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Sam poured them each a cup and wondered if he was turning into some sort of masochist. He found he actually liked it when she spoke to him like that. It certainly made a change. He wasn’t being arrogant—merely accepting what was true—that most women seemed to develop a severe case of hero worship whenever he was around. And someone who worshipped you could never be your equal….
Shaking off her objections, he found himself helping her into her ugly brown jacket, aware of the faint scent of flowers from her hair which drifted into his nostrils and which stubbornly refused to leave them for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE fluorescent lighting hurt her eyes and the tinny piped Muzak assaulted her ears. Fran felt like she had just landed on an alien planet.
‘What is the matter with you?’ Sam felt compelled to ask, though he guessed it was a pretty crazy question. She doesn’t want to be here, he told himself. That’s all.
But her answer surprised him.
‘I’m just not used to going round the supermarket with anyone.’ Particularly someone who had insisted on pushing the trolley for her and who saw fit to walk at least three feet behind her, so that every time she picked up a carton of cream, or a packet of butter, she had to wait for him to catch her up. ‘Can’t you walk a little faster?’
Well, he could. But from where he was standing—or walking—he could take advantage of the magnificent sight of her bottom, pertly swaying from side to side as she walked down each aisle consulting her list. Maybe those slim-cut trousers could be sexy, after all! They certainly gave a tantalizing glimpse of each buttock as she moved.
It was most peculiar. In his mind he had done nothing but demonise her ever since the Valentine ball. And that in itself had bothered him. She had been like a stubborn little itch beneath his skin that wouldn’t go away—and he badly wanted her to go away.
He had also thought that once he had succeeded in luring her back—so to speak—he would soon get her out of his system. So how come he was tamely trotting around a supermarket behind her, thinking about her delicious bottom? A pulse begin to hammer at his temple. This wasn’t how he had planned to do things. Not at all. What on earth had made him offer to cook, for a start?
‘If I were cooking this meal, then the shopping wouldn’t be a problem,’ said Fran slightly peevishly, as she realised that the store was fresh out of basil. ‘What on earth possessed you to offer, I just don’t know!’ She frowned. ‘And why are you staring at me like that, Sam?’
‘Because—’ Hell, he had forgotten how incredibly provocative it could be to have a woman echo your thoughts like that. ‘Because I was thinking exactly the same thing myself!’ he said, with a certain sense of wonder.
Fran willed herself not to warm to that indulgent little dip to his voice. ‘Well, that’s hardly an earth-shattering conclusion,’ she told him repressively. ‘Since we’re both relative strangers walking around a shop together buying ingredients for a meal, it would be pretty odd if we weren’t thinking about who was going to cook it, wouldn’t it?’
Sam felt oddly deflated. He was used to women seizing on the odd complimentary crumb he threw them—grabbing at them with the dedication of vultures picking over a carcass! Had he expected her to be immensely grateful that he was employing her again, so grateful that she would just fall to her…. He glared at a defenceless head of celery as the erotic image dissolved, and just hoped he hadn’t sent his blood pressure rocketing up too much in the process.
‘Why are you cooking it?’ persisted Fran, mainly because he had looked almost hurt when she had snapped at him just then. And she had found herself stupidly wanting to ruffle that thick, dark hair and tell him everything was going to be all right. How dumb could you get?
‘Because I can’t think of anything which will give my mother a bigger surprise,’ he admitted. ‘And because she’s reached that stage in her life where nothing really surprises her any more. She’s eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world. So it has to be good.’
‘Well, you can’t really go wrong with simple, fresh ingredients,’ said Fran. ‘Here!’ And she threw a pack of almonds in his direction.
He caught it, placed it carefully in the trolley, then carried on pushing. ‘So didn’t you ever go shopping with your husband?’ he asked casually, and wondered if he was going completely mad. He, who usually ran to the opposite ends of the globe once relationships started entering the realms of the personal, now found himself avidly interested to learn about her marriage!
Fran frowned, tempted to tell him to mind his own business.
Sam noticed the frown and picked up a newspaper and pretended to scan the front page. ‘Of course, if it still hurts to talk about it—’
‘Not at all,’ she said stiffly, wondering if he had deliberately goaded her into being on the defensive.
‘He didn’t like shopping? Or he didn’t eat?’
‘Of course he ate!’ Fran sighed. ‘Sholto was a DJ—’
‘He played records?’
She giggled in spite of herself. She had once naively said the same thing! ‘They don’t actually do that any more, Sam. It’s all computerised, digital. It is on the radio, anyway.’
There was a pause.
‘Go on, then,’ he said.
‘Go on, what?’
‘Tell me more. About Sholto.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘Tell you about my ex-husband? Why ever would I do that?’
