Carrot and Coriander (13 page)

She’d somehow expected him to just let himself in the back door, as he always had, so the knock on the front door was a surprise. Must be the postman, she thought as she went to answer it, a parcel or something…

Mr ‘or something’ was lounging against her front porch when she opened the door. His smile was as brilliant as ever, his hands jammed deep into his jeans pockets against the chill in the spring air. His expression unreadable, he wrestled his right hand free, and held up a tape measure.

“Decking, Rachel?”

“I— Yes. Please, come in. I want it out the back.”

His grin quirked and he shook his head as he stepped past her and led the way down her hall. In the kitchen he turned to face her.

“So, where’s this decking to go then?” His tone was rich, deep, sexy, though his words were all business.

Rachel just stared, amazed that he was actually here. Back here, in her kitchen.

“Where, Rachel?” He prompted as she continued to gape at him in apparent confusion.

“Oh, right, yes. There. Out there. Here, I’ll show you.” Rachel hurried to open the door, led him out into her tattered and much overgrown back garden. Embarrassed at the state of the place, and wishing she’d given this decking plan of hers a whole lot more prior consideration, she gestured vaguely at a section currently occupied by dandelions, buttercups, and an old pot sink. “There, I think. I’d like it there. Please. If you can…”

He looked at her, long and hard, then at the patch of scrubland he was supposed to transform into safe and pristine play space. His deep blue eyes caught hers again, this time held her gaze. “Oh yes, I think I can. I’ll take some measurements, do the sums. I’ll come and find you when I’m done. Okay?”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you. Really.” She turned to leave him to his measuring and calculating, took a few steps toward her back door before stopping. “Would you like some tea?”

As she glanced back she saw he was now crouching to shove the end of his tape measure into the far corner of her decking-to-be. He didn’t look up from his task, just called his reply back to her. “Coffee, if you have it. Thanks. Do you remember how I like it?”

He wasn’t looking at her, but she just nodded anyway, and went back indoors.

Twenty minutes later he followed her in, his empty coffee cup in his hand. He set it on the table, before pulling a battered notebook from his inside jacket pocket. “Right, five by four meters, near enough. And the area‘ll need clearing first, some weed repellent down. Probably around a fortnight’s work, altogether.”

“I see. What would you charge for that?” Rachel did her best to match his business-like tone and attitude. If he could play it cool, surely she could too. Still, she had been able to hear the slight tremor of nerves in her voice, and he’d never been especially hard of hearing as far as she could recall.

His slightly knowing smirk suggested he was aware of her discomfort, and maybe even the reasons for it. He looked absolutely delicious, if anything sexier than she remembered. Maybe it was the air of confidence he now carried, though he’d never struck her as particularly reticent in the past. Maybe a little shy, at first, reserved even, but he’d soon overcome that. He was definitely more sure of himself now, more secure in his skin. Or maybe it was just that she’d missed him so much, still did, and her body yearned for the release he could offer. Would offer, she was sure, if she could bring herself to ask him. Relent on her principles. Her useless, misplaced, intolerant, unforgiving principles.

Her underwear was becoming moist just by her looking at him, and Rachel felt the self-defensive urge to press her thighs together. Christ, what was happening to her?

“My rates have changed since I did your rockery. And my terms. I have an accountant to worry about now. And the tax man.”

“I see. Good. Good. I’m pleased.” In actual fact, she was far from pleased at the mention of another accountant. Callum was hers, whether in bed or his books. Maybe she should just tell him that…?

“So, at mates’ rates, this job will come to…two hundred thousand pounds. Including materials.” He hitched one lean hip on the edge of her table, and waited for her to explode.

Rachel’s eyes widened, but to her credit she managed to maintain her composure. Clearly he was here to take the piss, maybe goad her a little in retaliation for having been thrown out of her home a few months ago. She was hurt, reeling, but refused to let it show. Dignity to the fore now, she looked him in the eye.

“I see. Mates’ rates, you said. And if I wasn’t a mate?”

“Then I might offer a discount. For cash.”

He raised one eyebrow, Rachel thought in mockery, but she held his gaze. This was going to be nasty, but she’d brought it on herself. That stupid, stupid text last night. Never again. If half a glass of wine would do that to her she was teetotal from here on in.

“I see. And how much of the two hundred thousand would be required up front?” If he could play games, so could she.

His grin was boyish now, engaging as he obviously considered his answer. “A tenner should do. And you can pay the rest in instalments. I’m happy to accept payment in kind.”

His glance at the table between them was easy to read. He was recalling the occasion when he’d perched her on this table, her nipples clamped. He’d brought her to shuddering orgasm—several times—before fucking her arse. Rachel recalled it too, vividly, and her dignified resolve shattered as her face flushed bright crimson at the memory.

He smiled, but made no attempt to touch her. Instead, “So, Rachel, I see you get my drift. Do we have a deal?”

She might have said yes, might have agreed, desperate, pathetic woman that she was. That she’d become. She was tempted, just for a moment. But not yet. Not quite yet. Gathering the remnants of her dignity, and firmly refusing to acknowledge her flaming cheeks, Rachel held his gaze.

Her voice steady now, she gave him her answer, “No, Callum, we do not. I’m an accountant not a, a prostitute. And you, you’ve got another girlfriend now.” Her arms folded defiantly, she prepared to order him from her home, again.

“I do? First I’ve heard of it. Is she nice?”

“She’s pretty, I suppose. I saw her. Working with you. A few times in fact, a while back.”

“Ah, you mean Jazz.”

“Do I?”

“My little sister. I’ll tell her you think she’s pretty. I do too, I suppose. Jazz needed to earn some cash, so I offered her work. She’s not keen on gardening though, so I’m trying to find her something else to do on Saturdays. It’s not easy. More of a thinker than a doer, our Jazz. That’s why she needs to earn some cash—she wants to go to university in a couple of years’ time.”

Rachel was gaping at him, horribly embarrassed. Christ, what must he be thinking? “Your sister? That girl with the long legs and… Your sister?”

“My sister. Long legs and what?”

“Never mind. What sort of work does she want?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. She wants to study maths. She’s already started her A level work. Jazz has the brains in our family. I’m the brawn. Maybe you noticed…?”

“On occasion. She could work for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jazz. She could work for me. If she’s any good with a computer and can find her way around a spread sheet. There’s always data entry work to do, basic book-keeping stuff. Do you think she’d be interested in that?”

Callum looked at her in amazement. “Shit, I think she might. I’ll talk to her, maybe bring her round to meet you.”

“Please do.”

“So, that just leaves the matter of your refusal to fuck me in exchange for a play area. An accountant, you say?”

He just continued to smile at her, unmoved it would seem by her rejection. Then, long seconds later, “I see. Of course you are, and a bloody good accountant too, I gather. You must be if I’m ready to let you train my little sister in the ways of the bean-counter. So, I’ll have your accountancy services as part payment instead then. Fucking you on the kitchen table will have to be just something we do for fun. And I’ll also want the use of your garage. Indefinitely.”

She stared at him, once more rendered speechless. Then, “My—what did you say? My garage? What the hell for?”

Noticing she’d not rejected his thoughts on fucking, Callum did move now, did capture her chin in both his palms and tilt her face up. His eyes just inches from hers, his smile now sexy, uncertain, and a little wistful.

“I’ve missed you, Rachel. Christ, how I’ve missed you. I love you. I told you that—you didn’t believe me, but it
was
true. So now, I’m back here, you invited me back and I’m staying. Whichever way I can, however you’ll let me. I need a local base, a workshop, somewhere to store my gear. I’ve outgrown the van. Your garage is ideal, and it’ll give me a reason to be here every day.” He paused, dipped his face to trail his lips along her eyebrows, her cheeks, before laying his mouth softly on hers. The kiss was light, tentative, the politest of requests. He lifted his head, his eyes now soft, warm. “And I want you too, on any terms. In return, I’ll lay your decking, and do any other work you need. Anything you ask…”

Rachel’s eyes were closed, she lifted her hands to loop them behind his neck. She curled her fingers around the soft ends of his hair, rubbing the silkiness as she considered.

Eventually, “So, you want me to be your accountant?”

He nodded.

“And your landlord?”

He nodded again.

“And you want to fuck me on the table?”

He shrugged at that. “Well, not just on the table. And not just fuck, either. I do like my whistles and bells…”

This time it was Rachel’s turn to nod. “Me too.” Dropping her fingers from his hair she stepped back, held out her right hand. “We have a deal then.”

Callum took her hand. “Deal.”

Later, as they lay naked on her duvet, her buttocks satisfyingly pink and sore and her clit well attended to, Rachel pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at Callum.

“So, legitimate businessman now, are you? Tax, National Insurance, the lot?”

He opened one eye. “Getting there. Still need to register at Companies House.”

“I can do that for you, as your accountant, of course.”

“Of course.”

“What do you call your firm?”

He opened the other eye, reached up to trace the outline of her lower lip with his finger.
Carrot and Coriander.
Thought it sounded sort of right.”

Rachel smiled, caught his finger between her teeth before releasing it to drop a kiss in his palm.

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

What’s Her Secret?: The Three Rs

Ashe Barker

Excerpt

Chapter One

It looks official.

White envelope. It’s made of heavy paper, expensive looking. My name and address on the front, and some other words in large, bold letters. I recognize some of the letters. A word starting with ‘P’ and with a ‘v’ in it. Probably ‘Private’. Not so sure about the other word, that’s just a jumble. As if someone simply grabbed a handful of the alphabet and dropped it onto the paper.

But the letter is definitely for me. I do recognize my name, my address. Maybe I should open it, try to decipher whatever’s inside.

I put the envelope, still unopened, back on my table. It leans against the cereal packet as I take a sip of my coffee and contemplate it grumpily. It’s been two days since the imposing looking white envelope plopped onto my doormat, and I’m no closer now to knowing what the contents might mean than I was when it first arrived. It could just be junk mail. Some organizations deliberately make their rubbish letters look real and important just to trap unwary or gullible people. I like to think I’m neither of those things, but the fact remains I have a letter propped against my cornflakes box which may or may not be important—it certainly looks the part—and it’s spent the last two days occupying pride of place on my fireplace taking the piss out of me. It’s likely to continue taking the piss for another week, until my friend Wendy who lives upstairs comes back from visiting her sister in the Cotswolds. Wendy does my reading for me when it can’t be avoided. Because I can’t.

Can’t read, don’t read. Never really learnt. And now it’s too late. Probably.

Childhood leukemia effectively wiped out the first two years of my schooling. I was nearly eight before a bone marrow transplant finally did the trick and I was eventually pronounced cancer free, but by then the other children in my year were miles ahead of me. They all seemed to be able to read, and I still couldn’t. My school did try. They sent work home for me, and a teacher came to see me quite regularly. I was often too ill to listen to her though, and I didn’t feel like concentrating. In that cunning, manipulative way that children have sometimes, I soon realized that all I had to do was lie back and close my eyes, look a bit helpless, feeble, pained, and they’d back off immediately.

“Oh, she’s tired. Let her rest.” My mother was sick with worry about me, and fiercely protective. I milked that relentlessly, idle little slug that I was. Being ill was crap most of the time, but it had its up-side. No one hassled me, and if I didn’t want to bother with school stuff, no one would make me. My health was the only thing that mattered—I just had to concentrate on getting better.

And when I was better, school tried again. I had a special reading recovery tutor, they put me on accelerated reading programs, spent a fortune no doubt on my remedial education, but none of it made much impression. I learnt the alphabet, learnt to recognize my own name then to write it. I can string together short words, simple words, and I’m sort of okay at guessing how to fill in the gaps. I’ve had a lot of practice at that over the years. But it’s an unreliable system, I make a lot of mistakes and I completely miss the meaning of most things. I never read newspapers, not even the red tops which I understand are written for people with a reading age of about seven. They’re too hard for me. I struggle to understand cooking instructions on food packets, but these days most are done with symbols so that’s easier. I can recognize a picture of a microwave, and single numbers are okay. Even double numbers at a pinch, but beyond that I get hopelessly lost. So I’m pretty much unable to read or write anything. Functionally illiterate, is the label they give to people like me, or so I understand.