The Bridegroom's Dilemma

He smiled, as if with inner amusement that she might not be adult enough to be privy to, and said, ‘I thought we were friends? We certainly seemed to be the last time we met.’

Skye blinked, conscious immediately of the trap she’d fallen into, and for a moment her expression defied description.

This time Nick Hunter laughed softly. But at the same time he possessed himself of her hand. ‘Look, I’ve been overseas. For quite a bit longer than I’d originally planned, I’m afraid. Would it be too much to hope that we’re going to the same cocktail party?’

Skye opened her mouth, shut it then said, ‘I’m going to the launch of this new wine. I don’t know about you.’

He laughed again and ushered her into the lift. ‘I am now.’

She stared at him. ‘Do you mean…?’

‘Precisely,’ he drawled. ‘I intend to come to the wine party with you.’

‘But if you haven’t got an invitation—and what about the one you were invited to anyway?’

‘I never seem to have any trouble getting into parties whether I’m invited or not,’ he commented gravely. ‘And the one I was going to will be deadly dull in comparison—’

‘So why…?’

‘Because you won’t be there,’ he finished softly.

Skye blushed and he watched the colour surge beneath her smooth skin, which had the effect of making her feel hotter than ever.

But as she cast around in her mind for a suitable rejoinder he grimaced, kissed her knuckles lightly and said, ‘Shall we be friends again?’

He was right. He was more than welcome at the cocktail party; the producers of the new wine were even old friends of his, and they lamented loudly that they hadn’t known he was in the country otherwise they’d have sent him an invitation.

And Skye watched, somewhat bemused, because Nick Hunter in action at a party was a sight to behold. Everyone seemed to know him and be delighted to see him. Including some very attractive women who hung on his every word.

But, after about an hour, he came back to Skye’s side and said for her ears alone, ‘I’ve had rather a good idea. Shall we go?’

She moistened her lips. ‘Where?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I wonder why I get the impression Skye Belmont has never lived a little dangerously?’

‘Believe me, I have,’ she countered. ‘Every time I go in front of a camera I might as well be white-water rafting down the Zambezi in crocodile-infested waters—that’s how nervous I get.’

His lips quirked and his eyes glinted with amusement. ‘You don’t show it.’

‘Perhaps not. I feel it all the same. The funny thing is, as soon as the cameras are rolling, I lose it. But—’ she shrugged her slim shoulders ‘—I am cautious by nature. So, before I make any commitment, how dangerously are you asking me to live at the moment, Nick Hunter?’ Her own eyes were a cool, amused blue.

His changed to reflect a glimmer of surprise but he was not to know that Skye had learnt a thing or two in the preceding hour. She had accurately perceived that he very quickly divested himself of women who could not hide their admiration of him.

‘All I had in mind was you doing something you’ve done for me before—cooking me dinner,’ he said. ‘Which was not dangerous at all, if you remember. And I happen to have a refrigerator stuffed with food—but you know how hopeless I am in the kitchen,’ he added helplessly.

Skye’s lips twitched. ‘Ah. But I was paid for that.’

‘Then could you consider this?’ He glanced around. ‘Little bites of food on toothpicks always leave me the same way. Starving,’ he said simply.

‘You could go to a restaurant,’ she pointed out.

‘When I know the best cook in town? That would be sacrilege,’ he said softly. ‘But, I give you my word, I’ll deliver you home all safe and sound.’

Skye hesitated but she couldn’t help laughing at his expression, which was an entirely false mixture of pleading and mournfulness. ‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I don’t always go out armed with an apron!’

‘This…’ he paused, looking somewhat put out ‘…happens to you often?’

‘Being lured to a man’s house under the guise of cooking him dinner? All the time.’

‘So I wasn’t being in the least original?’

‘Not one bit!’ she said blithely.

‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured. ‘I must be slipping. How often do you accept?’

‘Very seldom,’ she said seriously. ‘But you did boost my ratings the last time I cooked for you so I owe you one, Mr Hunter. Besides, I’d like to use you in my next cookbook.’

He looked comically put out this time. ‘As in how, Ms Belmont?’

‘As in what your favourite foods are, particularly with an international flavour, including favourite little restaurants you might have around the world. You can tell me all about it while I cook.’ She watched him serenely.

‘So this is very definitely a quid pro quo?’

‘Definitely.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re a hard woman, Skye. OK, I accept. Let’s go.’ Once more he took her hand and led her out.

For the next three months she often cooked him meals, although they never made any prior arrangements. He would simply ring her at work or at home and if she wasn’t free he’d say, ‘Bad luck. Maybe next time?’ And she’d agree without giving any intimation that it was getting harder and harder for her to be just a good friend of Nick Hunter’s.

Harder, also, to live with the thought that the last thing he would respond to was being pinned down in any way. It struck her, too, that the Skye Belmont she was presenting to Nick Hunter was her public persona, not the true girl who lurked beneath the surface and was a more serious, not-necessarily-admiring-of-the-worldliness-of-his-world girl.

Then things changed dramatically one evening. She was cooking roast beef for him. In the act of beating the ingredients for Yorkshire pudding at the same time as she was telling him about her last show, which had been a behind-the-scenes disaster, she realized he was unusually quiet.

‘Am I talking too much?’ she said lightly. ‘I guess you had to be there to see the humour of it. Nothing came out right.’

He was sitting at the kitchen counter twirling a glass of wine in his fingers. The sun was setting, flooding his beautiful apartment and its views of Sydney Harbour with a golden radiance. And he didn’t answer but only allowed his dark gaze to drift over her in a way it had once before. This time there was something darker about it, though.

She stopped beating. ‘Nick—is something wrong?’ she asked uncertainly.

He smiled but with an effort. ‘You could say so.’

‘What? Tell me?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know if this is on your agenda, Skye, but—even watching you make Yorkshire pudding is driving me out of my mind.’

She blinked, her mouth fell open and all she could say hoarsely was, ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d very much like to be kissing you.’