and she blushed. ‘I still don’t feel entirely comfortable digging in their cupboards but I suppose we do have to eat. I mean, I’m sure Sandra wouldn’t expect me to starve...’
‘This Sandra character sounds like a despot.’ Lucas removed himself from her way as she began extracting bits and pieces. He had no idea what she intended to do with the stuff. He himself had zero interest in cooking and had never really seen fit to do much more than toast a slice of bread or, in dire circumstances, open a can of something and put it in a saucepan.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ She began hunting down utensils whilst reminding him, just in case he reported back that she had made herself at home, that she still didn’t feel 100 percent good about using stuff from their fridge. ‘Want to help?’ She glanced over her shoulder to where he was lounging indolently against the kitchen counter with a glass of red wine in his hand.
Talk about making himself at home!
‘I’m more of a spectator when it comes to cooking,’ Lucas told her. And from where he was standing, the view was second to none. She had removed her thick jumper and was down to a clingy long-sleeved T-shirt that outlined every inch of a body that had been woefully kept under wraps.
‘We’ll eat quicker if you help.’
‘I’m in no hurry. You were about to tell me about Sandra the despot...’
‘I had to have three interviews for this job. Can you believe it? Three! The Ramoses are just about the fussiest people on the planet. Oh, sorry; I forgot that you’re their regular ski instructor. You probably see a different side to them.’ She sighed, her throat suddenly thick as she thought of the neatly packaged life she had been looking forward to flying through the window.
And yet, in a strange way, she was sure that she should be feeling sadder than she actually was.
Mortified, yes. She was about eleven out of ten on the mortification scale, although less so here where her well-meaning friends weren’t hovering around her, hankies at the ready, as though she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
But sad?
The presents had all been returned; the dress had been sold online because the shop had refused to have it back; the small church in Sunningdale where his parents had lived ever since they had moved from Scotland had been cancelled. But she didn’t get a lump in her throat when she thought about the details.
The lump came when she thought about the fairy-tale future she had had planned, when she thought about being in love and then being let down...
‘I doubt that.’ Lucas recalled the last time he had seen the couple at his mother’s house in Argentina, where Julia Ramos had spent most of the evening lording it over anyone she thought might be a lesser mortal.
Despite being wealthy beyond most people’s wildest dreams, his mother had a very solid streak of normality in her and frequently hosted parties to which all and sundry were invited, regardless of their income or status. She had never forgotten that both she and his father had come from nothing and had made their fortune through hard graft.
‘There aren’t many complex sides to Alberto and Julia Ramos. They have money and they insist on showing the world, whether the world wants to know or not.’
‘Poor you.’ Milly looked at him sympathetically. ‘I guess it must become a bit of a drag if you’re having to deal with people you don’t especially like...’ She returned to her chopping and he dragged one of the bar stools over so that he could see her as she worked. By now, she had given up on being appalled at the liberties he took. Perhaps that was the relationship he had with his employers. Less of an employee and more of an equal.
‘But,’ she continued as she tried to focus on the onions in front of her and ignore the fact that his dark eyes roving over her were making her feel a bit dizzy, ‘we all have to do stuff we don’t particularly like for the sake of earning a living. What do you do when you’re not instructing?’
‘This and that.’
Milly didn’t say anything. Maybe he was embarrassed because being a ski instructor might be glamorous but it was hardly a ladder-climbing job, and she wasn’t sure why, but Lucas struck her as the kind of guy to have ambition.
‘Why are you doing a two-week stint as a chalet girl when you’re a professional chef? You’re not drinking your wine. You should. It’s an excellent vintage.’
‘I hope you don’t get into trouble opening that bottle...’ But the cooking was now done so she wiped her hands on one of the towels by the range, took the proffered glass of wine and followed him out of the kitchen and into the sprawling sitting area, where, through the vast panes of glass, they could see the spectacular sight of night settling on the snowy mountain ranges.
‘I never get into trouble,’ Lucas assured her as he joined her on the sofa. The white sofa. The white sofa that she would probably have to pay for if she made the mistake of spilling her red wine on it.
She perched awkwardly on the edge and made very sure to keep a firm hand on the stem of her wine glass.
‘You never get into trouble...ever? That’s a very arrogant thing to say!’ But strangely thrilling.
‘I confess that I can be arrogant,’ Lucas told her truthfully, eyes steady on her face as he sipped his wine.
‘That’s an awful trait.’
‘Deplorable. Have you got any?’
‘Any what?’ Her glass appeared to be empty. How had that happened?
‘Deplorable traits.’ Not red, he decided; her hair was not red...more a deep, rich auburn with streaks of lighter auburn running through it.
‘I tend to fall for creeps. In fact, you could say that I specialise in that. I went out with boyfriend number one three years ago for three months. Turned out he had a girlfriend, who happened to be doing a gap year leaving him free to play the field while she was away...’
‘The world is full of creeps,’ Lucas murmured. He himself always made it very clear to the women he dated that rocks on fingers were never going be part of the game. If, at any point, they got it into their heads that they could alter that situation, then they were very sharply brought up to date with his ground rules.
‘You’re not kidding.’
‘And boyfriend number two?’
‘Boyfriend number two was actually my fiancé.’ She stared at her empty glass, wondering whether she dared risk another drink. She wouldn’t want to face the trip back to London on a hangover. She sneaked a glance at Lucas, who was reclining on the leather sofa, utterly and completely comfortable in his surroundings.
‘Fiancé?’
Milly stuck her hand out for inspection. ‘What do you see?’
Lucas shifted position, leaned forward and looked. ‘An extremely attractive hand.’ He glanced up at her and was charmed by the dainty colour in her cheeks.
‘It’s a hand without an engagement ring,’ she said mournfully. ‘Right now, at this precise moment in time, I should actually be a married woman.’
‘Ah...’
‘Instead, here I am, drinking wine that doesn’t belong to me—which the Ramos family will probably discover and report back to Sandra the despot—and pouring my heart out to a complete stranger.’
‘Sometimes complete strangers make the best listeners.’
‘You don’t strike me as the sort of guy who pours his heart out to other people.’
‘It’s not a habit I’ve ever actively encouraged. Tell me about the ex-fiancé...’
Milly thought that she had spent the past two weeks offloading about the ex-fiancé. Her friends had been fertile ground for endless meandering conversations about