The Man From her Wayward Past

Closing her eyes, Lucia rested her cheek against the shawl.

‘Good,’ he said briskly, jerking them both out of the spell she had woven. ‘Job done. Shall we order? Are you hungry?’

‘Starving,’ she admitted. Her cheeks fired red. ‘I mean—’

‘We’re here to eat, Lucia,’ he pointed out.

Calling the waiter over, he ordered plenty, in case Lucia didn’t order enough, and when the food arrived she ate with such relish it was hard to keep up. Lucia wasn’t just hungry, she was ravenous.

He tried not to dwell on this, but as she scraped up the last of the Crème Anglaise from her plate and sighed with pleasure he couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten anything this good,’ she admitted, laying down her spoon.

‘Is that it?’ he pressed.

‘Lunchtime,’ she said defensively, sitting up straight. ‘One of Margaret’s delicious cream teas.’

He made no comment. ‘Okay, so now you’re fed and watered, how about coming clean about why you’re working at the club?’

‘It’s a job, Luke.’

‘Has Van Rickter been bullying you?’

‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’

‘Has Van Rickter been bullying you?’ he repeated, holding her flickering gaze.

‘Of course he hasn’t. I feel sorry for him, really. He’s such a frustrated individual—not that way,’ she said quickly, her cheeks colouring. ‘Are we going to have coffee now?’

He recognised the diversionary tactic, but was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of whatever Lucia was holding back. He was close to certain that there was a man involved. He dangled some bait. ‘Nacho was telling me about the hotel management job you had in London.’

‘I’m taking a sabbatical,’ she said quickly.

Which made no sense to him.

A fork hit the floor. It wasn’t one of Lucia’s better ruses. As she bent to retrieve it he waved the waiter away.

With her face hidden by the linen folds of the tablecloth, she was trying to buy time in the hope that thoughts of what had happened in London might fade.

‘Lucia?’

She exhaled with frustration, seeing that Luke had joined her under the table, his face level with hers. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked impatiently.

‘I might ask you the same question. And we can’t stay down here for ever—people will talk.’

As if Luke would care. Straightening up, she handed the fork to the waiter with an apology.

Luke remained silent until the man had gone, and then asked, ‘Are you okay, Lucia?’

‘I dropped a fork, Luke.’

‘So you didn’t have to answer any more questions about London, I presume?’

Luke’s expression was one she recognised: unwavering and disbelieving. Which said he was prepared to hang in for however long it took to get at the truth. He proved this theory with his next question. ‘So, what did you learn in London?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Such as?’ he probed.