Rich As Sin

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound impressed. ‘And do they know—these friends of Jenny’s, I mean—that you’re not a professional caterer?’

‘I am a professional caterer.’

‘I don’t think a night school diploma is the same as real professional experience,’ persisted her mother. ‘They probably think you’ve worked in some top London restaurant. I wonder what they’d say if they saw the Honey Pot?’

‘I don’t particularly care,’ exclaimed Samantha, pushing her barely touched plate aside. ‘But thanks for your support. It’s what I really needed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and take a shower.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as her daughter got up from the table. ‘Perhaps I was a little harsh. But I worry about you, Sam, I do honestly. Don’t you think you have enough on, running the café practically single-handed, without taking on more work, to add to the burden?’

Samantha hesitated. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that I’m going to be paid far more for the catering than I’ll ever earn in the café, does it? I don’t want to give up the café. I want to improve it. And, if I’m successful, I may be able to afford a full-time cook to work in the kitchen. That way, we could expand the menu, both for the café and the catering service.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Well, what does Paul say?’

‘Paul just wants me to go on running the café until we get married. Then—who knows? I don’t think he envisages me continuing with my career much beyond the first year.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound unreasonable to me. And, after all, until you met Jennifer Greg—Spellman again, you seemed happy enough doing what you were doing. Then she tells you she’s giving a dinner party, and that her caterers have let her down at the last minute, and before we know it you’re dashing off to London, and getting these big ideas.’

‘Mum, the dinner party was a huge success! Everyone said so. And, believe it or not, good caterers are worth their weight in gold to these people. Times are changing. The days when people could afford to employ a full-time cook are long-gone. Besides, people don’t want to do that kind of work nowadays; not for someone else, anyway,’ she added hastily. ‘That’s why people like me are in such demand. We come in, we cook the meal, and we go away again. And it’s much more intimate than taking your guests to a restaurant.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘All the same, I don’t think even you imagined what would happen?’

‘The phone calls, you mean?’ Samantha gave a rueful smile. ‘No, I didn’t. But isn’t it exciting? I could probably work every night of the week, if I wanted.’

‘But you’re not going to?’ Her mother looked alarmed.

‘No, I’ve told you.’ Samantha paused. ‘To begin with, I’m only going to take on one, maybe two nights’ work in any week. Then, we’ll see how it goes. At the moment, all I want to think about is next Tuesday’s engagement party.’

‘In Mayfair.’

‘Well, it’s Belgravia, actually,’ said Samantha evenly. ‘But yes. It’s in the West End. Apparently the female half of the happy couple is a friend of Jenny’s. And they’re having the party at her fiancé’s house.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘Well, you watch out, Sam. These people aren’t like us, you know, and you being an attractive girl and everything—just watch your step.’

Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well, you can laugh. But it’s true. Some people think money can buy anything.’

Samantha’s expression softened. ‘I know,’ she said, recognising her mother’s very real fears on her behalf. ‘But I am twenty-four, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

After popping her head round the living-room door to offer a belated greeting to her father and her younger sister Penny, Samantha trudged up the stairs to her room. She was tired. She freely admitted it. But it was more a mental tiredness, born of the arguments she had had with both Paul and her mother, than any physical weakness on her part. It was so hard to make them understand how she felt about this latest development in her career. When she left university, it was true, she had no serious plans for her future. Oh, she had always liked messing about in the kitchen, and trying new recipes on the family, but she had just regarded that as a hobby, until her father had put the idea of starting a sandwich-round into her head.

As the manager of a jeweller’s in the High Street, Mr Maxwell had got into the habit of going into the local pub for a sandwich at lunchtime, but, as he said, he didn’t always want the beer that went with it. He had encouraged Samantha when she had put forward her idea of using her car to deliver home-made sandwiches all over town, and Paul’s offer of the lease on what had previously been a rather sleazy café had just been an extension of that. She had still provided sandwiches, but her clients had had to come to her for them, and pretty soon she had branched out into quiches, and salads, and home-made cakes and scones. The Honey Pot had taken off, and during the past two years it had gone from strength to strength. She even employed a full-time assistant now, and her account books were beginning to show a healthy profit. But this latest development was something else, and it was hard to be enthusiastic when everyone else thought she was getting out of her depth.

Standing in the shower, she avoided looking at her reflection in the walls of the Perspex stall. She was half afraid of what she might see in the dark-fringed depths of her eyes, eyes that could change from green to grey, according to her mood. Was she being too ambitious? she wondered, scooping gel from the bottle and lathering her damp hair. Was that what Paul was afraid of? She had never thought of herself as being so, but she couldn’t deny she was excited. She would have to think of a name for the new service, she thought, determinedly putting all negative thoughts aside. Not the Honey Pot again. That belonged to the café. So how about ‘Honey Homemaker’, just to keep the connection?

The buffet looked perfect, even if Samantha had had a few small set-backs at the beginning. Finding that one of the smoked salmon mousses had lost its shape on the journey had been a minor disaster, but happily she had prepared more than she needed, and that obstacle had been overcome.

Then Miss Mainwaring, her employer’s fiancée, had thrown a paddy because there was no caviare. A buffet wasn’t a buffet without caviare, she had exclaimed, and it had taken a great deal of effort on her fiancé’s behalf to persuade her that it really wasn’t important.

He had been nice, Samantha reflected, as she gathered her belongings together, preparatory to leaving. A prince, moreover, although his title wasn’t one she was familiar with. But then, she wasn’t familiar with these people at all, she acknowledged ruefully. A fact that had been made clear to her by Melissa Mainwaring’s biting tongue.

All the same, it had been an edifying experience, and she had learned one or two salutory lessons. She had discovered, for instance, that it was far harder to organise a buffet than it was to arrange a formal sit-down dinner. And luck had played a part in saving her from ruining this unique opportunity. It hadn’t occurred to her, until she was unloading the pizza, that it was no use providing hot food when you couldn’t be assured the guests would eat to order. But thankfully her pizzas tasted just as good cold as hot, and instead of offering them in slices, as she had originally intended, she cut the juicy wedges into bite-sized squares, easily handled on the end of a cocktail spear.

Happily, the rest of the food offered no problems. Her tarts and quiches looked appetisingly rich against the backcloth of finely embossed damask. And Samantha threaded strands of asparagus fern between the plates of meats and salads, adding scarlet rosebuds to enhance the luscious trifles. When she left the tables to go downstairs and pack up, there was already a satisfying group of guests admiring her efforts. She just hoped everything tasted as good as it looked. One other difference between the buffet and a formal dinner was that she didn’t stay around long enough to find out.

Which was a pity, because she’d enjoyed working in this kitchen. With its quarry-tiled floor, and solid mahogany fittings, it reminded her of pictures she had seen of Victorian kitchens. However, no Victorian kitchen had ever had its standards of cleanliness, or provided such a wealth of gadgets to make cooking here a pleasure.

Upstairs had been impressive, too. Dividing doors had been rolled back to create a huge reception area, and although Samantha had only had a glimpse of the linen-hung walls and high carved ceilings as she and the waiters, hired for the occasion, carried the food up from the kitchen, it had been enough. Evidently, whatever else he was, Prince Georgio was not a member of some impoverished aristocracy. On the contrary, he must be extremely rich—and Miss Mainwaring probably knew it.

An unkind conclusion, Samantha reproved herself severely, as she packed plates and dishes back into the cold-boxes she had brought them in. Afer all, she knew nothing about Melissa Mainwaring, except that she was a friend of Jenny’s, and she was fond of caviare. And if she, Samantha, wanted to make a success of this business, she had to try and get on with everybody. Even spoilt little rich girls who enjoyed making scenes!

She was so intent on what she was doing, so absorbed with her thoughts, that when she turned and saw the man leaning against the tall freezer she started violently. She had thought she was alone, all the waiters hired for the evening busy circulating the champagne upstairs. But in the next instant she realised that this man was no waiter, and in the same breath she saw the half-open door behind him.

Until then, she hadn’t noticed the rear entry. The house, one of a row of terraced Georgian properties, had been designed to provide living accommodation on its three upper floors. The lower ground floor, where Samantha was now, was entered by means of area steps at the front of the house, and it had never occurred to her that there might be a back entrance on this level. Or that it might be unlocked.

Her mouth drying, she looked at the man with anxious eyes. Who was he? she wondered. A servant? A thief? He didn’t look entirely English, and although he wasn’t heavily built, like Paul, there was a muscular hardness to his lean body. She supposed he was about six feet; again, not as tall as Paul, but more powerfully masculine. His dark hair needed cutting, and there was a film of stubble on his chin. It added to the air of toughness and alienation that exuded from him, an aura that was strengthened by the fact that he was dressed totally in black.

Swallowing, Samantha decided she had no choice but to bluff it out. There was no way she could get round the table and make it to either of the other two doors without him catching her. Something told her he would move just as swiftly as the predator he resembled, but perhaps he would leave her alone if he thought she was no threat to him.

‘I—er—the party’s not down here,’ she said, stifling an exclamation as her shaking hands clattered two quiche plates together. God! She was trying not to do anything to agitate him. At this rate, he’d soon guess that she was scared rigid.

But, ‘I know,’ he remarked, in a laconic voice, making no move to budge from his lounging position. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he added. ‘I assumed everyone would be upstairs. I imagine Ivanov’s guests have arrived by now, haven’t they?’

Samantha blinked. Ivanov’s guests! So he knew whose house it was, then. Did that make it better or worse? She was too shocked to make a decision.

And his voice disturbed her. It had a low gravelly edge that scraped across her nerves. Yet it was a cultivated voice, as well. Hoarse, but not the broad London accent she would have expected.

He moved then and, in spite of herself, she flinched. She didn’t quite know what she expected him to do, but when her eyes alighted on the knife she had used to cut the pizza lying on the table beside her, her fingers flexed automatically.

‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?

‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’

A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’

Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?

‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’

It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.

‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’

‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!

‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’