Читать книгу Rich As Sin - Anne Mather - Страница 7

‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’

‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’

Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’

‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’

‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’

‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.

‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’

Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’

‘Making other people’s meals!’

‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’

‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’

‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked reflectively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’

‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’

‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’

‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’

‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’

Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’

‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’

‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and in any case the nights are getting lighter.’

‘And what happens when the winter comes again?’ persisted Paul, though he had softened sufficiently to nuzzle her neck with his lips. ‘Still, we’ll be married by then, won’t we? You’ll have more than your hands full looking after me.’

‘Mmm.’

Samantha’s response was doubtful, but Paul was too busy nibbling her ear to notice. Nevertheless, when his hand moved to the buttoned fastening of her shirt, she stopped him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paul; she did. But, unlike him, she couldn’t switch moods so completely. And she didn’t share his willingness to use sex to mend their differences.

‘Hey—–’

Her protective grip on the lapels of her shirt brought a grunt of protest, but Samantha slid lightly off his knee, and adopted a rueful smile.

‘Do you realise what time it is?’ she exclaimed, running a nervous palm down the seam of her neat black skirt. ‘I’ve got to call at the wholesaler’s before I go home, and if I don’t hurry they’ll be closed before I get there.’

Paul regarded her dourly for a moment and then, as if controlling his impatience, he rose obediently to his feet. He was a tall man, solid and handsome, in a blond, Nordic sort of way. He liked outdoor activities, and played rugby regularly, which accounted for his rather stolid appearance. He liked to think he was very fit, though Samantha knew he sank rather too many beers in the clubhouse after the match to be in really good shape. Nevertheless, he was kind, and fairly even-tempered, and extremely loyal. And Samantha had known him for over six years, ever since they first got to know one another at the local sixth-form college.

‘You know,’ he said now, taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, and smoothing out its curl, and Samantha’s heart sank. ‘I must be the only man in Northfleet whose girlfriend is still a virgin. Whose fiancée is still a virgin,’ he corrected himself heavily. ‘Am I going to have to wait until our wedding night, Sam? Is that why you won’t let me touch you?’

Samantha suppressed an inward groan, and reached for her jacket, which had been lying over the back of a nearby chair. ‘I do let you touch me,’ she protested, wishing Paul hadn’t chosen this minute to start another conversation about their relationship. ‘But we’ve only been engaged for a little over a month. Give me time. Let me get used to the idea.’

Paul’s mouth tightened. ‘I could say that you shouldn’t have to “get used” to the idea,’ he retorted, with rather more heat. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, it’s almost the twenty-first century! As you’re so fond of reminding me, women want to be equal with men!’

‘Intellectually equal, not sexually,’ she countered, pushing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Her nail caught on the lining as she did so, and she emitted a sharp gasp of frustration. ‘Not now, Paul, please. I’m simply not in the mood.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you ever will be,’ he muttered, and although she had only heard the tone of his mumbled protest Samantha swung round.

‘What?’

‘Forget it.’ Paul wound his club scarf around his neck and headed towards the door. ‘So—when is this party supposed to be? And who did you say it was for?’

Samantha checked that all the lights were out and that the alarm was set, and followed him outside. ‘It’s an engagement party,’ she answered, locking the door behind them. ‘It’s next Tuesday, at a house in Eyton Gate. I dealt with someone called Lederer, but I think he was just a secretary or something.’

‘Eyton Gate, eh?’ Paul pulled a wry face, as they crossed the pavement to where his car was waiting. ‘You’re really hitting the big time, aren’t you?’

‘I hope so.’ Samantha endeavoured to sustain the feeling of excitement she had felt when she’d taken the call. ‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’

‘If my mother’s cooking isn’t too simple for you,’ remarked Paul caustically, swinging open the car door, and Samantha sighed.

‘Will you stop this?’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t you at least find it in your heart to be pleased that I’m making some progress? I don’t want to be a waitress all my life.’

‘I don’t want you to be a waitress all your life either,’ he retorted, levering his bulk behind the wheel of the sporty little Mazda. Then, with a shrug, he reached out and grabbed her hand. ‘OK. I guess I am pleased for you, really. Just don’t get too high-powered, will you? Or you may decide you don’t want to marry a hard-working estate agent, after all.’

‘Since when are estate agents hard-working?’ queried Samantha, her smile mirroring her relief. ‘OK, I promise I won’t. Now, I must go, or the wholesaler’s really will be closed.’

Paul nodded, and Samantha waited until he had driven away before crossing the road to where her own Mini van was parked. Although the back of the van was fitted with shelves to transport the food she prepared at home, she reflected that she would have to get a small transit if she planned to expand into catering in a big way. It was all very well using the Mini when all she did was ride back and forth from home, with an occasional trip to the Cash and Carry. But travelling the fifty or so miles from this small Essex town to London and back was going to put a definite strain on her capabilities. Particularly as sometimes she might have to take Debbie with her.

Her mother had a meal waiting when she finally got home. Although she worked with food all day, Samantha seldom ate anything at the café. Besides, the little restaurant closed at five-thirty, and by the time Samantha and her assistant, Debbie Donaldson, had scoured all the equipment, cleaned the dining-room and spread fresh cloths on the tables, she was quite happy to let someone wait on her for a change.

‘You look tired,’ said Mrs Maxwell frankly, setting a plate of home-made steak and kidney pie in front of her daughter, and Samantha’s lips twisted.

‘Do I?’ she said. ‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted to hear.’

‘Well, you do,’ declared her mother, seating herself across from her daughter and viewing the smudges beneath the younger woman’s eyes with some concern. ‘What have you been doing until this time? Your father and your sister had their meal over an hour ago. Don’t blame me if yours is dried up. It’s been in the oven since half-past six.’

Samantha smiled. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, unenthusiastically forking a mouthful of limp pastry into her mouth. ‘And you know I had to go to the wholesaler’s. I told you that this morning.’

‘Until this time?’

‘Well—I was late leaving.’ Samantha moistened her lips. ‘Paul came round just after we closed.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound surprised. ‘And what did he have to say?’

Samantha grimaced. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘He’s not happy about you doing these private dinner parties, is he? And quite honestly, I don’t blame him.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Don’t “Oh, Mum” me. You know how we feel about it. Your Dad and I, that is. I wish you’d never met that Jennifer Gregory again. She’s unsettled you, and I can’t forgive her for that.’

‘Mum, I met Jenny at university, remember? And it was your and Dad’s idea that I go there. And her name’s Spellman now, not Gregory. And whatever you say, I think she’s provided me with a marvellous opportunity.’

‘To cook for someone else. To be a servant, in someone else’s home.’

‘No!’ Samantha gasped. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Paul. It’s not like that. I just do the catering, that’s all. It’s what I do, Mum. What do you think running a café is all about?’

‘The café’s yours—or you pay the lease, anyway, thanks to that insurance your grandmother left you.’

‘And I’ll still be running the café, as well as providing a catering service for anyone who can afford me.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound impressed. ‘And do they know—these friends of Jenny’s, I mean—that you’re not a professional caterer?’

‘I am a professional caterer.’

‘I don’t think a night school diploma is the same as real professional experience,’ persisted her mother. ‘They probably think you’ve worked in some top London restaurant. I wonder what they’d say if they saw the Honey Pot?’

‘I don’t particularly care,’ exclaimed Samantha, pushing her barely touched plate aside. ‘But thanks for your support. It’s what I really needed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and take a shower.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as her daughter got up from the table. ‘Perhaps I was a little harsh. But I worry about you, Sam, I do honestly. Don’t you think you have enough on, running the café practically single-handed, without taking on more work, to add to the burden?’

Samantha hesitated. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that I’m going to be paid far more for the catering than I’ll ever earn in the café, does it? I don’t want to give up the café. I want to improve it. And, if I’m successful, I may be able to afford a full-time cook to work in the kitchen. That way, we could expand the menu, both for the café and the catering service.’

Her mother frowned. ‘Well, what does Paul say?’

‘Paul just wants me to go on running the café until we get married. Then—who knows? I don’t think he envisages me continuing with my career much beyond the first year.’

Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound unreasonable to me. And, after all, until you met Jennifer Greg—Spellman again, you seemed happy enough doing what you were doing. Then she tells you she’s giving a dinner party, and that her caterers have let her down at the last minute, and before we know it you’re dashing off to London, and getting these big ideas.’

‘Mum, the dinner party was a huge success! Everyone said so. And, believe it or not, good caterers are worth their weight in gold to these people. Times are changing. The days when people could afford to employ a full-time cook are long-gone. Besides, people don’t want to do that kind of work nowadays; not for someone else, anyway,’ she added hastily. ‘That’s why people like me are in such demand. We come in, we cook the meal, and we go away again. And it’s much more intimate than taking your guests to a restaurant.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘All the same, I don’t think even you imagined what would happen?’

‘The phone calls, you mean?’ Samantha gave a rueful smile. ‘No, I didn’t. But isn’t it exciting? I could probably work every night of the week, if I wanted.’

‘But you’re not going to?’ Her mother looked alarmed.

‘No, I’ve told you.’ Samantha paused. ‘To begin with, I’m only going to take on one, maybe two nights’ work in any week. Then, we’ll see how it goes. At the moment, all I want to think about is next Tuesday’s engagement party.’

‘In Mayfair.’

‘Well, it’s Belgravia, actually,’ said Samantha evenly. ‘But yes. It’s in the West End. Apparently the female half of the happy couple is a friend of Jenny’s. And they’re having the party at her fiancé’s house.’

Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘Well, you watch out, Sam. These people aren’t like us, you know, and you being an attractive girl and everything—just watch your step.’

Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well, you can laugh. But it’s true. Some people think money can buy anything.’

Samantha’s expression softened. ‘I know,’ she said, recognising her mother’s very real fears on her behalf. ‘But I am twenty-four, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

After popping her head round the living-room door to offer a belated greeting to her father and her younger sister Penny, Samantha trudged up the stairs to her room. She was tired. She freely admitted it. But it was more a mental tiredness, born of the arguments she had had with both Paul and her mother, than any physical weakness on her part. It was so hard to make them understand how she felt about this latest development in her career. When she left university, it was true, she had no serious plans for her future. Oh, she had always liked messing about in the kitchen, and trying new recipes on the family, but she had just regarded that as a hobby, until her father had put the idea of starting a sandwich-round into her head.

As the manager of a jeweller’s in the High Street, Mr Maxwell had got into the habit of going into the local pub for a sandwich at lunchtime, but, as he said, he didn’t always want the beer that went with it. He had encouraged Samantha when she had put forward her idea of using her car to deliver home-made sandwiches all over town, and Paul’s offer of the lease on what had previously been a rather sleazy café had just been an extension of that. She had still provided sandwiches, but her clients had had to come to her for them, and pretty soon she had branched out into quiches, and salads, and home-made cakes and scones. The Honey Pot had taken off, and during the past two years it had gone from strength to strength. She even employed a full-time assistant now, and her account books were beginning to show a healthy profit. But this latest development was something else, and it was hard to be enthusiastic when everyone else thought she was getting out of her depth.

Standing in the shower, she avoided looking at her reflection in the walls of the Perspex stall. She was half afraid of what she might see in the dark-fringed depths of her eyes, eyes that could change from green to grey, according to her mood. Was she being too ambitious? she wondered, scooping gel from the bottle and lathering her damp hair. Was that what Paul was afraid of? She had never thought of herself as being so, but she couldn’t deny she was excited. She would have to think of a name for the new service, she thought, determinedly putting all negative thoughts aside. Not the Honey Pot again. That belonged to the café. So how about ‘Honey Homemaker’, just to keep the connection?

The buffet looked perfect, even if Samantha had had a few small set-backs at the beginning. Finding that one of the smoked salmon mousses had lost its shape on the journey had been a minor disaster, but happily she had prepared more than she needed, and that obstacle had been overcome.

Then Miss Mainwaring, her employer’s fiancée, had thrown a paddy because there was no caviare. A buffet wasn’t a buffet without caviare, she had exclaimed, and it had taken a great deal of effort on her fiancé’s behalf to persuade her that it really wasn’t important.

He had been nice, Samantha reflected, as she gathered her belongings together, preparatory to leaving. A prince, moreover, although his title wasn’t one she was familiar with. But then, she wasn’t familiar with these people at all, she acknowledged ruefully. A fact that had been made clear to her by Melissa Mainwaring’s biting tongue.

All the same, it had been an edifying experience, and she had learned one or two salutory lessons. She had discovered, for instance, that it was far harder to organise a buffet than it was to arrange a formal sit-down dinner. And luck had played a part in saving her from ruining this unique opportunity. It hadn’t occurred to her, until she was unloading the pizza, that it was no use providing hot food when you couldn’t be assured the guests would eat to order. But thankfully her pizzas tasted just as good cold as hot, and instead of offering them in slices, as she had originally intended, she cut the juicy wedges into bite-sized squares, easily handled on the end of a cocktail spear.

Happily, the rest of the food offered no problems. Her tarts and quiches looked appetisingly rich against the backcloth of finely embossed damask. And Samantha threaded strands of asparagus fern between the plates of meats and salads, adding scarlet rosebuds to enhance the luscious trifles. When she left the tables to go downstairs and pack up, there was already a satisfying group of guests admiring her efforts. She just hoped everything tasted as good as it looked. One other difference between the buffet and a formal dinner was that she didn’t stay around long enough to find out.

Which was a pity, because she’d enjoyed working in this kitchen. With its quarry-tiled floor, and solid mahogany fittings, it reminded her of pictures she had seen of Victorian kitchens. However, no Victorian kitchen had ever had its standards of cleanliness, or provided such a wealth of gadgets to make cooking here a pleasure.

Upstairs had been impressive, too. Dividing doors had been rolled back to create a huge reception area, and although Samantha had only had a glimpse of the linen-hung walls and high carved ceilings as she and the waiters, hired for the occasion, carried the food up from the kitchen, it had been enough. Evidently, whatever else he was, Prince Georgio was not a member of some impoverished aristocracy. On the contrary, he must be extremely rich—and Miss Mainwaring probably knew it.

An unkind conclusion, Samantha reproved herself severely, as she packed plates and dishes back into the cold-boxes she had brought them in. Afer all, she knew nothing about Melissa Mainwaring, except that she was a friend of Jenny’s, and she was fond of caviare. And if she, Samantha, wanted to make a success of this business, she had to try and get on with everybody. Even spoilt little rich girls who enjoyed making scenes!

She was so intent on what she was doing, so absorbed with her thoughts, that when she turned and saw the man leaning against the tall freezer she started violently. She had thought she was alone, all the waiters hired for the evening busy circulating the champagne upstairs. But in the next instant she realised that this man was no waiter, and in the same breath she saw the half-open door behind him.

Until then, she hadn’t noticed the rear entry. The house, one of a row of terraced Georgian properties, had been designed to provide living accommodation on its three upper floors. The lower ground floor, where Samantha was now, was entered by means of area steps at the front of the house, and it had never occurred to her that there might be a back entrance on this level. Or that it might be unlocked.

Her mouth drying, she looked at the man with anxious eyes. Who was he? she wondered. A servant? A thief? He didn’t look entirely English, and although he wasn’t heavily built, like Paul, there was a muscular hardness to his lean body. She supposed he was about six feet; again, not as tall as Paul, but more powerfully masculine. His dark hair needed cutting, and there was a film of stubble on his chin. It added to the air of toughness and alienation that exuded from him, an aura that was strengthened by the fact that he was dressed totally in black.

Swallowing, Samantha decided she had no choice but to bluff it out. There was no way she could get round the table and make it to either of the other two doors without him catching her. Something told her he would move just as swiftly as the predator he resembled, but perhaps he would leave her alone if he thought she was no threat to him.

‘I—er—the party’s not down here,’ she said, stifling an exclamation as her shaking hands clattered two quiche plates together. God! She was trying not to do anything to agitate him. At this rate, he’d soon guess that she was scared rigid.

But, ‘I know,’ he remarked, in a laconic voice, making no move to budge from his lounging position. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he added. ‘I assumed everyone would be upstairs. I imagine Ivanov’s guests have arrived by now, haven’t they?’

Samantha blinked. Ivanov’s guests! So he knew whose house it was, then. Did that make it better or worse? She was too shocked to make a decision.

And his voice disturbed her. It had a low gravelly edge that scraped across her nerves. Yet it was a cultivated voice, as well. Hoarse, but not the broad London accent she would have expected.

He moved then and, in spite of herself, she flinched. She didn’t quite know what she expected him to do, but when her eyes alighted on the knife she had used to cut the pizza lying on the table beside her, her fingers flexed automatically.

‘I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ he began, his lips twisting half sardonically, and Samantha took a choking breath. His upper lip was quite thin, she noticed inconsequently, but the lower one was full and sensual. The mark of a sensitive nature, she wondered wildly, or simply an indication of brute strength?

‘I—it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said, aware that her voice had risen half an octave. She edged one of the cold-boxes forward so that it hid the knife from his view. Then, as her fingers closed around the handle, ‘Is—is Mr Ivanov expecting you?’

A faint smile touched his mouth. His lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and his tongue appeared to dampen a corner in a decidedly amused gesture. ‘Mr Ivanov?’ he echoed, as Samantha’s scattered senses registered the powerful attraction of that smile. ‘I gather you don’t know him very well.’

Samantha’s lips tightened. Did he mean because she hadn’t addressed him as Prince Ivanov? Or simply because she had said Mr Ivanov?

‘I—don’t,’ she declared, realising he hadn’t answered her question. Her fingers took a firmer hold on the knife. ‘Wh-why don’t you go up and see him?’

It was a calculated risk she was taking. She had no idea what he might do when confronted with a roomful of Prince Georgio’s guests, but at least it would give her a chance to call the police. And there was no point in trying to be a hero—a heroine—when he was so much taller and stronger than she was. She might find the courage to use the knife to defend herself, but she couldn’t see herself using it to stop him from invading the party. Indeed, the very idea of sinking its cruel blade into his yielding flesh was enough to bring her out in a cold sweat.

‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, ‘why don’t I do that?’ But then, dispelling the feeling of relief that his words had kindled, his heavy lids narrowed the penetration of eyes so dark, they seemed as black as his outfit. ‘So what are you doing down here?’

‘Me?’ It was almost a squeak, and Samantha cleared her throat before continuing. ‘I—–’ It was still too high, and she consciously tried to lower her tone. ‘I—I’m just the ca-caterer.’

‘The caterer?’ he echoed, half disbelievingly, and she realised that in her hip-length sweater and black leggings she didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a waitress. But she had changed out of the neat white blouse and short black skirt she had worn to set out the buffet tables. In here, five minutes ago, she remembered, in horror. God! She should be grateful he hadn’t surprised her in her bra and panties!

‘I—yes, the caterer,’ she confirmed, the memory of what could have happened giving her a momentary respite. ‘That—that’s what I’m doing. Packing up my things.’

His frown was thoughtful, drawing his straight black brows together. He had nice eyebrows, she thought, dark and vital, like his hair, and his nose was straight and well-formed, between bones that accentuated the hollows of his cheeks. Altogether, it was a disturbingly attractive face, she acknowledged, and then inwardly flayed herself for thinking so. For pity’s sake, the man was an intruder, or worse! How could she find him attractive? She must be losing her mind!

He moved again, approaching the table this time, and all thoughts of his appearance fled. All her old fears flooded back in full measure, and when he put out a hand to examine the nearest cold-box her nerve snapped. Snatching up the knife, she positioned it against her midriff, holding it with both hands, the handle towards her stomach, the blade pointing viciously outwards.

‘Don’t touch anything!’ she cried, unable to hold down her panic any longer. ‘Get—get away from the table. Or—or I’ll use this. Believe me, I know how.’

His expression was ludicrous. If she hadn’t known better, she might almost have believed he was as shocked as she was. He stared at her as if she had really lost her senses, and his hands came out of his pockets to perform a soothing gesture.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘calm down—–’

‘Keep away from me!’ Samantha was shaking like a leaf, and her hold on the knife was desperate. Her palms were sweating with the knowledge that she had really burned her boats now. She had shown him she didn’t trust him, and there was no turning back.

‘Please,’ he protested, ‘put the knife down. You’re making a terrible mistake—–’

‘You made the mistake in coming here,’ she retorted, glancing behind her, measuring the distance to the stairs. ‘If—if you have any sense you’ll get out of here. If you’re still here when I get back, the police will—ouch!’

Her words were brought to an abrupt halt when he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse in concentration, he grasped her wrist and twisted sharply. The knife fell to the floor with a loud clatter, and before she could turn away he jerked her hard against him.

Her first crazy thought was that she had been right: his body was much harder and tougher than Paul’s. And the second was that he was no gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t twist her arm up behind her back until it felt as if it might break, or hold her as if there was some danger of her laying a karate chop across the back of his neck. The only kind of chops she knew about were lamb, and pork, and if it weren’t so serious she could almost find it funny.

A sob escaped her, but it was as much a suppression of the hysterical laughter that was bubbling inside her as an expression of pain. Nevertheless, he heard it, and his hold on her arm eased ever so slightly, as he drew back to look down at her.

‘Are you crazy, or what?’ he demanded, and she was relieved to see he looked no more menacing than he had done a few moments ago. But he had been drinking. She could smell it on his breath.

‘You—you ask me that!’ she got out, trying to free her other arm that was imprisoned by her side. ‘After—after breaking in here!’

‘Are you kidding?’ He blinked now, and she thought what absurdly long eyelashes he had, for a man. But she was making far too many personal observations about him, and she determinedly schooled her thoughts along with her expression. ‘I didn’t break in,’ he added impatiently. ‘Believe it or not, I have an invitation!’

‘You do?’ Samantha wasn’t sure whether she should believe him or not, but as he was holding the upper hand—in more ways than one, she acknowledged painfully—what choice did she have?

‘Yes.’ He let go of the arm he had been punishing, and transferred his hold to her waist. ‘Can I trust you not to pull another stunt like that, if I let you go?’

Samantha’s lips trembled, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I—I think so,’ she said, becoming conscious of the underlying intimacy of their situation. Whether he realised it or not, she was acutely aware of his lean hips inclined towards hers, and the muscled thigh that was threatening to part her legs. ‘Are you going to? Let me go, I mean,’ she appended, as the ambiguity of her words brought an embarrassed wave of colour to her cheeks.

Amazingly, the ebony eyes darkened. Samantha wouldn’t have believed they could, and it wasn’t so much an increasing definition of colour as a deepening of quality, a softening, that gave the pupils a curious lightness.

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked, and there was a distinctly husky timbre to his hoarse voice now that caused a feathering of flesh all over her body. Dear heaven, he was sexy, she thought, her senses racing out of control. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, it was the way he was saying it, and her tongue appeared to wet her lips in unknowing invitation.

‘I—–’ she began, knowing how she ought to answer him, but hesitating none the less. And then a voice that she remembered rather too well broke over them in shrill accusation.

‘Matt! Matt, is that you? In God’s name, what are you doing down here?’

Melissa Mainwaring came down the stairs as she spoke, her short-skirted dress of crisp blue taffeta rustling as she did so. It also slipped enticingly off one white shoulder, drawing attention to the pearly quality of her skin, and the ripe, rounded shape it concealed.

The man stiffened. There was no other way to describe the sudden freezing of his body. With unhurried but nevertheless decisive movements, he released Samantha and stepped back, his expression twisting oddly in the harsh track of a spotlight. It gave her the opportunity to try and gather her own composure, though the expression in Melissa’s eyes as she looked at her was not encouraging.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and her high heels rang noisily against the copper-coloured tiles. But, her attention was all on the man beside Samantha now and, although she clearly hadn’t liked their earlier closeness, his subsequent withdrawal had mollified her somewhat.

‘You came,’ she said, her expression changing to one of extreme satisfaction. ‘I hoped you would.’

‘Did you?’

His response was scarcely enthusiastic, though Samantha sensed that he was holding his real emotions in check. There was a distinct tenseness in the way he held himself, in the way he spoke. Something was going on here, something she knew nothing about, and she wished, with all her heart, that she could escape before his control snapped.

‘Yes.’ The woman’s gaze switched to the girl beside him, and Samantha thought how ironic it was that she and Melissa should have had that altercation earlier. It made the present situation so much more awkward, and she just wanted to pick up her boxes and leave. ‘I see Miss Maxwell let you in.’

‘I let myself in,’ the man contradicted her, but Melissa was not appeased.

‘But you know one another,’ she probed, crossing her arms across her midriff, and massaging her elbows with delicate hands.

‘No.’ The man—Matt?—shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Miss—Maxwell?’ He looked briefly at Samantha, and she quickly bent her head. ‘Miss Maxwell thought I was an intruder.’

Melissa frowned. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, and Samantha sighed.

‘Yes.’

‘It was my fault for coming in the back way,’ declared Matt sardonically. He bent to pick up the knife that still lay glinting on the floor, but although he glanced at Samantha as he did so he made no mention of it. ‘So—I believe congratulations are in order. You finally got someone to take the bait.’

If Samantha was shocked by his words, Melissa was more so. ‘You—bastard!’ she choked, and the look she cast in the other woman’s direction was eloquent of the fury she felt at Samantha’s being a witness to her humiliation. There would be no useful contacts from this dinner party, not if Melissa had anything to do with it, Samantha thought ruefully. But at the same time she felt a small sense of satisfaction that whatever was going on here, the man—Matt? Matthew?—was apparently quite capable of holding his own.

‘I—if you’ll excuse me,’ she murmured, deciding not to push her luck. It was one thing to be an unwilling witness; it was quite another to become a participant in their quarrel.

Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Where are you going?’

Samantha moistened her lips. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Like hell you are!’ Melissa shot Matthew a crippling glare. ‘People haven’t even started eating yet. It’ll be hours before the tables can be cleared. Go to the bathroom, or somewhere. Mr Putnam and I only need a few moments’ privacy.’

‘No.’ Samantha thrust the last of her belongings into the boxes, and fastened the safety clips. Right now, she didn’t particularly care if she smashed all her dishes. She just wanted to get out of there, for more reasons than she cared to consider. ‘I—your—that is, the prince knows I only—prepare the food. I don’t clean up afterwards.’

‘Why not?’ Melissa’s undoubtedly striking features were less than appealing at this moment. ‘You’re just a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing here.’

‘No,’ said Samantha again, snatching up her jacket, and grabbing hold of two of the cold-boxes. ‘I just—deliver the food, that’s all.’ It was easier than trying to explain. ‘And now, as I say, I must be going. It—it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive.’

Melissa looked as if she would have liked to try and stop her by force, but, instead, she contented herself with a sarcastic sneer. ‘Well, you can tell your employer we weren’t very impressed with the service,’ she declared spitefully. ‘Oh, and mention the caviare, won’t you? You have heard of caviare, I assume?’

Samantha gritted her teeth, intensely aware of the man standing listening to the proceedings, with a faintly mocking expression on his dark face. ‘I’ll remember,’ she said tightly, bumping the boxes against the cupboards as she struggled to the door. Just a few more yards, she thought, wondering how she could turn the handle without wasting time putting her boxes down, and then the man intervened.

‘Allow me,’ he said, reaching past her to pull open the door, and she gave him a grateful smile. ‘Drive carefully,’ he added, as she hurriedly ascended the steps, but any response she might have made died on her lips. As she glanced behind her, Melissa came to grasp his arm, and drag him back into the kitchen. Samantha’s last glimpse was of the two of them standing very close together, and of Melissa’s scarlet-tipped fingers spread against his chest.