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Fortunately she hadn’t seen Marcus since she had accepted Phil’s invitation, although she had been standing in the foyer when a call had come through for him from Suzi.
She shivered. She still went hot and cold every time she thought about how she had felt the other day when Marcus had kissed her the way he had.
It wasn’t just that she hadn’t been able to summon the will-power to stop him; it was the longing she had experienced, the overwhelming aching need for him that had swamped her, and was still making her feel hotly aware of her own vulnerability.
No, she hadn’t seen him, even though apparently he had called at the hotel a couple of times when she hadn’t been there. But she had dreamed about him, about it. Only in her dreams things had not been the way they had in reality. In her dreams the physical desire which had burned through her body had reached its natural conclusion and Marcus had…
Hot-faced, Polly reminded herself of where she was and the inappropriateness of her private thoughts.
Perhaps it had been too long since she had experienced a man’s touch. Perhaps she should think about…
About what?
She caught herself up swiftly. About having sex with someone…anyone…just to relieve her sexual tension? The revulsion that flooded her at the thought was both a reminder of the intensity of her feelings for Marcus and a relief. Little though she liked admitting how much she loved Marcus, she disliked even more having to think of herself as a woman driven by her sexual urges. Perhaps it was old-fashioned of her to feel this way, but then she was old-fashioned, and what was more she didn’t intend to make any apologies for being so. She was a little bit ashamed of the relief, though, and was thankful that Briony had not been there for her to have to make any explanations or excuses to when she had packed for her brief sojourn in London.
Not that what she was doing was in any way wrong. No, positively not. After all, she wasn’t even planning to stay in the same hotel as Phil, and even if she had been…No, what she was doing was perfectly acceptable. Heavens, if she couldn’t have dinner with a man without…
It was Marcus’s fault that she was feeling like this, she decided crossly. It was Marcus who had insinuated that she…that Phil…
The girl had wrapped up her dress and shoes, and as she handed the bag to Polly she told her warmly, ‘Enjoy wearing it.’
‘I shall,’ Polly assured her with a smile as she headed for the door.
As she left the shop Polly glanced at her watch. It was almost four o’clock; she was meeting Phil at seven—she had declined his offer to pick her up at her hotel and had suggested instead that she meet him in the lobby of the hotel where they were having dinner and where she presumed he was staying.
Now she just had time to get to her own hotel and book in, treat herself to afternoon tea, which she knew they did very well, and then get ready for her date.
Her date…A little wryly she smiled to herself as she hailed a passing taxi.
Her dinner with Phil was a purely business arrangement, she reminded herself. All he wanted from her was her professional opinion on the hotel. Well, maybe not quite all, she admitted honestly to herself as she saw the taxi driver giving her a quick approving look as she got into the cab and gave him her destination.
The hotel she had booked into was, whilst small, well patronised by the cognoscenti of the travelling world. What it lacked in modern, large complex facilities it more than made up for in the warmth of its service—and its food—so Polly wasn’t totally surprised to discover, as she walked in, that the foyer was a hive of activity, with the receptionist trying to deal with several new arrivals plus some queries from an existing guest who was anxious to know how she might best get to the British Museum.
Patiently Polly waited, using her time on the other side of the counter to work on where they might make improvements to their own service, but at length the receptionist was free to deal with her.
Smiling, Polly gave her name at the receptionist’s request and confirmed her address.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ the girl apologised as she handed Polly her door pass and gave her her room number.
Thanking her, Polly made her way through the foyer to the lifts. Her room was on the third floor, one of six opening off an elegant hallway decorated in the grand London house style.
After several failed attempts to let herself into her room with the pass card, Polly was just about to return to the foyer when the porter came past with some luggage.
Stopping him, Polly explained her problem and, having checked that she had the right room, the porter obligingly opened the door for her.
The hotel was just off one of London’s prettier and little-known private squares, part of a terrace of similar Nash buildings, its windows like those of the property on the opposite side of the road which Polly faced: ornate, with subtly elegant window boxes.
