Читать книгу Sharon Kendrick Collection - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 56

FOR the next week, Sabrina was in a complete state of nerves. What on earth did you wear if you were going out for dinner with a prince?

She rang her mother and explained her predicament.

‘Good heavens,’ said her mother faintly. ‘A prince? You’ll never want to come home to Salisbury at this rate!’

Sabrina winced at how her mother had unerringly hit on the truth. She couldn’t imagine wanting to either, but that had everything to do with Guy and nothing whatsoever to do with a Middle-Eastern potentate.

‘What do I wear, Mum?’ she repeated patiently.

‘You’ve got lots of lovely clothes! Just be yourself,’ said her mother. ‘My goodness—wait until the neighbours hear about this!’

‘Well, I don’t want you to tell them,’ said Sabrina stubbornly. Because however much she wished otherwise, one day soon she was going to have to go back and live at home, and she would do herself no favours whatsoever if she arrived with Guy Masters’s magic dust still clinging to her skin.

She even tried to quiz Guy about the correct dress code one evening when he arrived home even later than usual and had been in a snarling temper. She produced a huge tureen of soup, and he stared down at the steaming bowlful and suddenly went very quiet.

‘You don’t like home-made soup?’ she asked nervously.

Guy looked up. The soup looked perfect. Damn it—she looked perfect, standing there in a pair of white jeans and a white T-shirt, with her bright hair caught back in a ponytail.

‘Haven’t had a lot of experience of it,’ he said shortly. ‘My mother used to open a can.’

Sabrina pushed some cheese across the table towards him. ‘Wasn’t she keen on cooking, then?’

It was an such an artless question that Guy found himself uncharacteristically answering it. ‘Not particularly. And we were always…moving,’ he said slowly. ‘So a lot of her time was taken up with settling into new places.’

‘You make it sound quite nomadic, Guy.’

‘Do I? I suppose it was when you compare it with living in one place all your life.’

‘Like me, you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, you did, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said carefully, as some warning light in his eyes told her to go back to the safer subject of cooking, rather than the potential minefield of childhood.

She sawed through a crusty loaf and handed him a huge chunk of it. ‘My mother was so busy going out to work that she never had time to cook properly, except at weekends.’

He nodded, seeing the sudden, defensive set of her face. Despite his reservations, he found himself asking, ‘How old were you when your father left?’

‘Eight.’ She pulled a face. ‘He fell in love with my mum’s “best” friend.’

He winced. ‘That must have been tough.’

‘Yes.’ She stared down at the soup without really seeing it. ‘For a while it was dreadful.’ She looked up and gave him a bright smile. ‘But time heals, doesn’t it? Corny, but true.’

‘Yeah, but you always get left with a scar.’ He shrugged, but he shook his head at the silent question in her eyes. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Just I always vowed that when I grew up I would learn how to cook properly.’

Unexpectedly, he found the thought of Sabrina as a little girl exquisitely touching. He sipped the soup. ‘Well, you achieved it with honours,’ he murmured.

She glowed with pleasure. ‘Guy?’

‘Mmm?’

‘You know this dinner on Saturday night—’

He put his spoon down. ‘Damn!’

‘It’s been cancelled?’ she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. ‘Nope—but I haven’t organised anything and I’m in Paris all day tomorrow. You’ll have to book the restaurant, Sabrina.’

‘Like Where? I don’t really know London at all!’

He reeled off a list of London’s most famous eating places and Sabrina shook her head doubtfully.

‘We’ll never get a table at any of those places this late!’

He gave a small smile. ‘Just try mentioning my name.’

From anyone else it would have sounded outrageously arrogant—from Guy it just sounded supremely confident.

‘And what on earth can I wear?’ she wailed.

‘Wear what you want.’ He shrugged. ‘You always look pretty good to me.’

She had received better compliments in her life, but none had she embraced as warmly as Guy’s careless words and she had to force herself to suppress the guilt. She was letting go, and starting to live again—and there was nothing unacceptable about enjoying a compliment.

It still didn’t solve the problem of what to wear, of course.

Guy left at the crack of dawn the following morning. Sabrina heard him moving around the flat and for once came, yawning, out into the hall to say goodbye to him.

His hand tightened around the handle of his briefcase as he saw her hair in all its tousled disarray tumbling down over her shoulders. Was she trying to play the siren? he wondered distractedly. But that was just the thing—he honestly didn’t think she was.

‘Have you remembered your passport?’

‘Sabrina!’ he exploded. ‘I’ve been flying to Paris at least once a month for the last I don’t know how long! How the hell do you think I managed before you came into my life?’ It had been a calm, ordered time which was slowly but surely fading from his memory, the end of which had seemed to coincide with him urging her to let her guilt and her sorrow go. He had only himself to blame, and yet he hadn’t realised how familiar it could feel, living with a woman—even if you weren’t having sex with her. He winced. Why remind himself of that?

‘Send me a postcard.’ Sabrina smiled.

‘I won’t have time,’ he said tightly, because he was having to fight the terrible urge to kiss her goodbye—as if she were his wife or something. His smile tasted like acid on his mouth. ‘And don’t forget to book the damned restaurant!’

‘I won’t forget.’ She stood at the front door until he’d disappeared out of sight, praying that he would turn round and give her that rare and brilliant smile. But he didn’t.

Sabrina felt more than a little intimidated at the thought of booking a meal at a place she had only ever read about in magazines. Wouldn’t even her best dress look out of place in a venue as upmarket as that? And, when she thought about it, wouldn’t Prince Khalim be bored rigid with going to fancy restaurants, and Guy, too, for that matter? Wouldn’t they rather try something a little different?

She spent her lunch-hour scouring the restaurant section of the capital’s biggest glossy magazine, and eventually found what she’d half thought she’d been looking for. She picked up the phone and booked it.

But Guy was delayed in Paris. He phoned that night.

‘This deal is taking longer than I thought,’ he said, and she could hear the sounds of people in the background. ‘I may even have to stay over for a few days.’

‘A few days?’

‘You’ll be OK on your own, won’t you?’

Sabrina pulled a face. She couldn’t be missing him already, could she? ‘Yes, of course I will.’

‘Just lock up carefully.’ There was a pause. ‘Ring Tom Roberts if you need anything. Actually, I’ll ring him—get him to keep an eye on you.’

‘I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me! You make me sound helpless!’ she objected, and could hear the smile in his response.

‘Not helpless, Sabrina. Maybe just a little vulnerable at the moment.’ And make damned sure you remember that, he thought grimly as he hung up before tapping out Tom’s number.

Guy arrived back from Paris on Saturday morning, feeling all frazzled and frayed around the edges as he walked into the kitchen to a delicious smell of coffee. Sabrina was already dressed, busy buttering a slice of toast. He paused for a moment which felt dangerous. Because his kitchen had never felt more of a home than it did at that moment.

He’d missed her, he realised with a sudden sense of shock.

‘Hi,’ he said softly.

Sabrina turned round slowly, trying to compose her face, making sure that every trace of leaping excitement had been eradicated from her features. She smiled instead. ‘Welcome home! How was your trip? Would you like some coffee?’

He wanted something a lot more fundamental than coffee, but he nodded his head, sat down at the table and took the mug of coffee she slid towards him.

‘You’re up early,’ he commented.

‘I’m working today, remember?’

He frowned. Had it really been three weeks since the last time she’d been in the shop on Saturday morning? ‘Yeah.’ He sighed. He’d been almost tempted to take the day off himself, and to ask her whether she wanted to go to a gallery with him, but if she was working…‘I guess I might as well go in myself.’ He yawned.

Sabrina fixed him with a stern look. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Guy! You’ve only just got back from Paris. Give yourself a break!’

He glared at her. ‘I’ve managed to get along just fine for the last thirty-two years without anyone telling me how to live my life, if it’s all the same to you, Sabrina.’ He paused. ‘Did you book the restaurant?’

‘I did,’ she said steadily, without missing a beat.

‘Which one?’

Her bright smiled didn’t falter. ‘It’s a surprise!’

‘A surprise?’

She wondered what had caused that sudden hardening of his voice. ‘You don’t like surprises?’

‘No,’ he clipped out, and then saw her crestfallen face and relented. It was unpredictability he shied away from. She wasn’t to know that surprises made him feel as though the control which was so fundamental to him could be in danger of slipping away. Loosen up, he told himself—just as he’d told her to. He smiled. ‘It had better be a good one.’

‘Oh, I think it will be.’

‘We’re picking Khalim up from his hotel at eight.’

She nodded, trying to be helpful. ‘So shall I order us a car, too?’

‘Yes,’ he murmured, wondering why he got the distinct impression that the balance of power had somehow shifted in this relationship without him really noticing. He’d wanted her to try and let the past go, but he hadn’t expected such an enchanting switch into sexy and sassy and bossy mode. It was much too irresistible a transformation. ‘Thanks,’ he added heavily.

Sabrina spent hours in the bathroom getting ready, comfortable in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be holding Guy up. Thank heavens there were three, she thought, remembering her initial shock at discovering that one flat had three bathrooms all to itself. Back in Salisbury her mother would have been beating the door down by now.

In the spare room, she pulled out the hanger on which hung the dress she’d bought after work yesterday, and she looked at it with eager eyes. It was a dream—easily the most grown-up and sophisticated thing she had ever owned—but nothing less would do, not for a prince!

It was in deepest violet velvet and it fell to just above the knee, with long, fitted sleeves. In fact, the whole dress accentuated every curve of her body and the rich, vibrant colour contrasted deeply with her red-gold hair. It was a simple dress, possibly a little too simple, which was why she’d bought diamanté earrings and an ornate and glittering necklace to go with it.

She stepped back to look at herself in the mirror and gave a nod of satisfaction. The diamanté necklace and earrings sparkled and spangled in the light. She looked good! Maybe the best she had ever looked—and there was an added sparkle to her eyes and a soft flush to her cheeks.

Guy was standing by the window in the sitting room, doing up his cuff-links, and he looked up as she made her entrance, then froze.

Sabrina, who had been watching him expectantly, saw the sudden stiffening of his body, the swift hard gleam in his eyes, and her heart sank.

‘You don’t think it’s suitable?’

A pulse hammered at his temple. ‘Don’t be so bloody naïve, Sabrina! Of course it’s suitable—’ He’d never seen anything more suitable in his life—and the thing it was most suitable for was being ripped off her body…He groaned and tried to pay a gracious compliment. ‘It’s lovely,’ he finished lamely.

‘Oh. Right.’ She screwed her nose up. ‘You don’t think it’s too over the top?’

‘No, I don’t!’ He drew a deep breath. ‘And I think we’ve just about exhausted the subject of what you’re wearing. Now, where the hell is this bloody car?’

Sabrina hoped that he was going to moderate his language a little, especially in front of Prince Khalim, but now didn’t seem a very good time to say so, especially since at that moment the doorbell rang, and the chauffeur was standing there, telling them that their car was ready. She picked up the same diaphanous silver wrap she’d worn in Venice and turned to Guy.

‘Ready?’ she asked, thinking that she’d never seen him in formal black tie regalia before, and just how darkly imposing and broad-shouldered it made him appear.

‘And waiting,’ he said, in a grim kind of voice.

Outside stood a long, gleaming, black car which made the limousine he’d hired in Salisbury look like an ancient old banger. Sabrina felt like a film star as she climbed inside.

But as they were whisked towards the West End Guy seemed to want to avoid all her attempts at conversation, and Sabrina forced herself to look out of the window, trying to appear interested in the sights as they sped by, wondering why he was sitting in such stony silence.

All he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss her, and it was driving him out of his mind. Since when had kissing been his number-one priority?

The car slid to a halt in front of the Granchester Hotel, which was situated right opposite Hyde Park and where a uniformed doorman immediately sprang to attention.

‘I’d better go inside and tell him we’re here,’ said Guy, still in that same, heavy voice.

But at that moment there was some sort of commotion and several burly men in suits emerged from the hotel entrance and stood, looking this way and that.

‘That’s his security,’ said Guy, seeing her expression of bemusement. ‘They may want to check the restaurant out so your little “surprise” may have to be unmasked, Sabrina, dearest.’

In the dim light of the early evening, Sabrina blanched. Maybe she had misjudged the whole situation completely, but by then it was too late to do anything about it because the men in suits had all stood up straight to attention. And the most striking man she had ever seen in her life came gliding out of the hotel.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was tall—although Guy was actually taller by about a head. Or that he was wearing a long, silky kind of robe which was a cross between white and gold and hinted at a hard body beneath. Or that his hair was darker than the night—much blacker than Guy’s—and his skin the deep golden colour of some ancient and lovingly polished piece of wood. Or that his eyes were as black as onyx itself—curiously deep, all-seeing eyes which were as emotionless and as cold as any she had ever seen.

For he was all those things, and more, thought Sabrina. He was a prince—and not just by title. He oozed it from every autocratic pore of his body.

His nose was a cruel, hard curve, and so was his mouth, and something about his whole rather rich and haughty demeanour made Sabrina feel slightly panicky with nerves as she recalled the restaurant booking she’d made. What had she done?

As Guy opened the door he felt Sabrina shiver beside him, and he glanced down at her, his mouth tightening. So the old knockout Khalim effect was having its usual reaction, he thought cynically.

‘Don’t worry, he likes blondes,’ he told her cryptically. ‘So you should be on to a winner!’

‘But I’m a strawberry-blonde!’ she objected, stung by that critical note in his voice. ‘That’s different.’

‘And strawberries are rich and luscious,’ Guy answered softly. ‘Be careful, Sabrina—he eats women like you for breakfast.’

Sabrina glared at his back as he stepped from the car and the two men greeted each other like the old friends they were.

‘Guy!’ said Khalim, the hard lips curving into a smile.

Guy jerked his head in the direction of the suits. ‘Are you bringing this lot with you?’

Khalim glanced a flickering look at the back of the car, where Sabrina was sitting frozen with nerves. The black eyes narrowed.

‘They will follow behind us,’ he said, ‘but they will sit outside in the car. They shall not bother us while we are eating.’ His voice softened as another dark, enigmatic glance was directed at the car. ‘And who do you have sitting and waiting so beautifully for us, Guy?’

Guy felt an unwelcome flicker of irritation. This was Khalim, Khalim whom he had known since school—when they’d forged an instant friendship after Guy had beaten him at chess. Khalim had never been beaten by anyone before—but, then, as Guy had coolly pointed out, he’d been brought up in an environment where letting Khalim win was paramount.

The two boys had fallen with fists on one another, and had had to be pulled apart—both snarling and glaring like young tiger cubs. And then one of them—they’d each taken the credit afterwards—had started laughing, and the laughter had been contagious and had created a bond which had never been broken down the years.

Khalim’s father had given Guy his first big break, and Guy had never forgotten that.

So why did he now feel like the small boy who’d wanted to pulverise his schoolmate?

‘This is Sabrina,’ said Guy shortly.

He pulled open the car door and Khalim slid inside next to Sabrina, the silken fabric of his robe whispering and clinging to the lean definition of his muscular legs. ‘Sabrina Cooper.’

‘And Sabrina is your…?’ Khalim paused delicately, as if searching for the right word.

‘Friend,’ said Guy instantly, because in that instant no other word seemed to do. ‘She’s staying in my flat for a few weeks.’

‘Indeed?’ murmured Khalim.

Sabrina felt the slow thudding of disappointment. Every word Guy had said was true—but, oh, if he’d wanted to emphasise that their love affair was dead, that her role in his life only transitory, then he couldn’t have done it more succinctly. Or more cruelly.

‘That’s right,’ she said staunchly, and attempted to echo his casual tone. ‘I’m just passing through.’

‘Indeed?’ murmured Khalim again. Black eyes glinted as he raised her hand and lightly brushed his lips against the fingertips. ‘Khalim,’ he purred. ‘And I am charmed.’

It was difficult not to be charmed herself by such quaintly old-fashioned manners. And the sight of Guy glowering from the other side of the car had her smiling back at the Prince.

‘I’ve booked the restaurant for tonight,’ she babbled. ‘I do hope I’ve made the right choice.’

The curved smile edged upwards. ‘Water and bread can be sustenance enough,’ said Khalim softly, ‘when the company is this spectacular.’

Guy turned his head to look out of the window, thinking that he just might be sick. He’d heard Khalim’s chat-up lines over the years—and as far as he knew—they had a one hundred per cent success rate. But this…this…outrageous flirting was really too much.

Sabrina had given the restaurant address to the driver when she’d made the phone booking for the car, but as it negotiated its way through Notting Hill and drew up outside a small, colourful café, her heart sank.

The signs, it had to be admitted, didn’t look very promising. There was a garish awning outside, beneath which the sign read, THE PIE SHOP.

Guy’s eyes narrowed incredulously. ‘Just what is this place, Sabrina?’

‘It got a very good review in the papers,’ she defended, determined not to flinch beneath the quiet look of fury in his eyes. ‘And I thought it would be…different.’

‘It is certainly different,’ said Khalim, his voice tilting with amusement. ‘Come, let us go and see what delights The Pie Shop has to offer.

It was the kind of place which employed out-of-work actresses as waitresses—so at least the glamour quotient was high. But Khalim didn’t seem at all interested in the nubile specimens who ushered them inside. In fact, his attention seemed to be all on Sabrina.

Almost worryingly so, she told herself as they were given a table in the corner.

There were no menus, just a huge blackboard with the dishes of the day printed on it in chalk.

‘I’m surprised there isn’t sawdust on the floor,’ said Guy acidly, but Khalim was gazing around him with the air of a man who had stepped into a different world.

‘No, but it is charming,’ he murmured. ‘Quite charming. And the smell of the food delicious. Every summer my mother used to take me and my sisters into the mountains, and we would eat a meal with an old man who had spent his life caring for the goats and living in a simple dwelling. This place reminds me of that.’

Oh, great, thought Guy. He frosted a look at Sabrina across the table. ‘Khalim hasn’t eaten red meat for years.’ He gave a pointed stare at the dish of the day—shepherd’s pie. ‘Any suggestions, Sabrina?’

She thought that she’d never seen him quite this grumpy before, but it occurred to her that if he hadn’t wanted her to come along, then he shouldn’t have asked her. ‘How about fish pie?’ she suggested brightly.

‘Fish pie,’ echoed Khalim, as if she’d just proposed a lavish banquet. ‘Do you know—I haven’t eaten fish pie since we were at school. Do you remember, Guy? Always on Fridays.’ And he gave a wistful smile, which briefly softened his hard, proud face.

How did she do it, wondered Guy distractedly. How had she unerringly hit on the one dish which would produce a rare state of nostalgia in a man who’d very probably been offered every delicacy under the sun?

‘Three fish pies,’ he said to the waitress, and Sabrina, who’d been about to order the shepherd’s pie, hastily shut her mouth. It might be considered bad manners to eat meat in front of the Prince.

It wasn’t the easiest meal she had ever sat through, mainly because Guy would hardly meet her eye, just chatted to Khalim about the paintings he’d seen recently in Paris.

Khalim listened and ate his meal slowly and with evident pleasure. Occasionally he would turn to Sabrina and fix her with that hard, black stare as he asked her about her work in the bookshop as if it were the single most fascinating subject in the world.

And Sabrina smiled and tried to look attentive, while miserably ploughing her way through the fish pie.

After she’d pushed her plate away, Khalim leaned forward, his fingertips brushing against the bright glitter of her necklace.

‘Who bought you these diamonds, my beauty?’ he murmured.

Sabrina smiled. ‘Oh, they’re not real!’

‘Really?’ Khalim brushed one of the gems thoughtfully. ‘Then it must be your skin which enhances them—for they look absolutely priceless.’

What Khalim didn’t know about diamonds could be written on the back of a postage stamp, and Guy watched with increasing fury as the Prince’s dark, elegant fingers contrasted against her milk-white skin.

‘Shall we skip pudding?’ he demanded.

They ordered coffee instead, and Guy was just paying the bill when Khalim lightly placed his hand on Sabrina’s wrist.

‘I’m in England for another couple of weeks,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps you would have dinner with me some night?’

Sabrina looked over at Guy, unsure of how you went about saying to a prince that it was a terribly sweet offer but that she was fast falling in love with someone else, thank you.

In love? Her cheeks grew hot, and the pounding in her heart increased. What in heaven’s name was she thinking of? She couldn’t be falling in love. She couldn’t. It was too soon after Michael—much too soon.

She glanced over at the object of her affections, who was chatting to the waitress and giving her the benefit of the sunniest smile she’d seen all evening.

‘Sabrina?’ prompted Khalim softly.

Well, all right, she thought furiously, and smiled back at him. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she agreed shyly.