Just Desserts

Just Desserts

(Book 3 of the Sweet Temptation series)

ASHLEY LISTER

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This novella is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.mischiefbooks.com

An eBook Original 2015

1

Copyright © Ashley Lister 2015

Ashley Lister asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

eBook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007579570

Version: 2015-08-17

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

More from Mischief

About the Publisher

1

‘…if any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or for ever hold your peace.’

Father Truman paused and stared out at the wedding party.

The silence in the restaurant was so thick it was almost tangible.

It was not the first wedding that had been performed in Boui-Boui. Trudy had catered for several weddings where the bride and groom had asked to use the Michelin-starred facilities for their marriage. With its envied reputation, its associations with local celebrity and its trademark chintzy decor, Boui-Boui was a desirable location for such an important event.

Trudy recognised the priest. Father Truman was the local minister who had officiated at two or three previous marriages. He was a charming man and seemed to take genuine pleasure from being able to bring a couple together through the wedding service. But Trudy didn’t think she could warm to the man on this occasion.

Father Truman’s expectant silence continued.

Harvey Walker, the best man, stared out at those gathered. He looked resplendent in his morning suit. With black tails over a silver waistcoat, he held his top hat in one hand and wore a proud smile. Trudy thought he was looking for Charlotte, to give her a warming smile. The couple seemed to have been smiling at each other a lot recently.

His gaze fell on Trudy. His proud smile saddened a little.

Trudy warned herself that she wouldn’t cry.

Imogen, the maid of honour, chewed her lower lip nervously. She looked like a woman who didn’t care about the impending photographs. Her gaze flitted constantly between the bride, the groom and the priest. Her eye make-up, heavy and dark, had already been smudged by tears.

The restaurant was crowded. As the expectant silence stretched, a handful of guests shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. On table thirteen, Daryl leant close to Trudy’s ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘You should say something.’

Trudy tried to push her away and silently shush her. She was loath to admit that she had been thinking the same thing.

‘Just clear your throat and cough,’ Daryl suggested. Her voice was incredibly soft. Her words were obscenely tempting. ‘It would be enough to let the bastard know that he shouldn’t have treated you so badly.’

‘Not now,’ Trudy insisted.

‘I’ll do it,’ Daryl promised. ‘I’ll shout out and say he shouldn’t be marrying that hatchet-faced bitch. He should be marrying you. Just give me a nod and I’ll do it.’

Trudy’s cheeks had turned crimson. She fretted that, in the service’s inescapable silence, everyone would hear Daryl’s outraged whisperings and might understand the embarrassment of what had happened. The idea of all Bill’s friends and family knowing about her shame was unthinkable.

‘Daryl,’ she warned softly.

‘Very well,’ the priest declared, breaking the silence. He turned to the bride and said, ‘Do you, Aliceon Johnson, take William Hart to be your lawful wedded husband?’

Trudy didn’t hear the rest of what was being said. She was too busy chastising herself for not taking Daryl’s advice. She should have halted the ceremony. She should have screamed and wailed. She should have shouted, ‘You can’t marry her. You can’t marry her because I love you and I thought you loved me.’

An hour later and the ceremony was concluded, the speeches had been mercifully drawn to a close and most of the buffet had been consumed. Guests were milling and mingling whilst an overly enthusiastic DJ encouraged everyone to take their place on the dance floor.

Daryl was in the arms of her latest girlfriend, Beatrice. Even though the music around them was loud and upbeat, the pair gyrated slowly together as though listening to a sultry ballad that only they could hear. Daryl was wearing peach colours for the wedding and they complemented the pastel greens worn by her partner. Beatrice’s gown was worn off the shoulder, revealing a yin-yang tattoo.

Daryl kept touching the tattoo as they danced.

It was only a small detail but it made Trudy happy for the pair of them when she noticed the intimacy. Their relationship had been swift but it looked close and she thought it was destined to last. Trudy empathised. Both of the women were slender and blonde and attractive. They looked like a perfect match as they rocked and swayed to the rhythm of unheard music.

Trudy had to wrench her gaze away. The acrid taste of jealousy was rising in her throat. She wasn’t particularly attracted to women but she found herself envying Daryl and Beatrice for the happiness they were sharing and she didn’t want to feel envious of something that was obviously so special.

‘How are you coping?’ Charlotte asked.

Charlotte wore an Alexander McQueen creation. It was light cotton, as white as the bride’s wedding gown, and its tailored cut accentuated the balance of Charlotte’s slim waist between her broad hips and ample bosom. Her brunette tresses were down to her shoulders and the ‘V’ above her nose was deep as she scowled with concern at Trudy.

Harvey stood next to her, his arm linked in hers. He looked equally concerned and waited patiently for Trudy to say, probably for the hundredth time that day, that she was fine and well and bearing up under the circumstances. She had practised the line so many times she could now almost say the words without feeling as though she was about to burst into tears.

Almost.

‘Do you need a drink?’ Charlotte asked.

Trudy shook her head. She was avoiding alcohol today. The day’s events were proof that she could make poor decisions. She didn’t need to take on alcohol to help further impair her judgement.

‘Something to eat?’ Harvey pressed.

‘I’ll get something for myself, thanks.’

She excused herself from their well-meaning interest and went to the buffet table. None of the remaining sandwiches appealed to her. She walked past most of the savouries without giving them much attention. Her interest, as always, was focused on the desserts.

She had glimpsed a selection of muffins on display and she wanted to investigate further. She nudged the fuchsia-haired maître d’ and asked, ‘Nikki, are those what I think they are?’

Nikki glanced at the display.

‘Kali’s mini carrot cakes?’

Trudy released a sigh. Kali was Boui-Boui’s resident pâtissier. Trudy had heard rumours about the woman’s legendary mini carrot cakes but she hadn’t previously had a chance to sample one. She took out her smartphone and snapped a couple of shots of the desserts before Nikki could raise an objection.

‘I thought she’d stopped making them,’ Trudy mumbled.

‘She had. But this is a special occasion.’

Trudy stepped closer to admire them. ‘Have you tried one yet?’

‘I’m working. Give me credit for some professionalism.’

Trudy picked up one of the mini carrot cakes. She had heard several people talk about the pâtissier’s speciality muffins, but Kali had never made one while Trudy worked in the kitchen.

The dark golden sponge suggested brown sugar as well as the addition of various rich, exotic spices. Inhaling their bouquet Trudy caught a note of coriander and a suggestion of nutmeg. The surface of the mini-cake was hidden beneath a smooth white layer of icing, decorated by curly slivers of orange zest.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ asked Nikki. ‘Or are you trying to sniff the flavour out?’

Trudy grinned. ‘I’ll eat it in a moment. First, I want to admire its beauty.’

She did take a bite, and enjoyed the rush of flavours and textures. The muffin was incredibly light and surprisingly moist. Trudy tried to occupy her thoughts by identifying the blend of mixed spices, the creaminess of the pecan nuts and the hints of orange and sultana that accompanied the subtle carrot flavouring.

It was a sensational taste experience. It was as good as any muffin she had ever made, and far better than some of those she’d sampled. Although Trudy knew Kali was good, the pâtissier was so quiet and modest about her achievements it always surprised Trudy each time she rediscovered the quality of the woman’s creations.

To Trudy’s mind, the only problem with the muffin was that it felt a little oily on her fingers.

She tried to work out how that could be addressed and eliminated. She re-examined the flavours to work out what fats had been used, her brow furrowing with concentration. If she was able to make something similar without the oiliness, Trudy thought her online catering company, Sweet Temptation, might be able to produce and supply a similar mini carrot cake to go with their current range of quality desserts. She also thought, if she was able to get a recipe out of the day, or at least expand her company’s product range by a single item, her attendance at the wedding would not have been the heartbreaking, soul-destroying trauma she had initially feared.

‘Trudy! There you are.’

Trudy fixed a grin to her face as she turned to smile at the bride. This was one aspect of the heartbreaking, soul-destroying trauma she had been wanting to avoid.

Aliceon looked beautiful in her silver-white gown. She was a tall woman with a willowy frame that looked like it was sculpted to model wedding dresses. Since she had now married Bill three times, Trudy thought, the woman could apply for a job as wedding-dress model, given all the amateur experience she had gathered over the years. She quietly chastised herself for the unkind thought and reminded herself that Aliceon did not deserve her animosity.

‘Congratulations, Mrs Hart,’ Trudy said cordially.

She put the mini carrot cake down and embraced Aliceon. It took an effort of willpower not to wipe the oily residue from her fingers on the back of Aliceon’s flawless wedding dress. But Trudy figured she was mature enough to resist such impulses. She would wait to wipe her hands clean until she was politely hugging Bill in his pristine morning suit.

‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ Trudy told Aliceon.

‘I know,’ Aliceon admitted. She twirled in her dress and said, ‘It’s a Caroline Herrera. Who couldn’t look gorgeous in a dress like this?’

Trudy smiled and nodded. Imogen, Aliceon’s daughter, had been sufficiently impressed with the dress’s design to talk enthusiastically about it when Trudy last saw her. It was a smooth flow of ice-white satin, set with snowy white lace and shiny white pearls. Regardless of how she felt about the woman, Trudy had to agree that Aliceon did look sensational.

‘Imogen looked very lovely as your maid of honour,’ Trudy said. ‘Where is she?’

‘I think she was getting the baby to rest in Bill’s office.’

Trudy thanked her and started toward the kitchen.

Aliceon placed a hand on Trudy’s arm, stopping her. She fixed her with a solemn stare and said, ‘Thank you, Trudy. It is appreciated.’

Trudy shook her head. ‘You have no need to thank me.’

Aliceon’s knowing smile creased the corners of her eyes. She released her hold on Trudy’s arm and stepped away.

An elderly, bearded man stepped in front of her. His expression was kindly. His eyes sparkled behind his small, wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Are you holding one of Kali’s mini carrot cakes?’

‘Finlay,’ she smiled.

She hugged him harder than was needed. His was one of the few friendly faces she had seen today that wasn’t studying her with an expression of pitying dismay. Finlay, always the professional, seemed more concerned with the dessert she held.

‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘Is it one of Kali’s mini carrot cakes?’

She nodded. ‘Have you tried one yet?’

‘I’ve tried six,’ he admitted. ‘I’m still trying to work out some of the ingredients.’

They talked their way through the flavours, each interrupting the other in their haste to be the first to identify all the ingredients. Both of them had detected nutmeg and allspice. Trudy mentioned the walnuts whilst Finlay talked about the pecans.

‘I could have sworn I tasted cardamom in there,’ Trudy said.

Finlay slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Cardamom,’ he muttered. ‘Of course. Now that you’ve said it I know that’s what it is.’

She nodded, pleased she had named a spice that had eluded him.

Finlay’s grin faltered as he studied her face. He shook his head and considered her with sudden solemnity. ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong with that man.’ He nodded towards the centre of the room where the wedding vows had been blessed. Trudy knew he was talking about Bill. ‘I don’t understand why he’s let someone as special as you slip through his fingers.’

Trudy blushed and looked away.

Finlay cleared his throat and glanced toward the buffet stand. She could see he had decided to change the subject, away from the uncomfortable area of personal matters and back to safer exchanges about flavours. ‘I’ll go and get myself a couple of those mini carrot cakes whilst there’s still some left,’ he said. ‘It appears some greedy sod has been eating them faster than they can be put out here.’

Trudy gave him a rueful grin.

‘I’ll order you a consignment of the spices you’ll need,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I can tell you’re desperate to try making these for Sweet Temptation.’

She was not surprised he had guessed her motives. She watched his formidable bulk meander easily back to the buffet table and Nikki’s resigned greeting.

‘That would be great,’ she whispered.

It pained her to know that Finlay was thinking of her as the wronged woman.

She pushed the back of her hand against the corner of her eye, trying to stop the threat of tears before there were any streaks in her mascara. Moving purposefully, she hurried towards the kitchen, desperate to find Imogen and baby Bill. She hadn’t wanted to come to the wedding but she had known it would look churlish if she simply declined the invitation.

She almost made it without being stopped. She kept to the sides of the room, avoiding eye contact with anyone. Her single mission was to see Imogen and then make an escape from the whole nightmare scenario of the wedding.

A pair of blondes stepped in front of Trudy, blocking her way.

Trudy tried hard not to groan.

‘Are you ready to blow this joint?’ Daryl asked.

Beatrice laughed. It was not a pleasant sound and Trudy thought she could detect an edge of cruelty beneath the mirth. ‘“Blow this joint”?’ Beatrice repeated. ‘Are you trying to make yourself sound butch and macho?’

‘Do you want me to be butch and macho?’ Daryl asked.

Within an instant they were kissing again.

Beatrice had a way of kissing Daryl, holding her face with both hands. Daryl pulled the woman into her embrace and rested one hand on Beatrice’s yin-yang tattoo. It was an intimate way to deliver a kiss and Trudy could see it was enough to capture all of Daryl’s attention.

She took the opportunity to step quietly past the pair.

‘I’ll catch up with you in a minute,’ she said. She wasn’t sure they heard. By way of explanation she added, ‘I need to see Imogen before I leave.’

Daryl broke her kiss with Beatrice and called after her, ‘Don’t leave without us. I’ve got a date organised for you when we get home.’

Trudy shuddered. Daryl’s attempts at matchmaking were fast becoming a problem. She stumbled into the kitchen, relieved to have escaped the sound of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ and the clatter of shouted conversations.

The kitchens were all but empty, manned by a solitary plongeur wiping down surfaces. He nodded a polite greeting to her. Trudy said hello as she walked towards the office in the centre of the kitchen. She was hoping to find Imogen so she could give her a quick hug and tell her how splendid she had looked as maid of honour. Stepping into the office she saw Imogen was just resting her baby on the couch.

‘Trudy,’ Imogen said carefully. ‘I thought I saw you earlier.’

She didn’t smile. Her behaviour seemed a little stilted. Her eyes were wide and she was staring unhappily. At first Trudy thought she’d done something to upset her friend. It was only when she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her that she realised Imogen was staring unhappily at a figure in a shadowy corner of the room.

Trudy didn’t dare follow the line of the woman’s gaze. In truth, she didn’t need to. She already knew who would be standing there.

‘Trudy?’

She recognised his voice immediately.

He looked resplendent. His jacket was currently wrapped around his grandson, Imogen’s baby, but its absence only made him look more dashing. He wore a silver waistcoat over a crisp white shirt and it hugged his broad physique. His hair, the colour of polished steel, shone almost as brightly as the glint in his diamond-blue eyes. When his gaze met hers a smile faltered uncertainly on his lips.

Don’t you dare smile at me, she thought bitterly. Don’t you dare smile.

It made sense that he would have been spending five minutes chatting with his daughter in his own office. She didn’t know why the sound of his voice was so shocking but she supposed it was because she hadn’t wanted to talk with him today. At the back of her mind she had figured a meeting would be inevitable but she had hoped the encounter would be somewhere busy, made unimportant by a crowd of acquaintances, in a location that was sterile, without any personal associations.

This was a room where they’d had sex half a dozen times.

This was a room where they’d spent countless working nights discussing business and passions and unrealised futures. And this was a room from which it looked like Imogen was trying to make a discreet exit.

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ Imogen began.

‘No need,’ Trudy said stiffly. She turned to Bill and said, ‘Congratulations.’

‘I didn’t –’ he began.

She didn’t let him finish but held up a hand, cutting him off, and turned to Imogen. ‘I’m just about to head home with Daryl and Beatrice. They’ve organised a date for me this evening. I just wanted to say that I thought you looked beautiful today.’

Imogen’s smile was genuine and broad. She started to say a thank-you but Bill was speaking over her.

‘You’re going on a date with Daryl and that model? Have you turned gay?’

She turned to face him. ‘I’m going on a date,’ she told him. ‘Straight or gay, what business is it of yours, Bill?’

His shoulders slumped. He nodded defeat and turned away. As soon as he stepped out of the office Imogen was speaking in his defence. ‘There were circumstances,’ she explained. ‘If you knew why he married her –’

‘Are you still working at Finlay’s shop in the morning?’ Trudy asked.

Imogen said she was.

‘I’ll probably see you there tomorrow. He’s organising a consignment of spices for a new product I’ll be working on. We can talk more then.’

‘Aren’t you staying for the evening celebrations?’

Trudy shook her head. The question was asked with such obvious concern she didn’t dare say another word for fear of bursting into tears.

‘Are you OK?’ Imogen asked.

Even though she’d practised her response until the words should have been automatic, Trudy wasn’t going to attempt them this time. She nodded, turned abruptly and rushed out of the office and into the kitchen.

At first she thought her body was trembling with the threat of tears. It was only as an afterthought that she realised her mobile was vibrating to alert her to the fact that she’d received a text message. She’d put the phone on silent as a courtesy for the wedding ceremony. Reading as she walked, anxious to get away from Boui-Boui and the rest of the guests who might come and ask her if she was fine, or OK, or bearing up, she inwardly cursed when she saw the message had come from Donny.

I hear your sugar-grandpa just married one his former wives. LOL.

A tear spilled down her cheek and sliced through her mascara.

2

There were flowers waiting on the doorstep of Eldorado when she returned. Beatrice grabbed them and exclaimed over their beauty. A bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses, in a nest of lush green fern and vibrant white Baby’s Breath. They reminded Trudy of the last bouquet of flowers she had received. Those had been a bad omen.

‘These are beautiful,’ Beatrice called. She read the card and passed them to Daryl. ‘It says they’re for Trudy.’

Daryl passed the flowers to Trudy.

Trudy put the bouquet in the recycling bin.

Beatrice exclaimed in shock but Daryl placed a hand on her arm. Whatever questions Beatrice had been about to raise were silenced by the way Daryl firmly shook her head.

Trudy unlocked the door and they all stepped inside.

The walls were a mixture of magnolias, oatmeals and beige colours that made the open-plan arrangement of the downstairs appear spacious. The floors were polished wood. The furniture was light-coloured leather. Only the TV and the kitchen fittings, shiny and silver, gave any suggestion of a break in the bland colour scheme.