‘You think so?’ Unexpectedly he gave a wolfish grin and handed her one of the leather-bound menus which the maître d’ had placed silently on the table in front of him during their little discourse, as though he hadn’t dared to interrupt. ‘I can’t think of a better place to interview someone who works with food.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She nodded in comprehension as she took the menu and scanned it. ‘This is to be trial by bread and butter, is it? I’ll be pilloried if I commit a crime so heinous as ordering strawberries out of season, or liberally sprinkling my food with pepper and salt without having tasted it first ... ?’ She looked up to find that his eyes were fixed with amusement on her face. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone, and, in the few seconds that it took, her heart-rate underwent an alarming acceleration.
‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ he mused.
She stared down at the menu, the handwritten italic script just meaningless hieroglyphics to her confused eyes. No, she didn’t. This verbal jousting had been sparked by him. Him. And admit it, she thought, you enjoyed sparring with him. You liked the fact that you were able to make him smile.
‘She retreats,’ he commented. ‘Wondering whether she has taken one step too far.’
If it weren’t for Caro, she’d be taking more than one step, she fumed silently. She’d be taking several, right out of here, and away from Darius Speed with his alarming attraction.
‘What should I have?’ he queried casually. ‘What can a restaurant best be judged on?’
It was a relief to be able to concentrate on something other than what a hunk he was. Her special field. ‘Something fresh,’ she replied promptly, ‘which can’t be successfully reheated. Here I would try the eggs Florentine—poached eggs, béarnaise sauce and spinach—a simple dish which is heaven if it’s done properly, hell if it’s not.’
He nodded. ‘If——’
‘Mr Speed ...’
They both looked up. A woman, who looked as though she had been poured into a black satin dress, stood looking down at them. The hair which tumbled artfully over her shoulders was blonde, but with the falsely honeyed hue of bottled peroxide.
He raised dark eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ he enquired noncommittally.
‘Mr Speed,’ she gushed, ‘I’ve been a fan of yours for so long. I loved your last film, and——’
‘There’s a problem, Mr Speed?’ It was the professional voice of the Maȋtre d’.
‘No problem,’ he came back implacably. ‘What can I do for you, Miss ... ?’
‘Arnold,’ she gushed. ‘Ffyona Arnold—that’s with two fs and a y. Could I have your—autograph?’ She batted sooty lashes and gave a little-girl smile. ‘Please’?
‘Sure.’
Kitty thought she detected a faint sigh as he took a gold fountain-pen from the pocket of his jacket and accepted the card which Ffyona Arnold offered.
Was this what it was like, then—fame? wondered Kitty. That elusive twentieth-century symbol of success, chased by so many and given to so few. Was this all it was? Total strangers disturbing you in restaurants, transparent in their eagerness for something more than a mere signature?
‘What would you like me to write?’ he asked politely.
Ffyona Arnold gave another coquettish smile. ‘How about the chance to show you what I can do—acting-wise, I mean?’ She giggled hopefully, then must have seen the barely concealed look of boredom on his face. ‘Your phone number would do,’ she gushed.
Good heavens, thought Kitty, the woman must have the skin of a rhinoceros not to have picked up the negative vibes which were shimmering across the table from where the film-maker sat.
‘Sorry.’ He negated her request with a tone of chilly indifference, signing his name instead with a sweepingly confident flourish, and handed the card back with a polite gesture of dismissal.
After the disappointed woman had been firmly led away by the Maȋtre d’, he turned back to Kitty, and she could see the mild expression of distaste which curled his lips. Was that all for her benefit? she wondered. If he hadn’t been interviewing, would he have taken the woman up on her blatant offer? Taken her back to his house for a night of decadence?
He gestured towards her now empty glass. ‘Something stronger?’ he enquired. ‘Some wine perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. Just mineral water,’ she said, much too quickly, and, suddenly nervous, knocked over the small crystal salt-cellar by her hand, and it tipped on to its side, salt spilling out in a small pile, a snowy little mountain growing on the crisp damask of the tablecloth.
There was a short silence while a waiter rushed over, brushed up the residue and replaced the saltcellar, and she couldn’t miss the searching look Darius Speed gave her, the eyes narrowed as if he hadn’t expected clumsiness from her; and normally he would have been right. Normally.
‘Tell my why you applied for this job,’ he said, a cool impartiality making the deep voice devoid of any emotion.
He mustn’t suspect, she thought desperately. He mustn’t.
‘You pay well,’ she said, and she saw him give a small nod as though he understood the language of hard currency very well. ‘Enough for me to save up and see the rest of Australia.’
‘You could have done that in one of the established restaurants—of which Perth has many—some of them with world-class reputations. And you could have learnt from one of the master chefs.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d have ended up chopping garlic in one corner of the kitchen. Working on my own gives me professional autonomy—and I like that.’
‘Do you?’ He nodded, and continued to subject her to that steady, cool stare, his eyes now the colour of pewter, shadowed by thick, dark lashes. ‘And is there anything you’d care to ask me— Kitty?’
Don’t seem too eager. He wouldn’t give the job to just anyone. This kind of man would value someone only if she valued herself. She took a sip of iced mineral water, returning his cool stare with one of her own. ‘I’m surprised that you need a fulltime chef. Being a single man, that is.’
‘You assume that I’m single, then? Been reading the papers again?’
‘Not at all,’ she shot back. ‘I made the assumption because, if you were married, then I would certainly have expected your wife to take part in the choice of chef.’
‘Because cooking is a woman’s province, perhaps?’
‘Because of equality within the relationship,’ she countered. ‘And some of the world’s greatest chefs are men, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Indeed. Very generously conceded, Kitty. And you’re right—I am single.’ He smiled, and sipped his own mineral water. ‘I’m writing a screenplay,’ he said, ‘as well as auditioning for a film I’ll be making, starting in January. I’m also researching a documentary on Rottnest Island, which the Western Australian government has asked me to make. So there will be film people in and out of the house. I keep very odd hours, because when I work I work. I also entertain people from all over the world, and I prefer to do that at home. In restaurants, there are often ...’ His eyes shot over to the other side of the room, where Ffyona Arnold was sitting, ignoring her dining companion and gazing at Darius. When she saw him look over, she gave him a hopeful smile, but he did not return it.
‘There are distractions,’ he continued surprisingly, and Kitty knew a moment’s confusion. He sounded as if he disapproved of the kind of ‘distraction’ that Ffyona Arnold represented—and yet surely, according to what Caro had told her, he would be pleased to meet a woman who would jump into bed for less than the price of dinner?
‘Sometimes I may fly in at some unearthly hour,’ he went on, ‘and require you to put a meal together for me, so the job needs a live-in cook. Does that bother you?’
The look was penetrating. She gave a nervous swallow. ‘Not at all. It’ll save rent.’
Another twist of the mouth. ‘You aren’t worried about giving up your independence?’
‘I don’t know anyone in Perth, really,’ she lied, and then, because she was afraid that she would blush and give herself away, she moved away from that particular subject. ‘The only thing I feel you ought to know is that I can’t guarantee that I’ll stay with you for any more than a year.’ Or more than a week, if she could get the script by then! ‘Would that matter to you?’
He didn’t smile. ‘It would suit me perfectly. If I may be frank—by that time you’ll probably have begun to irritate me, and I you. I have a very low boredom threshold.’ He ignored her shocked intake of breath at his blatant rudeness. ‘The job’s yours, Kitty. Do you want it?’
Her skin beneath the jade silk T-shirt felt suddenly shivery, even though the temperature in the restaurant was equable. The tips of her breasts tingled strangely, as if her reflexes were instinctively telling her to steer clear. For one moment she was tempted just to push her chair back and walk out through that door, not caring what he or the other diners thought. But then a vision of Caro imposed itself on her mind. Dear, kind Caro. Caro on the brink of tears. Her life’s work pirated by a man with no scruples.
She met the spectacular grey stare, and blinked, as if afraid that those intelligent eyes had been perceptive enough to understand her silent tussle. ‘I’d be pleased to accept,’ she said quietly.
‘Good.’ He gave a nod in the direction of the back of the restaurant, and Kitty saw a tall, slim man with brown hair rise from a discreet corner table and come towards their own.
‘This is Simon,’ said Darius Speed, ‘my secretary. I believe you’ve already spoken. He will fill you in on all the details of your employment Over dinner. Afterwards he will arrange for one of my cars to drop you at your home. Please feel free to order what you want. I have urgent business which I must attend to. Goodbye.’ Another brief, firm contact as he shook her hand.
Kitty watched while he threaded his way through the restaurant, the attention of every single female in the room drawn to his tall, muscular physique.
