let go of her far too fast for her daydreams and not nearly fast enough for here and now.
‘So, what are you up to?’ he said, staring into her eyes.
She gazed around, desperate for an answer. ‘Something for tonight … cake.’
‘Cake?’ Mac prompted, staring pointedly at the array of cakes already laid out on the table.
‘Isn’t Tom waiting for you?’ Lucy said hopefully.
‘And if he is?’
‘Could you pass me the cake tin, please?’
He held it out. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let go, so now she was joined to Mac by an inflexible ring of tin.
‘Lucy?’
She blinked and returned to her customary kitchen-confident self. ‘If you’d like a piece of the cake I’ve already made, just sit down, and I’ll—’
‘Serve me?’ Mac suggested wickedly, releasing the tin.
‘I’ll cut the cake,’ Lucy said primly, reaching for a knife.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Mac told her, and with one last mocking stare, he left the room.
Mac might have left the room, but he hadn’t left her thoughts. He was very much part of them and doing things to her that were almost certainly forbidden by law in several countries. How not to long for that? Running through a list of ingredients for the next meal didn’t come close.
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCY spent the next hour in her small attic room, pacing up and down. If only plain girls could be born with a lust bypass, she reflected, pausing by the mirror to view her unchanged reflection, it would make life and rejection so much easier for her. Of course, she knew her relationship with Mac was purely professional, and she’d only known him five minutes, but it would have been nice if, only for a few moments of that time, the frisson she felt could have been a two-way connection. The best thing now was to have a long soak and try to forget him. But she couldn’t, because she had somewhere to be and there were jobs to do first—beds to turn down, bathrooms to clean, towels to check, fires to bank up …
She was running late by the time she finished all her remaining tasks and she still had to get ready—number one on the list was a quick bath, and then she’d have to run all the way to the club where her friends would be waiting for her.
Interest laced with concern for Lucy had developed into hot, shameless lust. Razi had to have her. She was beautiful, unaffected and available—and as soon as he had given her a chance to clear up the chalet and set up for the morning he was going to have her.
His impatience was easy to explain—apart from the ache in his groin the clock was ticking. He had never felt the weight of duty more. He embraced the responsibilities coming his way with enthusiasm, but was under no illusion as to the effect they would have on his lifestyle. A traditional marriage—even if not to his cousin Leila—was on the cards. He owed it to his country. But before then …
‘Preoccupied, Razi?’ Tom asked him discreetly.
‘You know,’ he said offhandedly. They were sitting in a noisy bar and he was already itching to move on. The drinks weren’t cold enough and the nibbles tasted of cardboard after Lucy’s delicacies.
Next time she could serve them on her naked body and he’d lick the champagne she spilled off her belly.
‘We can move on if you like,’ Tom suggested.
‘Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to ignore you—things on my mind.’
‘Oh, no.’ Tom sighed theatrically and passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Let me guess.’
‘Don’t,’ he said sharply. For some reason he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, even Tom, making sport of Lucy. ‘Don’t even go there, Tom. Let’s just move on.’
Muffled up in a super-sized ski jacket, a long scarf, a woolly hat with a bobble on top and a thick pair of gloves, Lucy hurried along the empty streets towards the club. The streets were deserted because everyone was already cosy and warm inside one of the many restaurants and bars by this time of night. It was a world of muffled music and the occasional blast of noise and laughter as a door opened briefly.
She was feeling guilty as she scudded along, knowing her brothers would have loved an event like the one she was due to take part in, while she felt shy at the prospect of entering a crowded club where everyone would know each other. She only hoped she could find her colleagues straight away when she arrived—and that Mac and co didn’t decide to go there too. She shivered at the thought of it and almost lost her nerve and turned around.
Her enthusiasm for the event shrank even more when a member of a rival chalet company barred her way at the entrance. ‘Here’s the runner up,’ he announced to his friends, who all started laughing. She hurried past, but her confidence had taken a dive. It got worse when she saw all her colleagues waiting for her and looking so hopeful.
‘Ready?’ they chorused.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Lucy confirmed, wondering why she had agreed to sing in the first place. Being a good choir girl hardly qualified her for the annual karaoke competition between the rival chalet companies, and the moment she entered the makeshift dressing room, which doubled as the ladies’ restroom, she knew she’d made a big mistake. She didn’t have the personality for something like this.
‘Make-up?’ one of the girls prompted, waking her out of the terror stupor. They were stripping off her coat and scarf, and one of them plucked the hat from her head.
‘I don’t have any make-up.’
‘You don’t?’ The girls looked at each other in alarm.
‘I’ve never bought any.’
Alarm was replaced by incredulity.
‘I’m not very good with it.’
‘Not surprising if you never tried,’ one girl said with an encouraging smile, stepping forward. ‘No worries—we’ll do it for you.’
‘Oh, no, thank you—but if I wear make up, I’ll look awful.’ I look bad enough already, Lucy thought, gazing in despair at her reflection. Compared to the other girls she was a real plain Jane.
‘You couldn’t possibly look awful,’ one of the other girls said kindly.
‘I only took off my apron five minutes ago.’
‘So imagine the transformation.’
They were all so eager to help. How could she let them down? She dragged her confidence cloak tightly round her. ‘Okay, I suppose we’d better get on with it.’
Hasty words, Lucy realised as one of them produced a costume for her to wear with a flourish, carolling, ‘Ta da!’
‘No,’ she said firmly. Singing was one thing, but she was going to wear her sensible off-duty clothes, which comprised jeans and a pale blue fleece.
