When Chocolate Is Not Enough... (11 page)

Daisy sucked in a breath, because the way his eyes were totally focused on hers was making her dizzy, and the fact that he was holding out a sugar bowl at the same time only served to confuse her more.

‘So let me get this straight.’ She blinked and waved away the sugar. ‘First of all you have dragged me down to this back-of-beyond cottage, which took me ages to find, only to tell me that you expect me to make the chocolate. And now I find out that you expect
me
to stay the night so that I can …’

‘Work on the recipes first thing in the morning with fresh chocolate. I thought that it would save you the long drive to London tonight and then back again in the morning,’ Max replied with a smile in his voice, and passed her a steaming hot mug of tea.

Daisy broke eye contact and shook her head slowly from side to side, aware that her mouth had fallen open. She closed it with a snap. ‘You do know that you are impossible, don’t you? Contrary to common belief, not all women are mind-readers.’ She waved the fingers of her right hand across her brow. ‘Unless
someone says the actual words, I have no way of knowing what is going on in that brain of yours. Which leaves me only one question.’

‘Please—ask away,’ Max replied, lifting his coffee towards her.

‘Do you have any other great thoughts that you want to share with me? Because I have no intention of staying the night. And I certainly have not come here to cook the chocolate.’

Daisy glanced around the tiny space around her, which was devoid of anything remotely resembling a worktop or catering equipment.

She was used to pristine shiny stainless steel counters, like the ones at Barone and in Tara’s catering unit. Right now the best she was going to find was a wooden butcher’s block and this small kitchen table.

The contrast was so enormous it wasn’t even funny.

‘Do you even have an oven that works? Because it is has taken me a year to collect together all of the specialist chocolatier’s equipment I need at Tara’s, and I am very picky about where I cook. Very. Picky. I had planned to spend most of tomorrow experimenting with the chocolate in a few standard recipes. In my own kitchen. Using my own equipment.’

She lowered her forearms back to the table, lifted her chin and stared at him down her
nose. She could only do that because he had slouched down in his seat and was, for once, lower than she was.

‘But to do that I need to have a couple of kilos of this amazing chocolate I have been promised. No chocolate. No cooking. No contest. Am I getting through to you? Max? Because I suggest that we make the chocolate first, before we move onto grandiose plans of what to cook with it.’

In the silence that followed his eyes remained completely focused on the cup of black coffee he was holding, blowing on its surface.

It left plenty of time for her to attune herself to his body, and the way it responded to tiny changes in his movement.

The muscles in his arms below the sleeves of his small, tight T-shirt flexed and twitched in the action, and her poor heart thumped in tune with every beat of the pulse she could see in his neck. The faint breeze coming in through the kitchen window did nothing to dissipate the heat of this broad-shouldered man sitting only inches away, who was still looking at his coffee with those laser blue eyes.

And it annoyed her enormously that she felt a twinge of jealousy that he was not looking at her with that much rapt attention.

The seconds stretched and Daisy breathed in slowly, inhaling a complex blend of man, the floral perfume from the climbing musk roses which cascaded down around the window outside, and the old wood of the cottage. Dust and the scent of fresh-cut grass from his clothes wafted towards her as he shuffled on his seat, tilted his chair back and reached backwards for a small metal tin on the pine wood dresser to his side.

Unfortunately for Daisy that meant his body stretched back. His T-shirt lifted to display more of those tight abs, and the muscles inside his trousers clenched hard to keep him balanced.

That was more than could be said for her heart-rate.

Desperately trying to find something—anything—to distract her, Daisy clutched hold of her tea and took a long sip. And then another.

‘Try one of these,’ Max finally said, as the front legs of his chair reconnected with the tile floor. ‘Make you feel a lot better.’

Not so sure about that, Daisy thought, drinking down even more tea, and then realised that Max was holding out a biscuit tin.

She peered inside and saw two fairycakes in paper cases. There was a crude dollop of icing on the top of each one, and pink and
purple sprinkles. So, all in all, just about the last thing she would have expected.

What was this man doing to her? How many more surprises did he have up his sleeve?

Just when she thought she had a grip he did something which whipped the carpet out from under her feet.

She picked up one of the cakes and stared at it for a second, before peeling off the paper and biting into it.

‘In case you were wondering, Freya and her schoolfriend decided to have a dolls’ house tea party yesterday, just before I took off. So I rustled up some super-quick little cakes before her mother caught me messing up her kitchen. The girls enjoyed them.’

He pointed at the remains of her cake, which was halfway between the table and her mouth.

‘They may not be chef quality, but what do you think? I did try to follow the instructions on the packet, but they were rather vague and my lovely daughter was no help at all.’

Think? She was expected to
think
? And judge fairycakes? That he’d made from a packet mix?

Oh, why did he have to make fairycakes for his daughter? That was a totally unfair advantage.

Of course there was no way that he could know that some of her most precious family memories were of when her dad had made fairycakes and mini-scones for dolls’ tea parties with her mother. Then her mother had died and there had been just the two of them against the world, but standing in that kitchen licking cake batter from a wooden spoon had somehow made it all better.

There was no way for Max to know that. How could he? They had only just met. He did not know a thing about her life and the bumpy road she had travelled to be sitting at this table. Winning this contest could open up all kinds of doors to achieving her dream—and all he could offer her was a packet fairycake.

What
was
it about him that made it impossible for her to stay grumpy with him? It was so very annoying. Especially when he was giving her his last fairycake.

‘Actually, I come from a family of bakers,’ she replied. ‘So I can honestly say that …’

‘Yes?’ He winced. ‘Go on. I can take it.’ He flashed her one of those ‘oh-lord-please-do-not-do-that-again-because-my-poor-heart-won’t-be-able-to-take-it’ smiles that lit up the room and made the air between them in this small room seem even hotter.

‘Considering that you made them yesterday, and they have probably been bashed around
a little between here and London, your tea party cakes are … not bad. Not bad at all. For a packet mix.’

His reply was a smile filled with such genuine pleasure and delight that she could not help but smile back.

‘Really? Thanks.’

‘Do you often cook with Freya?’ Daisy asked as her fingers carefully folded up the paper case into triangles. ‘She must love that you take time out to do that with her.’

Daisy was too busy for a few seconds whisking away cake crumbs to notice that Max had not replied, and she glanced up. Then her hands stilled. Because in that split second she had looked at him his face had twisted into an expression of such pain and regret that she wondered if he was physically in pain. And then his eyebrows and jaw relaxed and the pain was gone, but the temperature of the air between them seemed to have dropped several degrees. She already missed the man who had been enjoying his cake only a few minutes earlier.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘Headache?’

The fingers of his right hand tapped out a beat on the wooden table. ‘Nothing that spending more time with my little girl wouldn’t cure. But it’s her birthday next week—we’ll have a great time.’

Oh, how stupid of her. Max was divorced. And his ex-wife had a boyfriend. No—he had said fiancé earlier. Ouch. Being a single dad was hard enough, without his daughter being presented with a new stepdad. Double ouch. That had to be difficult—especially when Max lived in the Caribbean.

Her foolish heart reminded her of her dad, and how precious their one-to-one time had been when she got back from school and the shop closed for the day.

She only hoped that Freya and Max had that kind of relationship during the short time they spent together.

‘I hope she likes her chocolate rabbits.’

‘And the rabbit poo. How could I forget that?’

He looked up, and his face relaxed just a little more until it was almost back to normal as he smiled across the table at her.

And in that instant Daisy felt that same tug of connection between them that she had sensed in the restaurant twist tighter and tighter, as though a great wheel was being turned inside her stomach, drawing her closer and closer to Max with an invisible rope which she could not possibly break. The feeling was so intense that when he spoke every other sound in the room and the garden outside
seemed to fade away, and his words reverberated inside her chest and head.

‘We both have our own reasons for making this chocolate today. So let’s give this our best shot. Besides …’ He smiled. ‘Dolores will be missing us.’

Max stood back from the mixer and stretched his right arm out high above his head, to try and relieve the tension that had been building up over the past few hours.

They had worked so hard—both of them—but Daisy was still not happy with the chocolate.

The good news was that Dolores had decided that she loved them again once Max had managed to find the instruction manual that had been supplied with the mixer. Of course the electrical settings had been written in French, so Daisy had had to translate as best she could, but with much prodding of buttons and exasperated stomping they had finally found the programme that matched what they were trying to achieve. Molten chocolate paste. Smooth, refined and delicious.

The even better news was that Daisy had stayed with him every step of the way, cheering when the paddles started moving the way they should, and standing shoulder to shoulder with him when his digital thermometer gave
up and the cocoa liquor looked more like lava than a luxury ingredient. She had never given up or run off screaming.

Rolling his shoulders backwards, Max paused for a second to watch Daisy. She was standing with her stomach resting on the worktop, her body hunched over the tiny sample pots which she sniffed and tasted. Her hands were in constant motion, noting down the subtle differences in each blend they had so carefully prepared.

He was close enough to see the way her red hair curled up at the base of her neck in the heat, and the cute way her lips came together as she concentrated on the sample she was holding in her hand.

He came across to lean one hand on the worktop, inhaling the intoxicating blend of perfumes on her skin. She smelt of everything good in his world. Vanilla. Spice and chocolate. Very good chocolate.

She was really quite remarkable.

‘I don’t understand it. We have already tried three variations on this formula, and if I add more vanilla the sweet creaminess will mask the spice in the cocoa … What?’

She half turned to look at him; as though she had been talking to herself and forgotten he was there.

This girl needed a break—and there might be something he could do to help.

‘Daisy? A suggestion. Why don’t we go outside and take in some fresh air for a few minutes? I don’t know about you, but my tastebuds are exhausted. It might do us both good to have a quick break away from all these flavourings.’

Daisy looked past Max at the containers where their previous batches were cooling and blinked. ‘That is the best idea I have heard for a while. I had forgotten how overwhelming the smell of chocolate can be when you are making up such large quantities.’

She gave him a quick nod and a smile, then her shoulders seemed to slump with tiredness.

‘I shall need a local guide to recommend the finest viewpoints,’ she continued in a pretend serious voice. ‘And a chair would be wonderful.’

Max responded by taking her elbow and guiding her to the garage door. ‘I shall be happy to oblige on both counts.’ And then he stopped as Daisy came to an abrupt halt. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘The sun is almost setting. Wow. I had no idea it was this late.’

‘Best time of the day. Here. Try this for a viewpoint. And it even has a seat.’

Max pointed to an old wooden bench which
Daisy had not even noticed on her mad dash that afternoon from the kitchen to the workshop. It was half hidden in a tiny arc of flowering bushes and potted plants which almost covered the surface of a small paved patio area. Completely secluded and separated from the cottage by a low hedge, it was a perfect private space.

And quiet. So quiet and peaceful that when Max sat down next to her she did not think it bizarre that he was happy to lean back against the carved wood, his legs outstretched, so that they could both sit and enjoy the last warm rays of the sun on their faces before it set below the trees.

A pair of black swifts calling to each other above her head broke the reverie.

‘What a lovely spot,’ Daisy murmured after a few minutes. ‘I can see why you would want to come back here.’

Max closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wooden bench, so that when he spoke it was as though his words were addressed to the sky.

‘The first time I saw this garden I was fourteen years old and had just arrived from St Lucia after a nightmare flight. My parents had been killed in a car crash and my grandmother was my designated guardian. It was January. I was angry, bitter, and so cold I thought I was
going to freeze to death. Which at the time felt like a far better option than trying to come to terms with the shock of being taken away from everything I knew.’