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She tried not to notice. She did her best to ignore the hand resting lazily just inches from her shoulder and to focus on what was left of her fish. She did her best to look at the boats. The birds. The clouds. But, God, his legs looked so good in moleskins and boots it was hard to stay focused on anything else.
The young girl serving in the fish and chip shop hadn’t looked for distractions, even before he’d opened his mouth and that unique mix of English/Continental accent had emerged and she’d all but swooned. With his long wavy hair and drop dead gorgeous looks, the girl had stared at him like one might admire some kind of exotic butterfly that had somehow accidentally fluttered into your orbit, and Franco hadn’t seemed to either notice or mind the open adoration one little bit.
She wiped her hands and stretched out Francolike on the seat and realised she envied the fish and chip shop girl.
Because it wouldn’t be half bad not to know or mind that he was a Chatsfield.
It wouldn’t be half bad not to have to care.
And then you could just concentrate on his good looks and his sexy voice and the way he turned the contents of a bush outfitters catalogue into sex on legs and then the rest of it wouldn’t matter.
She might even like the man then.
She might even find herself wanting to share a park bench with him.
But he was a Chatsfield and she had to care.
Still, it was nice sitting here overlooking a beach and feeling impossibly full in the thin sunshine even if it was with him. She’d just never figured him for a man who might possibly enjoy the simpler things in life.
‘You know,’ she started cautiously, still looking out to sea because it was much easier talking to the shifting sea than looking him in the eyes, ‘I never figured you for a fish-and-chips-wrapped-in-paper-at-the-beach kind of man.’
‘No?’ he said, sounding as relaxed and content as she felt. ‘What kind of man did you figure me for?’
‘Lobster and caviar. Truffles and foie gras. Maybe a gamey meat with some kind of fancy sauce—not too much, mind, just enough to be drizzled artistically around the plate.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because you’re a—’ she stopped herself just short ‘—so wealthy.’
‘Because I’m a Chatsfield,’ he said, and she could just about hear the smile in his voice. ‘That’s what you were about to say.’
Holly screwed up her nose. She hated it that he was right. She hated that he made it sound so unjust on her part. But he didn’t sound angry or even accusatory, just stating a fact, so maybe he really was enjoying the same post-fish-and-chips glow that she was. ‘Same thing, really.’
‘We get special dispensation, of course.’
‘For what?’
‘From eating all that lobster and gamey meat with fancy sauce all the time. It’s written into the Chatsfield family rules. We’re allowed one day off a month to slum it like normal mortals.’
And she couldn’t help it. She laughed, his reply as unexpected as the discovery he had a sense of humour. ‘Then you’re in big trouble, Franco. Because corned beef sandwiches aren’t exactly haute cuisine.’
‘There goes the inheritance,’ he said with a wistful sigh. ‘Easy come, easy go.’
If they’d been on good terms from the start—friendly terms—she would have laughed some more.
But they hadn’t been on good terms ever—so maybe there really was something in the combination of fresh fish and crunchy chips at a winter beach blessed with the sun that gave her the courage not to laugh, but to hesitate a moment and ask, ‘Why are you being so nice?’
‘Am I? I just see two people sitting on a bench, talking.’
‘But one of those people is me, and I haven’t been entirely welcoming.’
She caught his shrug out of the corner of her eye. ‘You have your reasons. Maybe over the time I’m here, you might feel differently.’
She shook her head, suddenly weighed down by the reality of the situation again. The impossibility of the situation.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how that’s possible. I mean, I know that it’s almost inevitable that once the pruning is completed, you’re going to get those signatures on the contract that you wanted. But how can I forget all those stories I’ve read? How can I trust that Purman Wines won’t be dragged into such a scandal or merely charged as guilty by association?’
‘Those stories you might read while at the dentist, you mean? The ones that show my family in all its faded glory, parading themselves shamelessly in front of the media every scandal-ridden chance they get?’
