rich dish?’ he asked, a touch dangerously.
Coming from him it was; the glint of mischief in his eyes betrayed him. She was quite certain he was aware that the word had another meaning, one that he would be far more familiar with...nonsense, humbug, empty trifling.
Beth, who had dealt with her customer, returned in time to witness the sudden flush of bright pink spots that had appeared on Cassie’s cheeks. ‘If you think flummery is rich, my friend, you should try Cassie’s toad-in-the-hole,’ she interjected hurriedly.
‘Should I?’ Nick asked, continuing to look straight down into Cassie’s eyes. ‘If I catch the toad will you cook it for me?
‘Buy yourself a copy of the book, Nick,’ Beth advised him. ‘It will be an investment. One day you’ll run out of women to charm and then you’ll have to learn to cook for yourself.’
‘I’ve never charmed a woman for her talents in the kitchen, Beth,’ he said, without taking his gaze from Cassie. ‘This town is full of good restaurants.’ He hadn’t missed the hectic colour that had seared her cheekbones, confirming that despite her very cool manner he was making some kind of impression on Miss Cassandra Cornwell. Quite what kind of impression he wasn’t sure, which was unusual enough m itself to interest him. ‘But I’ll buy one if Cassie will inscribe it for me.’
‘Of course she will,’ Beth said, suddenly businesslike. ‘What would you like her to write?’
‘Oh, I’ll leave that to Cassie. I’m sure she’ll think of something appropriate,’ he said, offering her the book.
‘How about, “To Nick Jefferson, the most accomplished—?” ’
‘The most accomplished cook in town,’ Nick completed, cutting Beth off before she could say something completely outrageous.
‘But you can’t cook,’ Cassie reminded him, with excessive politeness. Nick had a feeling that she would have preferred to throw one of her cookery books at him. A whole pile of books, perhaps. He rather thought he would like to see her try.
‘Won’t your book teach me how to turn out perfect meals in minutes?’ he asked, provoking her some more. ‘That is the dream you’re peddling’
‘On the contrary. Anyone can heat up some fancy cook-chill meal from the supermarket these days.’ She laid her hand on the pile of books beside her. ‘I write about the kind of old-fashioned cooking that takes time and love to produce. My readers cook for pleasure, Nick, and so do I, not for the instant gratification of fast food.’
‘I can see why your television show is so popular, Cassandra. Nostalgia is really big right now.’
‘Don’t you sometimes long for a taste of rice pudding the way your mother made it? With butter and sultanas and freshly grated nutmeg?’
‘No, I always preferred fresh picked strawberries. And if the strawberries were stolen...’
He wasn’t talking about puddings any more. ‘That’s nostalgia too,’ Cassie interrupted, just a touch crossly. ‘And what about the dreams you’re selling?’ She indicated the floors above her, the glass tower of Jefferson Sports headquarters, glistening in the summer sunshine, dominating the town. ‘Buy this great new tennis racquet, or these expensive golf clubs, and you too can be the world champion? Where’s the reality in that?’
Beth choked. Neither of them noticed.
‘Not world champion.’ He lifted one corner of his mouth in the kind of smile that would have had most women gasping for more. ‘Club champion, maybe. But Jefferson Sports sells more than one kind of dream. We sell the great outdoors, too. Camping gear, fishing rods, hiking and sports equipment, in fact the complete antidote to over-indulgence in your kind of cooking.’
‘You’ll be needing a tent, won’t you, Cassie?’ Beth put in swiftly, before things got totally out of hand. ‘If you ask him nicely, I’m sure Nick will show you his entire range.’ She paused, a wicked little twinkle appearing in her eyes. ‘You never know, he might even offer to pitch it for you.’
‘Are you going camping’ he asked Cassie.
‘You bet she is,’ Beth said, answering for her. ‘In fact she’s going with three perfectly adorable young men.’
‘Boys,’ Cassie muttered, refusing to allow Beth to make something out of this stupid flirtation. ‘And I already have a tent.’
‘Three boys?’ He glanced at her ringless hand, not that it meant anything these days... ‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘My nephews. They want a taste of the big outdoors and since my sister and her husband are going away for a week I volunteered to take them.’
‘Just you and three boys? Beth could be right. You’ll need someone who knows what he’s doing to put up the tent.’
‘Will I? Is it that difficult?’
‘A nightmare if you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Do you warn your customers about that when you’re selling them one of your dream tents?’
‘We do advise them to have a practice run at home in the garden before they go trekking up the Amazon. Have you done that, Miss Cornwell?’
‘Trekked up the Amazon?’
‘Had a practice run—in the garden?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You should. This weather isn’t going to hold for ever. It might be pouring with rain, or blowing a force ten gale when you get to wherever you’re going.’
‘Are you volunteering to show me how it’s done, Mr Jefferson?’ She didn’t think so. He was doing it on automatic, Cassie decided. It wasn’t anything personal; he wasn’t in the least bit interested in her, he just couldn’t help himself.
‘Maybe. Why don’t we discuss it over lunch?’
Lunch? The man really was too much. Did he think she would swoon into his arms with gratitude?
‘Won’t you be too busy pursuing leggy blondes to worry about me and three small boys?’ she enquired, keeping the edge from her voice with difficulty as, determined to put an end to this nonsense, she turned to the flyleaf of the book.
‘Who said I pursued anyone?’
The implication being that they pursued him? Good grief. ‘Your sister’s name is Helen, I think you said?’ She refused to take any further part in this conversation.
‘That’s right.’ She signed the book, handed it to Beth to wrap and waited for him to go. He didn’t. ‘Don’t forget my book, Cassandra,’ he reminded her.
She’d assumed his offer to buy a book had been simply part of the game—in fact she’d been sure it was. But if he had more money than sense she wasn’t about to argue. She took a second book from the pile, opened it and for a moment considered the bare white space of the flyleaf.
Then she wrote, ‘For Nick Jefferson—a man to be taken with just a pinch of salt.’
