As Beautiful as the Bay Read online

  All the baked goods looked gorgeous, but, as usual, Ginger’s eye ran over the surroundings, thinking once again how old-fashioned the place was. It looked like a shop from the nineteen-fifties; in fact, she was sure the wallpaper hadn’t been changed since then. The place was spotless, but it was in dire need of an overhaul. The range of goods probably hadn’t changed much since the war, she thought. They’d introduced muffins, but the breads—while looking mouthwateringly tasty—were very traditional. They needed some gluten-free options, wholemeals and wholegrains, to appeal to the younger, more health-conscious customers, as well as more interesting loaf shapes and rolls.

  Familiar puzzlement filled her as she wondered why Sam hadn’t done more to modernize the bakery. Even if he didn’t have much money to spend on it, he could still do a lot to drag the place into the twenty-first century. Did he not have any vision or ambition, or was he just plain lazy? His lack of effort in promoting the bakery for the awards would suggest the latter.

  Ally gave the businessman his order, and turned her smile to Ginger. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’ll have one of those,” Ginger said, pointing.

  “Which one?”

  Ginger gritted her teeth. “A Marilyn Monroe, please. Jeez. Why does he have to give them such ludicrous names?”

  Ally grinned and retrieved the muffin from the cabinet. “His dad gave them the names.” She gestured toward the door behind her with her head. “Sam said to tell you to go and see him if you stopped by.”

  Ginger bristled at his choice of words, ‘Tell you’, not ‘ask you’. She couldn’t imagine Sam Pankhurst asking anyone to do anything. She had no idea why he appeared to be so popular in the town.

  After paying for her muffin, she circled the counter and went up to the door that led into the bakery. There she paused for a moment and leaned on the doorjamb.

  It wasn’t a huge kitchen, just one large room with the ovens on the north wall. Sam only hired one other member of staff—a young Maori guy called Piri—and, along with Ally, the three of them made all the bread and muffins in the shop.

  Ginger sometimes made her own specialty bread in the restaurant, but the truth was that breadmaking was a time-consuming process what with all the kneading and leaving the dough to rise several times, and bread made in machines just didn’t taste the same. Or maybe it was in her head. Despite her personal reservations about the man, she liked his bread, and besides, she tried to support local suppliers wherever she could, so the bakery also supplied a daily delivery to the restaurant.

  At that moment, Piri was on the far side, spooning muffin mix into pans. Sam stood at the large preparation table in the center of the room, facing a little away from her, in the process of kneading a large ball of dough. She knew he had a machine that did this for him, but he obviously enjoyed the process of making it by hand from time to time.

  She should announce her presence. It wasn’t fair to watch him without his knowledge. But for a moment, Ginger’s feet were glued to the floor.

  A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the high window to the east, spilling across the table as if he’d knocked over a giant pot of melted butter. It fell right over him, too, covering him in a warm, golden light.

  He wore faded jeans and an old black T-shirt, the only smart thing about him being the crisp white apron and hat jammed on his scruffy brown hair. The radio on the nearby bench was playing an old country song from the seventies she hadn’t heard for years—was it called Sundown? Something about his hard-loving woman taking care if he caught her creeping around his back stairs. Sam was singing, his deep, husky voice ringing out across the room, and Piri was accompanying him on the high harmonies. Both of them were moving to the music, little rocks of their hips that made her smile.

  Ginger watched Sam’s strong hands kneading the dough expertly, pulling it toward him, stretching it, folding it. His movements were sure and rhythmical, reassuringly competent. Every now and then, he dipped his fingers into a bowl of flour to the side and tossed a handful onto the table. The sun caught the grains as they fluttered in the air, making it glitter. She could have stood there and watched him all day.

  He would be an easy man to fall for, she thought, feeling the tingle inside that she felt every time she looked at him. He was tall, sexy, funny, and she had no doubt at all that he’d be great in bed. And Ellie was right—he had a great bum.

  Too bad he was such an arrogant ass.

  Chapter Three

  Partway through a line in the song, Sam glanced up at the door to the shop and froze, his voice fading away. He’d been thinking about Ginger Cartwright, and he thought he’d somehow conjured her up. She stood there, unmoving, her gazed fixed on him, silhouetted by the early morning light behind her. Her features were in shadow, but he recognized her pose, the way she’d shoved her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans, and dropped her hip to lean against the door. She’d tipped her head to the side, and her glorious strawberry-blonde hair shone around her head like a halo in the sunlight.

  His heart gave an uncharacteristic thump. She took his breath away and, for a moment, he was spellbound.

  Then she moved, and he blinked and returned his gaze to the dough. “Morning,” he said, kneading it a final few times.

  “Morning, Mr. Muffin.” She approached the table and leaned against it, arms folded.

  He could smell her perfume, something rich and sexy that stirred his blood. No lavender water for Ginger Cartwright. She wore perfume he suspected Cleopatra might have used to seduce men into her bed. His heart raced at her nearness, but he concentrated on patting the dough into a round and putting it aside to rise while he gathered his composure. “I keep meaning to ask—why are you called Ginger? Your hair’s more blonde than carrot-colored.”

  “It’s a shortened version of my real name, idiot.” She was only a foot away from him. She wore a light blue shirt with jeans, a somewhat boyish look, but then she was kind of a tomboy, albeit a pretty one, and it suited her. The top few buttons of her shirt were undone, and he had to fight not to let his gaze slip down to her breasts. She’d rolled up the sleeves, and his gaze lingered on her pale skin. She had small, slender hands, and her long, elegant fingers were bare of jewelry. He could imagine how they’d look against his tanned skin, how they’d feel, sliding up his thigh.

  Jeez. It was only seven-thirty and he already had a hard-on.

  “What’s your real name, then?” He pulled a tray toward him containing dough that had been rising for ninety minutes, and began to punch it down, trying to divert his attention from the thought of sex.

  “Virginia.”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “What’s funny about that?” she asked.

  “Its meaning.” He gave her a wry look and then cut the dough into three pieces. She was quiet for a moment, and he glanced over at her, then grinned at her indignant look. “Come on,” he scoffed. “You really think the word virginal applies to you?” He folded the pieces of dough into loaves and placed them in the tins.

  “I don’t know what you’re implying...” she said, with a mixture of amusement and indignation.

  “You’re far too sexy for that.” Wiping his hands on a cloth, he ran his gaze down her, then brought it back up to her face, amused.

  “Sam!”

  “What?”

  “I’m not even thinking of creeping around your ‘back stair’, so you can stop that train of thought before it starts.” She put air quotes around the words ‘back stair’.

  His lips curved up. He loved the song. How long had she been standing there, listening to him sing?

  He moved a bit closer to her, his gaze sliding to her lips. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush his lips to hers, slide his hands onto her butt, and press his erection into her mound.

  He leaned forward, paused, and fought with himself as her eyes widened and her lips parted, and then reached around her and picked up the flour shaker. Ginger’s breath left
her body in a rush, and she gave him an exasperated look.

  “So are you coming out with me on Saturday?” he murmured.

  “No,” she snapped. She took a step back as if his nearness unnerved her. He knew she found him attractive. If it wasn’t for the damned award, he was certain he’d have gotten her into bed by now.

  “So I guess I’ll see you Sunday, then?” he said. On Sunday, the winner of the Bay of Islands Gold Food Awards would be announced at the end of the Midwinter Food Festival in Kerikeri. It was a huge affair in the area, held at the local exhibition center. Local vineyards, cafes, and restaurants sold their wares from stalls while live bands played music, and it was usually packed.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “May the best man win.”

  “Or woman.”

  He laughed. “Yeah.”

  She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, then looked away. He took the chance to observe her profile, feeling a twinge of regret. His best mate, Mac, knew how he felt about her, and he’d advised Sam to withdraw from the awards. But Sam couldn’t do that.

  He’d been determined to dislike the Cartwright girls when they’d arrived at Blue Penguin Bay. So had Mac. He’d thought he’d inherited the vineyard he’d loved since he was a child, only to discover that his father had forged Harry Cartwright’s will, and the estate belonged to Harry’s daughters. Honest, loyal Mac had done the only thing he could, and contacted them to tell them what had happened, but he’d resented it with every bone in his body.

  That first week after they’d arrived, Sam had kept his distance, expecting to hear that the girls had kicked Mac out at the first available opportunity. When he’d heard that Mac was going to marry the eldest daughter so she could access her inheritance, Sam had wanted to cart his friend off to the asylum. He’d gone to their wedding prepared to cause a scene. And then he’d met the girls.

  Who could fail to like kind, honest Fred and her gentle sister Sandi? Certainly not Sam. He’d immediately understood why Mac had made the decision he had.

  Ginger, however, was a whole new ball game.

  She was everything her sisters weren’t—loud, feisty, argumentative, and cheeky. Sam found her both endearing and a major pain in the ass at the same time. All three sisters were noticeably British, not only in their accents, but also in their attitude. When they wanted something, they had to have it right away. They had no understanding of the Kiwi way that things got done when they got done, and if the sun was shining, well, there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be put off until tomorrow so a guy could go fishing and make the most of the warm weather.

  Ginger, especially, found this difficult to deal with. Sam had no doubt that she was a fantastic chef. He’d eaten at the vineyard restaurant several times, and although he wouldn’t tell Ginger to her face, it was some of the best food he’d ever had, and by far the best in the Northland.

  Unfortunately, she knew how good she was, and the word modesty didn’t feature in her vocabulary. When she’d discovered the existence of the Bay of Islands Gold Food Award, she’d obviously thought she could just step off the plane and immediately win the most prestigious culinary prize in the Northland. She seemed to have no inkling of how some of the local business owners resented her attitude. She might have meant well when she made suggestions at community business meetings of how things could be improved, but she had a habit of making it sound as if her way was the only way.

  It wasn’t the first time a British immigrant had thought it was okay to point out everything the Kiwis were doing wrong. They forgot that the Pakeha population—although mostly originating from Britain, as well as other European countries—had thrived in New Zealand for two hundred years by making do with what they had, because their home country was too far away to call on for help. Many of the incomers also didn’t understand the delicate relationship with Maori, whose ancestors had come to Aotearoa several hundred years before the British, and who sometimes resented being made to feel as if their way of doing things was inadequate.

  Sam wasn’t particularly offended by Ginger’s well-meaning suggestions, but it irked him that she didn’t understand how it took time to build up contacts and establish a reputation. He’d been running the bakery for the past year, but he knew the locals still thought of it as his father’s place. It would take a long time to make the business his own, if indeed he ever did.

  When she’d told him she’d entered the competition and bragged that she was going to walk it, she’d made it sound as if she was joking, but Sam suspected she truly thought she had a right to win it. He’d tried to tell her that the Northlanders were unlikely to vote for a restaurant that had only been running for three months, and she’d laughed in his face before telling him that she had a few ideas on how he could bring his bakery up to date. He’d been so annoyed that he’d entered the competition to give her a run for her money, even though he hadn’t thought he stood a chance of winning.

  To his surprise, he’d found huge support in the local community for his family-run business that had been there since the first whalers landed in Russell when it was still Kororareka, the hell-hole of the Pacific. And as the weeks had gone by, Sam’s competitive side had kicked in. Now, he wanted to win.

  If Ginger didn’t like it, well, she’d have to lump it.

  Looking at her now, though, he felt a twinge of regret. She might have little to no understanding of her new country, but that wasn’t her fault. It took time to learn the customs and ways of a people. She had the right idea—she supported local businesses like his own, and she obviously knew her stuff. If only she’d take a step back for a while, concentrate on her food, and let the news of her restaurant spread organically, she’d gain much more respect from the community.

  “Sure you won’t come with me Saturday?” he asked softly. “I’ll even buy you popcorn.”

  She turned her head back to look at him, and his heart skipped a beat. She was so beautiful. Standing there now, bathed in the early morning sunlight, she was like an angel—her hair glowed, her skin shone, and the motes of flour ever-present in the air sparkled around her. He’d never met a woman like her. Since she’d arrived at the bay, he hadn’t dated anyone else. He probably should. Although he was certain she liked him, Ginger had shown no sign of relenting to his weekly attempts to get her on a date. He should walk out of here and ask out the first girl he saw—maybe pretty Clara from the jewelry shop around the corner, or that young waitress who worked for Ginger, what was her name? Ellie.

  But he wasn’t ready to give up hope yet. Maybe after the awards, which she may well win despite his cautioning her to expect the worst, she’d soften toward him, and then he’d finally get her on a date. And he’d get to kiss that soft mouth, and murmur sweet nothings in her ear...

  “You always smell of baking,” she whispered. “Do you know that?”

  “No surprises there,” he said. “I guess it’s not as manly as smelling of engine oil.”

  “Probably not,” she said, but her eyes were warm. For a moment, he thought she might give in, but seconds went by, her longing faded, and wariness took its place. Mac had told him that she’d had a bad breakup in the past. He hadn’t revealed the details, but Sam could see that she’d been hurt, and was wary of trusting again. Trust me, he wanted to tell her. I won’t hurt you. I’ll treat you like a princess for the rest of your days.

  But he didn’t, because he knew she’d mock him, and he was too proud for that. And besides, he wasn’t planning to stick around in Blue Penguin Bay for much longer. So maybe it was for the best that she wasn’t interested.

  She looked away. “I thought I’d call in and see George—I made seafood chowder yesterday and I know that’s his favorite.” She held up the bag she’d been carrying with the bowl inside. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure. He’s still in his pajamas, but I know he’d love to see you.”

  She turned, and he watched her walk away, across the bakery and out the door toward the
house he lived in with his father. She didn’t look back.

  When the door swung to, Piri glanced over at him. “You know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?”

  “One day she’ll say yes, and you’ll be coming to my wedding,” Sam advised him, carrying the tray with the loaves to the table next to the oven where they would rise in the warmth.

  “I’ll start saving for a suit,” Piri said.

  Sam gave a wry smile, then turned his attention to the next item on his list. Ginger Cartwright was fun to daydream about, but muffins didn’t make themselves.

  Chapter Four

  Ginger left the bakehouse and started to walk down the long path to Sam’s house. The sky was a bright wintry blue. There seemed to be more of it than in England. She supposed it was because in the U.K. houses were primarily two stories, whereas in the parts of New Zealand she’d seen so far, it was rare to find anything above one level, apart from in the middle of the big cities.

  Last night, the weatherman had said there was a cyclone on the way. It had already caused havoc in some of the Pacific Islands, and was bearing down on New Zealand at a rate of knots. She had no idea what to expect when it arrived. They had storms in England, of course, and she could vaguely remember the great storm of 1987 that hit the south-east of England, during which she’d huddled with her mother and sisters in the living room while the windows rattled and tiles flew from the roofs. That had been an extratropical cyclone. Would this one be like that? The weatherman had forecast high winds and heavy rain, although at the moment it wasn’t clear exactly when and where it would hit the country. It was difficult to believe it right now, with the sky so blue and cloudless.

  She would have to help ready the vineyard before it hit. They must bring all the tables and chairs from the deck into the restaurant, and put plant pots and ornaments into the shed. What else could they do? It was difficult to think when she wasn’t sure how bad it would be.