Bachelor at Her Bidding (Bachelor Auction Book 2) (5 page)

She quickly made him a coffee. She was sure that she saw a flicker of a grimace when he took a sip, but then it was hidden behind a polite smile. Just as his hair was hidden behind a skullcap which he’d clearly donned while she was making the coffee. Terrible coffee, she suspected; it looked as if her coffee-making skills were on a par with her culinary skills. And her equally terrible dating skills, she thought with a sigh.

Not that she or Ryan was interested in a date.

Though, if someone applied thumbscrews, she might just admit that Ryan Henderson intrigued her. There was just something about him. Something haunted behind his dark eyes. Something that made her want to know more about the man behind the chef’s tunic.

“I’m going to start with dessert,” he said.

“That sounds good.” A fabulous idea struck her. “So does this mean we get to eat dessert first?” she asked hopefully.

“No, it means that dessert takes longer to prepare than the other courses, plus I’m using garlic and don’t want it to taint the rest of the food.”

“Right. That makes sense,” she said, and perched on one of the kitchen chairs to watch him.

His second box contained kitchen equipment, some of which Rachel couldn’t even identify, much less guess what it was for. He weighed ground almonds and confectioner’s sugar into the bowl of his small food processor, whizzed it round, then tipped the crumb-like mixture into another bowl and added egg whites to make it into a paste.

“That’s the base for the
macarons
. I’m making a sugar syrup now,” he said.

She noticed what he’d placed beside the pan on her stove top. “And you’re actually using a thermometer to check the temperature?”

“A sugar thermometer. It’s a little more precise than the soft-ball test,” he said.

She frowned. “Soft-ball?”

“I mean the stage of sugar cookery,” he said, “not the game.”

“Right – and you learned this in Paris?”

“When they taught me to make
macarons
,” he confirmed. “The first time I saw
macarons
was in Paris, in a shop window. They were displayed on this incredibly tall cone, all the different colors shading into each other like a rainbow. I remember pressing my nose against the window and being spellbound, and then my parents taking me in to the shop to choose one.” His smile grew wistful. “I always think of that when I make
macarons.
”

She knew that his parents had died when he was young, so clearly this was a precious memory. Rachel was touched that he’d shared it with her.

She watched him whisk the egg whites while the sugar syrup was cooking; then he poured the sugar syrup down the side of the bowl containing the whisked egg whites, whisking them again until the mixture was smooth and glossy. All the while his hands were sure and deft. And she had to stop herself wondering just how those hands would be if they touched her. Would he find out where and how she liked being touched, on pure instinct? Even the thought made her dizzy.

“Rachel?”

Oh, no. Please don’t let him have caught her ogling him. Or, if he had, please let the earth open and swallow her right now. “Sorry. Busy day at work,” she fibbed. He wasn’t to know if she’d been on duty or not. “I didn’t mean to zone out on you. Watching you is amazing,” she said. “I could imagine you teaching students or even in a studio as a TV chef, showing the nation how to cook a spectacular dessert.”

“I probably don’t have the patience to teach,” he said, “and TV’s a little too disconnected for me. I like to talk to my customers about their food and whether they’re enjoying what I made them, or what I could do differently in future to make it better for them.”

She could understand that; but she still wondered why he wasn’t using his skills here in Marietta. “Don’t get me wrong – I love the food at Grey’s. But their menu is very simple and what you’re cooking for me is pretty special. Why aren’t you working at the Graff or somewhere you’d get to make food like this every single day?”

“I have my reasons,” he said lightly. He wasn’t exactly rude, but Rachel was very aware that Ryan had just closed off from her. Another subject off limits, then, she thought with an inward sigh. How long would it be before they were reduced to talking about the weather?

He tipped the glossy meringue onto the almond mixture, and folded it in with a spatula before spooning the mixture into a piping bag.

“I can’t believe how fast you are,” she said, watching him pipe circles onto baking paper. “And those circles are all perfect.”

“It comes with practice. My first ones were all over the place.” He seemed warmer again, now he was talking about food and not his workplace. Clearly this was his passion.

Passion
.

Heat rose up her spine and she did her best to damp it down. This was so not appropriate. Even if he was the most attractive man she’d met in a long time, nothing was going to happen between them. She really needed to get a grip.

“I’m going to leave these for about half an hour to form a skin,” he said, “and meanwhile I’m making the ganache.”

She watched him chop dark chocolate at amazing speed while he brought cream to boil in a small pan, then poured the cream over the chocolate. His hands were so deft, so sure. Again, she thought about they’d feel against her skin, and then she became aware that he was talking to her.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she said, and felt a guilty blush steal through her face.

“I said, when I’ve finished beating the butter into the ganache, would you like a taste?”

Her gaze met his and awareness slammed through her. She reminded herself sharply that he was talking about the chocolate filling, not his mouth. “Yes, please.” She was horribly conscious of the fact that her voice sounded husky and hoped he couldn’t guess why.

She watched his hands moving swiftly over the bowl as he finished the last stage of making the ganache.

Then he took a teaspoon, dipped it into the mixture and held it out to her – bowl-first rather than stem-first, so it was clear that he intended to feed her a taste.

This felt very, very intimate; and in turn that made her feel oddly shy. Even with Nick she’d never done anything like this.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, leaned forward and licked the spoon.

“Oh, my God. That could rival Sage’s best chocolates,” she whispered, feeling her eyes widen.

He gave her a slow, sexy smile. “More?”

Chocolate
. She knew he meant chocolate. And the pictures in her head really needed to go away. Like now.

He used a clean spoon to dip into the bowl of ganache; except this time his hand moved slightly when she leaned forward, and she felt the chocolate smear against the corner of her mouth.

“Whoops – sorry.” Though he didn’t sound in the slightest bit apologetic.

And her pulse rose sharply when he scooped the ganache from the corner of her mouth with the tip of his forefinger, then placed it in his mouth to suck the chocolate off, keeping eye contact with her the whole time.

It was the sexiest thing she’d seen in her whole life.

And her common sense had clearly been bundled outside and locked out of the apartment, because she found herself dipping her forefinger into the chocolate mix and smearing it along his lower lip.

His pupils went huge.

“Rachel,” he whispered softly.

And then he pushed the bowl to one side, leaned forward and kissed her.

He tasted of chocolate and man. An unbeatable combination.

The next thing she knew, her hands were in his hair and his arms were wrapped tightly round her, and he was kissing her hard. His mouth was warm and sure against hers, coaxing her and teasing her until she opened her mouth and let him deepen the kiss. And the way he explored her mouth made her feel as if she was floating.

Crazy.

This really shouldn’t be happening.

And yet part of her was so glad that it was – that they were finally acting on the unspoken attraction between them. That his clever, capable hands were stroking her back, and even through the material of her dress his touch made every nerve-end sing with pleasure.

When he broke the kiss, they were both shaking.

“Uh. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Sorry,” he muttered.

“Me, too. It was both of us,” she whispered, wanting to be fair.

He still looked panicky. Clearly he wanted this and yet didn’t want it, which made him as mixed-up as she was. “I need to put the
macarons
in to bake,” he said, and pulled away.

Just as well she hadn’t been stupid enough to give in to the temptation to stroke his face and tell him that it was OK, because obviously it was very far from OK.

She shut up and let him deal with the oven.

By the time he’d finished putting the
macarons
in the oven, they’d both recovered a little bit, and Rachel determined to treat him as if he was one of her patients – stick to the facts, keep the emotion out of it, and be friendly but keep an appropriate distance between them.

“I’m preparing the crab cakes next,” he said. But first he made his own mayonnaise – using nothing more than a whisk and a bowl, drizzling the oil onto the egg yolks and whipping them together until the mixture was thick and cream-colored and glossy.

“That’s impressive,” she couldn’t help saying.

“Not that impressive – it really doesn’t take a lot of effort. Plus it tastes better than the stuff out of a jar,” he said with a smile. “By the way, in case you were worrying, I always use pasteurized eggs. So the home-made mayo isn’t going to make you ill with salmonella or anything.”

“Thank you.”

She watched him put the crab cakes together, first chopping the parsley and then adding a small amount of breadcrumbs, mustard and the crab; then binding the mixture with egg before making them into cakes; and finally flouring them before putting them on a plate and covering them with cling film, ready to cool in the fridge. This time, she noticed that he worked in silence. It wasn’t awkward so much as focused; Ryan Henderson, she was beginning to realize, was a perfectionist. Because every single one of the cakes was identical in shape and size. Precise. Perfect.

When the
macarons
were cooked, Ryan put them on a rack to cool and let her try one. “Help yourself,” he said. And she knew that this was his way of making sure they didn’t risk any accidental touch between them.

Finally he chopped garlic and rosemary on a board, cut a pile of waxy potatoes into small cubes and dried them. “That’s the prep all done. I think we’re pretty much ready for dinner,” he said. “Where do you want to eat?”

“It’ll be the kitchen table, I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t have a dining room.”

“The kitchen table is fine. May I?”

“You’ve brought your own stuff?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Though I was hoping to use your silverware, crockery and placemats. You need two sets of knives and forks, a cake fork and a teaspoon.”

She hid her smile at the precision of his instructions. He was definitely a perfectionist. “OK. I’ll sort them out.”

He laid the table deftly with a starched white damask tablecloth, let her put the silverware and placemats on the table, then brought out two narrow flute glasses and two white candles in pewter candlesticks. He took the plates she’d given him and set them to heat.

Meanwhile, he heated oil in a baking dish in the oven, then tipped in the potatoes, garlic and rosemary and set them to bake. In a pan on the stove, he fried the crab cakes. While the potatoes and the crab cakes were cooking, he prepared the plates. Rachel had never seen anyone work so fast or so neatly before.

“My kitchen smells amazing,” she said.

“Just plain old herbs and garlic,” he said with a smile. “This is just as quick as preparing a TV dinner, but it tastes better.”

“Not everyone has your culinary skills,” she reminded him. She certainly didn’t. The family joke was that she could barely boil water.

“Maybe. But cooking’s really not as difficult as people think it is.” He lit the candles, turned off the main light, and opened the bottle he’d stored in the fridge earlier.

As the vanilla scent from the candles drifted into the air, and with the level of light low, this felt like the fanciest and most romantic restaurant in a big city rather than a tiny apartment kitchen-diner in a small town.

“Is that champagne?” she asked as he poured the wine and it frothed up the flute.

“Yup. Standard birthday wine,” he said.

There was nothing standard about the bottle he’d just opened; Nick had fancied himself knowledgeable about wine, and Rachel had learned from him over the years. She could see from the label that the champagne was French and far from cheap. And she felt horribly guilty that Ryan had spent so much money on her.

As if it showed on her face, he said softly, “Relax. It’s all part of the birthday deal.” Then raised one of the glasses to her. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you. And here’s to Josh and Molly and the fundraiser,” she said. Maybe they both needed a reminder about why he was really here. And maybe then they’d get their common sense back.

She hoped.

He echoed the toast and sipped the wine. Rachel caught herself watching his mouth, remembering how it had felt against hers only a few minutes before; it was a headier feeling than the bubbles induced by the champagne.

The crab cakes were total perfection. “I don’t think I ever want to eat anything else but these, ever again,” she said with an appreciative sigh.

“I hope you don’t mean that,” he said, “and I also hope that you’re hungry, because the lamb’s next.”

He heated the griddle pan; while the lamb steaks were cooking, he wilted the spinach, heated the butter, added the spinach and then actually used a tiny grater on a whole nutmeg. Rachel could remember her grandmother making fruit cakes for Christmas and how amazing her kitchen had smelled, full of spices and fruit, but even her grandmother had used ready-grated nutmeg rather than whole spices.

Ryan Henderson was like nobody Rachel had ever known.

And since when did nutmeg go with spinach anyway? Not that she quite dared to ask. She was hopeless in the kitchen and he was a Parisian-trained chef, so he knew way better than she did – didn’t he?