1
David Tremayne slammed shut the door to his car and looked over its roof toward the café. There she was. He smiled to himself as he watched her fuss over one of her elderly customers, helping them to the door and giving them a gentle hug before they went on their way. He could practically feel the glow of happiness emanating from the old lady as she walked slowly away towards the waiting taxi. She seemed to have that effect on everyone.
He paused a moment to admire the waitress’s slender figure as she jumped up to reach something from a high shelf. He sighed. A big heart and a beautiful figure. What more could a man want?
He walked across to the café and his smile broadened at the sight of her cooing over a small baby. As he paused by the window, she looked up and his breath caught. He looked away abruptly and for a brief moment noticed his reflection, revealed by a poster in the window, and not for the first time was surprised at his contained, buttoned-up appearance. There was no hint of the smile he could have sworn he’d worn, no sign his heartbeat had quickened at the sight of her, no evidence he was in danger of falling for a woman because of the size of her heart.
But he wouldn’t, because he needed her. Without her support, his project would be doomed before it had begun and he couldn’t afford any more adverse publicity. No, there would be no falling for the beautiful woman with the big heart. He only needed her for a while and then he’d let her go. Seduce and discard. How hard could that be?
He pushed the door open, the bell jangled, and he stepped inside the café.
Amber Connelly lookedup as the café bell jingled. She didn’t do it every time—that would have been plain crazy as the café was a busy place—no, only at five minutes past one every day, except for weekends.
She watched the tall, broad-shouldered man in the business suit—the only suited person in the café—walk past her without looking at her and take a seat by the window. He picked up a menu and studied it. Why, she didn’t know. He must have known its contents by now. And besides, he always chose the same thing.
She was about to collect her pen and paper as the door opened again and Gabe and Maddy entered, laughing and holding hands. She grinned to see her brother and sister-in-law so happy. The suited man raised an eyebrow at the noise, as if irritated by the distraction, before returning to peruse the menu. As Gabe walked by, he caught the eye of the man and Amber could sense a bristling—Gabe being protective, as usual.
Amber waved them to their usual table and walked up to the man. He was aware of her presence—she knew that even though he didn’t look up. She smiled to herself. He really intrigued her, even though he wasn’t anything like the type of guy she was usually interested in.
She smiled. “Good morning. How are you today?”
He looked up, and as usual, her heart nearly stopped. Surely it was indecent for a man to be endowed with such beautiful green eyes. “It’s afternoon,” he said.
“Oh! So it is,” she said, unable to focus on anything but those eyes.
“It’s past twelve, which is the middle of the day, so it’s afternoon. You were incorrect,” he added for good measure, as if she doubted his words. She didn’t. She only ever doubted herself. Everyone else—especially this man who she imagined would be incapable of error—she always accepted as being correct.
She grinned, and his eyes narrowed.
She chuckled at his response and he frowned.
She laughed out loud—he must be the straightest, most pedantic man she’d ever met—and he looked away, back at the menu, his frown deepening. She felt the brightness fade from the day as he turned his eyes away. She wanted them looking at her again.
“You’re right! Of course it’s afternoon. I should know, we’re serving lunch.” She ducked her head so he couldn’t hide from her gaze. “So what’s it to be?”
She was rewarded with another look from those green eyes, their composure once more intact. He handed her the menu. “Caesar salad with chicken. Keep the dressing to one side. Are the wholemeal rolls fresh?”
“Fresh?” Amber repeated the last word, hoping it would help her concentrate on what he was saying.
“Yes. The rolls. Are they fresh? I only want them if they’ve been freshly made today.”
Jeez, he was one out of the box. “Everything’s fresh. The bread was made this morning with my own fair hands.”
Those green eyes slid down to her hands and she suddenly felt self-conscious about the ring she was wearing. She wasn’t supposed to wear rings but must have forgotten to slip off the greenstone and silver ring she’d inherited from her mother.
“When I said ‘fair’ hands,” she began to blather, trying to slide the ring around and hide her hands under the notebook on which she was taking his order, “I meant, you know, reliable hands. Because they’re not that fair. Not really.”
“In what way are they ‘not fair’? They look perfectly fair to me. Well formed, and…” He hesitated, uncharacteristically. “Quite attractive.”
“Oh!” The single word slid out on a sigh. She wasn’t smiling any longer. Instead the curious low-key fizzing in her stomach she experienced whenever she saw him, stepped up a notch. “Thank you.” She held up her hand. “Yes, I suppose they’re not bad, are they?”
“No. So if you agree, what did you mean by they’re not fair?”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose self-deprecatingly. “I just mean that I’m not that good a cook. Enthusiastic but by all accounts—well, by my family’s accounts—not actually that good.”
“And yet you’ve made the bread rolls. You’re not doing a good job at selling them to me.”
“I’m good at rolls. Anything with yeast is okay because I can give it a bit of a bash. Heavy handed, you see?” she said, slamming her hand on the table. Everyone looked around but the man himself didn’t move an inch. Instead he touched her ring, accidentally brushing the back of her hand as he did so.
