wondered if she ought to talk to Marian about it, then dismissed the idea, knowing that it would be seen as interference rather than intervention.
And Ellie wasn’t a child any more. She had to work out her own salvation. And whether that would include Alex Fabian was entirely her own decision.
Left to herself, she worked steadily, and competently. Soon the ducklings were waiting on their rack, the vegetables prepared, the soup simmering, and a bowl of Chantilly cream whisked up to accompany the dessert of fresh local strawberries.
As David’s wife, she might always have to do her own cooking, she thought with faint amusement, but she didn’t have one iota of envy for Ellie’s carefree future. David was her rock, and she’d never entertained the slightest doubt about him.
Dinner was to be served at eight o’ clock, so she now had a breathing space to go back into the loft and choose the dresses to take down to the village hall later.
It was a fascinating task. Like most lofts, it was crammed with remnants of the past, including a lot of old photograph albums, and Lou was constantly being sidetracked.
‘Oh, hell,’ she muttered as she glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time those ducklings were in the oven. I’d better get cracking.’
She picked up the armful of dresses she’d chosen. They were too bulky to manage safely on the ladder, she decided. Much better for them to go first.
She dropped them through the hatch, and was about to follow, when a startled cry reached her from below.
Glancing down in sudden apprehension, Lou saw the dresses seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Were, in fact, on the move. And under their concealing folds a muffled male voice was swearing angrily.
‘Oh, God.’ Lou scrambled down the ladder at neck-breaking speed. She grabbed a handful of satin, and hauled it away. ‘I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone would be there.’
Her victim shook himself free, his impatient glance flicking over her. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘I thought it might be some bizarre rite of passage.’
And Lou realised, horrified, she was taking her first look at Alex Fabian. In the flesh, she thought, swallowing.
He was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and endless legs. His hair, dishevelled from its close encounter with several pounds of fabric, was thick and tawny, and curled slightly. Lou remembered Ellie once saying that his nickname in the City was the Lion King, and could understand why.
He was not conventionally handsome, but he was arrestingly, dynamically attractive, with high cheekbones, glinting green eyes under heavy lids, and a firmly sculpted, almost insolent mouth.
And he was frighteningly, effortlessly sexy. A man who did not have to try, she thought instantly, and wondered how she could possibly know.
A shiver traced its way down her spine. And she thought, ‘Poor Ellie.’
Alex Fabian was looking at her too. Lou recognised with shock that she had been stripped, assessed and dismissed in one devastating and totally male glance. A conditioned reflex, she told herself angrily. That’s all it was. See a woman—imagine her naked. He probably can’t help himself.
But all the same she resented it, even as she realised he was speaking to her again.
He said softly, ‘And who are you?’
Lou gave him a bland smile. ‘The cook.’
‘Indeed?’ His brows lifted. He stirred the mass of shimmering cloth at his feet with the toe of a polished shoe. ‘Is it part of the job to dress for dinner?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘These are for the local drama group. They’re doing a revue—An Evening with Noël Coward.’
‘Dear God,’ said Alex Fabian, and his lips twitched into an appreciative grin. ‘A little ambitious, wouldn’t you say?’
Lou had thought exactly the same when the idea was first mooted, but she stonily refused to share his amusement. Particularly when his smile had sent his attraction quotient soaring into some sexual stratosphere.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said crisply. ‘You won’t be expected to buy a ticket.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’ve just realised. You’re Louise, Ellie’s stepsister. How do you do? I’m Alex Fabian.’
Lou dived to pick up the dresses, pretending not to have seen his outstretched hand. It occurred to her that she did not want to touch him. That even a polite handshake might carry some inherent risk, like making contact with a force field. And that she could not afford to find out.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d gathered who you were.’ She hoisted the pile of silks and satins into her arms, using them as a barrier. ‘Now you must excuse me. Duty calls.’
‘You mean you really are doing the cooking?’
‘Well, don’t sound so surprised. Someone has to.’ She gave him a swift, taut smile. ‘Reliable staff is hard to come by round here. But I promise not to poison you.’
‘I’m completely reassured.’ He paused. ‘Before I was booby-trapped,’ he said, ‘I was looking for the guest bathroom.’
‘Second door on the left.’ She edged round him.
‘One moment,’ he said, and a sudden tremor went through her as she felt his hand brush her hair.
She practically jumped backwards, nearly flattening herself against the wall. She said breathlessly, ‘Just—what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Relax,’ he advised, a sudden glint in those amazing eyes. ‘You had a cobweb in your hair. See?’ He showed her its remains on his fingertips. ‘Some poor spider is now homeless.’
‘A banker with a caring side,’ she said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Now, why do I find that so hard to believe?’ Alex Fabian said musingly. ‘But I won’t detain you now for any further discussion. You have your pots and pans to get back to. So, as Noël Coward himself would have put it, Miss Louise Trentham, I’ll see you again.’
No, she thought with relief. No, you won’t.
Tonight she would be at the village hall, and tomorrow she would persuade David to take her out for the whole day. And on Sunday she’d invent a headache, and stay in her room until they’d all gone back to London.
She muttered something unintelligible into the pile of dresses, and headed off to her room.
Once safely inside, she leaned back against the door panels, and whispered, ‘Phew.’
So that was Alex Fabian, she thought weakly. Hell’s bells, he should carry a government health warning. No wonder Ellie was becoming flaky at the prospect of marriage with him.
Nor was he a picture of the eager suitor. He was a cool operator. She had seen no kindness in that smiling mouth, no warmth to soften the sensual speculation in the green eyes. For Alex Fabian, women were no more than a
