Charlie's Dad. Alexandra Scott
when, on their approach, Ben Congreve rose to his feet to greet them. And since it was towards her his eyes were drawn, she was sure her reaction must have been noted.
‘Robert, Jenny...’ He welcomed them and there was the slightest hesitation before he spoke Ellie’s name, a hint of uncertainty which confirmed her suspicion, though it might have been simply that he was trying to gauge her attitude and his own. As it was, he chose informality, something Ellie appreciated as she shook hands with the three people already sitting round the table.
‘Jenny, Robert, you already know everyone, but, Ellie, may I introduce Darren and Myra Gottlieb from the American Consulate? And this—’ he indicated the tall, good-looking man who had the air of a local ‘—is Danny Khim, who is with my publisher.’
It was disconcerting to find when they all sat down once again that she was next to Ben with Danny on her left. Not at all what she would have chosen... but there was little she could do about it. She tried to compose herself, to ignore the feeling of being manipulated by Jenny as much as by Ben Congreve, and allowed the conversation to pass her by while she wrestled with her emotions. But she was too conscious of the man on her right to be entirely successful, even imagined she was picking up vibes from his body—sheer nonsense, of course. Meantime she endeavoured to be fascinated by Jenny’s conversation with Danny, until Ben spoke, that was, and then it was impossible to ignore him.
‘So, Ellie, tell me what you’ve been doing today.’ He was so very smooth and commanding, so very Ivy League, as he always had been. But she was less impressionable than she once had been, had spent years on her guard and had honed her self-protection to a fine edge. And certainly she was too old to imagine that fine clothes and manners meant anything, which explained why she chose to adopt a sarcastic drawl.
‘Oh, the usual touristy things—you know, a few souvenirs to take home, lunch at Raffles. Certainly nothing which compares with researching a new bestseller.’
Though his expression barely changed, something about him suggested chagrin. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I always find choosing one or two gifts to take home is a pleasant enough task. I positively enjoy finding things my friends will appreciate.’ His eyes were searching, as if trying to find a softer woman than the chippy one he had seen so far. ‘And what makes you think researching a book is so diverting? There are times when it is sheer grind. Besides, weren’t you doing a little research of your own last night?’
‘I was?’ Impossible to think what he meant, especially when he had decided to switch on the charm. His warmth gave no clue to his real character, she thought meanly...
‘Sure. Didn’t I hear you say you must try to remember all the colours of that Corot painting in the salon?’
‘Oh, that.’ Of course, she had joked about it with Babs but had been unaware of him overhearing. ‘I must confess I do that all the time. I have a compulsive interest in colour.’
‘Well, as I said...’ When he smiled, as he was doing now, it was difficult to hang on to her stand-offish manner. Besides, what did it matter? It seemed to her that he was their host for the evening, and she owed it to Robert and Jenny. It would cost her nothing to be polite, since once the evening was over they would never meet again. With luck. That assurance was less of a comfort than she would have wished.
The food and wine were delicious, and she found herself relaxed to the extent that when Danny asked, she allowed herself to be persuaded onto the dance floor. Mainly it was to escape from Ben Congreve, with his endless questions, and when they returned to the table she took the chance to change seats—easy enough since Robert alone wasn’t dancing. In different circumstances she knew she would have enjoyed herself, but the night was too fraught with the possibility that Ben might ask her to dance—and how could she refuse?
In the event, when he did make his move, her mind went blank, excuses evaporated and she found herself being led away from the others, not even trying to detach her fingers from his. Perhaps it was down to the music, calming and very nearly soporific. Who could feel threatened cocooned in such bittersweet nostalgia, rather than the pulsing rhythms of previous numbers? On the other hand, it was not the mood she would have chosen to share with him. Calm detachment was what she would have liked to help combat these... these sensations flowing between them.
‘I’m still waiting to hear about you Ellie.’ Cradling her hand more comfortably, he looked down, and their linked fingers brushing accidentally against the round swell of her breast brought her heart leaping into her throat.
And she knew she had been wrong to wear this wispy silk camisole. It was impossibly revealing, and she knew it showed every curve of the bare skin beneath, plus a fair amount of cleavage. She could hardly believe she had worn it without its usual overblouse, and certainly it hadn’t been for his benefit since she hadn’t known...
Her breath was growing more agitated now, emphasising all the aspects she would have liked to conceal, and he must be aware of the increase in her pulse-rate. His hand on her back could hardly avoid the signals, would know how little she was wearing and would draw his own conclusions.
A deep breath to control her trembling, and when she found her voice, it sounded gratifyingly calm and matter-of-fact. ‘There’s so little to tell. You must know it all already.’ This was her usual glib evasion of a ‘tell all’ invitation, but her resolve was undermined when she looked up into those searching dark eyes. How right she had been to be wary. Writer’s eyes, she decided sarcastically, forever trying to find copy for his novels. As bad as the paparazzi, always probing into personal secrets for financial gain. ‘And mostly so very boring,’ she finished.
A certain amount of truth in that. So many years huddling over a knitting machine added little sparkle to one’s personality, especially when all one’s contemporaries had been out doing the clubs.
‘That I find hard to believe.’
‘No, I promise you.’ Reluctantly she dragged her eyes away, looking about her with an air of determined and slightly desperate enjoyment, searching for some banal comment and failing, resisting his attempts to pull her closer, then feeling foolish when there was a near collision with another couple.
Easy to interpret that raised eyebrow as speaking volumes. No, he was assuring her, I’m not the least bit interested, so don’t let your imagination run riot. And she blushed spectacularly as if she had been truly reprimanded, then was startled when his amused voice did interrupt her thoughts.
‘Do you come here often?’ It was an attempt at humour which deserved no reply but he was persistent. ‘Now it’s your turn to say something. I have asked you if you come here often, now you must make some remark about, say, the music, or—’ An abrupt stop as again he apologised to another couple—an excuse to hold her closer for a second.
But it was hard to remain aloof when he was speaking so like a character from her beloved Jane Austen. She glanced up in mocking reproach. ‘You stepped on my foot, Mr Congreve.’ Then it was too much for her, she smiled, and her whole personality was illuminated, transformed.
‘There.’ It was a moment before Ben spoke, a moment when his eyes held hers with dismaying warmth. ‘Just as I was about to give up. But I knew I could amuse you in the end. Despite your prejudice.’ Then, as her expression darkened again, he burst into laughter. ‘You’re not going to pretend, Ellie, that you haven’t been trying to take me down a peg? Just like Lizzie Bennett with Mr Darcy.’
‘You are quite mistaken.’
‘You will never convince me.’ The music ended and they returned to their table, his touch on her arm more possessive than she would have liked. ‘But I would like to know why.’
‘As I said, you have made a mistake.’
‘If you insist, I shan’t press you.’ There was a slight hold-up on the edge of the dance floor. ‘But I mean to find out in the end.’ His eyes narrowed assessingly. She had the impression of him trying to bore into her soul. ‘I have a habit of getting my own way eventually.’
‘Of that, Mr Congreve,’ she said, and