I?’
She blushed deeply. ‘I’m sorry for what happened just now—’
‘Forget it—start again,’ he encouraged, enjoying the sight of her blue eyes blazing as she assured him she would. ‘You’ve got five hungry men to feed.’
Her eyes flickered as she glanced at his friends. Her expression said she had forgotten them.
He could hardly blame her for that, when so had he.
She started by preparing a fresh tray of canapés—something fast and delicious—and was stunned when Mac joined her at the stove. The space was small and he took up most of it. He was cool and she was hot. She picked up the tray and gripped it tightly so he couldn’t see her hands were shaking.
‘Don’t bother warming them up.’
‘It will only take a minute and I promise you they’ll taste better.’ Confident where her food was concerned, she only wished that confidence could stretch into her everyday life—if it had she might even have been able to hold the stare of a man to whom disagreement was clearly something new, and humour his constant companion. ‘I’ll just flash them under the grill,’ she told him in her most professional voice. ‘Excuse me, please.’
He stood back.
But he was too quick for her and stole one off the tray, biting into it with relish.
‘These get better when they’re warm?’ he demanded with surprise.
‘Yes, they do taste better warm,’ she assured him, growing enough in confidence to block his route to the grill before he could eat the rest. The desire to please him was dangerously strong. The sight of his sweeping ebony brows rising in genuine appreciation for her food was like receiving an award ten times over. Plus she was relieved. She had a suspicion that if she failed to please Mac his authority over the other men would leave her with an empty chalet.
‘So, tell me how you made them,’ he demanded, aiming that disturbingly intense green gaze into her eyes.
‘You want the recipe?’
His face creased in a devastating smile. ‘I’ll get one of my chefs to make them for me.’
Of course. She should have known that. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this, Lucy realised. Mac was no ordinary guest and however friendly he might appear it was time to rein back and put everything on a professional footing. ‘Tiny circles of toasted Bruschetta topped with goat’s cheese,’ she recited firmly, clinging to her one area of expertise, ‘finished with a slice of fresh fig and a drizzle of honey. And I promise you they’re even better when they’re heated up,’ she said, gaining in confidence.
‘Aren’t most things?’ he murmured close to her ear before moving away.
She needed a moment. She couldn’t play these games. In a few words Mac had succeeded in turning her body into liquid fire. He was a playboy and she was an unsophisticated cook—she had none of the know-how. She never flirted with guests, and that short bout with Mac had left her reeling. That he was a player, she had no doubt. That he was playing with her, she had no doubt either. Women were a game for men like Mac, and he was way out of her league. The only way she could survive the week with her self-respect intact was to stick religiously to what she knew—which was cooking.
He had only been here five minutes and he was already suffering from a painful bout of sexual frustration made worse by noticing small things about Lucy—such as she was very tidy, very precise and very contained; the latter was in itself a challenge.
He shouldn’t be noticing her at all, he told himself sternly, trying to pay attention to a conversation between his friends about stocks and bonds that would normally have held him riveted. For some reason, watching Lucy loading a clean china platter with perfectly warmed canapés prior to handing them round was far more interesting—possibly because her hands were small-boned and pale, and yet her fingers were flexible and strong, and the thought of those hands touching him was … intriguing.
He liked her. He snapped a response when one of his friends tried to draw him into their conversation, and then she caught him looking at her and coloured up. He liked that too.
It was a relief when Lucy redeemed herself with an excellent meal. Her lush curves pleased him and he didn’t want to replace her with some fashionably thin creature whose only goal was to get a trophy lover in her bed. Where was the challenge in that?
Then Lucy mentioned cheese and everyone groaned. She flushed with embarrassment and both the desire to defend her and the pressure in his groin increased.
‘My apologies for feeding you too much—’
‘Too well,’ he corrected her.
Her swift intake of breath brought on another surge of interest from parts of him that were now refusing to be ignored.
Her face brightened. ‘Then shall we eat French-style tomorrow?’ she suggested, full of innocent delight to think her menu had gone down so well. ‘I mean, cheese before pudding,’ she said, visibly paling as he stared at her. ‘If that’s all right with you …?’
His lips quirked, but he kept a commendably straight face. ‘We’re in your hands,’ he assured her, matching her stare for stare.
Her cheeks were flaming. What was happening? Her life had been straightforward up to tonight. She worked in the background cooking and never connected with a guest. Not that she was connecting with Mac—she didn’t flatter herself to that extent. But it was impossible to ignore him—impossible to forget what she’d seen when she’d been on her knees in front of him at eye level with his crotch. Now he was suggesting he was in her hands … How was her imagination supposed to deal with that?
It was no use wishing that she were better looking, or more sophisticated, or that the right words might sometimes come smoothly to her lips. But just because she was quiet and good and plain, didn’t mean she lacked outrageous thoughts. Those thoughts ranged a lot further than serving Mac cheese.
She refocused as Tom left the table. ‘You’re an excellent chef, Lucy.’
‘Thank you. Whatever you prepare for us, and in whichever order you choose to serve it.’ Tom went on, ‘I, for one, shall certainly relish every mouthful—’
‘As shall we all,’ Mac cut across him sharply in a tone that startled her. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the other men. ‘There will be three types of canapés tomorrow,’ she promised hectically, desperate to return to safer ground. ‘And none of them broken.’
The men laughed, and to Lucy’s relief Mac relaxed too. She laughed along with them, but her laughter sounded strained. Mac was still close by and her body insisted on reacting violently to him. Her nipples were erect, and another, far more intimate part of her was swelling so insistently a man like Mac, so sexual and knowing, must surely know …
She was so wrapped up in these thoughts she barely noticed the other men thanking her, and one by one, leaving her alone with Mac.
‘Three types of canapés, and some really good cheese? That sounds good to me,’ Mac commented approvingly.
His voice pierced her trance. Now the meal was over her confidence was stripped away. ‘It’s not a
