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Why hadn’t she had it looked at?
None of your business. He hovered by the French windows until he heard the clang of the front gate closing behind the suit. He glanced behind to make sure anyway. He turned back to Nell. ‘What was that all about?’
Those green eyes caught fire again. ‘He’s an estate agent who wants to sell my house, only I’m not interested. In more ways than one! He turned out to be a seriously sexist piece of work too. I can tell you now, Mr Bradford, that if you try any of the same tricks you’ll meet with the same fate!’
She was a slim blonde firecracker. In a retro dress. He wanted to grin. And then he didn’t.
The fire in her eyes faded. She made as if to wipe a hand down her face only she pulled it away at the last moment to clasp both her hands lightly in front of her.
She was so different from the last time he’d seen her.
‘I’m sorry, that was an unforgivable thing to say. My blood’s up and I’m not thinking clearly.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, because it was what he always said to a woman.
Nell shook her head. ‘No, it’s not. I have no right to tar you with the same brush as Mr Withers.’
That was when he noticed that behind the blonde princess perfection she had lines fanning out around her eyes and she wasn’t wearing lipstick. ‘I’d prefer it if you’d call me Rick.’
The hint of a smile played across her lips. ‘Are you up for a coffee, Rick?’
And, just like that, she hurtled him back fifteen years. Come and play. It hadn’t been a demand or a request, but a plea.
He had to swallow the lump that came out of nowhere. He wanted to walk out of those French windows and never come back. He wanted...
He adjusted his stance. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
She smiled for real then and he realised that anything else that had passed for a smile so far hadn’t reached her eyes. ‘C’mon then.’ She hitched her head and led him through the doorway into a hallway. ‘You don’t mind if we sit in the kitchen rather than the parlour, do you?’
‘Not at all.’ He tried to keep the wry note out of his voice. His type was never invited into the parlour.
Her shoulders tensed and he knew she’d read his tone. She wheeled around and led him in the other direction—back towards the front door—instead. She gestured into the large room to the left. ‘As you’ll see, the parlour is in a right state.’
He only meant to glance into the room but the sight dragged him all the way inside. In the middle of the room something huddled beneath dust sheets—probably furniture. It wasn’t that which drew his attention. Plaster had fallen from one of the walls, adjacent to an ornate fireplace, and, while the mess had been swept up, nothing had been done about the gaping hole left behind. A rolled-up carpet leant against another wall along with more cardboard boxes. The light pouring in at the huge bay window did the room no favours either. Scratching sounded in the chimney. Birds or a possum?
He grimaced. ‘A right state is the, uh, correct diagnosis’
‘Yes, which is why I currently prefer the kitchen.’
Her voice might be crisp, but her shoulders weren’t as straight as they could be. He followed her into the kitchen and then wasn’t sure if it was much better. The housekeeper had obviously upped and left, but how long ago was anyone’s guess. A jumble of dishes—mixing bowls and baking trays mostly—teetered in the sink, boxes of foodstuffs dominated one end of the enormous wooden table and flour seemed to be scattered over the rest of its surface. It smelt good in here, though.
She cleared a spot for him, wiped as much of the table down as she could and he sat. Mostly because it seemed the most sensible and least dangerous thing he could do. He didn’t want to send anything flying with a stray elbow or a clumsy hip. Nell moved amid the mess with an ease and casual disregard as if she were used to it. He didn’t believe that for a moment, though. The Princess had grown up in a world where others cleaned up the mess and kept things organised. This was merely a sign of her natural polish.
Or unnatural polish, depending on how one looked at it. She’d lacked it as a ten-year-old, but her parents had obviously managed to eventually drill it into her.
The scent of coffee hit him and he drew it slowly into his lungs. ‘So...you’re moving out?’
Nell started as if she’d forgotten he was there. She sent him one of those not quite smiles. ‘Moving in, actually.’
Moving in? On her own? In this great old empty mansion?
None of your business.
His lips twisted. Since when had he been able to resist a damsel in distress? Or, in this case, a Princess in distress. ‘What’s going down, Nell?’
She turned fully to stare at him and folded her arms. ‘Really?’
He wasn’t sure what that really referred to—his genuine interest or his front in asking a personal question. He remembered his devil-may-care insolence and shrugged it on. ‘Sure.’
She made coffee and set a mug in front of him. Only when he’d helped himself to milk and two sugars did she seat herself opposite and add milk to her own mug. The perfect hostess. The perfect princess.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so used to everyone knowing my business that your question threw me for a moment.’
‘I’ve only been back in town for a fortnight.’ And he and she came from two different worlds, even if they had grown up in the same suburb.
Even amid all the disrepair and mess, she shone like some golden thing. Him? He just blended in.
‘I did hear,’ he ventured, ‘that your father had fallen on hard times.’
Her lips tightened. ‘And nearly took the livelihoods of over a hundred people with him in the process.’
Was she referring to the workers at the glass factory? It’d been in the Smythe-Whittaker family for three generations. Tash had told him how worried they’d been at the time that it’d go down the proverbial gurgler, that more unemployment would hit the area. But... ‘I heard a buyer came in at the last minute.’
‘Yes. No thanks to my father.’
‘The global financial crisis has hit a lot of people hard.’
‘That is true.’ He didn’t know why, but he loved the way she enunciated every syllable. ‘However, rather than face facts, my father held on for so long that the sale of the factory couldn’t cover all of his growing debts. I handed over the contents of my trust fund.’
Ouch.
‘But I’ve drawn the line at selling Whittaker House.’
Her grandmother had left it to Nell rather than her father? Interesting. ‘But you gave him your money?’
She rested both elbows on the table and stared down into her mug. ‘Not all of it. I’d already spent some of it setting up my own business. Though, to be perfectly frank with you, Rick, it never really felt like my money. Besides, as I was never the daughter my father wanted, it seemed the least I could do.’
‘But you’re still angry with him.’
She laughed then and he liked the way humour curved her lips in that deliciously enticing manner. Lips like that didn’t need lipstick. ‘I am. And as everyone else around here already knows the reason, I’ll even share it with you, tough guy.’
He leaned towards her, intrigued.
‘Besides the fact he had no right gambling with the factory workers’ livelihoods, his first solution was to marry me off to Jeremy Delaney.’
His jaw dropped. ‘Jeez, Nell, the Delaneys might be rolling in it, but it’s a not-so-secret secret that he’s...’ He trailed off, rolling his shoulders. Maybe Nell didn’t know.
‘Gay?’ She nodded. ‘I know. I don’t know why he refuses to be loud and proud about it. I suspect he’s still too overawed by his father.’
‘And you refused to marry him?’
‘Of course I did.’
He flashed back to the way she’d frogmarched the suit out of her office earlier and grinned. ‘Of course you did.’
‘So then my father demanded I sell this house.’
It wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. But he refrained from pointing that out. ‘And you refused to do that too?’
She lifted her chin. ‘As everyone knows, I gave him the deeds to my snazzy little inner city apartment. I handed over my sports car and I signed over what was left of my trust fund, but I am not selling this house.’ Her eyes flashed.
He held up his hands. ‘Fair enough. I’m not suggesting you should. But jeez, Nell, if you don’t have a cent left how are you going to afford its upkeep?’
The fire in her eyes died and her luscious lips drooped at the corners. And then he watched in amazement as she shook herself upright again. ‘Cupcakes,’ she said, her chin at just that angle.
‘Cupcakes?’ Had she gone mad?
In one fluid movement she rose, reached for a plate before pulling off a lid from a nearby tin. ‘Strawberries and Cream, Passion Fruit Delight, Lemon Sherbet, and Butterscotch Crunch.’ With each designation she pulled forth an amazing creation from the tin and set it onto the plate, and somehow the cluttered old kitchen was transformed into a...fairyland, a birthday party.
She set the plate in front of him with a flourish and all he could do was stare in amazement at four of the prettiest cupcakes he’d ever seen in his life.
‘I do cupcake towers as birthday or special event cakes in whatever flavour or iced in whatever colour the client wants. I provide cupcakes by the dozen for birthday parties, high teas, morning teas and office parties. I will even package up an individual cupcake in a fancy box with all the bells and whistles...or, at least, ribbons and glitter, if that’s what a client requests.’
He stared at the cakes on the plate in front of him and then at the mountain of dishes in the sink. ‘You made these? You?’
His surprise didn’t offend her. She just grinned a Cheshire cat grin. ‘I did.’
The Princess could bake?
She nodded at the cupcakes and handed him a bread and butter plate and a napkin. ‘Help yourself.’
Was she serious? Guys like him didn’t get offered mouth-watering treasures like these. Guys like him feigned indifference to anything covered in frosting or cream, as if a sweet tooth were a sign of a serious weakness.
He didn’t stop to think about it; he reached for the nearest cupcake, a confection of sticky pale yellow frosting with a triangle of sugared lemon stuck in at a jaunty angle and all pale golden goodness, and then halted. He offered the plate to her first.
She glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘I’m only allowed to indulge after three p.m. and it’s only just gone two.’
‘That sounds like a stupid rule.’
‘You don’t understand. I find them addictive. For the sake of my hips and thighs and overall general health, I’ve had to put some limits to my indulging.’
He laughed and took a bite.
Moist cake, a surge of sweetness and the tang of lemon hit him in a rush. He closed his eyes and tried to stamp the memory onto his senses and everything inside him opened up to it. When he’d been in jail he’d occasionally tried to take himself away from the horror by imagining some sensory experience from the outside world. Small things like the rush of wind in his face as he skateboarded down a hill, the buoyancy of swimming in the ocean, the smell of wattle and eucalyptus in the national park. He’d have added the taste of the Princess’s cupcakes if he’d experienced them way back when.
He finished the cupcake and stared hungrily at the plate. Would she mind if he had another one?
* * *
Rick stared at the three remaining cupcakes with so much hunger in his eyes that something inside Nell clenched up. It started as a low-level burn in her chest, but the burn intensified and hardened to eventually settle in her stomach. It was one thing to feel sorry for herself for the predicament she found herself in, but she’d never experienced the world as the harsh, ugly place Rick had. And you’ll do well not to forget it.
She had to swallow before she could speak. ‘Scoff the lot.’ She pushed the plate closer. ‘They’re leftovers from the orders I delivered earlier.’
He glanced at her and the uncertainty in his eyes knifed into her. He’d swaggered in here with his insolent bad-boy cockiness set off to perfection in that tight black T-shirt, but it was just as much a show, a fake, as her society girl smile. Still... She glanced at those shoulders and her mouth watered.
In the next instant she shook herself. She did not find that tough-guy look attractive.
He pushed the plate away, and for some reason it made her heart heavy. So heavy it took an effort to keep it from sinking all the way to her knees.
‘How...when did you learn to cook?’
She didn’t want to talk about that. When she looked too hard at the things she was good at—cooking and gardening—and the reasons behind them, it struck her as too pathetic for words.
And she wasn’t going to be pathetic any more.
So she pasted on her best society girl smile—the one she used for the various charity functions she’d always felt honour-bound to attend. ‘It appears I have a natural aptitude for it.’ She gave an elegant shrug. She knew it was elegant because she’d practised it endlessly until her mother could find no fault with it. ‘Who’d have thought? I’m as surprised as everyone else.’
He stared at her and she found it impossible to read his expression. Except to note that the insolent edge had returned to his smile. ‘What time did you start baking today?’
‘Three a.m.’
Both of his feet slammed to the ground. He leant towards her, mouth open.
‘It’s Sunday, and Saturdays and Sundays are my busiest days. Today I had a tower cake for a little girl’s birthday party, four dozen cupcakes for a charity luncheon, a hen party morning tea and a couple of smaller afternoon teas.’
‘You did that all on your own?’
She tried not to let his surprise chafe at her. Some days it still shocked the dickens out of her too.
His face tightened and he glanced around the kitchen. ‘I guess it does leave you the rest of the week to work on this place.’
Oh, he was just like everyone else! He thought her a helpless piece of fluff without a backbone, without a brain and probably without any moral integrity either. You’re useless.
She pushed her shoulders back. ‘I guess,’ she said, icing-sugar-sweet, ‘that all I need to do is find me a big strong man with muscles and know-how...and preferably with a pot of gold in the bank...to wrap around my little finger and...’ She trailed off with another shrug—an expansive one this time. She traded in a whole vocabulary of shrugs.
A glint lit his eye. ‘And then you’ll never have to bake another cupcake again?’
‘Ah, but you forget. I like baking cupcakes.’
‘And getting up at three a.m.?’
She ignored that.
He frowned. ‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
It took a moment to work out what he meant. When she did, she laughed. ‘I guess you have the muscles, but do you have the know-how?’ She didn’t ask him about the pot of gold. That would be cruel. ‘Because I’m afraid I don’t.’ She bit back a sigh. No self-pity. ‘But no, that’s not why I asked you to drop by.’
His face hardened. ‘So why did I receive the summons? If you knew I was at Tash’s, why couldn’t you have dropped by there?’
