several years working as a chef and then as a food editor on magazines, in Party Queens Gemma had found her dream job. Going into partnership with Andie and Eliza was the best decision she’d ever made. And throwing herself headlong into work had been the best thing she could have done to keep her mind off men. She would do anything to keep this business thriving.
Gemma poured the batter into a high, round pan and carefully placed it into a slow oven, where it would cook for one and a half hours. Then she would cover it with coconut frosting and garnish it with fine curls of candied lemon and lime peel. Not only would the cake be a treat for her and her partners to share this afternoon, in celebration of the end of her man-free six months, it was also a trial run for a client’s wedding cake.
Carefully, she settled the cake in the centre of the oven and gently closed the oven door.
She turned back to face the island countertop, to find she was no longer alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood just inside the door. She gasped, and her hand—encased in a hot-pink oven mitt—went to her heart.
‘Who are you and how the heck did you get in here?’ she asked, her voice high with sudden panic.
Even through her shock she registered that the intruder was very handsome, with a lean face and light brown hair. Just her type. No. No longer her type—not after six months of talking herself out of that kind of very good-looking man. Especially if he was a burglar—or worse.
She snatched up a wooden spoon in self-defence. Drips of cake batter slid down her arm, but she scarcely noticed.
The man put up his hands as if to ward off her spoon. ‘Tristan Marco. I have a meeting this morning with Eliza Dunne. She called to tell me she was caught in traffic and gave me the pass code for the door.’
The stranger seemed about her age and spoke with a posh English accent laced with a trace of something else. Something she couldn’t quite place. French? German? He didn’t look Australian. Something about his biscuit-coloured linen trousers, fine cream cotton shirt and stylish shoes seemed sartorially European.
‘You can put down your weapon,’ he said, amusement rippling through his voice.
Gemma blushed as she lowered the wooden spoon. What good would a spoon have been against a man taller than six foot? She took a deep breath in an attempt to get her heart rate back to somewhere near normal. ‘You gave me quite a shock, walking in on me like that. Why didn’t you press the buzzer?’
He walked further into the room so he stood opposite the island counter that separated them. This close she noticed vivid blue eyes framed by dark brows, smooth olive skin, perfect teeth.
‘I’m sorry to have frightened you,’ he said in that intriguing accent and with an expressive shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Ms Dunne did not tell me anyone else would be here.’
Gemma took off her oven mitts, used one to surreptitiously wipe the batter dribbles from her arm and placed them on the countertop.
‘I wasn’t frightened. It’s just that I’m on my own here and—’ now wasn’t that a dumb thing to say to a stranger? ‘—Eliza will be here very soon.’
‘Yes, she said she would not be long,’ he said. His smile was both charming and reassuring. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her. We have only spoken on the phone.’
He was gorgeous. Gemma refused to let the dangerous little fluttering of awareness take hold. She had just spent six months talking herself out of any kind of instant attraction. She was not going to make those old mistakes again.
‘Can I help you in the meantime?’ Gemma asked. ‘I’m Gemma Harper—one of Eliza’s business partners.’
To be polite, she moved around the countertop to be nearer to him. Realising she was still in her white chef’s apron, she went to untie it, then stopped. Might that look as if she was undressing in front of this stranger?
She gave herself a mental shake. Of course it wouldn’t. Had six months without a date made her start thinking like an adolescent? Still, there was no real need to take the apron off.
She offered him her hand in a businesslike gesture that she hoped negated the pink oven mitts and the wielding of the wooden spoon. He took it in his own firm, warm grip for just the right amount of time.
‘So you are also a Party Queen?’ he asked. The hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
‘Yes, I’m the food director,’ she said, wishing not for the first time that they had chosen a more staid name for the business. It had all started as a bit of a lark, but now, eighteen months after they had launched, they were one of the most popular and successful party planning businesses in Sydney. And still being teased about being Party Queens.
‘Did you...did you want to see Eliza about booking a party?’ she asked cautiously. To her knowledge, the steadfastly single Eliza wasn’t dating anyone. But his visit to their headquarters might be personal. Lucky Eliza, if that was the case.
‘Yes, I’ve been planning a reception with her.’
‘A reception? You mean a wedding reception?’
The good ones were always taken. She banished the flickering disappointment the thought aroused. This guy was a stranger and a client. His marital status should be of no concern to her. Yet she had to admit there was something about him she found very attractive beyond the obvious appeal of his good looks. Perhaps because he seemed somehow...different.
‘No. Not a wedding.’ His face seemed to darken. ‘When I get married, it will not be me arranging the festivities.’
Of course it wouldn’t. In her experience it was always the bride. It sometimes took the grooms a while to realise that.
‘So, if not a wedding reception, what kind of reception?’
‘Perhaps “reception” is not the right word. My English...’ He shrugged again.
She did like broad shoulders on a man.
‘Your English sounds perfect to me,’ she said, her curiosity aroused. ‘Do you mean a business reception?’
‘Yes and no. I have been speaking to Eliza about holding a party for me to meet Australians connected by business to my family. It is to be held on Friday evening.’
It clicked. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘The cocktail party at the Parkview Hotel on Friday night.’ It was now Monday, and everything was on track for the upscale event.
‘That is correct,’ he said.
‘I manage the food aspect of our business. We’re using the hotel’s excellent catering team. I’ve worked with them on devising the menu. I think you’ll be very happy with the food.’
‘It all looked in order to me,’ he said. ‘I believe I am in capable hands.’
Everything fell into place. Tristan Marco was their mystery client. Mysterious because his event had been organised from a distance, by phone and email, in a hurry, and by someone for whom Eliza had been unable to check credit details. The client had solved that problem by paying the entire quoted price upfront. A very substantial price for a no-expenses-spared party at
