Page 31 of The Missing Ingredient

“This Indian tailor round the back of Edgware Road makes them for me. Has done for a couple of years. If you want, I can—”

When Marcus raised his eyes to meet Tom’s, all thoughts left him, the dark heat in that gaze blistering. A sudden memory came back, of Tom sitting on the garden rug, staring angrily at him. Except it had not been anger at all but lust. Instinctively he inhaled a deep breath as Tom fisted the shirt and pulled Marcus out of his chair toward him. Even as Tom brought their mouths together, Marcus hesitated, fully expecting him to recoil, to reevaluate in disgust what he had initiated. But the moment never came. Closemouthed lips pressed onto Marcus’s own—firm, urgent, yet still a little unsure. And then, a second later, the essence of Tom Bradford hit Marcus hard, spicy aftershave mixed with Tom’s natural body scent and heat, so masculine, intoxicating and addictive. Instinctively Marcus’s arms found their way around Tom’s neck and he stepped into the man’s body, molding himself into the embrace. When he pushed his tongue between Tom’s lips, forcing them to part, Marcus took control of the kiss, touching, stroking, exploring, snaking his own tongue around Tom’s. In response, Tom shuddered and released a deep moan, before lifting Marcus off the floor and walking him backward until he had him pinned up against the fridge door. Breathless, Marcus pulled his mouth away.

“Well. That’s one mystery solved,” whispered Tom as he lowered Marcus back to earth, his lips tickling Marcus’s ear.

“What do you mean?”

“I wondered if my attraction to you was all in my head” came Tom’s husky voice before he thrust his substantial rock-hard groin into Marcus’s own arousal. “Apparently not.”

Once again Tom sought out Marcus’s mouth, more emboldened and self-assured. This time, however, Tom smoothed his palms around Marcus’s back, grasping his backside, while he moved his mouth along the line of Marcus’s jaw, nipping slowly as he went. Marcus took the opportunity to lift out Tom’s shirttails and push his hands up into Tom’s chest. Firm, hot stomach muscles gave way to solid pectorals with aroused nipples. When Tom gasped, Marcus almost came where he stood.

“Stay the night,” Tom whispered urgently.

“Tom, I can’t. We—it wouldn’t be right.”

“Shit,” said Tom, dropping his head on Marcus’s shoulder and releasing his hold. “I’ve misread things, haven’t I?”

“What? No!” said Marcus, pulling Tom’s head back and kissing him deeply. Once he felt Tom’s arms around him again, sensed him relax a little, Marcus brought their gazes together. “Tom, there is nothing in the world I would like more than to spend the night with you. And believe me, if it were only the two of us in the house right now, I’d be ripping your clothes off.”

Still confused, Tom followed Marcus’s gaze to the rising stairwell. With a soft sigh and a shake of the head, comprehension dawned on him like an avalanche. “You see? This is why I need you around. My common sense guru.”

“Wouldn’t be fair on the girls. In case they woke during the night.”

But the idea had lodged firmly in Tom’s head, and he was not letting up. “How about tomorrow? Monday’s your day off, and I’m sure I can get a few hours away in the afternoon—”

“I’m in Birmingham until Thursday afternoon, remember? And you’ve got the girls Thursday night. Friday night you’re seeing Brenner and his chums for the UEFA game on the big screen down the Castle. And then Saturday—”

“Fuck Brenner and his chums.”

“I’d rather not, if that’s all right by you.”

But Tom’s gaze shone hotly, and he didn’t even acknowledge the quip. “Friday night. I’ll ask Mum if the girls can stop over. We’ve got the barbecue in their back garden the next day. Please tell me you’re free.”

Marcus beamed at the eagerness of Tom’s plea. Friday nights remained the busiest night of the week in both restaurants. He’d purposely planned to be back in London on Thursday so that he could be in the kitchen on Friday. But as a precaution, he had also asked both chefs to make arrangements for Friday and Saturday nights in case the deal in Birmingham dragged on. And this was not an opportunity he wanted to pass up.

“I’ll make sure I am. But not here, Tom. Come to my place. I’ll cook a TV dinner. And after we’ve watched the game on my hundred-inch flat-screen, I will lead you to my bedroom and teach you some of the ways of the dark side. As long as you promise to stay the night. How does that sound?”

Instead of replying, Tom lowered his grinning lips again onto Marcus’s but kissed less urgently this time, his tongue gently exploring Marcus’s mouth, his body still crushing rhythmically against Marcus, causing bottles to clink softly in the fridge behind him. Then Tom transferred his attention to Marcus’s ears, and his hungry mouth started flicking hotly around his left lobe and then nipping gently at his neck. Just as Marcus had made up his mind that he would give Tom the best blow job of his life, a voice sounded faintly from abovestairs again.

“Daddy.”

“You need to let me go now, Tom,” said Marcus, twisting out of Tom’s reach and heading for the front door.

“Friday,” said Tom. “What time?”

“How does seven sound?”

“Perfect. Prepare to have your world rocked, Mr. Vine.”

Little could he know, but those words would echo around Marcus’s head for the whole of the following week.

Chapter Eleven

ELEVENthirty Wednesday night, Marcus lay on top of the thick cotton quilt in his hotel room in Birmingham, mulling over the lease signing meeting, which had gone so much better than expected. As usual, a lot of the negotiation points had been complicated, but since the opening of Shepherd’s Bush three years ago, he surprised himself at how much he now understood. Nevertheless, that kind of detail bored him—Marcus preferred to be holed up in the kitchen, playing with knives and fire and creating magic.

Which was one of the reasons he had excused himself to use the washroom on Tuesday during a particularly long and arduous debate on renewal clauses. Wandering the corridors of the large law firm, he had tried one door after another until he had stumbled upon a fully kitted-out kitchen. Inside, one of the suits from the firm, taking a break to use the snazzy Italian coffee machine, had explained that the kitchen was only ever really used for firm functions. After getting directions to the toilets from the guy, and then having a quick snoop around the surprisingly well-equipped kitchen, he had found his way to the restroom. And as he had pulled out his phone to check messages, the small piece of paper Daniel had given him fell out of his pocket. On impulse, he’d decided to give the number a ring.

“Brackley Moor Manor House. How may I help you?”

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