Turning up the Heat
(Book Two of the Sweet Temptation series)
Ashley Lister

Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com

Copyright © Ashley Lister 2014

Ashley Lister asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007579563

Version: 2014-10-09

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

A few months earlier

Today

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

A few months earlier

In the darkness of the deserted restaurant a hand touched hers. Trudy stiffened. Her heart beat faster. She was alone in the dark with a stranger.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened to her.

A part of her had been desperate for it to happen again.

Concentrating on smells, sounds and the shape of his silhouette against the darkness, Trudy tried to get some idea of who he was. She caught the citrus notes of his cologne, a lemony fragrance that was clean, zesty and exciting. Her senses were made more acute by the absence of proper light, and she could hear the rasp of his breathing. It was a gentle sound like the half-grumbling growl of a lion at rest. Noting the forbidding height, broad chest and manly jaw, she dared to let herself smile.

It wasn’t a stranger: it was Bill.

‘Mr Hart,’ she began.

A finger touched her lips briefly, silencing her. She trembled at the contact.

It had been a long month since they had last communicated, since she had last felt the bliss of his skin touching her lips or touching her anywhere. A long, long month.

‘Don’t speak yet, Ms McLaughlin,’ he warned.

She was obedient and said nothing.

She basked in the gruff growl of his Northern brogue.

‘We’ve both been in the wrong here.’ His broad Yorkshire accent made the words come out as wev barth bin in t’wrong ’ere. Trudy had missed hearing his impenetrable voice over the past month. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears of relief that now threatened to flood from her.

‘I can see now that I was wrong for being so resolute about your involvement with Sweet Temptation,’ he admitted.

The situation had been messy. He had issued an ultimatum. She could either work with him at his restaurant, Boui-Boui, or she could try to pursue a career in online catering with her friends in their start-up business, Sweet Temptation. Bill had vowed they would have no relationship if she attempted to do both.

‘I was in the wrong,’ she insisted. ‘I should have told you that Donny was no longer involved with Sweet Temptation. I should have made that clear.’

‘We’ve both been in the wrong,’ he repeated. Wev barth bin in t’wrong.

She sniffed back a tear when she realised how much she had missed hearing his voice. It took an effort of will not to reach out for him, hug him and hold him and promise that they would never be parted again.

‘I think there’s a way for us to make amends,’ Bill confided.

He flicked a switch. Trudy was momentarily blinded by the excess of light. Blinking, her eyes became used to the brightness and she saw he looked as handsome as she remembered. There was a familiar steel-grey shadow bristling his lantern jaw. He looked comfortable yet smart in the sports jacket he wore over his T-shirt. His diamond-blue eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her.

In his hands he held a large wooden spoon.

‘There’s a way for us to make amends,’ he repeated. ‘I think one of us needs to be punished.’

She beamed.

The familiar thrill of arousal and excitement was already fluttering slickly through her sex. Her heartbeat quickened as she understood what he was suggesting. She stood up, turned around and bent over the table. Her backside was pushed out, ready for him. She glanced over her shoulder and stared meaningfully at the wooden spoon in his hand.

‘Punishment?’ she murmured coyly. ‘Yes, please, Mr Hart.’

Today
Chapter 1

She could see another woman in Bill’s arms. No. Not just one other woman. There were six of them. She clenched her teeth and pretended to smile.

Trudy had not been happy to see six near-naked women in Boui-Boui. They all had slender waists, long long legs and far too much bare flesh for Sunday afternoon in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It was a display of thongs, bellybuttons and nipples that should never have been visible in public. Trudy wrinkled her nose as she watched Bill trying to accommodate all six of them in his embrace. With three on either side, blonde-brunette-blonde to his left, blonde-redhead-blonde to his right, his grin was broad, tooth-filled and transparently false.

Her muted mobile buzzed. The display screen said she’d received a text message.

She ignored it. She was in no mood to communicate with anyone while she endured this torment. She couldn’t even concentrate on the half-consumed coffee and pumpkin-pie-spice muffin in front of her. And the muffin was a quandary that had been puzzling her for the best part of a month.

Something wasn’t quite right with the flavour and she was determined to work out what was missing. It didn’t taste unpleasant. The sharp tang of the coffee and the blend of bittersweet spices seemed to be working effectively. Some of those who had tested the muffins – friends, kitchen staff and colleagues – said it was the best thing she had yet produced in the kitchen.

But it wasn’t quite the flavour Trudy wanted. The taste lacked the indefinable quality that would change it from enjoyable to an eating experience beyond incredible.

Her brow creased as she brooded on the problem.

She’d used her own pumpkin-pie spice: an even blend of ginger, allspice, nutmeg and cloves, combined with a subtle dash of fresh crushed cinnamon. She’d spent time blending the ingredients to an ultra-fine powder, ages grinding the cloves with a pestle and mortar. She’d worked on the cloves until her bicep throbbed from the effort. But she hadn’t begrudged a single moment of the hard work involved. Making her own pumpkin-pie spice was one of her favourite chores in the kitchen.

The results were like alchemy.

Aside from the task being so arduous that it made her feel like she’d enjoyed a good workout, the medicinal tang of the cloves provided a rich and intense scent that always filled the room. That fragrance alone would have been harsh but it was softened and sweetened by the rest of the aromatic ingredients. It was a labour of love, made easy by the fact that the bouquet of the pumpkin-pie spice was so easy to love.

But the muffins still weren’t quite right. Something was missing. Something extra was needed. Or something additional needed taking away. She didn’t know which. She just knew the flavour wasn’t quite right.

She stopped herself glaring at the muffin. Glaring at pastries seldom helped. It would be more productive, she knew, if she paid attention to the people around her in Boui-Boui, but that could be dangerous.

She glanced up from the muffin in time to see Bill squeeze three of the near-naked women more tightly into his embrace.

Trudy’s glare turned into a glower.

She supposed models were meant to be constantly smiling for the camera, but she thought these six women looked like they were enjoying their work a little too much. Their smiles were eager. The brunette kept grinning at Bill as though she shared a secret with him. One of the blondes, the one with a yin-yang tattoo on her shoulder blade, kept touching him on the backside.

‘For God’s sake, stop grinning, Billy.’

The call came from Harvey, Bill’s agent. He was sharing table thirteen with Trudy and her friends Charlotte and Daryl. Harvey was a handsome man of a similar age to his client, with a loud voice, a brash sense of humour and a shrewd eye for opportunity. He had become a regular visitor at Boui-Boui over the past few months and Trudy was beginning to understand why he was one of Bill’s oldest and closest friends.

He had a cheeky sense of humour.

‘Stop grinning, Billy,’ Harvey repeated. ‘If you keep grinning, your fanbase won’t recognise you. They’re not used to seeing you happy, you grumpy old bastard.’

Bill rolled his eyes. His lips thinned in exasperation. His front teeth settled on his lower lip, as though he was about to spit out a long stream of his familiar trademark swearwords.

‘If I don’t chuffing grin,’ he argued, ‘I’m going to look like a perverted old serial killer clutching grimly at his victims.’

Trudy tightened her mouth to conceal a reluctant smile.

Charlotte, sitting next to her, muffled a splutter of laughter in her wine.

Daryl, however, made no response. She seemed captivated by the bare breasts of one of the models. Tall and leggy, dressed in a waist-hugging scarlet Prada dress, Daryl would not have looked out of place standing alongside the models. Admittedly, her chest wasn’t as well developed as any of theirs but Trudy knew Daryl’s naked figure was superbly athletic.

Daryl wore a dreamy half-smile that suggested her thoughts were in the lewd and lovely dimension where she always seemed happiest. Daryl was bisexual, and shamelessly promiscuous. Her relationships were many and usually short-lived. Trudy didn’t dare imagine what she was thinking as she studied the models, but at that moment she almost envied Daryl the simplicity of her libido-dominated ambitions.

Trudy glanced at the models.

She caught herself staring at a pair of naked breasts. Hurriedly, she dragged her gaze away before anyone realised she’d been looking at erect nipples. Her cheeks were warm with the threat of a blush. She felt queasy with nervous apprehension.

‘I can imagine the ideal caption for this one,’ Harvey grumbled. ‘Thirteen tits on display at Boui-Boui.’

Charlotte giggled.

Trudy shot Harvey a reproachful glance.

‘I chuffing heard that,’ Bill growled. ‘And it’s not too late for me to find a new agent.’

Despite his display of grumpiness, Trudy knew Bill was enjoying some aspects of his recent success. He had been a Michelin-starred chef when they first met and now he had achieved celebrity status as an authority on kitchens and cuisine. He had a TV show and wrote cookery articles for two national magazines. He was regarded as an expert on all matters relating to restaurants and recipes and she knew he was savouring the deserved recognition.

Yet she was aware that he wasn’t enjoying every aspect of his success.

The muted mobile buzzed again. She ignored it.

She knew the artificiality of photo shoots and promotional publicity had begun to irritate Bill. The previous evening, on his return from the city, he had confided that all the fake poses and airbrushed pictures made him uneasy.

Trudy sympathised. She understood that such artifices flew in the face of his gruff northern honesty. But she also knew they were a necessity of his newfound celebrity.

She glanced at him, admiring the way he looked so commanding in a single-breasted white dinner jacket over an open-throated black shirt. He had a way of dressing that she always thought of as understated panache.

As he stood proudly between half a dozen stunning topless models, she could tell the smile on his face was false but she figured it was convincing enough to fool the photographer. It would probably be convincing enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. But she did know him and she could see the small and telling details that would never be caught by a camera.

His fingers flexed and unflexed. She sensed that he wasn’t sure whether he should be touching the bare flesh of the shoulder beneath his hand; whether such contact would look intrusive and unsolicited or masterful and controlling. She didn’t envy him having to make such decisions.

Of course, if she’d been beneath his hand, Trudy knew that Bill would have shown no hesitation in being masterful and controlling. That was one of the many things she loved about him.

He caught her looking in his direction and smiled.

It looked like the first genuine grin he’d worn all day. It was certainly the first smile she’d seen him give this afternoon where the expression touched his eyes.

Instead of worrying about him, knowing that that would be of little use, Trudy quietly vowed to make sure his smile properly returned when they were alone in the evening.

It was Sunday and, under the new arrangement they had agreed, this was the one day of the week when they should have been spending time alone together. More importantly, it was one of the few nights of the week when they should both be sufficiently rested to make the most of their time together at the end of the evening.

There were a couple of boned and rolled sirloins waiting in the fridge. There was a bottle of matured Chivas Regal sitting in Bill’s office. And, once the whisky had been sampled and the steaks had been devoured, Trudy had grand plans for the evening.

Her pulse quickened as she thought of handing Bill a wooden spoon and then bending over a counter. She would call him ‘Mr Hart’ and beg him to –

The photographer clapped his hands. His voice was not particularly strong or commanding and he had to shout to make himself heard above the babble of conversations. He asked everyone in the background to remember their roles and pretend that they were dining.

Trudy shook her head. The photographer’s interruption had not derailed her train of thought. Her smile broadened as the image of her planned evening settled more comfortably before her mind’s eye. If she concentrated she would be able to imagine the weight of Bill’s skilful hands caressing her bare buttocks to warm her, ready for an evening’s delightful discipline. Twin spots of colour rouged her cheeks as she glanced at her table companions and feared that Daryl, Charlotte or Harvey might guess the lurid path of her thoughts from the crooked tilt of her smile.

‘What’s this photo shoot for?’ asked Daryl.

‘Glossy lads’ mags,’ Harvey said. ‘The second series of Billy’s new TV show goes out in a couple of months. I want to get him maximum exposure ready for that. In two months he’ll be in more magazines than staples.’

‘Will Bill’s show be as big as Master Baker?’

Harvey pulled a face. ‘Master-bloody-Baker,’ he grumbled. ‘Is that all anyone can talk about these days?’

Charlotte sat forward in her seat, clearly intrigued by the mention of Master Baker. She brushed long locks of dark hair from the side of her face and tucked them over her ear before slyly smiling at Harvey.

Master Baker was one of the main sources of conversation in the Sweet Temptation offices. Some days, when Trudy walked past Charlotte and Daryl, it was all she heard them discussing. Daryl was a huge fan of Kelly White. Charlotte favoured Tom Yates. The show aired on a Saturday night and the pair of them spent most of their Monday morning discussing what had been said, what decisions had been made and how they could have been played differently.

‘I love Master Baker,’ Charlotte told Harvey. ‘Tom Yates is such a bitch to some of those contestants.’

‘Only when they deserve it,’ Daryl reminded her. ‘If you want to see really scathing comments you have to go to Kelly.’

Trudy didn’t bother following the conversation. She had heard Daryl and Charlotte have this argument before. Although Trudy liked the show she couldn’t claim to be as big a fan as either of them.

‘Master Baker is a good show,’ Harvey conceded. ‘But it’s unlikely Billy’s show will get as many viewers. They’re in different time slots. They’re aimed at different audiences.’

Daryl nodded as though she’d been listening to what Harvey said. She pointed at one of the models and asked, ‘Have you got a phone number for that blonde?’

He frowned and glanced at the models. ‘Which blonde? There’s four of them.’

‘Any of them will do,’ Daryl admitted. ‘But I’d prefer it if you’ve got the number for the one with the pierced bellybutton.’

Like the rest of those at her table, Trudy found herself scanning the models to see which blonde had a pierced bellybutton. It was a glimpse of more female flesh than she needed. She turned away as soon as she’d worked out it was the blonde with the sculpted muscle tone and a thong so tight the crotch was moulding the shape of her labia. This was the blonde with the yin-yang tattoo on her shoulder. The one whose hand kept repeatedly touching Bill’s backside.

‘Beatrice?’ Harvey laughed. ‘Of course I’ve got her number.’

‘Could I have it?’ Daryl asked. She produced a business card, one that said she was Sweet Temptation’s head of administration. The card contained her mobile number and her email address. ‘Or could you get her to give me a call?’

‘Why don’t you go over and ask her yourself?’ Charlotte asked.

Daryl shook her head. ‘She’s busy working. Credit me with some professional integrity.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘You have the professional integrity to perv off at a topless model and then try to get her mobile number from the model’s agent?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Table thirteen,’ the photographer exclaimed.

Trudy flinched, expecting that they were about to be reprimanded for talking too loudly, or discussing things that were inappropriate. Her cheeks reddened and she turned, ready to offer an apology.

‘There are four of you,’ the photographer told Trudy.

Charlotte and Daryl exchanged a glance.

‘Is that wrong?’ Trudy asked.

‘I need two people on each table,’ the photographer explained.

Trudy glanced around Boui-Boui’s front of house. The familiar chintzy country-house décor was the same as always. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in their uniform of black pants and black shirts. With the exception of a couple of empty booths in the rear corners of the restaurant, every table aside from the one she was sharing with Harvey, Charlotte and Daryl was occupied by only two diners.

‘A couple on each table balances my backgrounds,’ the photographer told her. ‘It conveys a subliminal suggestion of romantic dining.’ He glanced at Harvey and said, ‘Wasn’t that part of the brief for this photo shoot, Mr Walker?’

Harvey nodded. ‘That’s right. It was.’

Trudy came to a quick decision.

Glancing at Harvey and Daryl she said, ‘I could do with some alone time with Charlotte. I believe she’s got a new man in her life and I can use a one-to-one session to find out all about him.’

Charlotte’s cheeks darkened and she glanced downwards. She was shaking her head as though already refusing to discuss the matter. Her resolve only made Trudy feel more determined to find out who the man was and why he was such a mystery.

Harvey placed a hand on Trudy’s forearm.

His touch was warm but not unpleasant.

‘If it doesn’t interrupt your vitally important interrogation,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t mind staying on this table with you so that we can have a private word.’

Trudy glanced at Charlotte who shrugged and nodded.

Charlotte looked vaguely pleased as she stood up with Daryl and moved to an empty table. Her obvious relief made Trudy more determined to find out about the mystery man she was hiding. She turned doubtfully to Harvey, wondering why Bill’s agent might need to have a word with her.

Chapter 2

Her mobile buzzed again, reminding her she had an unread text message.

At the photographer’s request, she’d muted the phone before the photo shoot began. Under other circumstances she might have glanced at the screen to see who was trying to get in touch. But Harvey’s solemnity suggested he needed to discuss something serious and Trudy figured the text message had already waited for five minutes, so another five wouldn’t hurt.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No. Not wrong. But I want to ask you a favour.’

She remained silent, encouraging him to continue.

‘Billy’s my biggest client at the moment,’ Harvey explained. He gave a nod towards Bill and his smile briefly broadened.

Trudy made the mistake of following the direction of his gaze and glancing at Bill. The photographer now had the six women surrounding Bill as though he was posing for an old-fashioned James Bond promo. Two of the women knelt by his hips, their jaws tilted so they were facing up to him with adoring smiles. Their breasts were still embarrassingly visible. Their thongs were revealingly tight. Their heads were disconcertingly close to his groin.

Trudy quietly seethed.

She remembered the last time her own face had been so close to Bill’s groin. It had only been the previous evening, when Bill returned home from his three-day stint in the city. But it had been good. Under the new arrangement it seemed the sex between them was always good.

The memory of what they had done the previous evening made her stomach muscles tighten with a pang of delicious excitement. She felt momentarily resentful of the models being allowed to be so close to him. They had no right to be kneeling with their heads close to any part of him. They certainly had no business putting their faces so close to that particular part of him.

That, she decided, was her position.

She tried to drag her gaze away before her glare could become withering. There were two more models at Bill’s side. The women draped their hands possessively over his shoulders. The final pair, including the blonde with the pierced belly button and the yin-yang tattoo, embraced Bill intimately from behind. Their bare chests were pushed firmly against his back.

All of them were grinning broadly.

Too broadly, Trudy thought.

She finally managed to wrench her gaze away.

She fixed her scowl on Harvey. It occurred to her that he was the one who had organised this photo shoot. He was the one who deserved her anger. She tried not to make her hostility too obvious.

A passing waitress deposited a plate of muffins on their otherwise empty table. Trudy was so distracted that, if it hadn’t been for the flounce of fuchsia hair, she wouldn’t have known who it was. Absently she mumbled, ‘Thank you, Nikki.’

‘I don’t doubt Billy will be even bigger in a few months if all my plans work out,’ Harvey continued. ‘We’ve got quite a few companies interested in having him as their representative. There are some lucrative overseas markets beckoning. Our Billy is becoming quite a popular brand in his own right.’

‘That’s great.’

Trudy tried to say the words with genuine enthusiasm. The truth was, it would only be great if Bill thought it was great. If he thought the nuisance of celebrity was becoming an ordeal she knew he would stop it immediately.

‘But,’ Harvey continued, ‘I have to say that this new arrangement of yours is causing me a bit of a dilemma.’

Trudy paused.

She was momentarily too shocked to respond.

Had Bill told Harvey about the new arrangement? How much had he told him? She willed herself not to blush. Surely Bill would be more discreet than to share their intimate details with someone else?

‘Our new arrangement is causing you a dilemma?’ she repeated.

Did Harvey know that she usually spent Saturday nights being disciplined until her buttocks were a bright-pink blaze of heat? That was one of the main things she associated with the new arrangement. Had Bill confided that they kept a special spatula in his country cottage kitchen which he used throughout Sunday mornings while she took on the role of being his spankmaid? That was another key aspect of the new arrangement. Did Harvey know that she usually spent most of Sunday, her one free day of the week, naked in the bedroom or the kitchen, thrilling to Bill’s innovative, masterful and wonderful discipline?

‘Our new arrangement is causing you a dilemma?’

She tried not to let the rising anger show in her voice. Her cheeks seared. She felt ill with embarrassment at Harvey’s apparent knowledge. How indiscreet had Bill been?

The new arrangement had been Bill’s response to the situation that had nearly driven them apart half a year earlier. They had just been getting to know each other and exploring the boundaries of their new relationship. Bill was introducing Trudy to the pleasures of sexual discipline and she had found the experience incredibly exciting. Sexually, he was a natural master and she had discovered, much to her surprise, that she enjoyed being a natural submissive for him.

It was the perfect balance for a sexual relationship. It would have been a perfect romance if not for Donny, one of her former friends from university.

Donny, along with Charlotte, had been a collaborator in the idea for the online catering company Sweet Temptation. Donny made it known that he wasn’t happy that Trudy was in a relationship with Bill. He claimed the age difference was too great and he had gone out of his way to cause her upset and distress. To make matters worse, because it suited a private vendetta he was pursuing, Donny had also tried to hurt Bill’s career.

Bill had spent a night in jail cells because of Donny’s machinations.

As it turned out, Donny’s grudge had little to do with Trudy finding happiness with Bill. Donny had briefly dated Bill’s daughter, Imogen. He had abandoned her when she became pregnant and Donny and Bill had loathed each other ever since. Donny, Trudy now realised, had simply been taking advantage of an opportunity to upset an old adversary.

Donny’s interference in their relationship had caused a sufficient rift for Bill to give Trudy an ultimatum. She could either be with him at his restaurant, Boui-Boui, or she could be at Sweet Temptation, a company she was supposed to be running with Donny. Even when Trudy and Charlotte found a way to exclude Donny from Sweet Temptation and operate the company without him, Bill still took some persuading to let her pursue both career goals and have a relationship with him. But, eventually, they had negotiated a compromise.

They had called the whole compromise their new arrangement.

‘Our new arrangement is causing you a dilemma?’ she repeated.

Harvey grinned and shook his head. He was clearly oblivious to her thinly veiled fury. He fumbled through the pockets of his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone, a handful of business cards and a sleek, glossy tablet. He placed them on the table by the side of the muffin and then began to inspect the food.

Trudy barely noticed what he was doing.

She and Bill had worked out the details for the new arrangement in Boui-Boui, not two tables away from where she now sat. When she closed her eyes, Trudy could remember every detail of the night when they forged the agreement.

They had celebrated with a night of fine steaks, matured whisky and sharp, painful spanking. Bill had bent Trudy over his knee, exposed her buttocks, and pulled her panties down to the backs of her knees.

She didn’t protest.

The position meant she was thrilled by conflicting spasms of vulnerability and arousal. When he landed the first light slap upon her rear, those conflicting feelings had heightened to a dizzying, delicious degree.

‘We’ll have no more secrets, Ms McLaughlin,’ Bill told her.

He punctuated the comment with another firm slap to her rear. The second blow felt harsher. Trudy made no complaint.

‘No more secrets, Mr Hart,’ she agreed.

His hand landed again and again. Each blow felt firmer than its predecessor. Her cheeks had quickly grown warm and her arousal intense.

It had been an agreement as solemn as marriage vows.

There would be no more secrets, and a revised working schedule that accommodated the needs of both of them. The new arrangement had been settled with a night of wonderful, punishing passion and the memory always left her quivering with excitement.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, Trudy worked from nine to five with Charlotte at the Sweet Temptation kitchens. She spent those evenings as sous under Bill at Boui-Boui. When she collapsed into bed on those nights, she was usually so exhausted there was barely time to undress before sleep overwhelmed her.

On Thursday, Friday and Saturday, because Bill was away in the city working on his career as a celebrity chef, the new arrangement allowed Trudy to take over as chef de cuisine. This meant spending three torturous days away from him, busying herself with the management of the restaurant’s kitchens and savouring every Skyped or texted moment they could share.

Sundays were her favourite part of the new arrangement.

When Bill returned on Saturday night they finally got an opportunity to be together. Typically, Trudy spent Saturday nights in a bliss of delicious discomfort and Sundays in a euphoria of wonderful aches followed by more marvellous punishment.

But Trudy didn’t like that Harvey might know about this aspect of the new arrangement. It felt as though Bill had been discussing their private life behind her back. She saw Harvey fumbling with a muffin and asked stiffly, ‘Which specific aspect of our new arrangement is the main issue?’

He put the untouched muffin aside. It looked like he was sneering at the pastry.

She wondered if he had noticed the anger in her voice.

‘Travelling up here for half my week is one of the main problems.’

Trudy’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. This was not the reply she had expected. She wasn’t even sure why Harvey would be discussing such details of his business affairs with her. She frowned, aware the confusion was showing on her face.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Trudy. I’m spending two or more days a week in this part of the country with Billy because he’s now one of my most successful clients. I’m not complaining. It’s a pleasant part of the world. I like the company and the food. But I’d like to do something to make my visits up here more profitable.’

His words didn’t make sense. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I want to take you on as a client.’

Her mobile buzzed softly again. She ignored it.

‘You want to take me on as a client? What sort of client?’

Harvey had torn the muffin in two. He sniffed doubtfully at the contents. He was about to eat a piece when he paused and considered her. He raised a single eyebrow and asked, ‘Is there really pumpkin in this?’

‘Of course not.’

She struggled not to snap the response. Why did everyone seem to think there was pumpkin in pumpkin-pie spice? No one ever thought there was mud in a Mississippi Mud Pie. No one expected to find toads in toad-in-the-hole. Why were people only so literal when it came to pumpkin-pie spice?

‘It’s a coffee muffin seasoned with pumpkin-pie spice.’

She wanted to ask him again how she could possibly be one of his clients when he represented media celebrities. But more importantly, now he was responding to the muffin, she wanted to hear what he had to say about the dessert.

Warily, Harvey tasted a small piece.

The doubts didn’t vanish from his face but he nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

‘The coffee flavour’s subtle,’ he said. ‘And those spices are divine.’

‘Is the coffee flavour too subtle?’

She wondered if that was the aspect that her senses said were missing. She’d used Coffea Canephora beans to make the blend. They lacked the stronger and more complex flavours of Arabica beans. Was it possible she needed to make the coffee a stronger and more potent flavour?

‘Or do you think there’s too much ginger?’ she asked suddenly. That had been another of her worries when she’d been working on the muffins. ‘Ginger can be overpowering unless it’s used in just the right amount. Then again, the nutmeg needed balancing –’

He placed a hand on hers, cutting her off.

She stopped herself rambling. She could see the confusion on his face. It was an expression she was used to seeing when she started to discuss the mechanics of her profession with people who didn’t work in a kitchen.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Sometimes I get a little carried away.’

Harvey offered an apologetic grin and put the muffin down. ‘I know nothing about flavours,’ he apologised. ‘I know that this tastes very pleasant, but that’s as far as my expertise goes.’ He shrugged and added, ‘I used to smoke when I was younger and more foolish. Whatever discerning palate I did have got spoiled long, long ago.’

She flashed an understanding smile.

‘You, however,’ he went on, ‘have a talent in the kitchen. I think it’s a talent we could exploit. This is why I want to take you on as a client.’

‘As a client? Doing what?’

‘Doing what you love.’

For a brief instant she wondered if he was talking about the way she loved having Bill spank her backside. She shook her head before the idea could colour her cheeks with blushes. The thought was outrageous. Who the hell would want to hear her talking about something like that?

‘I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’

‘I’ve been contacted by a couple of magazines that are looking for a female columnist. There’s also a producer who’s asked me if I had someone like you on my books –’

‘A producer?’ Didn’t producers usually make films?

She didn’t give Harvey a chance to respond to her interruption. ‘Someone like me?’ What did that mean? Blonde? A size ten? Scorpio? ‘I don’t understand,’ she complained. ‘You’ll have to break this down into the simplest terms for me. I’m not that bright.’

Harvey shook his head. His smile was patient. ‘Billy said you were modest.’

‘I have a lot to be modest about,’ she said.

He laughed, but Trudy didn’t smile. She hadn’t been joking.

‘I didn’t think I was being modest,’ she admitted. ‘What are you asking of me, Harvey?’

This time his laughter was full and genuine. ‘You’re a successful entrepreneur,’ he explained. ‘Sweet Temptation is already a well-known national brand and it hasn’t finished its first year of trading. You’re also working in a prestigious Michelin restaurant. From what Billy tells me, three days of the week you’re here in the esteemed role of chef de cuisine.’

Trudy shrugged. It only sounded like a big deal when other people talked about her career. To her it felt like nothing more than the things she usually did through the day. Harvey was talking as though her working week was some sort of phenomenal achievement.

‘Who’d want to know about stuff like that?’

Harvey laughed and picked up the tablet he’d taken from his jacket pocket. He was from Bill’s era – a mature man twice her age. And yet he handled the sleek technology with the assured confidence of a teenage gamer. The glossy tablet did not look out of place in his large, masterful hands. It looked as though it belonged there.

He opened a screen and started to show her the text of an article written by one of Trudy’s favourite celebrity chefs. Before she had read halfway through the column – a piece of writing that sat somewhere between a diary and a recipe – Harvey had opened a second screen and was showing her a similar feature from another noted culinary expert.

Her first thought was: there are a lot of celebrity chefs out there. This was followed by a puzzled question. How many webpages had Harvey prepared in readiness for this casual conversation?

‘I have two national newspapers currently interested in hosting a weekly column from a female chef who knows what she’s talking about,’ Harvey told her. ‘I’d love to put your name forward for one of those positions.’

Trudy hesitated.

It sounded glamorous and exciting. If she wrote for a newspaper it would be an additional piece of income and it might be something Sweet Temptation could use to add prestige to their brand name. But would it be sensible to take on the extra responsibility?

She wondered if she should consult with Bill and then realised he probably had enough to worry about with his own career without having to tell her how she should reply to Harvey’s offer.

She also wondered if she could really claim to know what she was talking about when she couldn’t even identify the rogue ingredient that was spoiling her coffee and pumpkin-pie-spiced muffin. But she put that consideration aside. Part of the pleasure in finding the right flavour came from discounting the wrong flavours.

‘I suppose I could try,’ she said guardedly.

He chuckled. His grin seemed genuinely triumphant. ‘Get me five hundred words of copy for tomorrow evening. We’ll pitch to the tabloid first. Admittedly, the tabloid lacks the gravitas of the broadsheet but it pays better. I’ll get onto the radio producer this afternoon and we’ll organise a convenient date for you to visit the studio and chat about potential projects. Maybe they can see how you work behind the microphone on Tuesday or Wednesday? You might also want to think about a title for the cookbook you’re working on and the brand image that best promotes your style and values.’

Trudy blinked.

Had she just agreed to do all of that?

Harvey placed his business card in front of her and then touched a couple of buttons on the screen of the tablet. He handled the technology with a fluid ease that looked decidedly slick.

‘I’m sending you a contract,’ he told her. ‘I’ll also send you links to those articles we just glanced at so you can see the style that other writers have used.’

‘Am I going to regret this?’

He glanced up from the tablet and grinned. ‘You’re on my books, Trudy. What could you possibly regret?’

‘That was neither a yes nor a no,’ she pointed out.

He laughed and nodded in Bill’s direction. ‘A couple of months from now you’ll be as big a celebrity as Billy.’

Trudy blanched. She wasn’t sure that was something she wanted. She was about to say as much and find a way to tell Harvey that, perhaps, she might need to think about his offer, or maybe reflect on it before giving him a decision. Her mobile buzzed again to remind her she still had a waiting text message.

The distraction interrupted her train of thought.

Rolling her eyes and quietly apologising to Harvey, she finally decided to see who had sent her the message.

It was a text from Donny: I’ll make you pay, bitch.

Chapter 3

Aliceon, Bill’s ex-wife and Boui-Boui’s super-efficient maître d’, stepped to Trudy’s side and placed a hand on her shoulder. Aliceon was tall, imposing and meticulous in her formal black business suit. Even though she wasn’t working today, and had only been summoned to Boui-Boui with everyone else to provide background for the photo shoot, she had still dressed like the restaurant’s most commanding official. Her narrow features, and the rarity of her thin-lipped smile, always made Trudy think she might be austere and unapproachable. In the six months Trudy had known her, Aliceon had done little to dispel that idea.

‘You asked me to let you know when the time was close to six o’clock.’

Trudy glanced at her wristwatch. The time wasn’t just close to six o’clock. It was six o’clock precisely. She blinked in amazement. Aliceon was also a master of punctuality.

‘It’s six o’clock already?’ Where the hell had the day gone? She flashed an apologetic smile at Harvey and said, ‘I need to make a start on something in the kitchen. It’s very important I get it done on time.’

He nodded. ‘Of course it is.’

He mumbled something about not having expected the photo shoot to go on for so long. Then he was picking up the business card he had handed her earlier and pushing it firmly into her fingers.

‘Take care of this. Please. If you have any questions you can call me anytime and we’ll talk. Anytime,’ he insisted.

It annoyed Trudy to see Aliceon pointedly observing the exchange. The maître d’ watched with unblinking eyes. Her inscrutable features didn’t show whether she approved, disapproved or even understood what she was watching. Without saying a word, Aliceon simply made it known that she was observing and not missing a single detail.

Trudy quashed her sense of indignation.

She took the card, thanked Harvey and started towards the kitchen. As she was moving away, weaving artfully between tables, acknowledging friends and acquaintances and avoiding waiters and waitresses, she half expected the photographer to call her back and tell her she must remain at her table until the set was complete. The further she walked, the more it surprised her that the man who was so meticulous about having a couple on each table in the background hadn’t noticed that she’d left Harvey alone.

Glancing back over her shoulder Trudy saw that Aliceon had taken the seat she’d vacated. The maître d’ was now sharing the table with Harvey, ensuring the photographer’s backgrounds remained balanced with a couple at every table.

Maddeningly, Aliceon and Harvey were chuckling together.

Trudy realised, given Aliceon’s longstanding relationship with Bill and his friends, the maître d’ and Harvey had probably known each other since before she was born. Aliceon had been married to Bill twice. She obviously knew his agent and the thought made Trudy feel stupidly young and pointedly inadequate.

Not for the first time, Trudy realised, Aliceon was quietly making her feel as though she had no business being in a relationship with someone as mature as Bill. Glumly, Trudy thought it probably wouldn’t be the last time the woman made her feel that way.

She entered the restaurant’s empty kitchens and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was good to be away from the bustle of front of house. Even though the restaurant hadn’t been serving the public this afternoon, and the only people out there had been co-workers, friends and the friends of friends, it had still been too busy for her liking.

There had been too many people.

There had been too much to think about.

There had been too many near-naked women pressing against Bill.

She supposed that final point was the one that really irked her.

Boui-Boui didn’t operate as a kitchen on Sundays – at least, not as a professional kitchen. It was the one day of the week that Trudy and Bill allowed themselves some together time. Usually they tried to make it a day untroubled by their busy work schedules and to maximise their alone time.

This Sunday, because of the photo shoot, events had worked out differently. This Sunday, it felt as though they’d barely had a chance to exchange a chaste kiss. Trudy hoped they would be able to do more before the end of the day otherwise the entire weekend would be lost.

She went to the fridge and retrieved two prepared sirloins from the shelf where they’d been sitting for the past twenty-four hours. She’d been working on a new flavour: a bourbon marinade seasoned with green onions, chilli peppers, Dijon mustard and a couple of her other favoured sauces.

The result smelled delicious and exciting.

The tang of the bourbon was tart and mouth-watering. The onions and the mustard muted the fiery sting of the alcohol. She hoped the marinade would prove a satisfactory accoutrement for the steaks when she and Bill finally got the restaurant emptied of photographer, models, friends and agents.

The wanton ache in her loins insisted that she needed to be alone with him.

She grabbed curly kale for the side dishes, prepared a vinaigrette and then took a handful of sweet potatoes to make two portions of her signature wedges. Using sweet potatoes for wedges combined the familiarity of rustic chips with the exciting flavours of something new and unexpected. It was not particularly daring or innovative but she thought it lent a suggestion of blending the known with the unknown – and that was one of the experiences she wanted to give those who were eating creations from her kitchen.

Within fifteen minutes the meal was well on its way to being prepared. She checked her wristwatch and sighed with relief. It didn’t look like she’d be too late for what they’d planned. Grabbing her smartphone she sent Bill a text:

Apologies, Mr Hart. Your evening meal will now be served at 6.45 x

The response came back immediately.

Ms McLaughlin, I requested my evening meal to be served at 6.30. Are you telling me it will be 15 mins later?

She blushed as she responded.

I’m sorry, Mr Hart. It won’t be ready until 6.45. Is this a punishable offence?

There was no reply.

From the restaurant she could hear Bill shouting gruff orders to end the photo shoot. ‘You’ve taken enough chuffing pictures,’ he growled. ‘Some of these good people have got houses to go to. Get yourselves back home.’ This final part came out as Get thissens back o-erm. He said other things, most of them louder and many in his gruff inaccessible accent and made difficult by his unfamiliar word choices.

Trudy could hear Harvey’s half-hearted protest but Bill spoke over him.

Then there was a clatter of chairs being moved, footsteps making an exodus, and what she recognised as the babble of friends and staff members as they left the restaurant.

She wanted to sigh with relief.

A few of the friends pushed their heads through the kitchen door and called polite farewells which Trudy took the time to acknowledge. She heard Charlotte and Daryl tell her they’d see her in the morning and Trudy assured them that she’d try to get there on time.

With early evening coming on, and a day’s worth of photographs taken and stored, she could imagine it was easy for Bill to clear the room, thank everyone who had contributed and then send them all on their way.

She heard cars grumble loudly through the gravelled forecourt.

The chatter of friends and acquaintances faded to a whisper. And then there were only two voices.

‘It’s been a long day, Harvey,’ Bill told his agent. ‘We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

There was the sound of a lock being fastened, followed moments later by the growl of a final car driving away, and Trudy knew they were alone.

Her heartbeat quickened.

The kitchen door creaked open.

She heard the familiar clip-clip-clip of Bill’s shoes walking crisply along the tiled floor of the kitchen. He didn’t bother addressing her. Instead he walked straight to his office in the centre of the kitchen.

Trudy could feel herself stiffening in anticipation of what was going to come next. She struggled not to shiver. This was what she’d been waiting for throughout the day. The yearning in the pit of her stomach throbbed greedily.

Music came from the kitchen’s speakers.

Bill let light jazz pump into the kitchen when it was busy with staff. Even when he and Trudy were working there together, he made a point of playing music as a background for them. His tastes in music matched so perfectly with Trudy’s that it was almost as though he knew what she wanted to hear.

This was Etta James singing ‘At Last’.

The hairs on the nape of Trudy’s neck bristled. She believed she could echo every sentiment in the song.

She heard Bill step out of the office. There was the familiar slap of him smacking something hard and heavy into the palm of his hand. And she didn’t need to turn round to know he was holding the wooden spoon.

‘How did the photo shoot go, Mr Hart?’ she asked.

She tried to keep a measure of innocence in the tone of her voice, as though she had no idea what he was planning. She called the question while checking on the progress of the curly kale and without looking back at him. She didn’t dare make eye contact for fear he would see the eager anticipation in her expression. Her need for him was so strong it pulsed like a physical ache.

‘It were fair t’middlin’,’ he conceded.

His gruff northern accent always sent shivers of anticipation tickling down her spine. She held herself steady and tried not to dwell on the excitement he always fired in her. Fair-to-middling, she had learned, meant it had been an average experience and Bill didn’t want to discuss it further. She clenched the muscles in her upper thighs and savoured the certainty of what was going to come.

‘The photographer and the models all acted in a professional fashion,’ Bill told her. ‘In fact, it would be fair to say they all acted in a professional and timely fashion.’

He stood so close behind her she could feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. He lowered his voice to a sultry whisper.

‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘if I’d asked any of those models to prepare a meal for me by six-thirty, I’d have been eating my meal at six-thirty.’

His hand fell to her backside. He clutched one buttock and squeezed with only a little more force than was necessary. Trudy stiffened. She wanted to melt for him. Studiously, she remained focused on her task of prepping the other vegetables that would be served al dente to accompany the kale.

‘I’m sorry for miscalculating the times, Mr Hart.’

‘Sorry doesn’t put the meal on the table, does it?’

‘If you think I need punishing,’ she began. She had to pause because the idea left her breathless. Steadying herself, concentrating on the words so that she delivered them without stumbling, Trudy said, ‘If you think I need punishing, I’ll make myself available for your discipline, Mr Hart.’

He chuckled and placed an arm around her waist.

She was sensitive to the fact that his fingers were now lingering over the waistband of her trousers. It would only take the smallest of actions and he could unfasten them and leave her standing half-naked and completely vulnerable.

The idea made her shiver.

‘Perhaps I’m the one who needs punishing?’ he suggested.

‘Mr Hart?’

‘You saw me at front of house,’ he reminded her. ‘I had my hands on half a dozen attractive women. They were all topless. Surely, under our agreement of what’s allowed within our relationship, that’s not acceptable, is it?’

‘Under the terms of our agreement, Mr Hart,’ she returned, ‘whatever you deem to be acceptable is acceptable.’

‘Good answer.’

He chuckled and kissed the nape of her neck. His hands remained on the waistband of her trousers.

She was acutely conscious of his nearness and it made her need for him swell. If she closed her eyes, Trudy knew she would be overcome by a dizzying array of images reminding her of all the pleasures and thrills they had shared since first meeting.

She didn’t dare close her eyes.

She was already too excited by his nearness.

‘How long until the steaks are ready?’

She checked the curly kale, still looking verdant and fresh in the steamer. ‘We have five minutes until that’s done. I can plate up everything else to serve at the same time.’

‘In that case,’ he began, whispering the words into the shell of her ear, ‘I just have enough time to discipline you.’

The fingers at her waist unfastened the clasp on her trousers. As soon as he had unzipped them they puddled at her ankles. Trudy didn’t bother trying to look shocked. This was what she had been waiting for all day. She tried to blink the shine of excitement from her eyes as she glanced up into his stern, forbidding features.

‘I’m sorry your meal wasn’t ready for six-thirty,’ she mumbled.

‘Fifteen minutes late,’ Bill grumbled. ‘That’s fifteen kisses from the wooden spoon.’

The inner muscles of her sex trembled with excitement. She bent over the workstation where she’d been preparing their meal and held herself ready for him. His fingers fell to her panties. With infinite care, he began to draw them away from her skin. He slid them slowly over her cheeks and down her legs. The cotton lazily caressed her flesh as it was pulled down towards her ankles.

She was immediately conscious of being exposed.

The room’s air was cool against the bared secrets of her sex. She wanted to shiver but she didn’t know if that was because of the chill or because she felt defenceless. Her heartbeat raced at a quick, excited thump.

‘Fifteen,’ he promised. ‘Count them.’

He slapped the bowl of the wooden spoon smartly against the left cheek of her backside.

The punishment had begun. Trudy wanted to moan with relief. This was what she had been craving all day.

The punishment was not so severe that it genuinely hurt. It was a thrill of intimate contact that always left her giddy with heightened arousal. He struck the spoon repeatedly against her buttocks, first the left cheek then the right, waiting to hear her count the number of the stroke before proceeding to deliver the next blow.

Each kiss from the bowl of the spoon left her momentarily shocked.

The shock was quickly replaced by a melting heat.

And then the heat began to spread and warm her sex. Before the awakening desire could grow to an unbearable heat, Bill delivered another blow, stilling her warmth with the shock, and exacerbating her growing need for him.

‘… five …’

Smack!

‘… six …’

Smack!

‘… seven …’

Smack!

She counted the numbers with a raspy breathlessness. Her nipples stood hard inside her bra. Excitement made the heat of her sex feel fluid and desperate.

He increased the force of each blow a little more each time.

And Trudy spat out the numbers with passionate urgency. She was desperate for him to give her the satisfaction she craved and she knew it would only come if he struck repeatedly and with more force.

‘… twelve …’

Smack!

‘… thirteen …’

Smack!

‘… fourteen …’

He paused before delivering the last blow.

She quivered eagerly, dreading the sting of discomfort and desperate to feel its bite against her cheek. When it landed she wanted to moan but she couldn’t decide whether the sound would be born out of disappointment or relief. A blossoming fire of heat ran through her buttocks. It seared a tingling line against her wetness. And she could feel herself teetering on the brink of a climax.

Bill stepped close to her.

He was so near she could detect the citrus notes of his cologne. She could hear the light rasp of his breathing and knew he shared her arousal. She expected to feel the weight of his hardness pressing against her. Almost willing him to take her, she parted her thighs slightly and prepared for his touch.

He slipped a finger against the open split of her sex.

Tremors of raw need bristled through her body.

She thought it wouldn’t take much more than a casual caress of her clitoris and he’d have wrung the orgasm from her. As the finger slipped easily into her sex, lightly pushing between her labia and sending her close to a screaming shriek of release, Trudy knew she was no longer teetering on the brink of a climax. She was about to enjoy the delicious fall into the bliss of the orgasm.

Bill snatched his hand away.

‘You’re very wet,’ he noted.

He tutted softly, almost as though he disapproved of her body’s response. And then he was walking away, returning to the front of house, she guessed. Over his shoulder he called, ‘We should have that steak you’ve prepared. I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I’ll be on table thirteen when you’re ready.’

She remained bent over the station for a moment, struggling to control her breath and not knowing whether she should be furious that he had aroused her and left her unfulfilled or grateful that he had taken the time to excite her so she could enjoy the thrill of wanting him for the remainder of the evening.

She swallowed, shook her head and realised she was smiling.

Dutifully, Trudy served the meal.

The steak was infused with a divine aroma. The whiskey gave it suggestions of smokiness and sophistication that sat well with the steak’s rich flavour. The vegetables were slightly seasoned and proved a perfect accompaniment to the meal. Bill complimented her on the steak’s marinade while they discussed various aspects of business.

He’d been away in the city recording a couple of the projects that Harvey had negotiated. He told her of some of the celebrities he’d met and she marvelled at his easy use of the famous names. She’d been taking care of the restaurant and managing her own online business, so the conversation never lulled. She told him about a change in vegetable suppliers to someone who was cheaper and offering a better quality product. She also pitched a handful of ideas she had for changes to the Boui-Boui menu which Bill promised to consider.

By the time they’d finished the meal she felt that one of her appetites had been sated and she was ready to have an evening in Bill’s company where they simply revelled in the pleasures of being together. It crossed her mind that she hadn’t yet mentioned Donny’s abusive text message or Harvey’s forceful invitation to become one of his clients. And, even though she knew both of those topics needed addressing before Bill had to return to the city, there was something more important that she knew they needed to discuss.

‘This muffin,’ she said, pushing the dessert in front of him. ‘Can you tell me what’s missing?’

Chapter 4

It was early enough to be still dark. The suggestion of dawn was nothing more than a smudge of diluted night on the horizon. Trudy ran through the morning, savouring the pleasure of getting her muscles working and enjoying the endorphin rush that came from the start of her daily exercise regime. She was dressed from cap to trainers in baby-pink exercise gear. There was a small pink bag on her hip containing two bottles of isotonic drinks and a vacuum-sealed muffin. The bag bounced lightly against her hip with each determined step of her run. She liked the weight. It was comforting and the slap of the bag reminded her of the punishing pleasure she had enjoyed with Bill through the previous night.

Deliberately, she shook that memory from her thoughts.

If she exercised when she was feeling horny she usually began to feel lightheaded after the first fifteen minutes. She supposed it was because the blood was trying to rush to too many different places at the same time. Given all the things she needed to deal with this Monday, there was no time for being lightheaded or passing out whilst exercising. She conceded that, if she got her chores finished early this morning, there might be time to feel horny. But that was something she would explore with Bill when she returned to his cottage. Until she was back in his arms, Trudy wouldn’t let herself dwell on that prospect.

Most mornings she listened to a playlist of rock songs and power ballads while she was running. Each track had been specifically chosen because the music had a powerful beat that helped her maintain a steady rhythm as she ran, or because the lyrics were encouraging and inspirational and appropriate for exercising. During the years that she had been studying, the heavy thump of a bass beat and the familiar thrill of Whitesnake, Aerosmith or Bon Jovi had been tried and tested ways to start the day with a much-needed rush of optimism, rhythm and adrenalin.

But this morning she was happy to run in silence.

Her night with Bill had been sufficiently wonderful to give her all the optimism, rhythm and adrenalin she needed. Rather than rely on old but familiar songs she was happy to listen to the first faltering sounds of morning birdsong and the slap of her pink trainers on the night-slick pavements.

She headed away from Boui-Boui towards the city. Running past the old market, only just beginning to open its doors to cleaning staff and the most diligent market stallholders, she headed onwards, past the familiar sights of closed high-street shops and the first of the slowly awakening stores.

A newsagent was pushing an A-frame board outside his shop. The board showed a newspaper headline: Master Baker Judge: It’s Not Fair – Exclusive!

Trudy made a mental note to buy a copy of the newspaper on her return journey. She knew it would be just as easy to get the whole story from Charlotte and Daryl when saw them at Sweet Temptation. Likely they would both have facts that weren’t contained in the newspaper. But she enjoyed the TV show as much as either of her friends and she was curious to know which judge was now embroiled in a scandal.

But she had no intention of buying the newspaper just yet. Holding a newspaper would make her morning run difficult and she didn’t want to do anything to spoil the pleasure of her routine.

Trudy loved running at this time of the day.

When almost everyone else in the world appeared to be asleep, Trudy felt as though she was getting closer to achieving her goals because she wasn’t lazing in bed and sleeping the day away.

She didn’t go as far as the woodland where she used to run. That was a difficult enough route in itself. After jogging across the city centre Trudy didn’t trust herself to manage the treacherous footing of a woodland trail. It would be too easy to slip, fall or stumble and she could see no point in subjecting herself to such unnecessary risks.

After five miles of running she came to a halt at the boulevard outside the university. She had studied at the university for three years, developing her knowledge of food and earning a prestigious first-class honours degree. The imposing exterior, a façade of glossy concrete and polished glass, no longer looked as daunting as it once had. Now, rather than being an intimidating building where she had been struggling to learn the secrets of her chosen profession, the university was simply a convenient midway point for her morning run.

She stretched against one of the boulevard’s trees, enjoying the sensation of her muscles being tested to their limits. She didn’t bother looking up when she heard the slap of trainers on tarmac that warned her she was in the company of an approaching jogger.

‘You made good time, hon.’

Charlotte looked resplendent in a scarlet Nike jogging suit. Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion of her run. Her dark locks were tied back in a tight ponytail. She pulled earbuds from her ears and fumbled with an iPod to switch off her morning tracks. Trudy caught a snatch of the music in the silence and thought it sounded vaguely classical.

She stiffened, remembering that Donny had always enjoyed classical music.

Her upper lip curled into a sneer. Her hands tightened into fists.

Now that they no longer associated with Donny, and the rift had been so acrimonious, Trudy didn’t like to think that any of his preferences had stayed with either of them.

Without mentioning the music, Trudy passed Charlotte one of the isotonic drinks. They shared a silent moment, swallowing cool refreshment and regaining their composure. It occurred to Trudy that she needed to talk about Donny with someone and she figured her best friend was probably the most appropriate person. Charlotte had shared the house with her and Donny. She knew he could be unpleasant and scheming. Charlotte’s advice, Trudy thought, would be invaluable.

‘I got a text from Donny.’

She pulled her mobile from the pink bag on her hip and showed it to Charlotte. She expected her hand to shake as she held the phone but it no longer seemed like such a big deal.

I’ll make you pay, bitch.

Charlotte’s lips thinned to a pencil line. The V of concentration that sometimes appeared on her brow was now deep and obvious. Her lips shaped the words as she read the message for a second and then a third time.

‘Have you shown this to the police?’

Trudy shook her head. She hadn’t even considered it. ‘I’m sure they don’t have the time for this sort of nonsense. It’s nothing serious, is it? It’s just Donny being a dick.’

They were used to Donny being a dick. When the three of them had shared a house Donny’s ridiculous sexploits had kept them entertained by their outrageousness. There had been a catalogue of women wandering through the house, a different one each weeknight and sometimes pairs of them on weekends. There had been one occasion when Charlotte and Trudy came back from a late evening in the library and found Donny passionately entering one young woman doggie-style whilst another naked woman filmed him.

Donny had laughed the incident off without apology.

‘It’s just Donny being a dick,’ Trudy said again. ‘It’s definitely not worth troubling the police.’

‘What does Bill think you should do?’ Charlotte asked.

Trudy glanced towards the university campus. Dawn was now upon them. The night had been bleached from the sky and the heavens looked so clear she suspected it would be a glorious day.

She had been on the university campus when she first saw Bill. He had been a visiting lecturer and his words had left her convinced that she wanted to make a career dealing with foods and flavours.

‘I haven’t mentioned Donny’s text to Bill yet.’

Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘I thought you and Bill didn’t have secrets?’

‘It’s not a secret. It’s just not something I’ve told him yet.’

‘Do you want me to have a word with Donny?’

‘You’re still in touch with him?’

It was Charlotte’s turn to glance at the university campus while she swallowed the remnants of her isotonic drink. She looked as though she was scanning the windows to try and find the location of their old classroom.

‘If you want me to have a word with him,’ she said eventually, ‘I’ll tell him to stop being such a dick.’

‘Do you think that will do any good?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘I don’t think Donny has ever been swayed by a reasoned argument. But that’s not the point. If you want me to –’

‘No.’ Trudy shook her head. ‘I’ll deal with Donny. He sent the text message to me so I should be the one who deals with him.’ She paused to grin at her friend and added, ‘Besides, you’ve got enough going on in your life with this new and secret love.’

‘He’s hardly new. And it’s not a secret.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I’m not telling you. Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s none of your damned business.’

Her cheeks had been flushed with the efforts of exercise before. Now they were crimson with embarrassment. She was looking in every direction except at Trudy, as though on the verge of being shamed by the revelation.

Trudy remembered seeing her friend suffer the same embarrassment when she had been found to be involved in an ill-advised threesome with Donny and one of Donny’s regular fuck buddies, Gemma Hadfield. Not wanting to make her friend endure the humiliation of an unnecessary revelation, Trudy shook her head and placed a reassuring hand on Charlotte’s arm.

‘You’re right. It’s none of my damned business.’

Charlotte seemed to shrink with relief.

‘I’ll tell you about him soon,’ she promised.

Trudy shook her head. ‘If you want to keep your new love a secret I won’t press again. I promise.’

Charlotte sniffed. ‘He’s not exactly a new love,’ she muttered. Then she shook her head and smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being understanding about this. And, if you want me to contact Donny and tell him to stop the stupid threats …’

A worrying thought crossed Trudy’s mind.

Had Charlotte said that her current lover was ‘not exactly a new love’? She was clearly embarrassed to admit who he was and Trudy wondered if her friend had restarted her relationship with Donny. The idea left her cold and worried. The prospect of Charlotte and Donny getting back together again was unsettling. Donny had hurt Charlotte badly once before. Trudy didn’t want to see her friend suffer that misery a second time.

‘Will I see you at HQ this morning?’ Charlotte asked. It was the name they had decided on for their shared offices at the Sweet Temptation bakery. Daryl always called it ‘the fun factory’ but, for Charlotte and Trudy, it was invariably HQ.

‘I might be a little late,’ Trudy replied. ‘I’ve got to go to the market to track down a couple of spices and take care of some other business. I might also need to do a little research and development.’

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘Some other business? Are you keeping secrets now?’

Trudy blushed and nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ she admitted.

‘Does the research and development involve this damn flavour you’re trying to identify?’

‘You can read me like a book, can’t you?’

They hugged with a promise to catch lunch together. Then Charlotte was heading back to her home at Eldorado and Trudy jogged back towards Bill’s house, through the city centre, and taking a detour via the old market.

Chapter 5

She made her way to Finlay West’s premises at the rear of the old market. It was an ancient spice shop. The sign above the door said the company had been in business since 1870. Bill often joked that Finlay had been there on the day the shop first opened. Whenever he made the joke in Finlay’s earshot, Finlay said that Bill had been his first customer.

Inside the air was perfumed with the memory of a thousand exotic spices. The wall behind the counter was a collection of drawers and jars, each labelled in West’s fussily neat handwriting. Trudy knew that the stockroom was even more copiously stocked and she doubted there were many spices in existence that Finlay West couldn’t locate in seconds. She was certain that, when it came to identifying and understanding spices, there was nothing that Finlay West didn’t know.

‘Trudy McLaughlin,’ West sighed cheerfully. ‘You’re here early, aren’t you? Would you care for a drink?’

He was elderly and grey. His smile shone through the silver wisps of his beard as he beamed at her and called her by her name. His eyes, hidden behind wire-framed spectacles, sparkled with bright enthusiasm.

‘Are you making the drink?’ she asked. ‘Or will you be bullying Imogen into making this one?’

It wasn’t really bullying, she conceded. When Imogen was working with him West had an abrupt way of shouting, ‘Shop girl – make yourself useful for once and put the kettle on.’ Trudy supposed it was part of the banter the pair shared throughout the working day. But she still didn’t like the idea that Imogen might resent being treated as some sort of lackey, expected to provide beverages for the benefit of West’s customers. She supposed, if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t like the idea of Imogen having any further reason to resent her.

‘Imogen doesn’t start for another hour,’ West said, checking his watch. He shrugged and added, ‘If you’d said yes to the offer of a coffee, I was going to send you over the road to buy two cappuccinos from that new shop.’

Trudy shook her head and laughed softly. ‘I’ll buy the coffee,’ she said, ‘if you’ll do me a favour with this.’

She took the muffin from the pink bag on her hip and placed it on the counter in front of him.

West regarded it with suspicion. He made no move to approach the muffin. He thrust his hands into his pants pockets and frowned down at the counter. It was like watching a police detective studying the scene of a crime.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s a muffin.’

He glanced up from the muffin and considered her with a disapproving frown. ‘You’ve been hanging around with Hart too long. Sarcasm is never a becoming feature on a young lady. Please tell me what I’m looking at here.’

‘It’s a coffee and pumpkin-pie-spice muffin,’ she explained. ‘I think it’s lacking something. I want you to tell me what you think it needs.’

‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee?’

He lifted the muffin gingerly and sniffed the risen crust. In the morning light of the spice shop the sponge looked like dark gold. She could see the sprinkling of golden sugar crystals on the top and watched them sparkle brightly.

‘Pumpkin-pie spice and coffee is an adventurous combination, isn’t it?’

Trudy said nothing. She didn’t want to influence his opinion. She simply arched an eyebrow, turned and went over to the coffee shop.

She returned ten minutes later with two cappuccinos.

It pleased her to see that West had consumed half the muffin but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. He was shaking his head and she understood that something was wrong with the flavour. Something was clearly troubling him.

‘Where did you get the pumpkin-pie spice?’

‘Get it? I made it.’

‘That’s good. We can probably correct the error from there.’

If anyone else had told her she’d made an error in the kitchen, Trudy would have indignantly bristled and asked what qualified them to make such a bold statement. But no one knew spices better than Finlay West. If he said she’d made a mistake, Trudy was prepared to consider what he had to say and likely bow to his experience.

‘Are you telling me the error’s in the pumpkin-pie spice?’

She tore a piece of the muffin away and sniffed doubtfully. It had all the component parts she expected to encounter. It was fiery and sweet from half of the ingredients with a suggestion of something medicinal and bitter from the cloves.

‘What do you think is missing?’

‘It needs more cinnamon. It needs much more cinnamon.’

‘That’s all that’s missing?’

He shrugged. ‘At the moment you’ve got an even blend of allspice, ginger, cloves and nutmeg. But you’ve only got a similar amount of cinnamon in there too. Admittedly, your nutmeg could be fresher – but I know how difficult it is to get hold of fresh nutmeg. More importantly, most importantly for pumpkin-pie spice, there needs to be a greater cinnamon content.’

‘How much greater?’

He shrugged. Reached for a pen. Jotted down notes. He was shaking his head as he wrote and, when he broke away from writing to sip his cappuccino, she noticed he sluiced his mouth with the drink as though he was trying to remove the taste of the muffin.

Had it really been that unpleasant? She didn’t dare ask the question.

‘The recipe I’ve always used works with these quantities,’ he told her. He pointed at the scrap of paper as he reiterated the items. ‘You’ll need two teaspoons of ginger, two teaspoons of nutmeg, two teaspoons of allspice and two teaspoons of cloves.’ He paused to study her through the clear lens of his spectacles and said solemnly, ‘Added to that you need three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.’

The words sat between them like a challenge.

‘Three tablespoons?’ That was more than double the amount of cinnamon she’d been using. It was a ridiculous amount. ‘Won’t the cinnamon overpower the flavour of the spice?’

‘It’s cinnamon. Cinnamon never overpowers. It only ever sweetens.’

She studied him doubtfully as she sipped her coffee. It wasn’t that she doubted his judgement. But she felt sure that such a large quantity of cinnamon would only serve to dominate the mixture.

‘Try it,’ West insisted. He weighed a paper bag of ground cinnamon, twirled it once to seal the corners and then handed it over. Setting his shoulders into their usual confident pose he added, ‘Come back here and pay me for this once I’ve been proved right.’

Trudy took the note with West’s recipe and reread it slowly.

She trusted his judgement and ordered a couple of essentials for the recipe, whole nutmegs and allspice, which she knew were running low in the kitchens of Bill’s cottage. As soon as Finlay had organised them she placed the packages in the bag on her hip and finished her coffee. She was about to leave when the bell over the door rang.

A pretty young woman holding a baby stumbled into the shop.

‘Trudy,’ Imogen grinned. ‘You always look so good in your running gear.’

‘Imogen and baby Bill,’ Trudy returned. She plucked the baby from the young woman’s arms and cuddled him affectionately.

Baby Bill was a lively handful.

Large for his age, and blessed with painfully bright-red cheeks, he wriggled in Trudy’s arms and then tried to pull at the brim of her pink running cap. He giggled loudly whenever Trudy moved his hand away and pretended to scold him. As soon as he thought the punishment was concluded he would slap his hand back on the brim. She chastised him with mock ferocity and took satisfaction from the sweet sounds of his amusement.

‘You’re good with him,’ Imogen said. She took her coat off and hung it in the backroom of the shop. When she reappeared she asked, ‘Do you fancy a part-time job as a babysitter?’

‘Sure,’ Trudy said. ‘I’ll squeeze in a few hours of babysitting on those nights when I’m not running myself ragged around your father’s restaurant, or busting my backside over at Sweet Temptation.’

‘You think that’s hard work?’ Imogen asked darkly. ‘Have a child. Have a child and maybe work for a harsh and miserly old taskmaster who doesn’t appreciate your efforts. Then you’ll learn what real hard work is like.’

Finlay pretended to look shocked. He clutched Trudy’s wrist and said, ‘Did she just call me a miserly taskmaster?’

‘A miserly old taskmaster,’ Trudy assured him.

Finlay tutted. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless shop girl.’

Trudy jostled baby Bill on her hip. He felt substantial and there was something comforting about his weight and the way he kept reaching for her cap and grinning his broad, innocent grin. Ignoring Finlay’s theatrical attempts to appear injured, Trudy turned to Imogen. ‘You’ve not yet been up to Boui-Boui.’ She tried not to make the words sound like an accusation.

‘No,’ Imogen admitted. She took the baby from Trudy’s arms and busied herself with checking on him. ‘Baby Bill’s not been up to travelling these last few weeks,’ she explained. ‘You know how kids get at this time of year.’

‘He’s a sickly child,’ Finlay added. ‘I think he gets it from that sickly specimen of a father he had.’

Imogen shot him a reproachful look.

Trudy tried not to smirk.

‘You must come and visit the restaurant soon,’ Trudy insisted. ‘It would be great to see you up there and I know Bill would really love to see how his grandson is developing.’

Imogen’s silence was noncommittal.

It stretched to the point of being uncomfortable.

‘Doesn’t Hart spend a lot of time in the city now?’ Finlay asked.

‘He’s there three days a week,’ Trudy said. ‘He’s usually away on Thursday, Friday and most of Saturday.’

Finlay nodded. ‘So, if someone wanted to visit Boui-Boui to see you, but to avoid Hart …’

Trudy fixed him with a venomous glare.

Finlay pretended to ignore her obvious anger.

‘… that person would be best visiting on a Thursday, a Friday or a Saturday.’ He paused and then smiled to himself. It was obvious that he was trying to contain a lot of mirth behind his huge beard. ‘Should I get Imogen to write this down for me, so we all know which days of the week are best for avoiding Hart?’

Trudy was going to say something scathing but she stopped herself. Her phone chose that moment to announce that she’d received a message. She pulled it from her bag to see who was texting her.

‘It would be nice to visit the restaurant again,’ Imogen admitted. She said the words in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper. ‘I made some good friends at Boui-Boui. Is Kali still pâtissier?’

‘Kali’s still making the best carrot cake in the world,’ Trudy said. ‘And I know she’d love to see you. Nikki asks after you too. She lost the purple-pink hair for a while and went raven black. But now she’s back to one hundred per cent fuchsia. I think the colour suits her.’

She was checking her mobile as she spoke.

There were two texts. The first had come from Harvey, asking if she could furnish him with a draft article by the end of the day. Trudy wondered if she would be able to manage that task during her lunch break while she was at Sweet Temptation. She was still puzzling over what to write about when she read the second text.

It was another message from Donny and this one seemed more threatening than his previous text: You’re about to find out that there’s a bigger bitch than you – it’s called payback.

Chapter 6

She returned to Bill’s cottage, still trying to decide how to deal with Donny’s latest message. With the prospect of a beautiful day blossoming from the pastel-blue sky, she didn’t like the idea of dwelling on his juvenile threats. But she knew, if she didn’t do something, the situation was likely to get out of hand.

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she grumbled. She repeated the words as she ran, using their rise and fall to help balance her pace. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ It didn’t help to maintain a great rhythm but she felt a growing sense of satisfaction from condemning Donny as she ran.

The last leg of her run took her past Aliceon’s cottage on the outskirts of Bill’s estate. It was a pretty building, steeped in the rustic charm of a thatched roof and surrounded by a dry stone wall. There were lemon trees on either side of the cottage’s bright-green doorway and wild roses, yellow and peach, climbing ivy-like up the walls.

Trudy wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the woman living so close. She told herself that was more because Aliceon was cold and unapproachable than because her previous relationship with Bill might affect Trudy’s developing attachment to him. But she wasn’t entirely sure she was telling herself the truth.

Admittedly, living so close to the restaurant meant Aliceon was always available to work at Boui-Boui whenever she was needed. But the fact that she had a key to Bill’s cottage, and no qualms about bursting in when she felt the situation merited such an unwanted intrusion, meant that Trudy lived with the constant worry of her making an unexpected appearance.

The racing-green convertible outside Aliceon’s cottage was blocked in by a large dark sedan. There was a man at Aliceon’s door. Dressed in a dark suit he looked as formal and foreboding as the menacing vehicle he had been driving. He carried an impressive looking briefcase and wore an austere frown.

Trudy thought of stopping to ask if Aliceon needed help. She knew it would be a neighbourly and considerate action. It was the sort of thoughtfulness she herself would have appreciated. But she had yet to see a situation where the maître d’ needed assistance from anyone. Aliceon could handle complaints, drunks, threats and the media with ease, confidence and self-assurance. Trudy thought it unlikely that the woman would be shaken by one surly-looking man on her doorstep.

Nevertheless, as she jogged past, Trudy tried to catch Aliceon’s eye, just in case she did need assistance. She could see Aliceon lurking within the shadows of her doorway. Her frame was slender when she was wearing her suit in Boui-Boui, but it looked spindly here wrapped tight in a towelling bathrobe. She was shaking her head in small terse gestures. Her lips were pursed into a solemn sneer of disdain.

When she did make eye contact, and Trudy found her gaze being met by Aliceon’s defiant glare, Aliceon simply ushered her guest into the cottage and slammed the door.

The rudeness didn’t trouble Trudy. Making a note to mention the anomaly to Bill, she jogged unhurriedly past and headed back to the cottage.

She slowed her pace further as she passed the chicken runs where the restaurant’s resident Black Rock chickens clucked and pecked. They were substantial creatures, beautiful with their scarlet combs, golden capes and silky black bodies. But, like all chickens, they were easily unsettled and Trudy didn’t want to cause them any distress.

Slowing her pace only served to remind her that she had done too much this morning. Weary from the effort, and close to staggering, she stumbled into the kitchen.

The room was noisy with the sound of the hissing espresso machine. Bill had been listening to a radio programme but he turned the volume down when she entered the room.

‘You took your sweet time this morning, didn’t you?’ He was glancing at his wristwatch. ‘How many miles are you running nowadays?’

‘I went to the market to see Finlay,’ she explained. She held up the bag that contained her cinnamon and the other ingredients and said, ‘I might have resolved the problem with the muffins.’

Bill raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the old bugger think they’re lacking?’

‘Cinnamon.’

Bill considered this. ‘Maybe.’ In his thick Yorkshire accent the word came out as meb-bee. ‘You should try that, but I still think it’s an issue with the coffee. You should be trying beans with a more exciting flavour than the Coffea Canephora.’

She dropped the spices on the kitchen counter, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I need to get a shower. I’m all sweaty from this morning’s run and I’m sure you don’t want me when I’m all sweaty.’

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Because he was sitting and she was standing his face was close to her breasts.

‘I like you sweaty,’ he confided.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her need for him blossomed with fast, fluid urgency. He had a hand on the small of her back and was pulling her closer. She always found there was something electric in the familiarity of his touch. He knew how to balance his natural authority with her body’s desire for sensitivity.

This morning was no exception.

The suggestion of impending intimacy flavoured the air like the smell of spices had flavoured each breath in Finlay West’s spice shop. Her need for him throbbed with a dull and steady pulse that was undeniable. It grew more insistent with each passing second.

With an exertion of willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Trudy shook her head. She resisted the desires he inspired and fixed him with a firm expression. ‘I don’t have time to play those sorts of games this morning, Mr Hart,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to get showered and do a quick experiment with this new pumpkin-pie-spice blend before I get down to HQ.’

He let his hand fall away from her as he checked his watch.

‘What if I say you’re allowed ten minutes in the bathroom? What if I say, after those ten minutes, I want you in this kitchen, Ms McLaughlin?’

She shivered and considered her reply carefully before responding.

‘If you said those things,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I suppose I’d have to obey your commands, Mr Hart.’

He lightly landed his hand against her rear.

‘I did say those things,’ he agreed. He glanced again at his watch and said, ‘You’ve got nine minutes and fifty seconds remaining, Ms McLaughlin. I think you’d better get moving.’

She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking.

She slipped from his embrace and hurried up the stairs. The lycra running wear felt as though it had been glued to her body with a sticky blend of warmth and perspiration. She pulled the clothing away with clumsy snatches. After dropping the garments into the laundry basket she hurriedly stepped into the shower.

The stream of misty-hot water dissolved the sheen of sweat on her shoulders and back. She smoothed soap over her skin and tried not to think of how much Bill would be pleasuring her when she was clean and had returned to the kitchen. The knowledge that they were about to share intimate time together sent a tremor of smouldering need through the muscles of her sex. Her nipples stiffened and she felt momentarily dizzy beneath the spray from the showerhead.

It crossed her mind that she should mention the messages she had received from Donny. Her former friend was clearly trying to make some point that would likely be unpleasant and inconvenient. She supposed it would also be prudent to mention the invitation from Harvey. Under the policy of honesty and openness to which they’d both agreed with the new arrangement, Trudy thought frank discussion would be the cornerstone of what they did together. But she knew that talking about Donny or Harvey could kill whatever passion she hoped to share with Bill. And, remembering that she had put her own arousal on hold while she went for her run this morning, Trudy didn’t want to do or say anything that was likely to spoil the satisfaction of their shared passion.

Promising herself that she would mention both subjects when she was working alongside him at Boui-Boui in the evening, Trudy finished her shower and dressed quickly. She found matching pants and bra in her drawers in their bedroom. She also found a modest charcoal skirt and a pair of black heels and completed the outfit with a silver-grey blouse. It was more stylish than what she usually wore – she preferred function to fashion – but she thought the results were pleasing. Aware that she had probably gone beyond the ten minutes Bill had allowed, Trudy hurried down the stairs calling an apology ahead of her.

Bill glanced at his wristwatch.

‘You’re six minutes late,’ he muttered.

Six minutes? She was surprised it hadn’t been longer.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’

‘Pass me the wooden spoon.’

The pulse between her legs beat more swiftly. She snatched the wooden spoon from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. She noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Some days the arousal he inspired was so strong that it was impossible to contain her reactions. Seeing her hands shake with anticipation was now such a regular occurrence it was almost commonplace. But, even though it happened so frequently, it felt far from commonplace.

‘Bend over, Ms McLaughlin.’

She assumed the same position that she always adopted for punishment in the cottage’s kitchen. She stood before the kitchen sink and stared out through the window. Glancing down at her feet, and the grey slate tiles on the floor, she placed the toes of her shoes at the corners of a pair of floor-tiles two rows back from the kitchen sink. The tiles were separated by two tiles. The distance was uncomfortable and, for Trudy, it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where they were needed. The muscles at the tops of her thighs felt strained but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her daily exercise regime that she could take pleasure from the discomfort of a little overstretching.

Not that it was just the discomfort of an uncomfortable posture that weighed on her thoughts. The position also made Trudy stand with her legs far enough apart to make her feel exposed.

Bill knelt down and stroked the back of her calf.

His fingers were warm. The palms were callused and rough against her smooth bare skin. As he stroked upwards, his caress smoothing the back of her knee and beneath the hem of her modest charcoal skirt, Trudy could feel her excitement growing. She was desperate to feel his touch go higher and she wanted to sob out a desperate command that he should hurry up and satisfy her.

Knowing that such a demand would either be ignored or earn a punishment, Trudy refrained from crying out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the sink.

Slowly, as though he knew of her impatience and was making her wait, Bill’s fingers inched higher. He stroked her thigh with a languid, lingering hand that was deliberate and unhurried. He chuckled softly to himself and she understood he was drawing as much pleasure from the intimacy as she was enduring.

‘You’re wearing white cotton panties?’ he mused. ‘How innocent.’

She stumbled for a response. Was she supposed to thank him? Apologise? Or simply squirm from the satisfaction of knowing that he was now studying her panties and probably preparing to remove them?

‘Yes, Mr Hart,’ she mumbled.

He stroked the crotch of her panties, his fingernail scratching against the weft of the cotton fabric. The sensation was subtle enough to be described as featherlight, but it was also powerful enough to have her quivering.

The single caress was almost enough to ignite a climax.

It took an enormous effort to stand still without trembling.

His finger chased lazily back and forth against the crotch. She could feel herself growing wetter and more desperate for him. She swallowed repeatedly, choking down words that would encourage, coax and beg him to do more.

‘I need to remove these,’ he decided. ‘They’re getting in my way.’

She nodded and tried to speak. Her throat was too dry to do anything more than croak. ‘Yes, Mr Hart.’

He tugged gently at the cotton.

She was so acutely sensitive to what he was doing that every movement felt like the sort of caress that would make her body explode with an orgasmic release. Even though he was doing little more than removing her panties, slowly sliding his fingers beneath the fabric and then slipping the underwear down her legs, she could feel her responses growing more profound.

She was reminded of the previous evening in Boui-Boui’s kitchens where he had left her half-naked, exposed and vulnerable. She wondered if that was his intention this morning. The idea of revisiting that thrill made her throb with longing for him. Admittedly, it was something of a frustrating tease. But, if she was going to be teased and frustrated by any man, she was happy for her torment to be at the hands of her Mr Hart.

She stepped awkwardly out of the panties.

He peeled her skirt upwards to expose her cheeks. His roughened palms stroked the peach-like flesh of her buttocks. She wondered if he was chasing the shape of the red lines that remained from when he had spanked her the previous evening.

The idea made her tremble.

She had checked her reflection before climbing in the shower and knew the shadow of the marks remained. Did he get the same excitement from seeing those handprints that she had enjoyed? Trudy wanted to ask the question but she knew that speaking would break the spell of the moment.

Bill absently slid a finger against her wetness.

Her lips felt oily with the greedy need he inspired.

Then he was stepping away from her and demonstrating the domination that she always adored. He slapped a steadying hand against her backside, his right palm landing smartly on her bare right cheek. The blow stung briefly but she knew that was not proper punishment.

‘Six minutes,’ he reminded her.

She moaned softly. She had a good idea of what would be coming next.

At the back of her mind she knew she should be pressing on to see if Finlay’s pumpkin-pie spice addressed the shortfall in the flavour of the muffins. She should be telling him about Harvey’s offer, Donny’s threats and the anomaly of seeing a strange man outside Aliceon’s cottage that morning. But the importance of those considerations was pushed to the back of her mind and drowned out by the more urgent needs of her libido.

‘Six minutes,’ she repeated.

She tightened the muscles in her buttocks, trying to make herself ready for the blows. He stroked the bowl of the wooden spoon against her rear. She could feel him drawing slow S shapes with tails that crept close to the crease of her sex.

He didn’t stop drawing the shapes until she’d shivered with need.

Then, without any warning, he shocked her with six smart slaps from the spoon. There were three for each cheek. They were harsh, sharp and exactly what she wanted. They left her panting, excited and breathlessly expecting more.

Bill tossed the wooden spoon into the sink.

‘You were going to work on your muffins, weren’t you, Ms McLaughlin?’

She nodded. She felt momentarily stunned by the size of her unsated craving.

‘Get on with your muffins,’ Bill growled gruffly. ‘We can finish playing once you’re done baking them.’

She nodded obediently, making no attempt to let him know how desperately she wanted him. Pulling herself away from the sink she allowed her skirt to fall back into place. Then she began preparing the muffins as he had instructed.

Before sifting the flour or measuring out the sugars she needed, Trudy pulled an espresso from the machine in the centre of Bill’s kitchen. She set the drink aside to cool while she began work on the pumpkin-pie spice.

Carefully following Finlay’s instructions, grinding two teaspoons of cloves with a pestle and mortar and then adding them to two teaspoons of ground ginger, two teaspoons of ground nutmeg and two teaspoons of allspice, she finished the mixture with three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.

Bill was watching guardedly.

She liked that he didn’t interfere. Occasionally, when they were in Boui-Boui’s kitchens, he offered helpful suggestions or tips based on his years of experience in professional kitchens. But when they were alone together, he seldom did more than watch.

‘I still say that’s a chuff of a lot of cinnamon,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s times when I worry that Finlay might be losing it.’

Trudy shrugged uneasily.

She turned on the oven, adjusted the shelf and dropped a dozen dark-brown muffin cases onto a bun tray.

‘If it was anyone else I’d share your worries,’ she admitted. ‘It seems like an enormous amount of cinnamon. But this is Finlay West’s recipe for pumpkin-pie spice, and I trust his wisdom.’

Bill shrugged. ‘Let’s see how it turns out.’

She placed the mixed spice in an empty jar and labelled it Pumpkin-Pie Spice – Finlay West recipe. She added the date to the label and then put it aside.

Bill lifted the jar and sniffed warily at the contents. He raised an eyebrow and she saw the quirk of his smile on his upper lip. Was that approval? Did he think the mixture was right this time? Or did he still believe that Finlay West had lost it?

Trudy said nothing. She began to work on the remainder of the dry ingredients, sifting flour and baking powder into a bowl. She was about to weigh out the turbinado sugar when Bill stopped her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m adding sugar.’

‘That’s turbinado.’

‘I know. That’s the sugar this needs.’

‘Turbinado is too delicate. You’re using coffee and pumpkin-pie spice. This recipe needs a demarara.’

She considered the suggestion. The differences between turbinado and demerara were negligible. Personally she enjoyed the suggestions of honey that were sometimes found in a turbinado, whereas demerara could be rich with the remnants of its syrupy molasses content. But she supposed, balanced against the coffee and the spices she wanted in the muffins, it would be as well to try Bill’s suggestion.

‘Very good, Mr Hart,’ she demurred.

He laughed as she weighed out the demerara sugar.

She added the eggs and double cream, along with a dash of sunflower oil and the cooled espresso. After folding wet and dry ingredients together, combining them rather than mixing them, she scooped spoonfuls of mix into the dozen muffin cases. Briskly, she pushed the tray onto the shelf, set the timer app on her smartphone for fourteen minutes, and then turned to grin at him.

His smile was an eager reflection of her own.

‘We have quarter of an hour,’ she told him.

He kissed her.

It was the contact her body had needed.

His lips were firm and strong and surprisingly commanding. He nibbled gently on her lower lip as his hand went to the back of her neck and held her face still for his kisses. If she hadn’t been wet for him before, Trudy knew she would be melting after he had kissed her.

She could feel herself responding to him. The inner muscles of her sex tingled greedily as though they yearned to have him inside. Every erogenous zone on her body throbbed in anticipation of what she hoped they were about to enjoy.

‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since I woke up,’ he whispered.

She could have said the same thing.

She rubbed her pelvis against him. The bulge of his arousal was a thinly veiled hardness beneath his dressing gown. She moaned quietly, confident that he was about to satisfy all the broiling urges that he’d awoken in her loins.

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