Free Anything but Vanilla... by Liz Fielding Page A

Georgian rectory next door that he’d recently bought. It would take that long to renovate it to his exacting standards. Which not only covered stationary but signalled his intention of settling down in the vicinity of her office, her family. It was solid, real...
    ‘I wouldn’t sleep much with oversized mosquitoes and bats flying around, either,’ she said. Concentrate on the bats... ‘What were you doing there? In Pan...?’
    ‘Pantabalik.’
    ‘Pantabalik. You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’ She glanced at him. Geography was a safe subject.
    ‘I was on a plant-hunting expedition.’
    ‘Plant hunting?’ she repeated, startled. ‘How very...’
    Unlikely... Unpredictable... Unexpected...
    ‘How very what?’ His eyebrows invited all kinds of indiscretions.
    ‘How very Victorian,’ she said, primly, turning off the machine and, reaching for a plastic spoon from a pot on the work surface, she dipped it into the mixture and tasted it. Creamy, with a big hit of cucumber, but something was missing... ‘I have this image of you wearing a pith helmet as you hack your way through the undergrowth hunting for a fabled species of orchid.’
    ‘A hat is essential. You never know what is going to fall out of a tree.’ She glanced up and saw the betraying kink in the corner of his mouth. Felt a responding flutter... ‘Personally I favour a wide-brimmed Akubra, but each to his own.’
    Oh, yes. She could see him in something wide-brimmed and battered from hard wear... ‘And the orchid?’ she asked.
    ‘Sorry. Not my thing.’
    She shrugged. ‘Shame. There’s something so erotic about orchids...’
    Exotic ... She’d meant to say ‘exotic’, but correcting herself would only draw attention to the word and make things ten times worse. Turning quickly back to the mixture before he could say something outrageous, she changed the subject.
    ‘I followed the recipe Ria used for the original, but she must have added something else to the sample she gave me to take to Jefferson’s.’
    ‘The magic.’
    ‘Yes...’ She sighed. ‘Unfortunately I don’t have a wand to wave over it, so if you have something a little more tangible in the way of suggestion I’d be grateful.’
    ‘Does it matter? I mean, who’s tasted it besides you and someone in Jefferson’s marketing department?’
    ‘Actually, it was Nick’s wife who tasted the ices and made the final selection.’
    ‘In that case you are in trouble.’
    ‘No question.’ Nick Jefferson was married to Cassie Cornwell, the famous television cook, and she’d certainly notice that something was missing. ‘And even if it hadn’t been someone who knew the difference, this is not what I promised them.’ She took another spoon from the pot and scooped up a little. ‘Any ideas?’ she asked, offering it to him.

SIX
    A balanced diet is an ice cream in each hand.
    —from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’
    Sorrel had assumed Alexander would take the spoon from her but instead he leaned forward and put his lips around it. His hair fell forward and brushed against her wrist, goosing her flesh, and he put his hand beneath hers to steady it when it began to shake. Then he raised heavy lids to look straight into her eyes.
    They were dangerously close.
    It was a rerun of that moment when he’d been opening Ria’s bills. He’d turned to look at her then and the down on her cheek had stirred as if he had touched her, the effect rippling through her body in ever widening circles, like a pebble dropped into still water. It was utterly physical, her body bypassing the brain, whispering seductively, ‘Forget safe, forget dependable. Forget Graeme...’
    She’d taken an involuntary step back, shocked by such a powerful response to a man whom, while undeniably attractive, she was not predisposed to like. But lust had nothing to do with liking. It was an unthinking, mindless, live-now-pay-later physical response to the atavistic need of a species