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‘Well, don’t be!’ she snapped. ‘Maybe I did jump to the wrong conclusion, but women have to be on their guard against innuendo. Against men coming on strong.’
‘Yes, I can imagine that you must keep coming up against that kind of thing,’ he commented innocently.
Fran looked at him suspiciously. Was he making fun of her? ‘Perhaps we should talk about the ball now,’ she said primly.
He gave a wolfish smile, aware that he was finding this verbal skirmish extremely stimulating indeed. ‘But that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do for the last five minutes. You do dither, don’t you, Miss Fisher?’
‘Not normally, no—it must be the effect you’re having on me!’ Fran took a deep breath as she forced herself to ignore his sarcasm and to inject her voice with enthusiasm. ‘Anyway, Valentine’s Day is such a fantastic date for any kind of party!’ she began breezily. ‘It gives us so much scope for decorations!’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, you know…. Hearts! Flowers! Love! Romance!’
‘Aren’t you forgetting originality?’ he put in, his face deadpan.
Now he was making fun of her. Fran frowned, forgetting Rosie, forgetting everything except doing what she was good at. And she was very good at pitching for a job…. ‘Mr. Lockhart—’ She gave him a patient look. ‘Valentine’s Day is just like Christmas—’
‘It is?’
‘It certainly is. As a traditional celebration—people expect certain customs to be adhered to.’
‘They do?’
‘Of course they do!’ she enthused, really warming to her subject now. ‘Its rituals comfort and reassure—because people don’t always want to be surprised, you know. They want the predictable—’
‘How very boring,’ he murmured.
Fran cleared her throat. That sizzling little glance of his was annoyingly distracting. ‘Wrong!’ she smiled. ‘I can assure you that while what I am suggesting may not exactly be ground-breaking stuff—’
‘Mmmm?’
‘It most certainly will not be boring! You will have the very best food and wines and the most wonderful music—all served up in a setting which will quite simply take your breath away!’
His eyes rested on her thoughtfully for a moment or two, before shooting another glance at his watch. ‘Right. Well, thank you very much for your time, Miss Fisher.’
Fran stared at him in astonishment. Surely that wasn’t it? Yes, he’d said ten minutes, but he’d barely let her talk for more than thirty seconds! She glanced at her own watch. No. A man of his word. It had been ten minutes exactly. ‘You mean, that’s it?’
‘I’m afraid so. You see, it really is time that I was leaving for the airport. I can drop you off at the station on the way if you like.’
The words were as dismissive as the way he said them. So that was that. No job. No pay-back. She’d let Rosie down, but even worse, she’d let herself down, by stupidly jumping to the conclusion that he had been coming on to her. That was why he wasn’t going to give her the job. Acting naive and gauche round a man like this, as though she was still wet around the ears. Instead of a woman who had single-handedly built up a thriving business for herself out of the ruins of her failed marriage.
‘No, I’ll take a cab.’
‘Sure? It’ll be quicker by car.’ The lazy smile grew wider. ‘Or don’t you trust yourself to be alone in the car with me?’
Huh! She might be leaving without the job. She might have travelled halfway across the country on one of the filthiest days of the year. But there was no need for her to leave with him thinking that she was some kind of emotional hysteric. She had underestimated Sam Lockhart and her rather dizzy reaction to him, and for that she had paid the price. It was time to withdraw in a cool and dignified manner.
‘Don’t be absurd, Mr. Lockhart,’ she said, forcing a cool smile. ‘I’d love a lift. Just as long as it isn’t out of your way?’
‘No, not at all. Come on.’
He paused only to pick up a compact-looking briefcase in the hall and to engage in a complex locking-system for the front door. ‘The car’s out in the garage at the back,’ he said.
His long legs covered the ground at twice the pace she was used to, but she managed to keep up with him on their way to the stable-block which had been converted to house a clutch of cars. But Sam Lockhart was obviously not a man who collected wealthy toys—for there was only one vehicle sitting there. Fran had expected something predictable—the rich man’s phallic substitute of a long, low car in screaming scarlet or devilish black.
Instead she saw a mud-splattered four-wheel drive which had golf clubs and a tennis racket companionably jumbled around a tartan picnic rug in the back, along with a muddle of magazines
and discarded sweet wrappers. An empty water bottle lay next to a pair of battered old running shoes. A large brown envelope marked Sam—Urgent! lay on the passenger seat.
