jaw dropped. ‘Jeez, Nell, the Delaneys might be rolling in it, but it’s a not-so-secret secret that he’s…’ He trailed off, rolling his shoulders. Maybe Nell didn’t know.
‘Gay?’ She nodded. ‘I know. I don’t know why he refuses to be loud and proud about it. I suspect he’s still too overawed by his father.’
‘And you refused to marry him?’
‘Of course I did.’
He flashed back to the way she’d frogmarched the suit out of her office earlier and grinned. ‘Of course you did.’
‘So then my father demanded I sell this house.’
It wasn’t a house—it was a mansion. But he refrained from pointing that out. ‘And you refused to do that too?’
She lifted her chin. ‘As everyone knows, I gave him the deeds to my snazzy little inner city apartment. I handed over my sports car and I signed over what was left of my trust fund, but I am not selling this house.’ Her eyes flashed.
He held up his hands. ‘Fair enough. I’m not suggesting you should. But jeez, Nell, if you don’t have a cent left how are you going to afford its upkeep?’
The fire in her eyes died and her luscious lips drooped at the corners. And then he watched in amazement as she shook herself upright again. ‘Cupcakes,’ she said, her chin at just that angle.
‘Cupcakes?’ Had she gone mad?
In one fluid movement she rose, reached for a plate before pulling off a lid from a nearby tin. ‘Strawberries and Cream, Passion Fruit Delight, Lemon Sherbet, and Butterscotch Crunch.’ With each designation she pulled forth an amazing creation from the tin and set it onto the plate, and somehow the cluttered old kitchen was transformed into a…fairyland, a birthday party.
She set the plate in front of him with a flourish and all he could do was stare in amazement at four of the prettiest cupcakes he’d ever seen in his life.
‘I do cupcake towers as birthday or special event cakes in whatever flavour or iced in whatever colour the client wants. I provide cupcakes by the dozen for birthday parties, high teas, morning teas and office parties. I will even package up an individual cupcake in a fancy box with all the bells and whistles…or, at least, ribbons and glitter, if that’s what a client requests.’
He stared at the cakes on the plate in front of him and then at the mountain of dishes in the sink. ‘You made these? You?’
His surprise didn’t offend her. She just grinned a Cheshire cat grin. ‘I did.’
The Princess could bake?
She nodded at the cupcakes and handed him a bread and butter plate and a napkin. ‘Help yourself.’
Was she serious? Guys like him didn’t get offered mouth-watering treasures like these. Guys like him feigned indifference to anything covered in frosting or cream, as if a sweet tooth were a sign of a serious weakness.
He didn’t stop to think about it; he reached for the nearest cupcake, a confection of sticky pale yellow frosting with a triangle of sugared lemon stuck in at a jaunty angle and all pale golden goodness, and then halted. He offered the plate to her first.
She glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘I’m only allowed to indulge after three p.m. and it’s only just gone two.’
‘That sounds like a stupid rule.’
‘You don’t understand. I find them addictive. For the sake of my hips and thighs and overall general health, I’ve had to put some limits to my indulging.’
He laughed and took a bite.
Moist cake, a surge of sweetness and the tang of lemon hit him in a rush. He closed his eyes and tried to stamp the memory onto his senses and everything inside him opened up to it. When he’d been in jail he’d occasionally tried to take himself away from the horror by imagining some sensory experience from the outside world. Small things like the rush of wind in his face as he skateboarded down a hill, the buoyancy of swimming in the ocean, the smell of wattle and eucalyptus in the national park. He’d have added the taste of the Princess’s cupcakes if he’d experienced them way back when.
He finished the cupcake and stared hungrily at the plate. Would she mind if he had another one?
Rick stared at the three remaining cupcakes with so much hunger in his eyes that something inside Nell clenched up. It started as a low-level burn in her chest, but the burn intensified and hardened to eventually settle in her stomach. It was one thing to feel sorry for herself for the predicament she found herself in, but she’d never experienced the world as the harsh, ugly place Rick had. And you’ll do well not to forget it.
She had to swallow before she could speak. ‘Scoff the lot.’ She pushed the plate closer. ‘They’re leftovers from the orders I delivered earlier.’
He glanced at her and the uncertainty in his eyes knifed into her. He’d swaggered in here with his insolent bad-boy cockiness set off to perfection in that tight black T-shirt, but it was just as much a show, a fake, as her society girl smile. Still… She glanced at those shoulders and her mouth watered.
In the next instant she shook herself. She did not find that tough-guy look attractive.
He pushed the plate away, and for some reason it made her heart heavy. So heavy it took an effort to keep it from sinking all the way to her knees.
‘How…when did you learn to cook?’
She didn’t want to talk about that. When she looked too hard at the things she was good at—cooking and gardening—and the reasons behind them, it struck her as too pathetic for words.
And she wasn’t going to be pathetic any more.
So she pasted on her best society girl smile—the one she used for the various charity functions she’d always felt honour-bound to attend. ‘It appears I have a natural aptitude for it.’ She gave an elegant shrug. She knew it was elegant because she’d practised it endlessly until her mother could find no fault with it. ‘Who’d have thought? I’m as surprised as everyone else.’
He stared at her and she found it impossible to read his expression. Except to note that the insolent edge had returned to his smile. ‘What time did you start baking today?’
‘Three a.m.’
Both of his feet slammed to the ground. He leant towards her, mouth open.
‘It’s Sunday, and Saturdays and Sundays are my busiest days. Today I had a tower cake for a little girl’s birthday party, four dozen cupcakes for a charity luncheon, a hen party morning tea and a couple of smaller afternoon teas.’
‘You did that all on your own?’
She tried not to let his surprise chafe at her. Some days it still shocked the dickens out of her too.
His face tightened and he glanced around the kitchen. ‘I guess it does leave you the rest of the week to work on this place.’
Oh, he was just like everyone else! He thought her a helpless piece of fluff without a backbone, without a brain and probably without any moral integrity either. You’re useless.
She pushed her shoulders back. ‘I guess,’ she said, icing-sugar-sweet, ‘that all I need to do is find me a big strong man with muscles and know-how…and preferably with a pot of gold in the bank…to wrap around my little finger and…’ She trailed off with another shrug—an expansive one this time. She traded in a whole vocabulary of shrugs.
A glint lit his eye. ‘And then you’ll never have to bake another cupcake again?’
‘Ah, but you forget. I like baking cupcakes.’
‘And getting up at three a.m.?’
She