Anything but Vanilla

chapter FOUR



Man cannot live on ice cream alone. Women are tougher.

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

Sorrel was momentarily taken aback by his frankness. But only momentarily.

‘Fortunately, Mr West, that’s not your decision to make. I’m sure Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs would be more than happy to negotiate with me if it means they’ll get their back taxes paid.’ She paused, briefly, but not long enough for him to respond. ‘You are aware that fines for non-payment are levied on a daily basis?’

‘I had heard a rumour to that effect.’

‘And, for your information, while I do keep records of the recipes that Ria has developed for my clients, they are her intellectual copyright. I can’t just hand them over to another ice-cream manufacturer and ask them to knock me up a batch.’

Always assuming she could find one who could be bothered.

It hadn’t been easy to find anyone prepared to work with her to create her very special requirements. Sorbets tinted to exactly match the embroidery on a bride’s gown. Ices the colours of a company logo, or a football-team strip. Who wouldn’t suggest she needed her head examined when asked to produce the ice cream equivalent of a cucumber sandwich, but accepted the challenge with childlike glee.

And even if she had been that unscrupulous, there was no way she’d allow herself to be put in this position again. If Knickerbocker Gloria folded she would have to set up her own production plant from scratch. It would take time to find the right premises, source equipment, train staff and be inspected before she could be up and running. And time was the one thing she didn’t have.

And she’d still be missing the one vital ingredient that made what she offered so special. Ria.

She might very well have said the first thing that came into her head, but taking over Knickerbocker Gloria, putting it on a proper, well-managed footing, could save both Ria and Scoop! And if, in the process, she wiped that patronising expression from Alexander West’s face, then it would be worth it.

‘Not without her permission,’ she added. ‘And unless you can tell me where she is right now that is a non-starter.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Jefferson party is tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Now she had his attention.

‘I believe I mentioned that the sorbet has a very short shelf life.’

‘So you did.’

‘I wasn’t sure that you were listening.’

‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘you’ve had my undivided attention from the moment you walked in.’

‘Yes, I had noticed.’

‘If you will go around half dressed...’

Half dressed?

‘This is not half dressed! On the contrary. I’m wearing a vintage Mary Quant suit that belonged to my grandmother!’

‘Not all of it, surely?’

‘The jacket is in my van. I didn’t expect to be more than five minutes. Now, are there any more comments you’d like to make about my clothes, the hygiene headgear designed by someone who hates women or the way I run my business? Or can we get on?’

He raised his hands defensively. Then, clearly with some kind of death wish, said, ‘Your grandmother?’

‘She was a deb in the sixties. Vidal Sassoon hair, Mini car, miniskirts and, supposedly, the liberation of women.’

‘Supposedly?’

‘Since I’ve met you, I’ve discovered that we still have a long way to go. And, while we’re putting things straight, this is probably a good time to mention that any negotiations to purchase the business will be conditional on the completion of the Jefferson order.’

‘In other words,’ he said, grabbing the opportunity to get back to business, ‘you’re just stalling me out.’ He leaned back against the freezer, crossing his sinewy arms so that the muscles bunched in his biceps, tightening the sleeves of his T-shirt again. They looked so...hard. It was difficult to resist the urge to touch... ‘Until you’ve got what you want,’ he added.

‘No!’ She curled her fingers tightly into her palms. Well maybe. ‘Until I can talk to Ria.’

She knew Ria had friends in Wales from her old travelling days. She went back a couple of times a year and was probably holed up with them in a yurt, drinking nettle beer, eating goat cheese and picking wild herbs for a salad. A place that Sorrel knew, having tried to contact her there back in the summer, didn’t have a mobile-phone signal.

Right now, though, she had to deal with her gatekeeper, Alexander West. It was time to stop drooling like a teenager and act like a smart businesswoman.

‘I’ll rent the premises by the week while we negotiate terms. I will expect anything that I pay to be deducted from the sale price, of course.’ He didn’t move. ‘I’m sure the Revenue would be happy to recover at least a portion of the money owed? Or were you planning on paying it yourself?’

His silence was all the answer she needed.

‘So? Do we have a deal?’ she asked. ‘Because right now I’m firefighting a crisis that isn’t of my making and I’d really like to get on with it.’

Even as she said it she knew that wasn’t the whole truth. She was supposed to be the whiz-kid entrepreneur. It was her responsibility to ensure that delivery of the product was never compromised and it had been her intention to find a back-up supplier for Scoop!—one that could match Ria’s quality, her imagination, her passion.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone. At least not locally.

She’d done the rounds when she’d decided to launch this side of the business, looking for someone who would work with her to create the flavours, colours and quality that she wanted to offer her clients. But these were small, one-off, time-consuming special orders and only Ria had been interested.

‘Is there really no way of keeping Knickerbocker Gloria as a going concern?’ she asked, when he remained silent. ‘I really need Ria.’

‘Make me an offer I can’t refuse,’ he said, ‘and you can offer her a job.’

He shrugged as if that were it. Game over. He was wrong.

What she had in mind was a partnership. If she took care of the paperwork, kept the books in order, handled the finances—her strengths—Ria would be free to do what she did best.

‘Maybe I can come up with an offer she can’t refuse,’ she replied.

‘Don’t count on it.’ He finally pushed himself away from the freezer door, very tall and much too close. While she was sending a frantic message to her feet to move, step back out of the danger zone, he reached forward, took the hat from her hands and set it on her head at a jaunty angle, captured a stray curl that had a mind of its own and tucked it behind her ear, holding it there for a moment as if he knew that it would spring back the moment he let go. Then he shook his head. ‘You’d be better off with your hair in a net.’

‘Yes...’ Her mouth, dry as an August ditch, made all the right moves but no sound came out. She tried harder. ‘You’re right. I’ll see if I can find one. Thank—’

‘Don’t thank me. Nothing has changed. It’s just your good luck that I know Nick Jefferson.’ And it was Alexander who took a step back. ‘I’m doing this for him, not you, so you’d better deliver the best damn champagne sorbet ever.’

‘Or what?’ she asked. Clearly saying the first thing that came into her head was habit forming.

‘Or you’ll answer to me.’

Promises, promises...

The thought whispered through her mind but in the time it took for the connections to snap into action, for her brain to wonder what he’d do if she failed to deliver, Alexander West was back in the office with the door closed, leaving her alone in the prep room.

Probably a good thing, she decided, sliding her fingers behind her ear, where the warmth of his hand still lingered.

Definitely a good thing.

She might have inherited come-day-go-day genes from both her parents, but she had her life mapped out and there was no way she was following her mother down that particular path. Certainly not with a man who, like her father, would be gone long before they’d reached the first stile. Back to his beach-bum lifestyle. Funded by the rent Ria paid for this shop, no doubt. Except she probably owed him money, too. Was that what had brought him flying back? The chance to get her out and install a new tenant at a higher rent?

* * *

While Sorrel Amery had been beguiling him with a smile that had gone straight to his knees, Alexander’s coffee had gone cold. He drank it anyway. The alternative was going back out into the preparation room to refill the coffee machine, something he was not prepared to do with Ms Amery in residence.

A hot body, a sexy mouth, and with enough wit to fill his nights back in civilisation very satisfactorily—he would normally have been happy to follow through on a no-holds-barred kiss that had come out of nowhere. She was perfect. In every imaginable way. Even down to the glowing chestnut hair for which she’d presumably been named.

Jet-lagged, tired, as he was, she’d turned him on as if she’d flipped a light switch, but while his body might be urging him to go for it, take what was so clearly on offer, he had a week at most to put this right, catch up with his own paperwork and get back to work. And despite what she clearly thought, he didn’t mix business with pleasure—he would be leaving again in days and he’d given up on one-night stands. Anything more needed constant care and feeding and he didn’t stay in one place long enough to put in the work.

He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the immediate problem. Not difficult. The problem would be not thinking about her...

What on earth someone as grounded as Nick Jefferson was doing letting Sorrel Amery loose on an important product promotion, he could not imagine.

Cucumber ice cream, for heaven’s sake! He shook his head. It had to be the work of some idiot in Jefferson’s marketing department; an idiot with a weakness for chestnut hair, translucent skin and legs up to her armpits. No doubt she’d turned on that straight-to-hell smile and the poor sucker had gone down without a fight. Or maybe she had. She’d gone from nought to fifty in second gear and he’d barely touched her...

The thought shivered through him.

He hated it.

Wanted it.

Wanted her with that hot mouth on him, those long legs wrapped around him...

He dragged his hands over his face, rubbed hard in an effort to stimulate the circulation and tear his thoughts away from the bright chestnut curl he’d tucked behind a very pretty ear decorated with a small cream and gold enamelled ice cream cone. There was no denying that everything about her was positively edible, but he wasn’t having her for dessert.

She could have a week to make her sorbet and sort out some other arrangement to make her ice cream. He would be concentrating on winding up the business.

He didn’t have much time.

Ria’s lows were countered by soaring highs and it wouldn’t be long before she was having second thoughts. In the meantime, he had no choice but to treat Sorrel Amery like the rest of the creditors and dig her out of the hole she’d been dumped in.

A tap on the door reminded him that in her case it would take more than a cheque to make her disappear. As if to rub in the message, she didn’t wait for an invitation. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need Nancy’s phone number.’

‘Help yourself,’ he said, keeping his head down, determined to keep his distance. He picked up an envelope and slit it open, focusing on the job in hand.

‘Have you seen...?’

He pointed the letter opener at the shelf behind the desk.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stretching across the desk.

He hadn’t thought it through.

A whisper of warmth feathered his cheek as the edge of the white coat caught on his chair and then she put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she wobbled on those ridiculous heels.

‘Oops...’

‘Can you reach?’

‘I’ve got it. Thanks.’

He waited, holding his breath, willing her to move but, having found what she was looking for, she remained where she was, apparently transfixed by the invoices piling up in front of him.

‘Are those all unpaid bills?’ she asked, horrified.

He removed another final demand from its envelope and placed it on one of three piles. ‘It’s not quite as bad as it looks,’ he said.

‘It isn’t?’

She smelt amazing. Warm skin, clean hair mingled with starched white cotton, vanilla, chocolate... Something else... He struggled against the urge to turn and pull her close, bury his face against the silk and breathe deeper. Effort wasted as she bent over his shoulder to take a closer look at the bills. Sun-warmed strawberries. That was it. Not raspberries, but strawberries. One of those dark red varieties, full of flavour, dripping with juice that would stain her mouth...

‘I’m using a triage system,’ he said, desperate for any distraction from thoughts of hot, juice-stained lips... ‘Those on the left are the original invoices, the ones in the middle are reminders and these...’ he tapped the pile with the letter opener; he needed to do something with his hands ‘...are final demands.’

‘Oh, dear God. Poor Ria.’ The strappy thing she was wearing fell away as she bent to pick up the electricity bill, offering him a glimpse of softly mounded breasts in creamy lace cups. Had she no control over her clothing? Shouldn’t she have buttoned up the white coat?

There had to be rules...

‘Praying won’t help,’ he said, even as he offered up a God-help-me on his own account, ‘but the telephone has already been cut off so I suggest you get cracking on your sorbet before the electricity company follows suit.’

His attempt to send her scurrying back to the prep room failed. ‘I’ll go across to the bank and pay it now.’

‘Why would you do that?’ he asked, making the mistake of looking up and discovering that her lips were barely a breath away from his own.

Ripe, red, sweet...

For a moment her eyes, misty green beneath long dark lashes, connected with his and a fizz of heat went straight to his groin as the air filled with pheromones. His reaction must have telegraphed itself to her because, with a tiny hiss of breath, she straightened, took half a step back.

It wasn’t the reaction he had expected. He’d assumed that getting close was part of her plan, but apparently he’d misread her and now he was the one being tormented by X-rated images of those long legs, that hot body and sweet strawberry lips...

‘Because I can? You can deduct it from the rent,’ she said, recovering before him.

‘Nice try, but then the business will owe you money.’

‘As well as ice cream. I know, but I can’t run the business without electricity, Mr West. Or did you really think I was just stringing you along until I’d finished this order?’

‘It had crossed my mind,’ he said abruptly, plucking the invoice from her hand and returning it to the pile.

‘Well, uncross it. I’ve got another business function next week,’ she said, the sharpness of her voice undermined by the faintest wobble on the word ‘function’. Despite her swift move out of the danger zone, the heat had not been all one way. The thought that she might be suffering too went some small way to easing his own discomfort...

‘Another function?’

‘You needn’t sound so surprised,’ she said. ‘A local company holding a gala dinner has commissioned us to provide miniature ice-cream cones late in the evening. When everyone is hot from dancing,’ she added, presumably in case he didn’t get it.

He got it. He was hot...

‘I’ll rephrase that,’ he said. ‘I was hoping that you were stringing me along until you finished this order. That this was a one off.’

‘You didn’t believe I was serious? About making an offer for the business?’

‘Not for a minute.’

Her forehead buckled in the faintest of frowns as if she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t taking her seriously. Maybe he was underestimating her. Judging her on appearance. Or just plain distracted by the flash-over of heat whenever they came within touching distance.

‘I’ve got events booked throughout the summer, Mr West. Weddings, hen parties, business parties. They must be in Ria’s diary.’

‘Ria and her diary are no longer in the ice-cream business so you’d better find another supplier or come up with an offer very quickly,’ he replied.

‘I will. Just as soon as I’ve seen the accounts.’ He waited for her to flounce out of the room. She didn’t. Flounce, bounce or depart with the kind of door-banging pique warranted by the way he’d spoken to her. Instead she continued to regard him with that slightly puzzled frown. ‘You must realise that it’s in your best interests to sell the business as a going concern.’

‘Must I?’

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

She might be sticking to her guns, no matter what he threw at her, but she was nowhere near as composed as she would have him believe. What would she do if he looped his arm around her waist, pulled her down onto his lap and let her feel just how discomposed he was?

‘You could keep Nancy on to run the ice-cream parlour,’ she suggested, when he offered no encouragement. ‘That way money will still be coming in and there’s more likelihood that the creditors will be paid. And the business will be worth more to any buyer.’

‘That it would be in your best interests, I have no doubt,’ he replied as the ground beneath him shifted, sucked him in.

What would she do if he slid his hands beneath that scrap of cloth masquerading as a skirt and lifted her onto the desk?

‘Hardly.’ She leaned back, her bottom propped on the desk, almost as if she could read his mind, were inviting him to run his hand up the inside of her thigh... ‘I could wait until you’re selling up, buy the equipment and freezers at a knock-down price and rent a unit near my office.’

‘You’d lose the ice-cream parlour,’ he said, not sure why he was even wasting his time discussing it with her. Except that it kept her beside him, touching close.

‘That’s the upside,’ she pointed out, with a gesture that lifted her skirt another inch. ‘I have no use for a retail outlet.’

‘And the downside?’

All he had to do was move his chair a few inches, slip his hand inside the starchy white coat, under her skirt and his hands would be cradling that peachy backside...

‘I’d have to start from scratch...’ her voice faded to fragments ‘...take time...transport problem...’

...fill his mouth with the taste of ripe strawberries and honey...

‘And it would be difficult for Nancy to get to Haughton Manor on the bus.’

Haughton Manor?

So, she was the offspring of minor gentry. No surprise there. The sexy clothes, the casual attitude, the silly ice creams were all the marks of a woman playing at business until the right man came along. One who could support her shoe habit.

And he was reacting exactly like his father. A man who’d used his wealth and position to indulge his love of bright, shiny things. Cars, boats, women...

See it, want it, discard it when the novelty wore off...

It was a thought as chilling as a cold shower on a January morning.