His Laughing Girl: British Billionaire Boss, #2

By Ellen Whyte and AJ Adams

Curvy chef Sophie Weston has given up on love. But when she is hired to cater for a very exclusive house party, she falls instantly for handsome tech tycoon Richard Cummings. However, she quickly discovers that Richard has a shady past. Should she trust him or should she walk away before her heart is broken again?

 

A light, contemporary billionaire romance with a happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Nov 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393455516

Ellen Whyte

Ellen Whyte married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. She believes writing is not so much a passion as an obsession. She writes sweet romance novels with strong women and very hunky men as Ellen Whyte. However, she’s better known for her Zeta Cartel series, Belial’s Disciples MC novels, and the other twisted stories of love, mayhem, and murder she writes as AJ Adams. When she’s not writing, she’s cooking and chatting to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.  

Book preview

Chapter One: Sophie

W hat have you got in here? Bricks? Ali moaned theatrically as he heaved my packing cases onto six trolleys. These weigh a tonne!

I’ve got everything but the kitchen sink. I ticked off items on my list. That’s all the boxes. Now for the bags.

You know they have shops out of London, right?

Sure, but I’m not going to get truffle oil in the village shop, am I? Or mentsuyu!

What on earth is mentsuyu? Ali asked.

It’s that Japanese noodle sauce you like.

Oh, right. Think they’ll be lusting for it in the wilds of northern England?

The client is entertaining. There’s a Japanese guest and two Russians, so I raided Fortnum and Mason for gourmet treats.

Sounds wild. Ali examined a suitcase, pink polka-dotted leather. It’s gaudy and I love it, but it’s practical, too, because my stuff is recognisable a mile away. That means it’s less likely to go missing or be picked up in error by a stranger. Ali, though, was looking a bit poleaxed by the sea of flashing polka dots. And this? The one with wheels?

My frying pans and my Thermomix.

Weren’t joking about the kitchen sink, were you? Ali grinned. We’ll need another trolley.

I’m a caterer, you see. I trained at Cordon Bleu, then did stints at Maxim’s in Paris and the Dorchester in London, and then I set up on my own. I don’t have a restaurant; I do parties.

Some of my clients have lovely homes, but there are also overseas people who rent. That’s why I deliver a complete package. Hire me, and I’ll cook, plate, serve, and do the dishes, too, leaving you to chat, dance, or otherwise entertain your guests.

I also do house parties, especially in the shooting season when all the smart set leave their cosy town flats for their ancestral halls. Most of those have been renovated upstairs, but the kitchen is usually a Tudor or Victorian dungeon, and there’s barely an unchipped plate in the place.

As you might imagine, I need a lot of kit. My gear is packed in eight custom-built packing cases and four suitcases, all numbered, labelled, and weighing a tonne. Honestly, the British army going on manoeuvres takes less gear than I do.

Any other man would’ve made a big production out of it, but Ali is the best concierge in London. That why I’d begged him to let me hire him. What would have taken me three hours and a nervous breakdown to shift from the van to the train took a happily smiling Ali twenty minutes.

Now he simply murmured at one of his mates, and a second later an extra trolley whisked up. All done, except for that pink satchel!

That’s coming with me! I clutched it quickly. That’s my knives!

They’ll confiscate those if they see them, Ali predicted.

Out of my cold, dead hands! I quoted.

I was kidding, but at the same time I was quite serious about guarding them. Ask any chef, and you’ll get the same response. I could bear to lose the truffle oil, the chanterelle mushrooms, the mentsuyu, or even my mandoline for julienne veg, but my knives are my most precious possessions.

I think we’re done. Ali finished stacking the trolleys and gazed at the leftover soft bag. Unlike my pink work gear, my carry-on is a basic blue, patterned in cats and kittens. Hang on. What’s in that?

"Oops, let’s not forget that! That’s my clothes! I can’t go around starkers, now can I? Not with Jamie Oliver already claiming The Naked Chef!"

Ali burst out laughing. You’re a nut, you know that, don’t you, Sophie?

And lovable with it!

We went up to the train in fine procession, eight porters for goodness’ sake, so I felt like royalty. Ali and his boys whisked all my gear on board, and then he saw me to my carriage. Personally. Isn’t that sweet?

First class, Ali approved. Very posh.

The client’s paying. Isn’t that nice? Usually I travel cattle class!

There were four large leather seats facing each other. A Barbie blonde, dressed in a blue business suit with a super short skirt showing off endless legs lounged in one of them. She looked up, looked me over and smiled. Not a nice smile but a smug one. That happens to me all the time.

I’m a chef and it shows. I’ve got more curves than an F1 track. I like my body, but superior looks and fat-shaming are part of my everyday experience. It gets to me sometimes, but I usually shrug it off. After all, I have a great life: a job I love, success, and freedom.

This particular job was a coup, too. You see, I was recommended by the Duchess of Weir. When her own chef broke his arm last Christmas, I stepped in and did a dinner for her. The guests of honour were Will and Kate, the two most popular royals, and as it went well, she was singing my praises.

The sweetheart got me some lovely work, including this delicious job. A billionaire had hired Basildon Hall, one of her estates up in Chester, and as the chef there was off on his annual holiday, I’d been hired for a whole month.

It would be hard work, but it would net me a fortune. So when the Barbie doll’s blue eyes and pursed mouth signalled contempt, I smiled.  Extra wide, just to annoy her. Because I am a happy person, but I can also be a bit of a bitch.

Seeing my grin, Barbie pouted and looked away.

Who’re you working for this time? Ali stuffed my bag into the overhead bin. Someone rich and shameless?

Richard Cummings.

Ali shrugged. Never heard of him.

I think he’s a scientist, I was digging through my handbag, looking for the envelope I’d stashed there.

Don’t you know? Ali asked.

He and his team were in the US, so it was all done over email by one of his staff. 

Well, it’s probably okay, but I like to know who I work for.

I’d only asked about the food, because that’s my passion, but I could see Ali was a little worried. I wracked my brains, trying to remember what I’d been told about my client. His PA said he’s in AI—that’s artificial insemination, right?

Is it? Ali was fascinated. Like fertility clinics?

Maybe he works at a posh private hospital or something, but it might be cows or pigs. Yes, I’m a twit, I admit it. Whatever he’s inseminating, he must be coining it, because he’s hired Basildon Hall, a smashing country estate in Chester, and me, for a whole month!

Ali laughed. And his name is Richard Cummings, as in Dick Cumming? Classic!

Lord, it does sound unfortunate, doesn’t it? I finally found the envelope, in a side pocket, of course. I half noticed the blonde glaring, but it didn’t register properly because I was hugging Ali. Here’s the fee, love. With a tip.

Aw, you didn’t need to! He’s nice, Ali. Always generous to the bone, too.

I know you gave me a massive discount. Thanks. Really, you’re the best.

Best of the best, that’s me. He gave me a smacking kiss and then he was off singing, ‘T’was on the Good Ship Venus’ and giving extra volume to the bit about, There’s frigging on the rigging; Wanking on the planking, Tossing on the crossing!

Well, really! The blonde was fuming. Her exquisitely tailored suit quivered with annoyance. How rude, she snapped.

I took in the pretty face and swallowed my irritation. People these days are too damn touchy for my taste. Still, on a four-hour trip from London to Chester, I decided to be diplomatic.

He didn’t mean anything, I told her. He’s a sweetheart really.

AI stands for artificial intelligence!

Does it? I had to laugh. Oh my god! Computers not cows, right?

Robots! Cutting-edge technology!

Then it twigged. Oh, was it you who phoned to make the booking? You’re the PA, Andrea Gould?

Yes! And Richard is one of our foremost robotics experts.

Is he? That’s nice. She was clearly deeply invested in her boss. I like nerds.

Excuse me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, blond, grey-eyed and knicker-dampeningly handsome. I think that’s my seat in the corner.

Oh yummy! I was drinking him in. Big grey eyes, lengthening as he smiled, good bones, nice, wide, kissable mouth, and a grin that was infectiously happy. I’m Sophie.

That’s an advantage of having curves. When you’re skinny and glamorous like Ms Barbie, you play games. Like pretending you’re too cool to be interested. Me, I don’t have men drooling over me, so when I see one I like, I have to say so. And quick, too, before they’re distracted by a predatory size eight.

Sophie who likes nerds. He was laughing, and I thought of kissing him right there and then. He looked good and he smelled like heaven, a light grassy aftershave. Clean and fresh, like meadows after the rain.

I batted my eyes and flirted shamelessly. I adore clever men, and nerds are usually sensitive, too. What’s not to like, right? But let’s not talk about them; let’s talk about you!

Richard, Barbie was quacking with outrage. "Your seat is here, next to me. I got you the FT, and we have reservations for breakfast."

So