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He knew what it was like when family needed you to drop everything. He’d done it himself. So, although it left him in a jam, he wasn’t going to give Claire a hard time about it. He still had enough time to fix things. ‘I wondered if I could trouble you for your caterer’s contact details?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but, as I said, she’s very in demand,’ Felicity warned. ‘Though if she can’t fit you in she might be able to suggest someone. She’s good like that.’
Better and better.
‘Let me get my contact book.’ There was a pause; then Felicity dictated Elizabeth Finch’s phone number and address.
Karim scribbled it down as she spoke. ‘Thank you, Felicity.’
‘My pleasure. And thank you again for the flowers.’
When he replaced the receiver, he flicked onto the Internet and looked up the address. Islington. A nice part of it. So she’d have a price tag to match.
Though money wasn’t an issue. He needed quality—and he’d tasted that for himself, the previous evening. He glanced at his watch. Right now, a busy freelance caterer would be smack in the middle of preparations for an evening event, so this wasn’t the best time to discuss a booking. He’d call in tomorrow at nine; from experience, he knew that face-to-face meetings were more effective than phone calls.
He glanced at his watch. Two hours, and he’d need to shower and shave and change for a garden party. A party that Renée, one of his prettiest recent dates, would also be attending. Given that the weather was fine and the garden in question had some nice secluded spots, it could be an interesting afternoon. A pleasant interlude.
Though, strangely, it wasn’t Renée’s face in his thoughts as he imagined kissing her stupid in the middle of the maze. It was Lily’s.
He shook himself. It was highly unlikely that Lily would be there. And besides, now he thought about it, dating her would be too complicated. There had been something serious about Lily, and he wasn’t in a position to offer anything serious. In less than a year’s time he’d be back in Harrat Salma and his parents would be expecting to arrange a marriage exactly like their own. These were his last few months of playing. Of dating women who knew the score and didn’t expect him to change his mind.
And he had no intention of changing that.
The next morning, Lily was sitting in her kitchen, drinking coffee and planning menus for the following week’s events, when her doorbell buzzed. Too early for the postman, she thought, and she wasn’t expecting any deliveries that morning. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, either.
She opened the front door and stared.
Karim was the last person she’d expected to see. She’d only told him her first name—and it was her nickname rather than her full name. How come…?
‘Lily?’ he asked, looking as surprised as she felt. ‘Do you work for Elizabeth Finch?’
She shook her head. ‘I am Elizabeth Finch.’
He frowned. ‘You told me your name was Lily.’
‘It is.’
He looked sceptical, as if he wasn’t sure she was telling the truth.
She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say Elizabeth when I was tiny—I called myself “Lily-ba”. The name kind of stuck. Everyone calls me Lily. Though obviously I use my full name for work.’
‘I see.’ He inclined his head. ‘I was impressed by the food on Saturday night. I asked Felicity Browne for her caterer’s contact details.’
Then this was a business call, not a social visit. Good. Business made things easier. She could section off her emotions and deal with this. Even better: if he became her client, that would be yet another reason not to act on that attraction. She knew first-hand that relationships and business didn’t mix. Lord, did she know that first-hand. She’d been there already with Jeff and had her fingers well and truly burned. ‘Come through.’ She ushered him into the hall, closed the door behind him and led him through to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thank you. That would be nice.’
‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Neither, thanks.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on. Do take a seat.’
At her gesture, Karim took a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas set in the open-plan conservatory area, while Lily busied herself making fresh coffee. Her kitchen was clearly a professional kitchen—very up to date appliances, sleek minimalist units in pale wood, a central island, and what looked like granite work surfaces and splashbacks. Everything was neat and tidy, including the shelf of cookery books and box files. He wasn’t surprised that she was the meticulous type.
And yet the room was far from sterile. The walls were painted a pale terracotta, adding warmth to the room, and there were photographs and postcards pinned to the fridge with magnets. A simple blue glass vase full of daffodils sat on the window sill behind the sink. And he could smell something gorgeous; a quick scan of the room showed him a couple of cakes cooling on a wire rack. For a client? he wondered.
Lily herself was dressed casually in jeans and a camisole top, and looked incredibly touchable. He could remember the softness of her skin against his and the sweetness of her scent when’d he kissed her on the balcony the other night, and his body reacted instantly.
Not good.
This was meant to be business. He knew that mixing business and pleasure wasn’t a good idea—he needed to get himself under control again. Right now. He really shouldn’t be thinking about hooking a finger under the strap of her top, drawing it down, and kissing her bare shoulder.
‘Nice kitchen,’ he commented when she returned with two mugs of coffee.
‘It suits me,’ she said simply.
And she suited it, he thought.
‘So what did you want to discuss?’ she asked.
She’d made quite sure she was sitting on the other sofa rather than next to him, he noted. Fair enough. This was business. And sitting next to each other would’ve risked them accidentally touching each other. Given how they’d both gone up in flames the other night at the first touch, distance was a very good idea.
‘As I said, I was impressed by the food at Felicity’s party. I’m holding a series of business meetings and I need a caterer.’
‘And you want m— You’re asking me?’ she corrected herself hastily.
A little slip that told him her mind was still running along the same track as his. ‘Yes.’ To both, he added silently.
‘That depends when you have in mind. I’m booked up for the next three months.’
‘They’re set up for the end of the month.’
She shook her head. ‘In that case, sorry, no can do.’
He backtracked to what she’d just said. ‘You’re working every single day for the next three months?’ And people called him a workaholic.
‘All my work days are booked.’
He picked up the subtext. ‘So you don’t work every single day.’
‘Actually, I do,’ she corrected. ‘But I don’t cook for other people every single day.’
‘What do you do on the days you’re not cooking for other people?’
‘I develop recipes. I have a column in a Sunday newspaper twice a month, and a monthly column in a magazine.’
He couldn’t resist. ‘Are they work in development?’ He gestured in the direction of the cakes.
‘Is that a hint?’
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
She rolled her eyes but, as he’d hoped, she smiled. ‘OK. I’ll cut you a slice. But be warned that it’s a test, so it might not taste quite right.’
When she handed him a slice of chocolate cake on a plain white plate, he took a mouthful. Savoured the taste. ‘Works for me.’ Though such a vague compliment would sound like flattery—something he knew instinctively she’d scoff at. ‘It smells good and it’s got the right amount of chocolate. Enough to give it flavour but not so much that it’s overpowering.’
She tried it, and shook her head. ‘The texture’s not quite right. It needs more flour. Excuse me a minute.’ She scribbled something on a pad.
‘Notes?’ he asked.
‘For the next trial,’ she explained.
He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘So, to return to our discussion. Basically you have how many free days a week?’
‘I have three days when I don’t cook but they are my development time. Not to mention testing the recipes three times and setting up my kitchen so the photographer can take shots of the different stages. And time to do my paperwork.’
‘But they’re days you could use—in theory,’ he persisted.
‘In theory. In practice, I don’t. If I do it for one person, I’ll have to do it for everyone, and I don’t want to end up working eighteen-hour days to fit everything in. I need time to refill the well. Time to let myself be creative.’
He tried another tack. ‘You have people working for you, don’t you?’
‘Part time, yes.’
‘But you’ve worked with them for a long time.’
She looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because everything was so polished at Felicity’s party. That kind of teamwork only comes with experience, when you know each other and trust each other.’
She recognised the compliment and smiled.
‘And your staff help with the cooking?’
‘Some of it.’ She frowned. ‘Why?
‘I was thinking. Maybe you could delegate more to them. Then you could expand your business without encroaching on the days you don’t cook for people.’
She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. My clients expect my personal attention, and that’s exactly what they get. The only way I can expand is if I get a time machine or a clone—neither of which are physically possible. I’m at capacity, Karim. Sorry. The best I can do is put you in touch with some of the people I trained with who also run their own businesses—they’re good, or I wouldn’t recommend them.’
This was where he knew he should be sensible, thank her for the recommendations, and call each one in turn until he found someone who could fit him in.
The problem was, he didn’t want just anyone. He wanted her.
And he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but no. I want Elizabeth Finch.’ He paused. ‘Would any of your clients consider rescheduling?’
‘No. And don’t suggest I throw a sickie on them, either,’ she warned. ‘I’d never cheat my clients.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have integrity. I respect that.’ He paused. ‘Whatever your usual rates are, I’m happy to double them.’
‘No.’
‘You want to negotiate?’ He shrugged. ‘Fine. Let’s save us both some time. Name your price, Lily.’
She folded her arms. ‘You honestly believe everything can be bought?’
‘Everything has a price.’
She scoffed. ‘You must have a seriously sad life.’
He laughed. ‘On the contrary. But it’s basic business sense. Someone sells, someone buys. The price is negotiable, depending on supply and demand.’
‘You can’t buy people, Karim.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I know that. I’m not asking to buy you.’ He paused just long enough for the colour to flood her face completely. ‘In business, I look for the best. That’s why I’m asking you to do the catering for some meetings that are going to be pretty crucial to my business.’
‘I’m flattered that you’ve sought me out,’ she said, ‘but, as I’ve told you plenty of times already, I’m afraid I’m already booked and there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘Firstly,’ he said, ‘persistence is a business asset. And, secondly, there’s always a way round things if you look.’
‘Hasn’t anyone ever said no to you?’
He didn’t even need to think about it. ‘I always get what I want in the end.’
‘Not in this case, I’m afraid. Unless you’re prepared to take my next open slot, in three months’ time.’
‘I can’t wait that long. The meetings are already set up.’
‘Then, as I said, I’m sorry.’ She went over to her filing system, took a box down, and made notes on a pad. She tore off the sheet, then brought it over to him. ‘Here. They all come with my recommendation—and I’m picky.’
‘So,’ he said, ‘am I.’ He drained his mug. ‘Thank you for the coffee. And the cake.’
‘Pleasure.’
She was being polite, and he knew it. He also knew that if he gave in to the impulse to pull her to her feet and kiss her stupid, he’d push her even further away—she’d respond, but she’d be angry with herself for acting unprofessionally. And he wanted her willingly in his bed.
‘If you change your mind—’ and he had every intention of making sure that she did ‘—call me. You have my card.’
‘Actually, I mislaid it.’
Had she? Or had she ripped it up in a fit of temper? Because now he knew exactly what she’d been doing at Felicity Browne’s party, he could guess at her reaction that night after she’d left the balcony—anger at herself for letting him distract her when she’d been there in a business capacity. And underneath that cool, quiet exterior lurked a passionate woman. A woman who’d responded to him so deeply that they’d both forgotten where they were.
He took a business card from a small silver holder, scribbled his personal number on the back, and handed it to her. ‘To replace the one you…’ he paused, his eyes challenging hers ‘…mislaid.’
She didn’t flinch in the slightest; she merely inclined her head in acknowledgement, and went back over to her filing system. She glanced at the name on the card, then paper-clipped it into a book. Then she took a card from a box and handed it to him. ‘In case you change your mind about the dates. But please remember that I have a three-month waiting list.’
