He leaned back against the filing cabinet and surveyed her stubborn expression. “I know how well you did in school. You were nudging the genius scale in almost every subject, and for a while you wanted to be an astrophysicist.”
Once more, Pet’s fingers stilled on the scissors. “How do you know that?”
“Sebastian managed to get the occasional update,” he said after an infinitesimal pause. After he’d gone to live with their grandfather as a child, his own access to family news had been limited. “We . . . always tried to keep tabs on how you were doing.”
Even when she hadn’t wanted him to.
He saw Pet swallow.
A bit roughly, he continued, “You could have breezed into Oxford or Cambridge. Instead, you’ve devoted yourself to pacifying the spoiled whims of people who probably treat you like shit.”
“Oh, you’re not that bad. At least you come with free chocolate.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I don’t work for people who treat me like shit, as it happens. I bring a lot to the table, and I expect a lot in return. And if I had the least desire to go back to uni, I’d already have applied. I certainly have the money to pay for it. Shame a whole chunk of it doesn’t really belong to me.”
He straightened. “We’re not going into that again.”
“Annoying when people refuse to hear a word you’re saying, isn’t it?” Pet asked sweetly. Before he could respond, she went on, “Look, I’m happy, and you’re . . . well, at least you have your health.” She stood up and put back the scissors. “And if the papers are right and there’s a royal wedding on the horizon, there’s going to be a De Vere’s cake on that reception table, photographed for millions of people to see and bringing in a huge paycheck, and I am pumped and here to help.”
“Enthusiasm on the unconfirmed opportunity noted, Pet, but there’s a pink champagne cake out there that tastes like something recently extracted from a drain, and your baking ability makes the man responsible look like Alain Ducasse. I’m not sure this is your forte.”
“And is your forte romance, happy-ever-afters, and royal trivia? Doubtful.” She handed him the finished silhouette. “See you later. Enjoy intimidating a bunch of nice people who just want to bake cake and massively improve my Sunday nights.”
She exited with a lot less noise than her entrance. His mouth taut, Dominic looked at the closed door, and then down at the artwork he held in his hand.
It was a silhouette portrait of Sylvie Fairchild.
For the first time, not a totally accurate portrait. Sylvie’s lips had a much more pronounced curve.
The nose and brow bone were dead-on, though.
And in the tilt of Paper Sylvie’s chin seemed to lie an implicit challenge.
Chapter Three
Hartwell Studios
Time-honored, beloved home of Operation Cake.
Where somebody has made the executive decision to hold a meeting about baked goods and not serve snacks.
As the assistant producer of Operation Cake tapped her iPad, Sylvie tried to find a more comfortable spot on the conference room chair, and wished she’d eaten a chocolate bar in the car. Although even if she’d had one, Dominic’s silent, brooding presence beside her would likely have put her off. Nothing like commuting with Heathcliff to suppress the appetite.
“Libby Hannigan.” Sharon floated another headshot into the cluster on the PowerPoint. The redhead in the photo had a face full of adorable freckles and a sweet smile—and a surprisingly hard expression in her eyes.
“And what deeply traumatic event led to Ms. Hannigan taking solace in the kitchen?” Dominic turned his ballpoint pen over in his fingers, regularly tapping out a beat on the tabletop. It had taken five of these character summaries before Sylvie had identified the tune. Bonnie Tyler. Unexpected on multiple levels.
She mentally caught herself again. Contestant summaries, not characters. Contrary to all appearances—and particularly the appearance of Charlene, the sugar-cookie specialist from North London with four ex-husbands and extremely vague answers as to their current whereabouts—they weren’t vetting suspects in a murder mystery game. These were real people. Sylvie had once been one of these people.
She’d just had a considerably less dramatic backstory.
At this point, she was amazed she’d ever made it onto the show in the first place. Unlike Sid Khan, the delightfully eccentric bread enthusiast from Middlesex, it hadn’t even occurred to her to hint at past alien abduction in her audition tape. She certainly hadn’t hand-knit a human-sized cupcake costume, using wool spun by a nun she’d saved from drowning in the Baltic Sea, like retired naval sublieutenant Terence Blaine. If she recalled correctly, she’d introduced herself, Jay had filmed her piping cream into doughnuts, and she’d made a joke about jam that had seemed hilarious until about two seconds after she pressed submit on the application.
“Hard to beat a natural flair for biscuit-decorating and the high probability you’ve buried four unfaithful men in your basement.” Dominic’s voice was ominously calm, but his stubbled jaw was set in a long, tense line. One tiny flick of Sylvie’s fingernail and his whole head would probably crack like an egg.
So tempting.
“Or maybe she’s another Nadine from Bucks,” he went on. “Baking through a bereavement and quite sure her late parrot was the reincarnated spirit of Julius Caesar.”
Aadhya, the nicest of the producers, opened her mouth, but Dominic reached the end of his limited tolerance before she could speak.
“I realize that casting decisions are not my area of expertise.” Every syllable in that sentence had a cutting edge, as if he were snapping off the words one by one, like squares on the chocolate bar she still didn’t have. “And that I just need to ‘show up, taste the fucking cake, crush a few dreams, and cash my check.’” Drenched in cynicism, and clearly a direct quote. Apparently, they’d trod this path before; however, Aadhya’s expression barely changed.
Inspiring level of I do not give one flying shit from the producer on the left.
“But judging by the relentlessly healthy ratings, your past model worked, and with at least an entry level of sanity.” Dominic shot another exasperated glance at the montage of smiling faces. “Did supply just run out on the usual lineup? Pseudo-bakers with too much imagination, sporadic technical skill . . .” For the first time since he’d ignored her for the entire drive here, his eyes flicked squarely in Sylvie’s direction. He’d probably intended to look away just as quickly, but their gazes caught and held. “And the general creative aesthetic of My Little Pony.”
Languidly, Sylvie ran her fingers through her ponytail, fluffing out her latest pink and lavender highlights. She smothered the most delicate of yawns.
Aadhya studied them both, and then reached for her coffee mug and took a deliberately long, unnecessarily loud sip. “Every contestant has been thoroughly vetted by a counselor. They’re interesting people with unique personal experiences, and fully equipped for the pressures of filming, public scrutiny, and minor celebrity.” Her fingertips played against the ceramic in a jaunty little tune. “And the potential trauma of a one-on-one conversation with you. It’s a new screening process. Sit ’em down and play an hourlong loop of your tactful critiques. Anyone who makes it through with dry eyes and dry pants can grab an apron. You wouldn’t believe how quickly it weeds down the applicant numbers.”