Vicki's Work of Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

working at the moment, but I do have money.’ Not much, admittedly but there was a little spare each month from the rent on my flat.
    He held out his hands in disbelief. ‘But you don’t have to. You are in my house and Isabelle tells me you are a very good cook. I shall eat well, non?’
    ‘I hope so.’ That really wasn’t the point. ‘But it still doesn’t mean you can pay for my food. You won’t even let me pay for my accommodation; I have to make some contribution.’ There was something about being in debt, to anybody, which caused a clenching in the core of my being. I’d finally paid my dues for Marc’s decadence, I wasn’t about to put myself in a position where I was beholden to somebody else. I’d work for my rooms but I’d pay for my food.
    For an absolute age he stared at me before saying, ‘I’ll tell you what…I’ll give you some money each week and if it runs out, you can add to it. There, decision made.’ He bent to sip his coffee.
    I stared at the top of his head, where the dark hair swirled in textured waves.  ‘While we’re on the subject, what do you usually have for breakfast?’ I asked.
    He held up his mug. ‘Just this. I don’t usually have time for breakfast.’
    ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Let me guess, you take care of all those animals but don’t look after yourself, am I right?’
    He shrugged ‘I have survived to thirty-four quite well, I think. Don’t you?’
    Oh. My. God. One of Marc’s favourite phrases sprang to mind, You gotta love me, you know you do. My eyes dropped from his face to his tanned chest above the open neck of his shirt. I shrugged, ‘You look…okay. But I still say, breakfast is crucial and, if I prepare it, all you’ll have to do is eat it. Now then,’ I said, picking up a spoon and pointing to the bowl of fruit salad. ‘Do you like fruit?’
    He looked at it and up at me. I noticed a smile playing at the corners of his eyes as he asked, ‘Do I have a choice?’
    ‘Of course you have a choice. It’ll keep in the fridge for days and I’ll eat it myself.’
    He held my gaze for a long moment before nodding at the bowl. ‘Thank you. It looks delicious,’ he said and watched while I attempted to serve the fruit graciously but my co-ordination was a little out of whack.
    Unsettled by the silence as we sat eating, I said, ‘Izzy told me you went to school in England, why was that?’
    ‘My maternal grandmother was English. I was sent to school in Surrey for four years.’
    ‘How old were you?’
    ‘Seven.’
    I coughed on a piece of banana that nearly choked me. ‘You were sent away at seven? To a different country?’
    He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t so bad. I had good times and some nice teachers.’ He grinned. ‘You remind me of one of them.’
    ‘I do?’
    ‘Mrs Stafford. She was always making me eat things that were good for me.’
    ‘Oh. Well, I’m sure she did it with the best of intentions. Children can be very picky.’
    ‘This is true. And remember, I was used to French cuisine – steak and kidney pie with cabbage was a whole different thing for me. I’m afraid I still don’t like cabbage.’
    ‘If it’s school cabbage, I don’t blame you. There are much better ways of preparing it.’
    ‘Then perhaps you will convert me.’ He smiled that half smile again, the one that promises the full beam. ‘So, Vicki, how is it you became such a competent cook, huh?’
    ‘My nan taught me. She had a little restaurant in Clevedon – it’s a holiday resort – I used to work there in the school holidays.’
    He nodded but didn’t say anything, he just appeared to be analysing my response. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Excuse me. I have to walk the dogs before work. Thank you for breakfast.’
    Standing up, he whistled. Immediately the dogs leapt to his side. As he stood in the doorway, he turned to me. ‘I will leave you keys and some money. Abientôt.’ he said; see you later.
    ‘Christophe...’ My