So Now You're Back. Heidi Rice
that he was actually writing his life story. But that was hardly the point.
Who did she think she was? Did she actually believe just because she could rustle up the perfect soufflé in ten minutes and mould a working carousel cake topper out of marzipan she was better than him?
‘Ça c’est bien?’ Jean-François indicated the untouched plate of pastries. ‘Votre reunion importante?’
Not exactly. His important meeting had come close to being a complete bust.
‘Yeah, très bien.’ He stuffed a miniature chasson aux pommes into his mouth to sweeten the sarcasm.
So much for his cunning plan. Because what had seemed perfect twenty minutes ago wasn’t looking quite so perfect any more.
Perhaps he should have figured out the extent of Halle’s hatred. Given that her temper tantrum had lasted sixteen years.
Then again, what he had really underestimated was his own reaction.
He thought he’d come to terms with all the choices he’d made, good and bad, all those years ago. But seeing her again, in the flesh, instead of on TV or in some papped snapshot in a magazine, had proved what a whopper that was. Because despite the gloss and the glamour and the Carolina Whatever-her-name-was designer suit, all he’d been able to see for a moment was the girl he had once fallen arse-over-tit in lust with.
The lush curve of her hips in the fitted skirt, the peaks of her full so-sensitive breasts beneath the silk blouse, the rich honey-blonde hair, which looked soft and tactile despite the ruthless updo, and even the sparkling intelligence behind the brittle contempt in her golden brown eyes.
He’d been reeling from that shock when she’d delivered another sucker punch to the gut. That not only wasn’t his infatuation with her as dead as it should be, but he wasn’t as sorted about the rest of it, either. All the stuff he’d had years of therapy to overcome.
Because if he was, how could the misplaced pride and the defensive anger that had screwed him up so royally as a kid have popped out of hiding like a demented jack-in-the-box as soon as she’d slapped him with that insulting offer?
Jean-François left him to finish his lukewarm espresso and full plate of pastries on his own—and reconsider his plan.
Getting Halle to come to Tennessee with him had seemed like a no-brainer when he’d thought of the idea a month ago.
Having Halle in tow at Monroe’s resort would not only mean he could finally force her to talk to him about Lizzie, but the resulting article—which he planned to be a clever exposé of exactly why Monroe’s eccentric methods didn’t work—had the potential to be huge.
The guy had come from nowhere to end up with endorsements from a host of Hollywood A-listers within a year. And was causing a storm with his bestseller, The Extreme Path to Love and Reconciliation. Getting the goods on the celebrity charlatan could even win him an award, if he pitched it right.
He stirred another sugar into his coffee, topped up the cup from the fresh pot the waiter had deposited on the table and took a fortifying sip. But the sugar-loaded caffeine hit did nothing to disguise the unpleasant taste of apprehension beginning to clog his throat.
Unfortunately, after his first merry meeting with the new, improved ball-busting Halle, he couldn’t help wondering about the advisability of getting stuck for two whole weeks in the Tennessee wilderness with a woman who had looked at him—when she actually bothered to meet his gaze—as if she wanted to stuff his reproductive organs through an industrial-grade mincer.
‘I can’t believe it. You got Mr Perfecto to babysit us both? That is so humiliating.’
Trey Carson sawed the tuna sandwiches he was making for Aldo’s packed lunch in half while attempting to tune out the argument raging in the hall. He wasn’t having much success, given that he had become the subject of Lizzie Best’s latest spat with her mother—and her shrill angry tone could slice through lead.
He heard the muffled conciliatory tones of her mother’s reply, and even though he couldn’t make out the words, he had to give his employer points for patience. Halle Best never raised her voice to her children. Especially Lizzie. He often wondered if she had a secret stash of weed in the house to keep her so calm in the face of so much provocation. His own mother would have given him a backhander if he’d dared to speak to her the way Lizzie spoke to her mum. Before she got sick that was …
He cut the sandwiches into quarters.
‘Like I care that you’re going on some stupid book tour.’ Lizzie’s lead-slicing tone echoed round the large open-plan basement kitchen again. ‘So what else is new?’
Trey reached for the cling film and hastily wrapped the sandwiches, keen to get Aldo out of the line of fire before Lizzie stomped into the kitchen ready to take her frustration out on her little brother. He wasn’t in the mood to play referee this morning. Especially now he’d become Public Enemy Number One because his employer had asked him to move in for two weeks while she was away on a book tour in the US.
Keeping his cool around Lizzie for the past three months had been hard enough. Living in the same house with her for a fortnight threatened to up the stakes a lot more. Forget losing his cool, if he wasn’t careful he could end up throttling her. And he couldn’t do that. Killing his employer’s daughter would not look good on his CV. Plus, he’d probably lose his job.
And he needed this job. It paid well, came with good benefits, took his mind off his mum, and he got a kick out of looking after Aldo. The kid was smart and funny and affectionate—and they understood each other. Because Trey knew what it was like to grow up without a dad around and to get labelled a ‘problem’ by grown-ups who didn’t know shit about your life.
The poor kid had been in therapy for his anger management issues when Trey had gotten the job—the eighth au pair Halle had hired in as many months. But all Trey had seen was a confused and scared ten-year-old boy who needed a mate—and a chance to run off all his nervous energy instead of sitting around talking himself into a coma. They’d had a few scary moments when he’d started. Aldo could throw the mother of all tantrums when he set his mind to it. The sort of thing that required an exorcist rather than a time out. But once Trey had discovered the handy trick of simply ignoring them, Aldo’s Damien routine had become less and less frequent.
But while he liked hanging out with Aldo, Aldo’s older sister was a whole other matter. She’d been on his case from day one. And this wasn’t the first time he’d heard her bad-mouthing him to her mum. And calling him Mr Perfecto.
He’d been unfailingly civil and polite back, or as polite as it was possible to be when someone took great pleasure in needling you, but after three months of watching Lizzie fly off the handle over nothing, not to mention witnessing her never-ending strops and mood swings, the urge to kick back was becoming harder and harder to resist.
‘Aren’t you going to cut the crusts off?’ Aldo said, reminding Trey he didn’t have time to consider Lizzie Best’s personality disorder. If they didn’t get a move on, they were liable to become the target of it.
‘You know I hate them,’ Aldo added, apparently more concerned about an excess of fibre in his diet than the oestrogen apocalypse going on outside the kitchen door.
‘You’ll just have to deal.’ Trey shoved the cling-filmed sandwiches into Aldo’s backpack on top of the crisps and juice box he’d raided from the larder.
‘But I’ll puke if I have to eat them.’ Aldo was nothing if not persistent.
‘Don’t be so moist. You think John Terry gets his crusts cut off?’ The Chelsea deity was Trey’s go-to guy whenever Aldo went into serious pester mode. He used the hallowed Terry trump only in