Her Client from Hell

But Cassie deserved a break. Right? And that was easy enough to do. So why did he feel as if he’d made a huge mistake just sitting here?

She looked a little nervous as she spoke between mouthfuls of the best taco shells he’d ever tasted.

Less hysterical, but nervous. ‘Does your sister know about the car and the photographer?’

He wondered just how much more to tell her and decided to give her the basics. ‘She wasn’t going to have any frills. Friends are taking photos and she asked me to drive her to the venue in my car. She’s a struggling artist marrying an equally struggling musician. They don’t have cash to throw around; they can barely make the weekly rent. She’s also a self-taught cook, and pretty bad, never having anyone to show her how to do these things growing up. But you try telling a woman that. Chances are she’ll give everyone botulism.’

‘I imagine the closest she’ll get to hurting anyone would be killing you when she finds out about all this.’ Cassie’s brow furrowed into tiny lines. ‘Provocation. Any jury would let her off.’

He ignored her little joke. ‘Look, I want to give her the magical day she always talked about growing up—the whole meringue dress and rose petals shindig. But I’d like to get to the end of it without a trip to the emergency department or fending off an insurance claim.’

The frown deepened. ‘Are you always this negative?’

Negative? Him? ‘You don’t know my sister. I prefer to see it as realistic. Plan for the worst, and so on.’

‘And hope for what? The saying is: plan for the worst and hope for the best, right?’ She pierced him with those eyes.

Hope that this marriage-fest would be over soon and he could get on with his life, guilt-free.

He watched Cassie take a long slow lick of a drip down the side of her hand and swallow the coriander and minty goodness. The way her tongue dipped across her suntanned flesh, the curl of a lock of hair framing her face, the light in her eyes as she caught him watching—a guilty twinkle. God.

His groin tightened.

Hope for what, indeed? A taste of her?

What? No way. No way. Na-ah. Pretty, yes. Attractive, even. But more than looking he couldn’t—wouldn’t—contemplate.

He ignored it. Tried to ignore it. Tried, too, to shake off the unnerving feeling that when she looked at him she saw a whole lot more than he wanted her to see.

Luckily, he was heading to Iceland tomorrow afternoon. The great thing about his job was that he was never anywhere for long. Guaranteed to stop any kind of meshing of minds. Meshing of bodies he could do—that didn’t take too much investment. ‘Hope that I can find a caterer who cuts me a bit of slack and stops talking in a foreign language about food stations.’

At this her eyes twinkled some more. ‘My mum used to say that often things you’re looking for are right in front of you. Which is usually the case for me—things I want are way too often in front of me, in a shop window display begging to be bought. Now, talking of mothers, what about the mother-of-the-bride? Is she likely to want to give her opinion too? Father?’

He felt his shoulders snap up at the mention of the woman who’d given birth to him and his sister, the blackness that filled that corner of his heart. She’d been no mother. Or the subsequent string of women who’d tried in vain to create the one thing he’d craved but had always had ripped away. Connection. Connection—like Lizzie was trying to create with Callum. He felt the blackness rise—that would mean putting his heart on the line again. No way. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

Pink patches took up residence on her cheeks, seeping down her neck in a rush. ‘Oh. Okay. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped—’

‘Don’t be. Now, are we done here?’ He waved a pen-scribble action towards the door and a waiter nodded and disappeared for the bill. He needed space.

‘I guess.’ She looked a little put out at his brutal tone, and it might have been easy to clear the air—easy, maybe, for someone else. But hearts on sleeves was messy. Messy wasn’t his thing.

While they waited for the bill he searched for something uncontroversial to cut through the heavy silence. Which was, after all, his fault. ‘So what made you go into catering?’

‘You mean my sister didn’t give you the low-down of my life already?’

‘Your sister’s pretty protective where you’re concerned.’

‘She’s lovely and everything, just sometimes a little stifling.’ Fiddling with her bag, Cassie gave a gentle smile. ‘Make that a lot stifling. Like you, maybe? With Lizzie?’

He felt the guilt shimmer through him. ‘No. I don’t stifle; it’s hard to stifle when you’re not even in the same country for most of the year. I’m always on the road shooting or editing. I’m not here enough, so she tells me. But I was asking about you and your career choice.’

Hell, he didn’t need to have his relationships analysed. He knew he was bad at them. That was what this whole wedding food thing was about—making amends. Being the better guy. The better brother. Trying to create a happy medium between work and life. Instead of work and work...and work. Which until now had been his life.

Cassie shrugged her delicate shoulders as another curl fell from the chopsticks. And now his imagination ran riot with a few too many scenarios of that vivid red spilling over his bed, his back...

Whoa. Not a good idea.

She carried on chatting in her sing-song voice. ‘Bottom line—I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I left school so I dabbled in a few things, none of them particularly successful, but everything came back to how much I loved food. Eating, cooking, and I get a kick out of making food for other people to enjoy. My mum said it was my nurturing side. My sisters think it’s all about the praise and attention. Oh, such amazing flavours, Cassie...what adorable presentation, Cassie...you’re so clever, Cassie... And you’ve got to admit, you can’t beat a bit of adulation, right? Mr Award-winning Film-man.’

‘I’m more proud about the films than the awards. It’s the craft I love, not the praise. The interesting and sometimes reluctant subjects...’

Her laugh rang through the evening air. ‘My shy sister, a subject. She’d love that idea. Not. I can’t believe you persuaded her to even be in one of your films.’

‘It was for a good cause. They wanted to promote their charity work. Seemed a good trade-off for a fly-on-the-wall of their lives.’

In all his conversations with Sasha she’d missed out a lot of details. Like Cassie’s hotness. Her irritating habit of telling people how to live their lives. Her scattiness. The humour. The hotness. ‘She was definitely one of my more challenging interviewees. I had to work hard to get information out of her. But now I know a little about her life, about your dad.’

‘Oh. Right. My dad? My dad.’ Cassie swallowed her shock, but her eyes widened. ‘You just come out and say it. Like that? Most people tiptoe...no, actually, most people don’t mention it at all. Is that your media thing? Catch her off guard, throw in a curveball?’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Are there hidden cameras?’

‘Not at all.’ He almost laughed at the thought. The stiffening of her back and the eye contact dodge wasn’t lost on him, though; clearly, this was a subject she wasn’t comfortable discussing. And who could blame her? He hadn’t meant to stray into such difficult territory. And now he was here he didn’t know how to reverse.

Her voice rose again. ‘Wow. Well, that’s another skeleton out of the cupboard then, but I think everyone knows that story now—it was front page for long enough. Your direct approach doesn’t surprise me, though, Mr Brennan. Nor does it affect me—if that was your intention.’

Liar. She was a tight bundle of gelignite that looked about to explode at any moment.

Her father’s betrayal by his business partner and subsequent suicide had been pretty high profile; it hadn’t been hard for Jack to delve deeply enough to find that out. The effects on her family had been long-term and damaging. Not least that the Sweet sisters struggled to give trust easily—Sasha had been definitive about that.

So whatever had happened between Cassie and her ex business partner must have added deeply to her sense of mistrust. No wonder she was like a hot potato dancing in embers trying to make her business a success. She needed something to believe in. To make something hers. Just hers. ‘I’m sorry, really. Wrong subject?’

‘Understatement of the year. Seems we both have private things we don’t like to discuss during a business meeting, Mr Brennan. I asked you about family because it was relevant. I’m not sure at all why you asked about mine. Now, where’s that bill got to?’ Scraping her chair back, she stood, shot him a wavering business smile and scooted to the door.

* * *

After a debate during which they agreed to split the bill—at her absolute insistence—Jack walked Cassie out on to the busy street. The bare skin on her arms shone in the street light. He’d never really noticed a woman’s skin before, unless it was in front of his camera lens. Or the depth of blue in their eyes. Eyes that darkened to navy with anger, that glittered like a shimmering ocean when she laughed. And now he was thinking like a pathetic poet. While pure irritation shimmered through her.

‘Do you want to get a cab, Cassie? I could drop you off.’

‘No, thanks. I’ll walk. Saves cash and the environment. Look, there’s a taxi coming now—you want it?’ She raised her hand to the oncoming black cab. It slowed towards them. ‘I presume you’ll call me when you’ve spoken to Lizzie?’

‘Of course.’ He’d been wrong about her. He’d thought the scattiness and the sensitivity were signs of weakness. But they were a sideshow. She had steel in that ramrod back and a streak of determination that bordered on reckless.

Nevertheless, he still seriously doubted she could pull off a decent wedding dinner without some sort of major mishap. The jury was still out on whether to take a risk and hire her.

Still, he wasn’t prepared to allow her to walk the London streets on her own in the dark. She might not like it, but that wasn’t under debate. He waved the cab on. ‘Nah, it’s okay. I’ll walk too. You’re on my way.’

‘I’m further down Holland Park Avenue than you and then a little way off the main drag.’

‘You’re only a short detour.’

Her hand slipped to her hip. ‘Seriously, I’m fine. I do this all the time.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t.’ Could she not listen? He knew these streets. He would not let any woman walk home alone. He’d spent far too much time fighting for survival in the adjacent neighbourhood to know the dangers. ‘It’s not safe. I said I’ll walk you.’

‘Stifling much?’ He didn’t need to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes, and the thought of it amused him. ‘It’s fine, Mr Macho. I use knives for a living, remember? I know how to gut and bone and de-vein just about anything that moves. What’ll you do?’ Her eyes flicked to his jeans pocket. ‘Wallet an attacker to death?’

‘What do you know? I have black belt wallet ninja skills.’ And a working knowledge of street fighting. Because he’d had to learn the hard way. Wrong kid, wrong street, wrong background. Every single time. Shifted from pillar to post. From house to house. His face had rarely fitted and he’d had to fight his way out of too many arguments.

But all she saw was a successful film-maker who had butted into his sister’s wedding plans. Good. Because the less she knew about him the better. The past might have shaped him, but he didn’t ever let it impinge on how he lived his life now.

At least that was what he told himself.

Cassie shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I don’t need a bodyguard but keep up, I’ve got sums to do when I get home and I want a good sleep because I have an early meeting tomorrow. I don’t have time to wait for stragglers.’ Laughing, she wrapped a cream shawl around her shoulders and kept a brisk pace as they descended the hill towards Holland Park. This was no evening stroll for romantics. Not that he would ever use his name and the word romantic in the same breath.

He met her step for step. Too easy for a man who ran marathons to keep flab and feelings at bay. ‘So the personal chef gig—why did you choose that instead of opening your own place?’

‘Are you still here?’ She increased her pace past the still open shops and overflowing pubs. He wondered if she ever stopped. Just stopped. A fleeting image of her, slick and spent on his bed, flickered in his mind. Her eyes closed, body soft against his sheets, slow deep breathing. Relaxed. Still.

Sometimes being a film-maker played havoc with his sanity—he saw too many things in fast flickering images in his brain. Zooming in could be a pleasure and a curse. Right now, the latter.

She kept right on chattering, the tension from the café dissipated. Or it could have been that she was trying to keep him on side; it was no secret she needed his money, the job. So he supposedly had the upper hand. If only he could see it through the fog of chaos she created.

‘This way I get to meet my clients in a more intimate environment, much preferable to working in a hot, noisy restaurant. Probably like you and your documentaries? You get the best out of people when there’s less of a crowd, right?’

‘And the worst. I didn’t make a big splash on the documentary scene by finding the nicer parts of people’s stories. Sadly, dirty laundry sells.’

‘And there seems to be a lot around.’ She nodded. ‘Sometimes people plain forget that I’m there in their homes. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen and heard.’

‘You want to bet? I’ve been on the road with rock stars. I reckon I can beat you hands down in the shock stakes.’

Slowing her pace, she looked at him, that teasing and breathy voice becoming harder to ignore. ‘Oh? Try me. A gory story smackdown. Excellent.’

Now this could get interesting. ‘What does the winner get?’

She looked up at him for a few moments, blue eyes piercing, as if trying to read his mind. Oddly disconcerting. Because he could have sworn that she understood exactly what he was thinking. ‘Winner gets...the satisfaction that they won?’

‘I tell you, there is no competition. I’ll win.’

‘You like to win? You do seem the type.’ Her mouth curled up at one corner. ‘And you have that self-satisfied look already. How about this? Once I was serving dinner in a famous actor’s house. But he was having it away with a guest upstairs, while his wife was downstairs tasting my crème brûlée.’

‘Which actor?’

She tapped her nose. ‘My secret. Confidentiality. I’m like a doctor with the Hippocratic Oath. Only not as clever. Or as...doctory.’

He couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up from his chest. She was...well, she was just surprising. Warm and soft and smelling like a candy shop. ‘Doctory? A technical term?’

‘Obviously. My eldest sister, Suzy, is training to be a surgeon and she’s very doctory. You know—bright and dedicated and compassionate.’ They stopped at a crossing and waited for the red light, turned right past an old church on to tree-lined cobbled streets. One of the older and prettier parts of the area, a little more rundown than his mews, but nice enough. ‘Okay. Your turn. Beat that.’

He sifted through the tales and memories of the last few years. Difficult to pick one that was funny and shocking but not too sordid. ‘Threesomes, foursomes, wife-swaps. Drugs and alcohol. You name it, I’ve seen it or heard about it. But the strangest? I was once on tour with a band and the lead singer developed an explosive habit.’

‘What do you mean? Drugs?’

‘No. He blew up—literally detonated—something in every venue. Toilets, drum-kits, seats. He liked the poeticism of shards, apparently.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Okay, yes. Probably drugs.’

‘Really? Blowing things up? Bizarre.’

‘Win?’

‘I don’t know; I’m thinking. I must have something to beat that. Foursomes? Really? I don’t even want to know how that works out.’ Finally she came to a halt outside a row of neat terraced houses with window boxes that had brightly coloured plants trailing over them. A vivid splash in an otherwise unimaginative backdrop. Kind of like her.

She rooted in her satchel, tutted. Dropped it to the ground and spilled the contents out, handing bits of paper, a can opener, lipgloss to him as she searched, her fist getting lost amongst tissues and things he barely even recognised and surely should not be in a woman’s bag. Was that a spanner? Eventually she pulled out a bunch of keys. ‘Got them! Right. This is me. Number twelve. First floor. It’s not much but it’s home.’

These were renovated apartments in a decentish part of town. No wonder she was struggling to find the rent. ‘You live here on your own?’

‘Yep. It was always meant to be a work-from-home kind of thing with... Never mind.’ Her shoulders hitched.

‘Are you talking about paring knife man?’ And why the hell he’d even asked and burst the first pleasant bubble of conversation they’d managed all evening, he didn’t know. It was none of his business and in his haphazard personal life he always—always—stayed away from backstory. Unlike in his films, where he liked the present to be filled with regret and melodrama and lost chances. People searching for the whole happy-ever-after lie that littered cheap novels and rom-com films. The pursuit of all that filled his subjects with a hope that was rarely realised. Hell, it made addictive TV. Won awards.

She bit her bottom lip, then flashed him another of her smiles. This one was unconvincing. ‘Okay, well, thanks for walking me back. I’ll be fine from here. Have a safe walk home.’

‘He broke your heart?’ She’d already changed the subject but he wouldn’t let her get away with it.

Cassie sighed as she shoved everything back into the Tardis-like bag. She blinked away a wisp of bitterness or sadness or just plain hurt and hid behind that enduring mask of cheerfulness. ‘Absolutely not. He broke my bank balance and that’s a whole bigger sin in my book. I’m over it and, make no mistake, I’m never going there again.’

He still wasn’t convinced. ‘You sure about that? What about the gooey-eyed romance thing? The wedding catering? Isn’t it your job to believe in all of that?’

‘For someone else, sure. My sister. Your sister. Everyone else. But not this sister.’ Her finger pointed to her chest and he had no doubt that she believed it. Somewhere down the line she’d change her mind, but for now? He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The scent of her whirled around his head; the passionate tone to her voice, the fighting back, her chaos even, stoked something deep in him. The determined look in her eyes did nothing to dampen the fizz of something electric whizzing round his veins; if anything, it just made it stronger.

With a shock he realised he wanted to crush her against the wall and kiss her.

Turning to go up the steps, she waved. ‘So call me when you’ve spoken to Lizzie and we’ll sort out the menus.’

Like hell he was going to let her go that easily. ‘And so now you’re what? A nun? You don’t do this ever?’

‘Do what?’ She paused.

‘I want to claim my winner’s prize.’ Where in hell did that come from? He didn’t know or care. The need to feel her mouth against his swelled inside him.

‘What? We never agreed on a prize.’ But the heat in her too-blue eyes told him she was just as interested as he was. If not for that he’d have walked right away. If not for that? And the fact she was a beautiful woman. And he was drawn to her in a way he hadn’t been drawn to any woman in a long time. If ever. Which was why he should have taken her lead and walked away too. Put that sexy sway to the back of his mind, those pink lips, those dark navy eyes. The nagging feeling in his head that blared alarm bells.

Go home.

He made it up the first couple of steps towards her. At her frown he stopped short. Her mouth was inches away.

All he had to do was reach out.

* * *

‘Jack.’ It was meant to be a warning. A definitive no. But it sounded like a whimper. Worse, it sounded like an invitation. And maybe it was. Cassie didn’t know. Didn’t know anything really except that this man had stirred something in her that had long been dormant. Which was equal parts thrilling and scary. Actually, it was scary as hell.

Before she could breathe again Jack was in front of her, all six feet plus of impressiveness, his scent of heat and man filling her nostrils. His hard body...there. The open-necked shirt revealing just a little of a tanned chest that she suddenly wanted to touch, his smile finally now almost blossoming.

The street seemed to fade out a little as her vision narrowed to just him. His hand was on her cheek, the lightness of his touch making her heart stutter. The intensity in his eyes causing her abdomen to contract with a need she hadn’t expected.

This was utter madness. A choc chip short of a cookie. How could she want to slap him and kiss him at the same time? He was pompous and a giant pain in the ass yet she wanted to kiss him.

No. No. No.

Yes.

No. This couldn’t be happening. But the more he looked at her, the more intense this urge to taste him grew.

‘What’s this?’ His hand had moved across her cheek. She should have walked away, but that glittering in his eyes made her legs refuse to move.

She found her voice, but it wasn’t her usual one. This was filled with desire, reedy, coarse. Husky. And speaking was difficult through a throat so dry and a mouth so wet. She ran a finger across her face and looked at the sparkles on her fingertips. ‘It’s gold dusting from the fairy castle. Wait, I’ll just wipe it off. I can’t believe I’ve been wearing it all evening and you didn’t mention it.’

‘Fairy dust? I like it. Let’s just say for once I do believe in fairies. Even if they are a little on the manic side. And possibly crazy. And definitely disorganised.’ His fingers closed around her hand and he pulled it away from her face. Then he stroked the glitter on her cheek.

Blood pounded in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, his finger touching her lips and stoking that need with an extra helping of urgency. His delicious dark voice whispered along her neckline, ‘I want to claim my prize and also win a bet with myself.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘That just for one second you will be still.’

He stepped closer and the scent of him caressed her, the sound of his ragged breathing stoked a fire in her belly. The heat in his eyes connected with something feral, something wild inside her. Her mouth watered at the thought of how he might taste. She put her hands out to keep a distance but her fingers curled into his shirt as if manipulated by some weird instinct that she just could not fight. ‘I can do still.’

‘Show me.’ Then his tongue licked along her bottom lip—and heck if she wasn’t frozen in place under his touch. Just the merest caress of his skin against hers had her anchored to the spot. All logic fled her brain and her body took over. Her eyes fluttered closed as that need swelled inside her. Hands held her shoulders as he dipped his head, his tongue moving over her mouth, gently teasing it open. Slowly. Achingly slowly. Every cell in her body jumped and danced but she didn’t move, not one inch, save for a stuttering breath and a heart that threatened to pound out of her chest.

Then, unable to resist any longer, she opened her mouth to him. He tasted of danger. Intense, unfettered heart-pounding danger. And, as if that was all the encouragement she needed, she pressed against him, deepening the kiss, arms curling around his neck, breasts brushing against that hard wall of muscle. His hands cupped her face, his kiss urgent but soft, taking and giving. But it was far from sweet. It was rash, it was hot, it was everything she expected from him—and yet so much more. His tongue stroked against hers and deep in her gut she burnt bright white heat, her belly tightened.

This was purely physical. Nothing more. But for once it was so good to feel the warmth of strong arms holding her, making her believe that for a small selfish moment she didn’t have to face everything on her own. Making her forget everything. Apart from this. Him.