In The Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven
beckoned to the waiter. ‘Has there been any further message from monsieur to say he’s been delayed?’ she asked. ‘Because, if not, I’d like another kir.’
He looked bewildered. ‘There is no delay, mademoiselle. Monsieur is here at this moment, having lunch. Shall I consult him on your behalf?’
Helen stared at him. ‘He’s here? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, mademoiselle. See—there by the window.’
Helen looked, and what she saw made her throat close in shock. It was Marc Delaroche, she realised numbly, seated at a table with two other men. He was listening to what they were saying, but, as if he instantly sensed Helen focussing on him, he glanced round and met her horrified gaze. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then reached for his own glass, lifting it in a swift and silent toast.
She disengaged from him instantly, flushed and mortified. She said, ‘You mean he—that person—sent me this drink?’ She took a deep breath, forcing herself back to a semblance of composure, even though her heart was racing unevenly. ‘I—I didn’t know that. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of having another. In fact, perhaps you’d bring me the bill for this one, plus the water, and I’ll just—leave.’
‘But you have not yet had lunch,’ the waiter protested. ‘And besides, here comes Monsieur Hartley.’
And sure enough it was Nigel, striding across the restaurant as if conducting a personal parting of the Red Sea, tall, blond and immaculate, in his dark blue pinstripe and exquisitely knotted silk tie.
‘So there you are,’ he greeted her.
‘It’s where I’ve been for the past half hour,’ Helen told him evenly. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I warned you I was busy.’ He dropped a cursory kiss on her cheek as he passed. ‘Menus, please, Gaspard. I’m pushed for time today. In fact, I won’t bother with the carte. I’ll just have steak, medium rare, with a mixed salad.’
‘Then I’ll have the same,’ Helen said. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.’
‘Fine.’ He either ignored or didn’t notice the irony in her tone. ‘And a bottle of house red, Gaspard. Quick as you can. Plus a gin and tonic.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Do you want a drink, sweetie?’
‘I’ve already had one,’ she said. ‘Kir Royale, as a matter of fact.’
His lips thinned a little. ‘Rather a new departure for you, isn’t it? Did the waiter talk you into it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. One is more than enough.’ She was ashamed to hear how acerbic she sounded, and it was all the fault of that—that creature across the room. But she was sharing precious time with the man she loved, and she wouldn’t allow it to be spoiled by anyone or anything.
She made herself smile at Nigel, and put her hand on his. ‘It’s so great to see you,’ she said gently. ‘Do you realise how long it’s been?’
He sighed. ‘I know, but life at work is so hectic just now I hardly have any time to spare.’
‘Your parents must miss you too.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re far too busy planning Dad’s retirement and giving the house a pre-sale facelift to worry about me.’ He shot her a swift glance. ‘You did know they’re moving to Portugal in the near future?’
‘Selling Oaktree House?’ Helen said slowly. ‘I had no idea.’ She gave him a blank look. ‘But how will you manage? It’s your home.’
‘Off and on for the past ten years, yes,’ Nigel said with a touch of impatience. ‘But my life’s in London now. I’m going to stop renting and look for somewhere to buy. Ah, my drink at last. My God, I could do with it. I’ve had a hell of a morning.’ And he launched himself into a description of its vicissitudes which was still going strong when their food arrived.
Not that Helen was particularly hungry. Her appetite, such as it was, seemed to have suddenly dissipated. Nor was she giving her full attention to the vagaries of the financial markets and the irresponsible attitude of certain nameless clients, as outlined by Nigel. Her mind was on another track altogether.
Something had happened, she thought numbly. Some fundamental shift had taken place and she hadn’t noticed.
Well, she was totally focussed now, because this involved her life too. She’d assumed that Nigel would live with her at Monteagle once they were married, and commute to London. After all, she couldn’t move away, use Monteagle as a weekend home. Surely he realised that.
But there was no way they could talk about it now. Not with Nigel glancing at his watch every couple of minutes as he rapidly forked up his steak.
Eventually she broke into his monologue. ‘Nigel—this weekend, we have to talk. Can you come over—spend the day with me on Sunday?’
‘Not this weekend, I’m afraid. It’s the chairman’s birthday, and he’s celebrating with a weekend party at his place in Sussex, so duty calls.’ His smile was swift and light. ‘And now I have to dash. I have a two-thirty meeting. The bill goes straight to my office, so order yourself a pudding if you want, darling, and coffee. See you later.’ He blew her a kiss, and was gone.
Once again she was sitting alone, she thought as she pushed her plate away. A fact that would doubtless not be lost on her adversary across the room. She risked a lightning glance from under her lashes, and realised with a surge of relief that his table was empty and being cleared. At least he hadn’t witnessed her cavalier treatment at Nigel’s hands. Nor would she have to grit her teeth and thank him for that bloody drink. With luck, she would never have to set eyes on him again. End of story.
She’d wanted this to be a great day in her life, she thought with a silent sigh, but since she’d first set eyes on Marc Delaroche it seemed to have been downhill all the way.
And now she had better go and catch her train. She was just reaching for her bag when Gaspard arrived, bearing a tray which he placed in front of her with a flourish.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Helen protested, watching him unload a cafetière, cups, saucers, two glasses and a bottle of armagnac. ‘I didn’t order any of this.’
‘But I did,’ Marc Delaroche said softly. ‘Because you look as if you need it. So do not refuse me, ma belle, je vous en prie.’
And before she could utter any kind of protest, he took the seat opposite her, so recently vacated by Nigel, and smiled into her startled eyes.
‘I THOUGHT you’d gone.’ The words were out before she could stop herself, implying that she took even a remote interest in his actions.
‘I was merely bidding au revoir to my friends.’ He filled her cup from the cafetière. ‘Before returning to offer you a digestif.’ He poured a judicious amount of armagnac into each crystal bowl, and pushed one towards her. ‘Something your companion should consider, perhaps,’ he added meditatively. ‘If he continues to rush through his meals at such a rate he will have an ulcer before he is forty.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘I’ll be sure to pass your warning on to him.’
‘I intended it for you,’ he said. ‘I presume he is the man you plan to marry at Monteagle with such panache?’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘After all, it is a wife’s duty to look after the physical well-being of her husband—in every way. Don’t you think so?’
‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Helen bit her lip. ‘You really are some kind of dinosaur.’
His smile widened. ‘And a man with a ruined digestion is an even more savage beast,