deep intake of breath accentuated the swell of her breasts but she didn’t figure William Hart was likely to complain. The thought that he might be enjoying her company as much as she was enjoying his, that he might be as sexually excited by her nearness as she was by him, ignited a swell of smouldering arousal in the pit of her stomach. When Trudy released her breath it came out as a trembling and expectant sigh.
Her heartbeat was racing.
Her cheeks flushed as though she suspected he had glimpsed the wicked direction of her thoughts. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was so close he could have been drinking in the scent of her short-cropped hair.
‘Honestly? Mr Hart –’
She paused abruptly, wondering if he was going to say, ‘Call me Bill,’ or, ‘It’s just William to friends.’ He didn’t say either of those things. Instead he considered her expectantly, as though waiting for her to finish her sentiment.
‘– are you really letting me bake a batch of muffins in here?’
He shrugged. ‘Only if you want.’
‘Why would you let me?’
He studied her earnestly. His eyes, in this light they were the steely grey of a polished kitchen counter, glinted with lightly tempered mirth. ‘You spent two hours sitting alone in my restaurant so you could have one question answered about some mysterious ingredient in a chuffing bun. You’ve shown me that you clearly know your flavours. If you were in that seminar I addressed it’s clear that some aspects of your education have been properly addressed.’
She smiled at his obvious conceit. Tilting her head arrogantly she asked, ‘It’s not because you fancied having a young blonde doing your bidding in the kitchen?’
‘That might be part of the attraction,’ he allowed. ‘But not for the reasons you’re suggesting. You’re too young and inexperienced for a man with my appetites. Even if you were older, I’m not sure you’d be able to cope with the demands I place on those who do my bidding in the kitchen.’
Her cheeks seared.
She had no idea what he was intimating but the words were an incendiary to the smouldering coals of her arousal. Her need for him had been powerful before. Now it was unquenchable.
Hart did not seem to notice her reaction. ‘Truth is, I want to see what a graduate does in my patisserie. It’d be champion to hear of any improvements you could suggest once you’ve baked in here. And I’d love to sample your interpretation of my muffins.’
Trudy nodded and came to an abrupt decision. She could think about Hart and his desirability later. For now she had a chance to concentrate solely on baking whilst she had the facilities of an immaculate world-class kitchen at her disposal.
Setting the temperature on a small oven, finding a bowl, sieve, blender and a pair of spatulas, she pointed quizzically towards a door marked PANTRY and cocked an eyebrow.
Hart nodded and told her to help herself. In his broad dialect the words came out as: Elp thi sen. Then he disappeared through the doorway of the head chef’s office. When the sounds of light jazz began to dance through the kitchen she realised he’d been picking music for them.
The jazz was cultured and sophisticated and easy on the ear: Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘September Song’. Trudy had not yet worked in a kitchen where the chefs didn’t have music playing softly in the background and she thought the sultry elegance of the jazz worked well for the chic meals that Hart’s kitchen produced.
From inside the chef’s office he called, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Scotch, if you’ve got it.’
He grunted dour amusement. ‘I might be able to locate a bottle of that somewhere in here.’
She was in the pantry, willing herself not to be overwhelmed by the choices available. The air was sweetened with a million mixed fragrances. The shelves were overstocked with brightly coloured packages and clearly labelled packets. Snatching a pair of eggs, a scoop of flour and a couple of other pieces, she tripped back to the kitchen.
Her feet moved instinctively in tempo with the music.
She allowed her hips to shake slightly with the rhythm and lightly rolled her shoulders to match the beat. The rhythm was heady and exciting and Fitzgerald’s voice was always reminiscent of something exotic and sexy.
She came face-to-face with Hart, took the lowball of proffered Scotch from his hand, and twirled in a light dance as she made her way towards the counter where she was working.
Hart grinned.
The wrinkles around his eyes creased heavily making him look both older and more desirable. Trudy shut that thought from her mind, unwilling to let it run its logical course just yet. Later, she told herself, there would be time to reflect on William Hart’s desirability. Now, she had a job to do.
She sniffed tentatively at the neat pale gold that sat at the bottom of the lowball he had given her. The fragrance of quality malt was acerbic and so heady she felt intoxicated from the bouquet. It was what Charlotte called a vampire
