Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(14)

‘Could you kill a human being?’

His eyes narrow, and he looks dangerous.

‘If he’s hurt you—I mean really, really hurt you, or someone you loved …’

He doesn’t hesitate. His voice rings strong and sure in that kitchen, with the rice boiling and the dead lobster lying on the wooden board. ‘Yes. I’d kill for those I love.’

I nod slowly, and for a few seconds we gaze at each other. His eyes burn with fierce intensity. No more is said, but I suddenly feel safe, safer than I have ever felt with Lenny. My muscles are singing with renewed vigor, and I feel as if I could do anything, be anything.





Eight


SNOW

‘What made you decide to pay me a surprise visit?’ he asks, as he begins the task of scooping up and discarding the yellow-green tomalley from the two halves of the lobster.

‘I’m really sorry; I realize now I should have called. It’s not the done thing in England to turn up unannounced at someone’s door.’

He lifts a lemon from a fruit bowl on the kitchen table, washes it under the tap, and cuts it into wedges. ‘It’s done, but usually by people selling things you don’t want, and suspicious girlfriends trying to catch their boyfriends in compromising situations,’ he says dryly.

‘You can add a new category to your list. Foreign-born women who have just received great news.’

He looks up from the lobster, his eyebrows raised expectantly. ‘You have great news?’

I nod excitedly.

‘Spit it out then.’

‘OK, here it is,’ I say with a happy grin. ‘My greatest dream for as long as I can remember was to become a pre-school teacher. To give back to other children what my nanny gave me. To instill in them a thirst for knowledge. But my mother did not want me to become a teacher. In her opinion, it was a badly paid, thankless job, and, no matter what I did, I could never change those children’s lives one iota. I guess that’s the real reason I ran away to England. I knew if I wanted to chase my dream, I had to leave India … and, since I had a British passport, I came here.

‘But here, in England, all teaching colleges require you to have work experience before they will accept you. Soooo … I applied to do some voluntary work at some local schools, and this morning a letter arrived from one of them to tell me that I’ve been selected.’

‘Am I looking at the happiest teacher-in-training ever?’ he asks, his blue eyes crinkling up.

‘Pre-school teacher-in-training,’ I correct. ‘I only ever wanted to teach small children.’

‘I think you’ll make a brilliant pre-school teacher.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Of course. How could you fail to be when you are so enthusiastic and eager? When you see education as passing down the magic,’ he says, placing a cast-iron griddle pan on the stove and switching it on.

As we carry on talking, he drizzles the two halves with olive oil and seasons them—salt, pepper. I watch his beautiful hands take a pinch of paprika and, hovering over the lobster, he rubs his fingers together. A sumptuous, exotic red mist settles like crimson dust upon the gray flesh of the crustacean. Out of nowhere, a thought snakes into my head. How great it would be to have those big, powerful hands on my body.


With a pair of scissors, he snips off a sprig of parsley from a pot growing on the windowpane, chops it finely, and drops it into an earthenware bowl. He uses the heel of his hand to break up a garlic bulb, and chops four of its cloves. That goes into a blue earthenware bowl with two thick sticks of butter and a sprinkle of chili flakes.

He pours a little olive oil onto the hot pan and places the lobster halves flash side down. The flesh sizzles. Very quickly, he flips them over and pours cognac in two quick strips over the seared flesh. Two long blue flames leap up angrily from the pan.

‘Wow! Impressive,’ I say.

‘You think that’s impressive? Wait till you see what else these hands can do,’ he teases.

My face flames as bright as the lobster shells.

The rice cooker pings at the same time that he takes the lobsters off the fire.

He turns to me. ‘Would you like some?’

My mouth is salivating with all the delicious smells, but I shake my head resolutely. I saw that lobster alive. Hypocrite or not, I couldn’t. I’d be eating the moment of its death.

‘Last chance,’ he offers.

‘Thanks, but no,’ I say firmly.

He opens the rice cooker and spoons the rice onto an enormous, white, square plate. He takes the lobster halves and lays them on the rice. Carefully, he spoons the melted butter mixture over his meal.

He looks up at me. ‘So, you’re just going to watch me eat?’

‘Yes. If you don’t mind.’

‘Hmm … Want a double chocolate chip cookie instead? They’re very good.’

I hesitate. ‘Um.’

‘Her majesty, Lady Margarite Hum Loo baked them.’

I smile. ‘She did?’

‘She’s an awesome baker,’ he says persuasively.

‘In that case, OK.’

He opens a tin and brings it to me. They are in the shapes of animals.

I take a cat. ‘Thank you.’ I bite into it. ‘It’s actually delicious,’ I say, surprised.