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Of course, she should have known.
‘The instant variety will do,’ he offered helpfully as she made a move towards Beth’s coffee percolator. ‘As long as it’s hot and strong first thing in the morning I’m not fussy.’ He strolled fully into the kitchen as he spoke, and her senses went into hyperdrive. Beth’s kitchen wasn’t small, in fact it was the sort of oak-beamed old country kitchen that would accommodate a whole London flat in its cavernous depths, but suddenly it had shrunk alarmingly.
She hastily explained about Beth and George’s sudden departure, opening one of the big windows as she talked and letting in the cats, who had been prowling up and down the windowsill for a few moments. They trod delicately over the draining-board and jumped neatly onto the floor—obviously an old and practised route into the house—and then both of them began to wind themselves round Kingsley’s legs, purring loudly.
The air was clean and fresh as it poured into the room, the sun already warm, and the cheerful twittering of the birds in the surrounding trees and bushes almost drowned out the sound of the boiling kettle.
‘They like you.’ She gestured to the cats, who had continued their elegant homage even though Kingsley was now perched on the edge of the massive old kitchen table, his long legs ensuring his feet still touched the floor. ‘They aren’t normally so friendly’.
‘Perhaps you should take a leaf out of their book,’ he suggested in a lightly mocking tone. And then as her foot slipped again he said firmly, ‘Sit down, I’ll do it.’
She sat down, mainly because the pure male sensuality was a little unnerving at just after seven in the morning when she hadn’t quite got her armour in place.
‘Toast? Cereal?’ He placed a cup of tea in front of her as he spoke, his tall, lean frame lending itself surprisingly easily to the domestic scene. ‘Or eggs done the Ward way?’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Which is?’
‘Nothing more alarming than scrambled with butter and onion, and served on toasted bread with a slice of bacon or ham. Delicious, even if I do say so myself.’
‘You cook?’ She almost added ‘too?’ and stopped herself just in time. His ego was already jumbo size; she didn’t need to add to it. No doubt plenty of women did that already.
‘Of course.’ He grinned at her. ‘As long as you want eggs the Ward way, that is.’
‘For breakfast, dinner and tea?’ she guessed dryly.
‘You’ve got it.’ Blue eyes laughed and she had to join in.
Oh, help, why did he have to be so drop-dead gorgeous? It was first thing in the morning and he looked good enough to eat, whereas she probably resembled something that had been pulled through a hedge backwards. Perhaps he’d go off the idea of them dating now he’d seen her in all her morning glory? Funny, but the thought wasn’t comforting.
However, Kingsley didn’t seem put off by the gargoyle at the table as he lifted a strand of hair from her face, letting it run through his fingers as he said almost absently, ‘Raw silk, and such beautiful colours when the sun catches it. Who do you get your colouring from?’
‘My father. He had grey eyes too.’
There was a tightness to her voice that hadn’t been there moments before but he didn’t comment on it, merely letting his fingertips rest against the smooth skin before he turned abruptly. ‘Four eggs for me. How many for you?’
‘Two would be heaps.’
She watched him as he found and prepared the onions first, cutting them expertly under a little water before drying them and adding them to the fat sizzling in the frying-pan. ‘Now whilst they’re browning it’s time for the toast.’
He turned as he spoke, smiling at her, and she was aware her breathing became quick and shallow. This was too nice, too delicious. Forget the food, she could feast for ever just looking at his body as he moved with an animal grace that was pure magic.
‘As you’re in charge of the food, the cats want breakfast,’ she said dryly, hiding her trembling under a veneer of nonchalance.
‘Of course. Are they boys or girls?’ he said lazily.
‘With names like Meg and Polly, girls, I hope. Either that or they’re very confused felines.’
‘Then I know just the thing.’ He dived into the back of Beth’s enormous fridge and came out with a carton of cream. He poured a little into an earthenware dish before she could tell him about the china saucers, but wouldn’t you just know it, she thought helplessly, the darn cats lapped it up nevertheless.
‘Don’t know a woman in the world who can resist cream,’ he said, turning to the onions and moving them around the pan with a wooden spoon.
‘And of course you know most of them,’ she said sweetly.
‘Miaow.’ He glanced at her for just a second, the blue eyes glittering. ‘Meg and
Polly are ashamed of you, you’re giving cats a bad name.’
She stuck out her tongue at him and he grinned again, adding the beaten eggs to the onion and putting the lid on the frying pan whilst he buttered the toast, and cut several slices of ham from a joint he had found in the fridge. ‘This is delicious.’ Some of the ham had found its way into his mouth. ‘Beth’s rolled it in brown sugar, by the look of it, and perhaps a touch of mustard. I could get used to living here, given half a chance.’
