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‘So why don’t we go into the house and have a quiet glass of champagne before everyone arrives?’
She couldn’t deny that she was tempted. Who wouldn’t be tempted, for goodness’ sake, when he had the knack of making a simple request to have a drink sound like an invitation to commit some kind of glorious and unforgettable sin?
She shook her head. ‘I’d better take it easy. I have to drive back to London later and I’m not really used to the hire-car.’
‘You don’t have to drive anywhere,’ he said tightly. ‘There are four spare bedrooms in my house, all at your disposal. I can’t understand why you won’t stay.’
‘I told you—I never stay over if it’s just a one-off, like a ball. It’s different if it’s a house-party.’ Which wasn’t strictly true, of course. She might have stayed—and in fact she was going to have to come back tomorrow anyway. And it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him—that was the crazy part. She did—deep down inside, where it mattered. In spite of what Rosie had said. But she didn’t know how angry he would be with her after the ball, or with Rosie. Or with the others. Whether he would accept the fairly innocent piece of revenge with good grace and a shrug of the shoulders. Or whether he would rage round the place like a rampaging bull!
After a lot of thought, she had decided not to risk it. Much safer to drive back and finish the clearing up tomorrow—once Sam had had the chance to see the funny side of things! ‘Honestly, Sam,’ she smiled. ‘It’s very sweet of you, but I won’t.’
‘How about a coffee, then?’
Oh, but he was testing her resolve! ‘I really don’t have time—and even if I did,’ she let an apologetic note creep into her voice, ‘it’s a rule of mine never to fraternise with clients. You know? It sort of blurs the boundaries of the working relationship, particularly in this kind of business. And that makes for complications. I’m sure you’ll understand, Sam.’
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sp; Sam couldn’t remember having been snubbed so effectively for years. If ever. He felt a potent mixture of fury and frustration, and a sneaking kind of admiration….
‘Forgive me,’ he said faintly. ‘I had no idea that I was stepping into the realms of the unacceptable. Maybe you’re right. Champagne might blur my senses. And I have the feeling I’ll need all my faculties about me tonight.’ He gave a wicked and unrepentant grin as he saw her cheeks grow hot, enjoying the old-fashioned display of embarrassment. ‘I think I’ll go and relax in a hot tub.’
And with that teasing glitter lurking in the depths of his eyes, he turned away, leaving Fran staring after him wishing that she could rewrite the entire conversation and sneak off into the house with him. So much for being a strong woman!
Outside, waiters were scurrying in and out of the attached service tent where all the food was being prepared. Fran went and checked that the portable loos were up to scratch and on her way back into the marquee, looked up at the sky.
It was a clear, starry night—thank heavens. February was always a dodgy, unpredictable month where the weather was concerned. Rain was always a disaster. Hairdos got ruined. High-heeled shoes became stuck in rivers of mud. And female guests spent the whole evening with their teeth chattering. But rain on Valentine’s Day was even more of a calamity—romance did not go hand-in-hand with the drowned rat look!
It seemed only minutes after Sam had left to take a bath that the string quartet arrived. The four musicians had been booked to play throughout the meal and afterwards there was going to be a disco, when the floor would be cleared for dancing. Fran organised a tray of coffee and cake, and left them to tune up while she swished round the room in her flowing red dress, nervously straightening a glass here, a napkin there.
She swallowed down the lump of anxiety which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the back of her throat as she looked at all the place-names.
Unsurprisingly, Rosie had not been on Sam’s guest list. And neither had the names of the other women he had so cruelly dumped. Yet the list had been so varied and so balanced. There were authors, actors, doctors, secretaries, cleaners and even a used-car salesman! Fran had been reluctantly impressed.
‘Well, hello, again, Little-Miss-Industrious.’
Fran looked up and found herself opening her mouth with instinctive pleasure as she saw just what Sam Lockhart had managed to do to a dinner jacket.
‘Managing to keep yourself busy?’ he murmured.
‘Uh-huh. There’s always something to do—if you look hard enough,’ she gulped, wondering if he realised that he looked like the subject of a professional make-over.
But all men looked good in a dinner jacket, she reasoned. There was something about the colour and cut which slimmed them down, while the bow-tie made them look just old-fashioned elegant. But Sam needed no slimming down, or making elegant. What the jacket did for him was to emphasise the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his long, long legs and the darkness of the hair he had managed to tame into something resembling neatness.
But not quite. There was still something of the maverick about Sam Lockhart, something which no amount of grooming and expensive clothing could hide….
‘Y-you’ve changed,’ she said stupidly.
‘Mmmm.’ His blue eyes feasted themselves upon her bare shoulders again. What a pity she was working…. ‘But you haven’t, I’m pleased to see.’
‘No.’
‘You should wear red more often,’ he murmured.
Fran shot a desperate glance at her watch. ‘They’ll be here soon. The guests. In fact, oh, look—’ and she felt almost dizzy with relief as she saw a couple standing at the entrance to the marquee, looking around them slightly uncertainly. ‘Here are your first arrivals!’
‘So they are.’ Sam shot her a slightly bemused glance. ‘You know, you’re like a cat on hot bricks tonight, Fran,’ he murmured, before lifting his hand in welcome. ‘Do you always get this nervous before an event?’
If she told him no, he might justifiably wonder why. ‘Of course I do!’ she retorted. ‘Nerves means that the adrenalin is pumping—which means that you’re giving your best.’
