He wasn’t in the library, but she could smell the aroma of food cooking and Hollie made her way through a series of maze-like corridors towards the kitchen. She could hear movement but when she walked in, the sight which greeted her was the last thing she had expected. What had she expected? She wasn’t sure—but it certainly wasn’t to see the Spanish tycoon with his back to her, his black sweater rolled up to his elbows as he stirred something.
Did she make a sound? Was that why he turned around, his olive skin gleaming from the heat of the hob? And Hollie could do nothing about the instant wrench of her heart, as if she were registering his gorgeousness for the very first time. Because Maximo, holding up a wooden spoon as the conductor of an orchestra might hold a baton, looked insanely sexy. Maybe her hormones were making her respond to him this way. Because right then he looked like the carer and provider. The alpha man. The hunter. The father of her baby. Beneath her sweater she felt her breasts tighten and wondered if he’d noticed. Would that account for the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes and the sudden tension which stilled his magnificent body so that he looked almost poised to strike?
‘Gosh,’ she said.
‘Gosh?’ he echoed, his sardonic tone easing a little of the tension in the air. ‘Am I to take that as a very English word of surprise?’
‘I suppose I am a bit surprised,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t have you down as a budding chef.’
‘Less of the budding, more of the accomplished.’
‘Of course. Silly of me to forget that you probably excel in everything you turn your hand to.’
‘You’re getting the hang of me, Hollie.’
‘Who taught you to cook?’
‘I’m self-taught.’
‘Wow.’ She blew a silent whistle. ‘Now I’m even more impressed.’
‘Why wouldn’t I teach myself how to cook?’ he questioned. ‘As I told you, my independence is important to me.’ His black eyes glittered a challenge at her. ‘And isn’t your assumption that I’m breaking some sort of mould rather sexist?’
Was it? Hollie wasn’t sure. As he turned back to the hob, the only thing she was certain of was a stupid sense of yearning as she feasted her eyes on the black tendrils of hair which brushed against his neck. She didn’t want to feel wistful but it was difficult not to. Because if they’d been a real couple they might have done stuff like this—cooked meals and flirted a little. They might have gone out on a few dates, instead of letting passion lead them to a one-night stand with massive consequences. But she wasn’t the type of woman Maximo dated, she reminded herself fiercely. She’d seen photos of his girlfriends on the Internet and she was nothing like any of them. She just happened to be a warm and willing body who had made herself available on a night when he’d obviously wanted company.
But those were pointless thoughts. Negative thoughts she wasn’t going to entertain. Instead Hollie watched as Maximo chopped onions with rather terrifying dexterity and realised he hadn’t been exaggerating about his prowess in the kitchen. ‘So what are you cooking?’ she asked.
‘It’s a variation of a dish called cocido montañéas. Mountain stew. It comes from northern Spain. From Cantabria.’
‘And is that where you come from?’
‘It is.’ He sliced a wooden spoon through the thick mixture, clearly more comfortable discussing the meal than details about his birthplace. ‘It’s more of a winter soup really, with pork and chorizo and beans and greens and wine and garlic and pretty much anything else you can find to throw in.’
‘It’s not...’
‘Not?’ He turned round again as her words tailed off, only this time his gleaming black gaze pierced through her like a sword. ‘Not what, Hollie?’
‘Well, it’s not the kind of food I can imagine someone like you eating, let alone cooking.’
‘Why not?’
Hollie traced her finger along a deep gouge in the ancient table and wondered how long ago it had been put there and by whom. ‘It’s more I imagine the food a labourer might eat.’
‘And I’m no labourer?’
She smiled at the preposterousness of this. ‘Obviously not.’
‘Maybe,’ he said softly. ‘But once I was.’
She glanced up from the table, watching as he put a lid on the pot and turned the heat down low. ‘You? A labourer?’
Maximo didn’t answer immediately, amazed he’d given her an opening to pursue this particular topic because discussions about his past were something he vetoed. Especially with lovers. Women always asked questions and he understood why. Knowledge was power and the more you knew about someone, the closer you could presume your relationship to be. Except that any ‘closeness’ his lovers presumed was all inside their heads. Usually he recommended they consult the Internet if they wanted to discover more about him, confident they’d find out only what he wanted them to know—having successfully kept his online profile deliberately sparse, by employing an IT expert who made sure that happened.
His past was private and his alone—and the only time he connected with it was during this ritual he followed most Christmases, when he cooked up the kind of food which would never feature on the menu of any of the fancy restaurants he frequented these days. At Christmas he went back to basics. He did it because it reminded him of who he had been and where he had come from, and usually it was enough to make him satisfied with his lot and to remind him what he didn’t want from life.
But something had happened which had changed the way he thought about everything, and though it pained him to admit it—it all stemmed from his mother’s recent passing. Didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want to be affected by the death of a woman he had despised. Fact was, he was. Ever since it had happened he’d felt...disconnected. Like a tethered balloon whose string had just been cut, leaving him drifting aimlessly and without direction. As if all the money and power he had acquired along the way suddenly meant nothing. Was that why he had taken this provincial office worker to bed and lost himself in a storm of passion so all-pervasive that it had left him feeling dazed and confused the next morning? As if, for the first time in his life, it had felt as if he’d come home.
Wasn’t that why he hadn’t contacted her again? Because he didn’t like the way she made him feel, or because he didn’t trust those feelings?
He didn’t know and he didn’t care and that was why he had walked away. Why he had resisted the surprising desire to contact her again. And time was great for taking the urgency out of desire. It had been easy to lose himself in work and travel and to allow the many projects he juggled to take over his life. To forget about that night and the woman who had temporarily made him lose control.