Tempted by Trouble (9 page)

‘I suspect Henry would sell up to a sheikh or a pop star like a shot if he could, but he's stuck with it. It's my job to ensure that it doesn't cost them anything.'

‘And the marital merry-go-round?' she probed gently.

‘Not for me, Elle. I've seen enough marriage break-ups and confused, hurting kids to put me off the institution for good. I'm not about to join the party and add to the mayhem,' he warned her.

‘Does your girlfriend know how you feel?'

‘Girlfriend? Do you mean Charlotte?'

‘If she's the dim one who believes that water will ruin linen, then yes.'

He laughed, enjoying the fact that she could be as catty as the next woman. ‘Charlotte isn't my girlfriend. She's just a friend I sleep with occasionally. After her performance on Saturday, she's not even that.'

‘A friend?' she asked. ‘Or a sleeping partner?'

He looked at her. Her eyebrow was quirked up, but he suspected the question was more than casual interest. The thought warmed him.

‘I don't do the second without the first,' he said, holding her gaze. ‘And my friends don't usually take out their temper on someone who can't fight back.'

‘Who?' She frowned, then, as the penny dropped, ‘Do you mean me?'

‘Who else?' And, without warning, it was suddenly too intense, too important. He pulled a face, managed a grin. ‘Who knew that Freddy isn't ever going to sack you?'

‘Oh, very funny,' she said, pulling away from his arm to gather up the plates and mugs. ‘Come on. It's time to show me how to make the perfect ice cream cone.'

Sean, a cold space where a moment before there had been a warm woman, found himself wishing his half-brother and her ice cream to the devil. Wishing that he had the afternoon to show her the river.

There was no need to talk when you were drifting along with the current, letting it push you into the bank in some quiet place where you could forget about everything but the girl in your arms.

 

‘All you have to do is press this button and the machine dispenses exactly the right amount of ice cream.' Sean was standing behind her, one hand over hers as she held a cone poised
beneath the nozzle. With his other hand, he pressed the button and moved the cone beneath it as the ice cream descended.

It was hard enough to concentrate with his arms around her but then, as he leaned over her shoulder and took a mouthful of the result, his chin grazed her temple and she turned to look at him.

‘Your turn,' he said.

‘My turn?'

A smear of ice cream decorated his top lip. Without thinking, her reflex was to lick her own lip as she imagined how it would feel to lick it off. How it would taste. How
he
would taste…

For a moment she thought he was going to bend lower so that she could, but instead he dropped his free hand so that his arms were tight around her, took possession of the ice he'd made and replaced it with an empty cone.

‘You try,' he urged, his hand still around hers, holding it steady.

Right. Ice cream.

He'd made it look deceptively easy but, with that image in her head, with him pressed against her back, she couldn't concentrate.

Her first attempt was more splodge than swirl, most of which would have fallen off if she hadn't caught it in the palm of her hand as it tilted sideways. He turned and reached for a bowl he'd had the foresight to bring with him and she dropped in the mess, took the damp cloth, ditto, and wiped her hands.

‘You've done this before,' she said.

‘I remember the mess I made of the first few, but practice makes perfect. The secret, as with most things, is not to rush it.'

‘Absolutely.' She could pipe cream on a dessert and this couldn't be any harder than that. But when she'd piped cream in the Blue Boar kitchen she hadn't had Sean standing so close that she could feel his breath stirring her hair.

‘Maybe if I try it myself,' she suggested, then instantly
regretted it as he stepped back, leaning against the counter, regarding her with eyes that seemed darker today.

She forced herself to turn away from the sight of his tongue curling slowly, sensuously around the ice cream, although, even with her back turned, the image remained, burned bright against her retinas. That was probably why it took her four more attempts before she produced a perfect cone.

‘You're a fast learner,' he said as she finally indulged herself, letting the cool ice slide down her throat. Rosie had been standing in the shade, but it was still hot inside, even with the service window slid back. ‘After your first effort I thought it would take most of the tank before you got it.'

‘How many ices is that?'

‘About twenty to a carton, I think.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,' she said wryly.

‘I should warn you that when you take Rosie to kids' parties you'll need plenty of hand wipes because they'll all want to have a go.'

‘You're quite the expert,' she commented.

‘Hardly that, but my niece and all her friends did. Yet another reason why Basil left me to it. I was plastered in ice cream, chocolate sauce and just about everything else in that cupboard by the time they'd finished.'

‘How old is she?'

‘Daisy? Six.' He glanced at her. ‘Why are you smiling?'

She shook her head. ‘I was just imagining you swarmed with little girls all wanting you to show them how to make their own ices.'

‘It was no laughing matter,' he said. But his mouth was calling him a liar. ‘Believe me, I needed a very large Scotch afterwards to settle my nerves.'

‘I don't think so.'

She was beginning to get the measure of Sean McElroy and she'd bet he'd been brilliant with them. Any boy who'd get mad enough about one dead duckling to take on the task of keeping the river safe for wildlife would surely grow up to be an ace
uncle. A great dad, too, if only he dared to take the risk. Trust himself and come in from the cold.

Although definitely not with Charlotte. He was well rid of her.

She mentally slapped herself. The woman had been fighting for what was hers. It was what any woman would do. Not that it made any difference. The blonde was totally wrong for him. Or was that the point? If he was avoiding commitment, there was safety in being with someone so wrong.

‘Why are you smiling?' he asked.

‘Just thinking about you. And girls.'

‘Don't say you haven't been warned,' he said, assuming she was talking about little ones. Probably just as well.

‘You can come along and say I told you so, if you like.'

‘You've got me for Saturday. Be content with that.'

‘Saturday? But…'

‘But?'

‘Nothing.'

Everything.

The whole point of him coming along on Saturday was to show her how to operate the machinery and then take Rosie away afterwards. But he'd already shown her how to produce the perfect ice. And Rosie wasn't going anywhere until Elle had fulfilled Basil's promises.

He was still waiting and she pulled her shoulders together in what she hoped was a careless shrug.

‘You don't have to come on Saturday now. Not unless you want to,' she added. Which was ridiculous. Why would a grown man want to spend Saturday afternoon dishing out ice cream?

He finished the cone, straightened. ‘You really hate taking help, don't you?'

‘Me? No…'

‘You do everything. Run the house, cook, work all hours to keep everyone. You don't even want your sister to take a part-time job.'

‘She's in her first year at college,' she protested.

‘Most students have no choice, Elle. They have to get part-time work to support themselves. It looks good on their CV when they start looking for a job.'

‘Not working as a waitress at the Blue Boar.' Although, according to Sorrel, she could do a lot better than that. ‘It's important for her to concentrate on her studies. Make something of her life.'

‘Because you missed out?' She didn't answer. ‘Maybe you should be thinking about that, too. What are you going to do when they've left home?' He tucked a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up so that she couldn't avoid his searching gaze. ‘What about
your
dreams, Elle?'

She swallowed. Right now, with him standing this close, there was only one dream in her head and it had nothing to do with cupcakes.

‘I'll think about that when they're both through college.'

He shrugged, let go, stood back. ‘Fine. Be a martyr if that's what you want.' She'd scarcely had time to draw breath and object before he added, ‘They won't thank you for it and you're not going to be much use to them if you break down trying to do everything.'

‘I'm not being a martyr,' she declared. She was just doing what had to be done. ‘I'm all they've got.'

‘Geli is as old as you were when you took on responsibility for the family.'

‘Are you saying that I've done my bit and now I should offload it onto her?' she demanded.

‘No.' Then, ‘Ignore me. I don't know what I'm talking about. Just accept that, like it or lump it, you've got me on Saturday. It'll be a long afternoon,' he said before she could object—and she really should object. ‘Anything could go wrong.'

‘Thanks. That really fills me with confidence.'

‘You'll be fine. You just need a little practice on some real customers. Come on. You can give away some ice cream. Make a few people happy.'

‘But…'

‘The alternative is throwing it away so that I can show you how to dismantle the machinery for cleaning,' he warned.

‘Haven't you got to get back to your meeting?' she asked, close to caving in.

‘I'll meet, you serve and then we'll come back here and finish the lesson.'

He didn't give her time to argue, or consider what lesson he had in mind, but climbed behind the wheel and headed back in the direction of the Manor. As they got nearer, he said, ‘Time to drum up some custom.'

‘Does that mean I get to play the jingle?'

‘You'll have to learn how, first.'

‘Okay,' she said, looking over the dashboard. ‘What do I push?'

‘Push?'

‘I assumed there'd be a button or something. To start the disk?'

‘Disk? Please! This is a vintage vehicle, madam. Built before the age of seat belts and the Internet,' he said.

‘Oh, right. The Dark Ages. So, what do you do?'

‘This,' he said, taking hold of a handle beside him in the driver's door. ‘You wind it up here, then switch it on and off here.' He demonstrated and a ripple of ‘Greensleeves' filled the air. ‘Your turn.'

Elle regarded the far door. To reach the chime she'd have to lean right across Sean. Get dangerously close to those firm thighs and what was undoubtedly a six-pack beneath the soft linen shirt he was wearing.

‘I can't reach,' she said cravenly.

He leaned back in his seat. ‘How's that?'

‘It would be far too dangerous while we're moving,' she said primly. Miss Sensible.

His response was to slow down, pull over. ‘We're not moving now.'

‘It's still—'

She broke off as he put his arm around her waist and slid her across the worn, shiny seat so that she was nearer the door. Nearer to him.

‘How's that?' he asked, looking down at her. ‘Or would you like to be a little closer?'

‘Any closer and I'd be in your lap!' she said, laughing, then let out a shriek as he slid his hand beneath her knees.

‘No! I can manage,' she exclaimed. Possibly. If she didn't think about the fact that her cheek was on his shoulder, her breast mashed against his ribs, her shaky leg tight up against his rock-hard thigh.

She swallowed. Tried not to think about the warmth of his body against hers. The way his hand fitted into her waist and just how good it felt there. About the fact that she could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart. It had to be his, because hers was racketing away like a runaway train.

‘Are you sure you can reach?'

‘Mmm…' She could reach but, for some reason, she'd forgotten how to speak. ‘Do you want to give it a go, then?'

‘What?'

‘Oh, the jingle!' She would have blushed, but her entire body was already flushed from head to toe. ‘Absolutely!'

At least she'd regained control of her tongue. Whether she could keep her hand steady as she eased it through the small space between the steering wheel and an even more dangerous intimacy remained to be seen.

It felt like that party game where you threaded a loop over a wire that would buzz if you touched it. Would a buzzer go off if her wrist brushed against the denim stretched tight across his hips?

‘Got it,' she said with a little gasp as she reached safety, winding up the mechanism the way he'd shown her. Not moving, but remaining tucked up against him as the tinny notes of ‘Greensleeves' once more floated out across the parkland.

It was over too soon.

‘Again?' he asked and she laughed, looked up and her eager
yes died on her lips as she realised that his mouth was mere inches from her own.

This close, in this light, she could see a deep crease at the corner of his mouth that must once have been a dimple, tiny flecks of green in the blue, giving his eyes the colour of the sea on a perfect day. The scar above his left brow.

The potent scent of his warm skin overlaid with vanilla was making her light-headed and she reached out, traced the jagged line of it with the tip of her finger.

‘How did you get this?'

‘I can't remember. Maybe it was when I fell out of a tree.'

‘Ouch.'

‘Or when I crashed my bike.'

She caught her lip.

‘Or in one of those playground fights. It still hurts a bit,' he added. ‘If you felt like you wanted to kiss it better.'