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‘You mean this is the best you can do?’ he teased, but before she could think of a reply, he was calling ‘Monica!’ and ‘Nick!’ to the first couple.
Fran was pleased to escape. The clammy feeling in her hands had increased, so that her palms felt slick and oily with moisture as the place began to fill up.
She drank a glass of water thirstily. Her task was almost over. Her duties nearly complete. Thank God. It was her responsibility to see that the evening ran smoothly—to remain visible and yet discreet. She was dressed as a guest, and yet she had not been invited. Her job was to remain in the background in case Sam wanted her. Her official role as spectre at the feast….
The meal passed in a blur. Fran watched the waitresses move around the tables like well-schooled puppets, smoothly replacing course after course. Most of the women simply picked at their food, which presumably was how they maintained their slender figures.
Fran’s biggest anxiety had been about Sam’s choice of partner. What if he had invited a simply lovely girl who would not only see the host get his rightful comeuppance, but who might be desperately hurt and upset in the process? She didn’t want to think about it.
But to her surprise, Sam was partner-less. The woman seated at his side this evening was his secretary, Maria—a fine-looking woman, it was true. But Fran doubted whether even Sam would be having an affair with a woman nearly twice his age!
He had actually invited Fran to join him on his table—a mixture of the great and the good and several dignitaries from the local children’s hospital. But she had turned him down flat and Sam wasn’t used to being turned down.
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘Because I’m working!’ Fran had explained. ‘If anything goes wrong—and by the law of averages it will, believe me—I’ll have to keep jumping up and down to sort it out. Not very discreet in front of all your worthy and famous friends!’
Sam curved a reluctant smile. What she said made perfect sense. It was just that women tended to break rules where he was concerned and he found himself wanting this woman to do the same.
‘And does your professionalism rule out a dance with your client?’ he demanded.
Fran shrugged, her heart thundering, the voice of her conscience telling her that she really ought to say no. She ignored it. ‘My professionalism says I’ll consider it,’ she answered lightly, thinking of at least twenty reasons why not. ‘If you ask me later.’
Their eyes locked. He wondered if she had invented the phrase hard-to-get. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I will.’
So Fran ate her dinner on the hoof—bobbing in and out of the service tent, grabbing an oyster here and a succulent lump of lobster there. She admired the perfect strawberry-heart desserts, with the clever little chocolate curls made to look like arrows. Perfect Valentine fare.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked one of the chefs, as they were preparing to decant the strong coffee into jugs.
‘Like a dream,’ he said, smiling. ‘But that might have something to do with the amount of champagne they’ve put away. Funny, isn’t it, that people drink the stuff like it’s going out of fashion on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Well, it is supposed to be the stuff of romance,’ shrugged Fran.
‘If it’s drunk in those quantities, it isn’t!’ remarked the chef raucously. ‘In fact, it tends to have a very unromantic effect!’
But Fran had noticed that Sam himself had remained moderate all evening, for he had none of the bright, flushed bonhomie produced by too much booze. Nor the smug righteousness of the abstainer, either.
She went back inside the marquee to find the tables being cleared, the string quartet bowing out after their second encore, and the man running the discotheque putting on the first dance number. Several couples rose to their feet and began to jig around rather
self-consciously on the wooden dance floor.
Fran glanced at her watch. Just over an hour to go…
A shadow as dark as her fears loomed over her. ‘Such a troubled face,’ observed a deep, familiar voice. ‘Is something wrong, Fran?’
‘No! And I wish you wouldn’t keep creeping up on me like that!’ she said crossly.
He stared down at her consideringly. ‘I could say that I wish you wouldn’t keep jumping six feet into the air every time I approach you.’
Tension made her tactless. ‘I’m surprised you’re not used to having that effect on women!’
‘How the hell would you know what effect I have on women?’
‘Well, you’re a good-looking man,’ she said hastily, backtracking like mad.
‘Now why does that sound more like an insult than a compliment?’ he wondered aloud.
‘I wouldn’t want you getting a swollen head,’ she told him sweetly.
