He put his hand out. ‘Ralph Drummond-Willoughby.’
I placed my hand into his. ‘Tawny Maxwell.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Ah, the American heiress everyone is talking about is hiding out in my block.’
I grinned. ‘You won’t tell anyone will you?’
He smiled rakishly. ‘Not if you promise to share a slice of your cake.’
‘Deal.’
He pushed open his door. ‘Come in. There should be a kitchen scales around somewhere.’
I followed him into his apartment. To my surprise it was decorated in a very similar manner to Ivan’s apartment. ‘Who decorated your apartment?’
‘My mother. Why do you ask?’
‘She wouldn’t have decorated Ivan’s apartment too, would she?’
‘I doubt it,’ he said dryly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘They are both startlingly similar in style and taste.’
He turned around and looked at me as if did not believe me.
‘I promise you they are. You must come and see it,’ I insisted
He nodded and, going into the kitchen, came out with the scales. ‘So you are baking on Valentine’s Day.’
I nodded. ‘And why are you not out on a date? You seem … most eligible.’
He grinned. ‘I like eating cake on Valentine’s with astonishing blondes.’
I took the scales off him and smiled. I liked him. He was good in the most unthreatening way possible for my battered ego. ‘I’ll bring you some later.’
‘Well then, I suppose I’d better help you carry this into your kitchen.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. This weighs an absolute ton.’
I looked at the little plastic thing cradled in his hands. ‘Listen,’ I said, and smiled to take the sting out of my words. ‘I’m still in mourning for my husband so I hope I’m not giving
you the idea that I’m available or anything like that.’
‘Perish the thought. You’re absolutely ravishing. Of course, you’re not available.’
I laughed and he followed behind. I opened the door to Ivan’s apartment and he carried the scales in and set them down on the island. He looked around him.
‘You’re right. The color scheme is remarkably similar.’
‘Thank you for the scales.’
‘Right. I guess I’d better be off. Bring the cake around anytime it is ready. I’ll open a bottle of champagne and we’ll have cake and bubbly to celebrate our … um … friendship.’
‘All right, see you about ten o’clock,’ I said happily.
This day was turning out way better than I had thought it would. After he left I popped around to the corner shop for the butter. Then I set about baking my cake. It was nearly ready
when I heard the key in the door. I felt my body tense up. I was not expecting Ivan to come back for ages and he had not warned me that anyone else had the key.
‘Who is it?’ I called out.
Ivan appeared at the door. ‘Me,’ he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’ he asked.
‘I’m baking a cake.’
He seemed surprised. ‘You bake?’
I smiled. ‘Yup. I love baking. I usually bake in the middle of the night when there is no one around. It calms and relaxes me.’
‘Really?’
‘What are you doing home so early?’
He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne. ‘If I tell you, you’ll never believe me.’
I leaned a hip at the counter top. ‘Try me.’
He plucked two tall flutes from one of the top shelves and placed them on the island top. Deftly he untwisted the metal from around the top of the champagne bottle and removed it
together with the foil. The cork came out with a quiet hiss and he filled the two glasses. Picking them up he came towards me. He handed me a glass and I took it.
His gaze met mine. ‘I thought you shouldn’t spend Valentine’s night on your own.’
My eyes widened with surprise.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Tawny.’ His voice was strange, thick.
We clinked glasses. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Ivan,’ I echoed.
I watched him over the rim of my glass.
‘Does it taste like the greatest champagne ever made?’ he asked.
‘Why? Who says it is?’
‘The head of Sotheby’s Wine Department.’
I let my gaze float down to the faded label on the bottle. Krug Collection 1928. ‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s older than both of us put together.’
‘It was served for King George VI and his guests at the first royal banquet in Buckingham Palace.’
‘Hmm … I’d have saved it for a more special occasion,’ I murmured.
‘It is a special occasion.’
‘It is?’
His fingers flexed restlessly. ‘It is.’
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘So what’s the occasion?’
He shrugged. ‘Something at work.’
‘Oh. Great.’
His eyes were hooded and watchful. He raised his glass as if in a toast. ‘Do you like it?’
I took a sip and considered the taste. ‘It’s … racy?’
He nodded and drained his glass. Then he began walking away from me and poured himself another glass. There was something different about him. A coiled tension. If I didn’t know better,
I would have said it was sexual in nature.