LIAM GAVE THE pasta a quick stir and lifted the lid to check on the simmering pan that emitted a waft of herbs with a hint of garlic. Anticipation clashed again with guilt and he reminded himself again that this was not a date. It was a working dinner.
The kitchen door opened and he looked up and there it was again, that little kick to his gut when he saw Ava. She’d changed into black trousers and a tunic top, her hair now pulled up into a bun. A kind of smart-casual-cum-business look. Her face looked a little different and he frowned as he tried to pinpoint it—perhaps a different lipstick and something about her eyes. Maybe a touch more eye shadow.
In the same moment he realised he was staring he also clocked that so was she, that her amber eyes watched him with...appreciation.
‘Do I pass muster?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Do I?’ he countered.
‘Yes. Sorry to stare. There is just something great about a man at the kitchen stove. I know it’s considered normal nowadays but in my family it wasn’t.’
‘I’d love to say I cooked it but you know I didn’t. There is a bottle of wine in the fridge if you’d like a glass.’
‘Thank you. I would. But I’ll set the table first.’
‘Great. The cutlery is in that drawer.’
The drawer that was right next to him, in a kitchen space that could best be described as cosy. Now what? If he moved away too abruptly it would look awkward. If he stayed put things could get even more awkward. Jeez. He was behaving like an adolescent. The whole point of this was so that they could get more comfortable together. Yet he could feel his body tense, brace itself for impact as Ava came closer. He could smell the scent of soap, a hint of elusive light floral scent. And now she was closer still and his muscles ached with tension when he heard her sudden intake of breath and knew his proximity affected her. The reminder that this attraction was mutual ratcheted his pulse rate.
‘I...um... I...’ She stood stock-still and he could see her gaze flick over him. Her hand lifted as if she were going to place it on his chest and then she dropped it quickly, masked the movement into a reach across to the drawer. He tried to move away and inadvertently his hand brushed against hers, his fingers swept over her wrist and she made the smallest of noises.
She leapt away as he did and somehow stepped back straight into him, her back pressed against his chest and he instinctively wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her and himself. And for one glorious second she pressed against him and all he wanted was to hold her and nuzzle kisses on the tantalising allure of her neck, to bury his face in the glossy, silken strands of her hair.
The instant vanished. He released her immediately and she sprang forward. ‘Sorry,’ they both said, their voices vying for supremacy.
Ava busied herself at the drawer, snatched up what looked like a random selection of cutlery and moved at pace towards the table, her back to him, whilst he dished up the food.
Eventually she cleared her throat and turned to face him, and for a moment there was silence as their gazes locked. ‘So,’ he managed. ‘Do you cook?’ It was the best he could do.
‘Yes.’ The assertion was over-emphatic, as if it characterised her relief that he’d initiated conversation. ‘My mum insisted on me doing extensive cordon bleu courses. She believed a woman should be able to cook for her man.’
‘You don’t sound as if you agreed with her.’
‘I didn’t have a problem with learning a necessary skill—I just didn’t understand why my dad never had to cook just because he didn’t want to, but I had to learn how to make a soufflé when I didn’t like it. To be fair I suppose Mum did a lot of the cooking as well.’
‘I always imagined your family as having an array of staff, a butler and a cook and—’ He broke off, knew the words were a mistake even as he said them.
‘Did you imagine my family a lot?’ Her voice held no judgement or censure yet the question irked him.
‘Yes. I did. It was hard not to. In my father’s mind your life of huge privilege should have been ours and he tended to dwell on it. His imagination fed by the numerous articles depicting the glittering life and times of the Cassevetis. It felt as if your success had a direct inverse correlation to my family’s decline.’ He knew his tone was bitter but right now he didn’t care. ‘Whilst you were learning how to bake a soufflé I was learning how to make nutritious meals on a shoestring. Meals that my dad would eat to soak up the booze. If I didn’t cook he wouldn’t eat.’ Whoa. Let’s not turn this into a pity party. And yet...it rankled. The realisation that whilst Karen Casseveti was cooking for her man his mum was working more and more extra shifts to try to pay the bills.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ava’s voice was small but clear. There was compassion in her amber eyes and he didn’t want that. It was too close to pity and his dad would have hated that from a Casseveti.
‘There is no need for you to be sorry. You didn’t do anything.’
Ava hesitated, ate a mouthful of the pasta and then looked at him. ‘No, I didn’t. But my father did. His actions were the catalyst that drove your father to alcohol.’
Innate honesty compelled Liam to point out, ‘No one forced the whisky bottle to my dad’s lips.’ He did know that, would never understand why that was the choice his father had made. Had vowed it would never be his—he would always stand and fight. In Terry Rourke’s place he would have taken the fight to the Cassevetis, proved himself to be the better man. ‘That was his choice.’
‘A choice that impacted on you and your mum.’
There was that compassion again and he wanted none of it. Neither would he brook any criticism of his father however implicit. Liam had loved his dad and known, for all his faults, Terry had loved him too. ‘Yes, it did, but looking after my dad helped me too. Kept me off the streets. I got a Saturday job so I could get him vitamins.’ All in his quest to try to get his dad better, back to normal, so that his parents could reunite, so that his father would become the man he had once been. ‘The shop owner was in the army reserves and that got me interested in the army. You don’t need to be sorry for me.’
‘I’m not. But I am sorry for my father’s actions. More to the point, so was he.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What do you mean “perhaps”?’ Now anger sharpened her tone. ‘He asked me to come and make amends. He regretted his actions.’
‘But not enough to apologise in person, to contact my dad or to meet me face to face. Or pick up the phone himself. Over all the years.’ His anger matched hers now. Say what she would, James Casseveti had been a coward and a cheat.
‘My father found it hard to face his past. I think he tried to block it out. Seeing you would have evoked memories he didn’t want to think about.’ Now her voice was sad. ‘So he decided to make amends for his wrongs after he was gone—that way he wouldn’t have to face the consequences himself.’ Liam saw the confusion, the resignation that shadowed her face and he realised that now it was Ava who had to do just that. Ava who was left at the helm of Dolci, undermined by her father’s shock decision to leave two thirds of her legacy to his first two children. Children who the press alleged he had deserted in their childhood. Ava who was faking a relationship. Anger with James combined with a sharp and unexpected desire to offer comfort.
What the heck? This was a Casseveti.
Ava pushed her empty plate to one side, leant forward, reached a hand out and then pulled it back. ‘I know my dad was far from perfect and I know he did wrong. But he was my dad and I loved him.’
Hell. Those were words that could have fallen from his own lips.
‘But I do believe he felt genuine regret. I wish...’
‘That you could ask him. Talk to him.’ He could see the grief in her eyes, recognised the shell-shock look of the finality of loss, the creeping realisation that the person was gone. The meaning of for ever took on new dimensions. And suddenly his anger disappeared. Ava had lost her father. However flawed he had been Ava had loved him. Just as Liam had loved his own dad. James Casseveti had done wrong but Ava hadn’t and it was time to lay the past to rest. In order to make this work, but also because that was the right thing to do.
‘Yes.’ For a second her voice registered surprise and then understanding dawned in her amber eyes. ‘You understand because you’ve been through it. Does it get easier? All I want is to somehow bring him back and ask him what I should do. Why he did some of the things he did.’
‘I used to go Dad’s grave. I’d sit there and ask him questions, try to imagine the answers. It gave me a level of peace. Still does sometimes.’ Surprise touched him that he was sharing this, but how could he ignore a grief he recognised all too well? ‘Although he’s gone he is still part of you. For better or worse he helped shape your life. Nothing can change that or erase the good memories. As for the grief, it doesn’t go but it compacts, becomes a small part of you that you carry, a mark of respect and love for the person who is gone.’ He rubbed the back of his neck to mitigate the prickle of embarrassment. ‘That’s my two pennyworth.’
‘It’s worth a lot more than that.’ He looked across and saw that tears glistened in her beautiful amber eyes. ‘That has helped more than you can know. It’s been hard—I don’t have any siblings, or at least not any who will share this grief. My mother is devastated so it feels wrong to burden her. So thank you—it means a lot to talk to someone who gets it.’ Now she did reach out to cover his hand with hers. ‘Especially when I know your feelings about my dad.’
‘That doesn’t matter. My dad wasn’t perfect either—he made some pretty bad choices in his life, but that doesn’t alter his love for me or mine for him or how much I grieved for him. You loved your dad and he loved you—your grief is real and valid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And whilst I do have issues with his choices, I do know they aren’t your fault. From now on I’ll act like that. Let’s try and put the past behind us.’
‘I’d like that.’ A smile illuminated her face, though sadness still flecked her eyes. ‘I really would.’ Simultaneously they both seemed to realise that her hand still covered his and for a moment all he wanted was to increase that contact, to move round the table and hold her.
The desire caused a warning bell to klaxon in his brain. Bad idea. The knowledge hit him like an iced bucket of water on the head. Ava was grieving, was as vulnerable as he had been in the aftermath of his father’s death. That meant her perspective would be skewed just as his had been. In his case he had ended up believing himself in love, had ended up in a marriage that had been a mistake. Guilt touched him. Maybe he should never have asked Ava to be part of this charade, perhaps in itself that had been taking advantage. But it was too late to change that now. All he could do was ensure he acted honourably and with sensitivity. That meant keeping their latent attraction in check and that in turn meant keeping their physical contact to a minimum. It would be all too easy for a hug to morph into something more. This he knew.
But perhaps he could try to make the sadness recede from her eyes—there could be no harm in that. ‘Dessert?’ he suggested. ‘And then I suggest we should test each other on our fact cards.’
‘Sure.’
‘But let’s make it a little more fun than a straightforward test.’
Now curiosity surfaced and sparked her eyes. ‘How?’
‘I’ll get the dessert and I’ll tell you.’
Ava watched as Liam stacked the plates in the dishwasher, her body and mind in turmoil. Emotions swirled, grief and a warmth at having had that grief understood—a sense of a connection that somehow prompted her body to hum anew at the memory of earlier. Of being pressed back against him, his arm around her waist Just those few seconds seemed to have branded her in some way. And now...now she needed to get a grip, had to be careful.
They had agreed to put the past behind them but it still existed. Plus Liam was a widower—a man who hadn’t dated since his wife died. And Ava wasn’t on the market for a relationship with anyone. Yet when he returned bearing a dessert that looked utterly delicious she knew the adjective ‘yum’ was directed at him by her unruly hormones.
And somehow her gaze landed on a curl of his copper hair, shower damp on the nape of his neck, and it mesmerised her. She snatched her glance away only to land on the tantalising bare V of his neckline.
‘It’s one of Elena’s specialities—’ He broke off as he looked at her, must have read something in her gaze, or perhaps she was drooling or sending out some sort of smoke signal from her ears. But as he paused their gazes locked and she saw desire in the depths of his cobalt eyes.
Say something. Break the spell. ‘Um...you look amazing...’ Oh, for Pete’s sake. ‘Not you. It looks amazing. The dessert, I mean.’
‘So I don’t look amazing?’ Amusement laced his deep voice and she glared at him.
‘I... I don’t know.’ Ava closed her eyes and wondered where twenty-seven years of poise had vanished to. Seemingly cancelled out by one curl of hair, some understanding, a sculpted face and an even more sculpted body and... There she went again.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I am a dessert sort of girl and this clearly fuddled my brain. It looks amazing. What is it?’
‘Barchiglia. It’s a chocolate and almond tart with a pear and sort of almond meringue filling.’
‘That sounds to die for.’
‘It is. That’s why I thought we could use the dessert as a bit of an incentive.’
‘How?’
‘We cut it up into small pieces and every time we get a question right we get a piece. If we don’t get it right we forfeit to the other person. And you really don’t want to forfeit any of this.’
‘Bring it on.’ She watched as he cut the cake, appreciated the deft, confident movements, but even more she appreciated what he was doing—knew he was trying to distract her from her grief.
‘OK. You ask first,’ he said.
‘What’s my favourite colour?’
‘Amber.’
‘Correct.’ He picked up a small piece and popped it into his mouth, and she smiled as he made an exaggerated mmm sound.
‘My go. Where did I live as a child?’
‘Surrey.’
‘Also correct.’ He pushed the plate towards her and she picked up a square of the confection. Nibbled it and closed her eyes. ‘That is absolutely divine.’ She took another small bite, savoured the taste of the almonds mixed with the tarter tang of the pears. Opened her eyes to find his eyes centred on her lips and she felt heat touch her face. Ate the last bit and returned to the questioning.
As the hour went on and the barchiglia reduced in size it became a challenge, both of them trying to find harder, more difficult questions until finally there was just one square left.
‘All to play for,’ he said.
‘And it’s my question.’ She leant back in the chair, her eyes narrowed as she thought of a question that might flummox him. ‘Name three products that I modelled.’
Liam paused, thought for a moment. ‘Sahara clothes, Madeline cosmetics and...you were also the cover girl for lingerie, but the name of the company escapes me. Something to do with Temptation, I believe.’ His voice was deep and husky as he said the word and she found herself leaning forward.
‘It was called Allure.’ And she couldn’t help it, she said the word with a deliberate emphasis, and now the atmosphere seemed to cloud and haze with the simmering fog of tension. The urge to reach out, to touch, was almost too much. Almost.
He pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood against the marble dispelling the mist of desire. ‘We need to talk about this.’
‘About what?’ The question was disingenuous but she needed to be sure she hadn’t misinterpreted the signals.
‘This chemistry. This attraction.’ Against her will the words sent a small thrill of satisfaction through her. The idea that this desire was mutual, that he felt the same pull, the same yearning strummed a triumphant chord through her whole body. ‘Because if we don’t figure out how to deal with it, ironically it will undo our whole act.’
‘You’re right. So we need to work out a way to feel comfortable with the attraction. Accept it and control it. Switch it on and off for the camera.’
‘How?’
Ava inhaled a deep breath. ‘First we need to get used to being in the same space. Let’s give it a try.’ His expression was so ludicrous she almost sighed, until she glimpsed her own reflection and saw the proverbial rabbit-in-the-headlights glint in her own eyes. ‘We look terrified and that is not a good look for the camera. So let’s start small. We need to smile.’
‘Like this?’ His lips turned up, the line forced and rigid but at least pointed in the right direction.
‘That’s not a bad start, but it looks a little forced and your eyes are still...’ shadowed, hard ‘...not relaxed.’
‘OK. Show me how it’s done.’
‘Easy. What sort of smile do you want? Girl next door, sultry, loving, flirty?’
‘You pick.’
Ava closed her eyes for an instant and then smiled, a smile that she knew held a hint of fun, a touch of flirt and a dollop of come hither. ‘So that’s flirty. This is girl next door.’ She widened her eyes and her smile, conjured up the idea of fresh-faced and wholesome. ‘It’s all about showing teeth without being toothy.’
‘That’s incredible.’
‘I figured it out from a young age. I started family photo shoots when I was a toddler. I worked out the quickest way to get them done was to achieve whatever look the photographer and my mother wanted.’
And then she’d worked out the power of smiles—they could be used to impress people, to make people believe she was happy, to make other people feel good. A smile was a perfect disguise. She had learnt to keep her thoughts private and her smile on display. Hidden her hurt that she knew her mother’s love was not really for her, for Ava. Her mother had loved her as long as she played her part. Her father would only love her as long as she was perfect. And so she’d smiled until her cheeks had ached and she’d looked perfect.
‘But how does anyone know when it’s genuine? How do you know?’
The question took her aback and as she considered her answer a level of discomfort tinged with uncertainty touched her. When was it genuine? Her smile, her façade so much part of her daily life she didn’t even think about it. ‘Because I mean it.’ The answer was lame and she could see he was about to question it. ‘But that’s not the point. It’s your smile we need to focus on. Try again.’
This time the attempt was woeful and she raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that really the best you can do?’
‘Right now, yes. Perhaps you could pass on some helpful tips.’
‘Think of something happy.’
Liam looked up at the ceiling and then a smile did tip his lips, but it was not a smile that implied relaxation or joy. There was a grimness to it, an edge that held more than a hint of danger. A smile that sent a shiver down her spine.
‘What are you thinking of? I mean, that’s better but not exactly what I was after. That’s more the smile of a man who has won a fight.’
Two raised eyebrows and a nod. ‘Ten out of ten. I was picturing AJ’s face when I win the Beaumont contract.’
‘OK. But now try for a different sort of happy. Maybe think of a more relaxing activity than a fight. Such as...’ Oh, hell, the only image that entered her head right now was definitely not appropriate. ‘Um...think of chocolate.’
‘Chocolate?’ The word was flat.
‘Yup. Doesn’t chocolate make you happy?’
‘Not really. I mean, I like the occasional chocolate orange, but I wouldn’t say that would make me smile.’
‘OK. What do you do to relax?’
‘The gym. Or I may work out in the ring, or do some sort of obstacle marathon.’ He sighed. ‘I’m guessing that’s not what you’re after.’
‘No. I was thinking more about bubble baths or watching a film on a rainy day or lying on a beach.’ Now she sighed. ‘Let me guess. You’re more a shower sort of person.’
‘Afraid so. I don’t think I’ve had a bubble bath since I was a kid.’
‘Then we’ll have to try another method. There was a time on a shoot when I couldn’t get the smile right. It was one of my last assignments.’ Her dad had just got out of hospital after his first heart attack, her world had been turned upside down and she’d been angry, sad and scared. ‘There was a coach who helped me.’ She gestured. ‘Stand up and smile.’
He did as she asked and she stood and moved closer to him, told herself this was necessary. Any minute now she was sure her brain would find the off switch and in the meantime she’d focus on keeping her breathing even.
‘Hold still. It’s all about your mouth and facial muscles and knowing which ones to relax. You’re too tense. Try to relax.’ Telling herself this was purely professional, utterly clinical, she reached up and touched his jaw. ‘Clench and relax your jaw a couple of times.’ The feel of bristle under her fingertips, the sheer strength and determination of him made her clasp her lip between her teeth. No way would she actually moan.
She dropped her hands to his shoulders, both left and right. ‘Drop your shoulders.’ Now their bodies were scant inches apart and she tried to breathe normally. Knew this was playing with fire.
She could hear how breathless her voice was and when she met his gaze she saw a spark ignite there, his cobalt eyes darkened and she knew he was as affected as her.
‘Anything else?’ he asked, his voice more croak than depth.
‘You need to engage the muscles round your eyes. Try crinkling them slightly.’
‘Ava.’ The smile, real or fake, had dropped and there was a seriousness to his expression that made her breath catch. Her brain ordered her to move backward but somewhere down the line the command got confused and instead she stepped forward.
‘Another tip is to massage your forehead and cheeks and...’ She was now so close she could smell the bergamot of his soap, could see the slightest dent in the sweep of his nose, the hint of a seldom seen dimple, and her voice ran dry, shuddered to a stop as she took the final step forward.
Then she wasn’t sure who kissed who, but his lips were on hers and it felt as if her body were melting, fusing with his as she pressed against him, wrapped her arms around his neck as he deepened the kiss. It was as though she’d been waiting for this ever since that first kiss, the feeling of rightness inexplicable.
Her senses competed and then soared into sensory overload, the experience blew her mind, as she tasted the hint of wine, of chocolate, of almond, felt her tummy clench in the need for more. More of this exquisite, gorgeous torture. Torture because she could hear the voice of common sense clamouring, knew that the need for more was doomed to failure, knew that what she had to do now was pull away.
As she suited action to word they stood, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and she could see the rise and fall of his powerful chest as they stared at each other and Ava knew no amount of poise could rescue her now. Mortification suddenly roiled through her. That had been a disaster, a complete loss of the composure she was famed for. Hadn’t she been the one to advocate acceptance and control? But perhaps, just perhaps, she could rescue the situation, use every iota of her acting skills. Somehow she forced herself to raise her head and meet his gaze.
‘Sorry about that.’ She searched her bank of smiles and came up with rueful, embarrassed, but hopefully with at least a semblance of sophisticate. ‘That is obviously not the “look” we are going for. Bit too full on. I was hoping we could practise the sort of kiss that looks good for the cameras. I didn’t expect us to get so...carried away. It’s a while since I’ve been in a relationship so it was obviously some sort of strange reaction to that.’
There was a moment’s silence and she thought he’d challenge her assertion, force an admission that she’d kissed him because she couldn’t help herself. Then, perhaps realising there would be nothing to gain, he nodded and his body relaxed. ‘Well, it certainly brought a smile to my face.’
Recognising his attempt to relax the atmosphere, she smiled, this one of relief. ‘On that note, I think we should call it a day now and regroup in the morning.’
‘Agreed. I’ll see you then.’ Hard to say who ran for the door faster.