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‘It’s been a long day.’
Her heart hammering like a drum, Tilda watched him fill her wine glass. The tension in the air was so dense it had an almost audible static buzz...or was that in her head?
‘This really is very beautiful.’ She tipped her head back to look at the gracefully arched beams. ‘The craftsmanship is very special.’
He retook his seat and raised his own glass.
The stem felt slippery when she picked up hers, then she realised it was her hands, not the glass.
‘To us.’
She lifted her drink, steaming the glass with her breath as she held it there, looking at him over the rim, fighting the impulse to say there was nous.
‘To our first dinner together.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not our first dinner together. I flew up to Edinburgh that time because you’d forgotten those papers and your date had stood you up. You had booked at that posh French place and you took me, then she rang and said... Well, I don’t know what she said, but it was obviously a pretty good offer, because you were out of there like greased lightning.’
A comical expression of dismay spread across his face. ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you paid the bill before you left, and left money for my taxi, and I drank the whole bottle of that very expensive wine; it was actually really good.’ Only just realising as she relayed the details that the memory still stung, she took a gulp of her wine. This was probably good too, but the truth was she was no judge.
He sat there looking stunned. He had blanked the occasion, and the memory of reacting to that phone call as if it was a lifeline, because it had rung at the same moment that he had acknowledged that taking his PA out of the office had been a mistake. He’d beennoticingtoo much—her laugh, which was full-blooded and throaty, which he had never heard in the office. That her skin in the candlelight had looked quite astonishingly smooth.
‘Shall I help myself?’ she said, getting up and approaching the trolley. ‘Wow, you should be very nice to your...cook. She is good,’ she said, inhaling the scent of lamb in the rich, fragrant sauce.
She retook her seat with the plate and smiled across at him. ‘You’re not eating.’
‘I was a selfish bastard,’ he said, his voice harsh with self-recrimination.
She set her elbows on the table and looked at him. ‘You won’t get any arguments from me.’
‘I don’t remember her name...’ he said, half to himself.
‘Well, mine is down on a certificate, so that will make it easier.’
His frown deepened. ‘Do not compare yourself. You’re nothing like...’ His dark eyes settled on her face. ‘No man could forget you.’
She put her fork down, struggling to feign an appetite the tension had sucked away, her stomach churning with a strange mix of emotions. It felt raw...she felt raw... She felt suddenly incredibly angry.
‘I did feel ridiculous, sitting there, but I mostly felt ridiculous because I’d been excited. That was the most expensive restaurant I’d ever been to, and when you left the snooty waiter looked down his nose at me all evening, and I didn’t call him on it—I didn’t even say a word—and when I left, no actually I did, I saidthank you... Can you believe it?’ She came to a breathless halt, a look of horror spreading across her face. ‘I have no idea where that came from. It was ages ago and—’
‘Tilda, I am truly sorry.’ He leaned forward towards her, the image of her sitting there alone driving a stake through his heart.
‘Oh, I believe you mean it now, just like you probably mean it when you sayI love youto the women in your bed, but—’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t say I love you. I’ve never said...’
She watched his expression change but, before she could interpret the look on his face, he veiled his eyes and leaned back in his seat.
‘You never...?’
