At the Billionaire’s Wedding (18 page)

“Go away,” she called back.

“Please?” he tried once more.

She gave him a glare, and slammed the cleaver down through a piece of chicken. “No!”

Archer put up his hands again and backed off. “Got it. Sorry to bother you. Good luck with the chicken.”

But the smell of chocolate, and the image of her well-shaped ass striding away from him, stayed in his mind during the long walk back to Brampton House.

Natalie was tinkering with the controls on the large AGA stove when there was a knock on the cottage’s front door.

She considered not answering it. It was probably another wedding guest, out roaming the countryside. She shook her head, remembering the tall, good-looking American guy who’d invaded the garden yesterday—in search of Wi-Fi, of all things. Amaryllis must have the most happening patio in England, what with random people having sex on the lounger and hot guys wanting to check their e-mail there. For a moment the thought crossed her mind that if anyone had to get naked on the patio, she really would have preferred it to be the Wi-Fi guy.

She wrinkled her nose, reminding herself that she didn’t really want to see anyone naked on the patio. She didn’t want to see anyone, unless it was someone who could explain the quirks of the oven. She’d thought she had it solved, until she burned two trays of chocolate cookies yesterday. But when the knock sounded again at the door, she dropped the manual and went to see who it was.

A large bunch of flowers greeted her when she opened the door. “Hello again,” said the hot guy from yesterday.

“Hi.” She leaned against the doorframe and resisted the urge to smile back at him. He had a really attractive dimple in one cheek when he grinned.

He made a show of looking at her hands. “Not armed today?”

“Not at the moment.”

“That’s a relief. I brought peace offerings.” He handed her the flowers and a bag she recognized from the lone gourmet food boutique in town. “For disturbing your peace yesterday.”

Intrigued, Natalie took the bag. Her brows went up as she peeked inside and saw a variety of expensive ingredients. “Tahitian vanilla and Belgian chocolate?”

“I could smell that chocolate thing you were baking yesterday in my dreams.” He half-closed his eyes and an expression of rapture drifted over his face. “I think I’d kill for a plate of it.”

“Here I thought you wanted my Wi-Fi password,” she said lightly.

“Oh, I’d like that as well.” He paused. “Do I have to choose only one?”

She folded her arms and shrugged. “You haven’t got either right now.”

He grinned, showing off the dimple again. “I sure don’t. Archer Quinn, overworked lawyer, ignorant trespasser, and helpless chocolate lover.” He put out his hand.

With only a slight hesitation she put her hand in his. “Natalie.”

His grin deepened. “Very nice to meet you, Natalie.”

“Likewise.” At least, she thought so. He did look like a nice guy—or rather, he looked like a pretty hot guy who was acting very disarming and charming. She wondered what he really was.

“Obviously I began badly yesterday, and I came first to apologize.” He cleared his throat. “It was not my intent to trespass on your property and I unreservedly apologize for any alarm it may have caused you. Furthermore, I should have introduced myself and laid to rest any fears you might have had that I was an axe murderer prowling the neighborhood.”

“That’s why I took my cleaver,” she pointed out.

“I did notice,” he agreed with a hint of a smile. “Would you have used it, if I had been an axe murderer?”

“Of course,” she said in the same serious tone. “I can disembowel a whole turkey in four minutes. I doubt a man takes much longer, once you whack off the head.”

He blinked. “You disemboweled a turkey? Good Lord, what did he do to you?”

Natalie snorted with laughter before she could stop herself. “Nothing. I just wanted to eat him.”

He blinked again, and then his eyes warmed. “Really.”

She ignored the speculative tone. “Yep. Stuffed his guts with cornbread, sage, and sausage, roasted him for three hours, and served him up on a platter. He was delicious.”

Archer Quinn inhaled a ragged breath. “You’ve got to stop talking about food that way. Between the memory of the chocolate yesterday and the idea of a roasted turkey, I almost passed out here on your steps.”

“Haven’t they got good food up the hotel? I’ve seen enough catering vans headed up there to feed an army.”

“It’s hotel food,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You can’t smell it baking. My mother used to make this chocolate pudding cake… It was my favorite thing in the world.”

“Chocolate pudding cake, huh.”

“With vanilla ice cream on top.” He winked. “The way to this man’s heart.”

For some reason her cheeks felt hot. “I was asking in a purely professional capacity. I’m working on a cookbook.”

“Really?” He perked up. “If you need any samples tasted, I’d be glad to help out.”

Natalie shook her head. “First you want free Internet, now free food. Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Quinn, but I have to get back to work—”

“So do I,” he said hastily. “But I need reliable Internet to do it.”

She pursed her lips, unwillingly charmed by the flowers and Tahitian vanilla. “What do you do again?”

“I’m a lawyer.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a business card.
Archer Quinn, Partner, Harper Millman LLP
, it read, with an address in Boston.

She frowned. The lawyer Paul had hired as part of his expansion plans had been an arrogant prick, with a full head of white hair and a flashy Rolex. He’d treated her as if she were a child throwing a temper tantrum when she didn’t agree with Paul’s ideas. “I don’t like lawyers.”

“No, no, no,” he said quickly as she straightened, preparing to close the door. “I’m a very harmless sort of lawyer. I just write boring business memos.”

She paused, one hand on the door. “I really need peace and quiet.”

“And I will not bother you,” he promised. “You won’t hear one peep from me.”

Natalie deliberated. He had good gift sense. He appreciated the smell of baking. These two things had an outsized effect on her judgment. Also, he was very kind to the eyes, as her mother would say, and she was hardly immune to that. “You can’t come in the house.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied at once. “The signal on the patio is excellent.”

She frowned again. “How do you know that?”

“Phone app.” His teasing grin reappeared. “How about a trial of a few days?”

That dimple was dangerous. Natalie poked around in the gift bag to avoid meeting his brilliant gaze. Belgian chocolate, threads of saffron, imported balsamic vinegar, even a bottle of wine. She lifted it an inch to read the label and barely suppressed a start of surprise. He must have spent well over a hundred bucks on all this. “I suppose a day or two couldn’t hurt.”

“Great.” He sounded relieved. “Thank you.”

“Why do you need to work so desperately? Aren’t you here for a big fancy wedding with all sorts of events?”

He laughed a little sadly. “If only. The groom is my client; he invited me because… I’m not quite sure. But the work can’t wait, so I’ll have to miss whatever wedding festivities are planned.”

Natalie fiddled with the bottle of wine. “Boring business memos, huh.”

“Lots of them,” he said glumly.

She gave in to the pull. He would stay out on the patio, and if she snuck a peek from time to time, it wouldn’t hurt anyone. It might even do her good to exchange a word with someone other than Oliver from time to time. “All right. Whenever you want, the patio is yours.”

His face eased into a more honest smile. The dimple was back, and crinkles appeared around his dark blue eyes. God, he was good-looking. “How about now?”

Archer had left his laptop case out of sight. Just bringing it with him seemed to taunt fate, but thankfully Natalie was agreeably softened up by his apology gift. He’d gone all out on that, because an extensive ramble of the Brampton House grounds hadn’t turned up any other source of Internet. He supposed he could go sit in one of the cafés in town, as Mr. Delancey kept suggesting, but he much preferred a quieter place to work. The patio behind her house began to look idyllic, especially after he ran into the hotel owner, Harry Compton, who confirmed—reluctantly—that the Internet at Brampton House was well and truly screwed until British Telecom deigned to come repair it. The Wi-Fi signal at the stone house became his only hope.

And blessedly his gamble had paid off. He scooted the patio table a little more into the shade of the brick wall that ran down one side of the garden, and opened his computer. It had taken over an hour for his e-mail to finish downloading yesterday. Even slow Wi-Fi would be an improvement, and there was a chance she’d bake something delicious again to perfume the air.

“Here.” She came out the kitchen door with a scrap of paper in one hand. “You’ll need the password.”

Primrose123
, he typed in, quietly elated when his laptop connected and the Wi-Fi indicator blinked to full strength. “Thanks. Why primrose?”

She stopped in a patch of sun and blinked. Her hair looked reddish gold in the sunlight. “This house is called Primrose Cottage. It used to be part of the Brampton House estate, I think, like an old-fashioned mother-in-law quarters.”

He grinned. “That explains why it’s separated from the main house by a hill.”

She snorted with laughter. “I didn’t hear that! My mom would make an excellent mother-in-law.”

“So would mine,” he returned, “but I understand why it’s on the other side of the hill.”

She shook her head and went inside, closing the door. Still grinning, Archer got to work.

He hadn’t been wrong. Working on the patio was idyllic. There was a cool breeze, but plenty of sun warming the air. It was quiet, with only the rustling of the plants and an occasional noise of pots clanking or water running from inside the kitchen. The Internet wasn’t blazing fast, but it was quick enough that he could remotely connect to his desktop in Boston. And then there was the smell. She was baking blueberry pie, he guessed; not as good as chocolate cake, but still mouthwatering aromas.

After a while the kitchen door opened. Deep in a dense paragraph about corporate director elections, Archer didn’t look up until she stopped beside his table.

“I have a favor to ask,” she said. In her hands was a tray with five small plates, each one containing a mound of blue-violet blueberries and crust, and a tall glass of water.

“Does it involve eating anything on that tray?” His stomach growled at the thought. Archer glanced at his watch and saw with a start that it was past two o’clock. And he hadn’t brought lunch.

“It involves tasting everything on this tray, and giving me an honest evaluation of the samples. You did offer.”

He closed his laptop and pushed it to the far end of the table without taking his eyes off the tray. “A gentleman keeps his word. Bring it on.”

She set down the tray and placed one plate in front of him. A wavering number “1” was drizzled in chocolate sauce on the far edge of the plate. “Let’s start with this.”

Gingerly Archer scooped a bite onto the fork and tasted it. For a moment he let it sit on his tongue, then he began to chew, until his eyes drifted closed in bliss. The berries were tiny and tender and bursting with juice. “It’s good,” he managed to say, spearing another bite.

“In what way?” Natalie drew a small notebook from her apron pocket and made a note. “Is it too sweet? Too chewy?”

He chewed more carefully this time, thinking. “No, not too sweet. There’s something else in it…” Another bite, this time with more biscuit-like crust. “Something sharp. Not my favorite, but still edible.”

“Ginger.” She wrote some more. “Next sample.”

He took the plate drizzled with a “2” and dug in. “This has more than blueberries,” he said in surprise.

“Blackberries,” she muttered. “Good, or not?”

Archer ate some more. Each plate held only a few bites, so he tried to concentrate on each one. “Not as good as just blueberries.”

He tasted his way through two more plates, washing each one down with a good drink of water. Once the initial Pavlovian reaction to the sight of food—dessert, no less—had ebbed, he found himself watching his hostess. Now her hair was tied back with a red kerchief around her head, and there was a tiny gold heart on a chain around her neck. Her apron was covered with dark blue blotches of blueberry juice, and she must have an itch on one leg; from time to time she would lift one foot and rub the toe down the back of her other ankle. It was oddly sexy.

“Last one.” She set the fifth and final plate in front of him.

“Just as I was getting good at this,” he joked, reaching for the fork. “At least, I hope. Am I getting good at this? Is it helpful?”

She nodded. “Definitely! I’ve baked all these a hundred times. It’s good to have someone else’s opinion to make sure I’m not just reinforcing my own inclinations.”

“What kind of cookbook are you working on?”

“My family owns a restaurant. I’m writing a cookbook based on my mother’s recipes from the kitchen there.”