‘Actually, no, as it happens—I’m not.’
‘Are you trying to make a point?’ he drawled.
Fran bit back the sarcastic comment which was looming temptingly on the tip of her tongue. No need to make him more grouchy than he already sounded. She made her voice saccharin-sweet instead. ‘No point at all! Where shall we meet?’
‘How about Green’s? Do you know where that is?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Good. I’ll see you in there at one,’ he said, and rang off.
Green’s restaurant was situated in the middle of the Strand and famous for being famous, with branches in Paris, New York and Milan. It also prided itself on being impossible to get a reservation unless you were ‘somebody’ and Fran wondered if that was why Sam Lockhart had chosen it. To rub in just how important he was.
By the time she walked into the restaurant at just after one, it was nearly full and Sam was seated at a table towards the back of the room, which commanded a fine view
of everything, but was well enough away from the general hubbub to provide privacy. Good table, she noted automatically.
He had been studying the menu but looked up almost as though he had sensed her approaching, his blue eyes briefly flicking over her, as though he was scanning a menu. And Fran felt a distinct disappointment. Because yes, if she was being truthful she had dressed to impress—and surely the way she looked deserved a bit more than that dismissive glance?
The mirrors lining the walls threw back her reflection. A caramel dress in softest cashmere, which clung to her curves and brought out the honey-gold in her hair. And high suede boots in glowing cinnamon, which had cost her more than a week’s salary! Her hair was pinned into a casual chignon which had actually required a good deal of attention. She knew she looked polished and professional, but obviously not in the least bit sexy—not judging from that noncommittal response. But then, looking sexy was the last thing she was aiming for.
Wasn’t it?
‘Hello, Fran,’ he said slowly, wondering if she ever looked unruffled.
‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thanks.’ She slid down onto the chair opposite him, wondering if the deep blue of his suit had been chosen specifically to emphasise the dazzling colour of his eyes.
‘Let’s order straight away, shall we?’ he suggested, with a swift smile. ‘Then we can get down to business without interruption.’
‘Okay with me.’ She found herself nodding like an obedient dog, trying to look interested in the menu, when food was the last thing on her mind. She had never felt less like eating, and she wondered why. Guilt, perhaps? That she was here on false pretences? That she should find deceit so deliciously easy?
‘What will you have?’
‘Er, chef’s salad followed by er, chicken, please.’ She smiled rather weakly up at the waiter.
‘Not hungry?’
‘Not particularly.’
His mouth curved as he glanced at the lush lines of her body. ‘And yet you look like a woman who enjoys her food,’ he observed.
‘Not when I’m working,’ she lied. Normally she had no problem polishing off the most carbohydrate-filled concoction on the menu! But there was something unsettling about that bright gaze. She wasn’t sure that her hands were completely steady, and the last thing she wanted was to send pasta flying all over her lap! Or to bite into a roast potato and have grease splatter all over her chin!
Once the waiter had taken their orders and poured water and gone away, Fran found herself growing restless under that keen stare.
‘Everything okay?’ he asked, wondering if she was always this jumpy.
‘Oh, yes! Everything’s fine!’ She pointed to the briefcase by her feet. ‘Um—I’ve had some of my press-cuttings faxed over from Dublin—which I thought you might like to see.’
His brow creased into a faint frown. ‘Why?’
‘Well, last week you mentioned that I had nothing to show you—’
‘I doubt that I would have put it quite as inelegantly as that,’ he objected, raising his eyebrows by a fraction, so that the crease in his brow deepened to a furrow.