Rich As Sin

‘What?’ His eyes had been on Samantha, who was hurriedly preparing another of the pre-cooked pasta dishes for the microwave, and trying to pretend she hadn’t seen him. ‘Oh—–’ He expelled his breath on an impatient sigh, and glanced briefly round the small restaurant. ‘Yes. Why not?’ His gaze narrowed to enclose only Debbie. ‘Can you fit me in?’

‘I’m sure I can.’

Debbie’s lips parted to reveal a provocative tongue, and Samantha, unwillingly aware of how impressionable the eighteen-year-old was, felt a surge of raw frustration. What was he doing here? she wondered, stifling a curse as she burned her thumb on a hot dish. He was a long way from Eyton Gate and Belgravia. How on earth had he found her? And who the hell was he anyway?

A surreptitious glance across the room informed her that Debbie had seated him at a small table in the bow window. It was one of the only two tables left vacant in the café, and was usually reserved for Mr Harris, the manager of the local building society. But Debbie wasn’t looking her way, so Samantha couldn’t signal that that table was unavailable. Debbie’s attention was firmly fixed on her customer—as was the attention of most of the females present.

Not that she could blame them, Samantha admitted ruefully, trying to concentrate on what she was doing. He was clean-shaven this morning, and the hooded eyes and stark uncompromising features possessed a potent sensuality. Two sausages, one cannelloni, and two egg and cress sandwiches, she recited silently, struggling to remember the orders. But his presence disturbed her, reminding her as it did of that evening two nights ago, when he had invaded Prince Georgio’s kitchen.

She had tried to put the memory of that evening out of her mind. She didn’t want to think about her emotions at that time. She had told herself it was natural not to want to dwell on the scare he had given her. But the truth was, her fears had been superseded by the way he had made her feel when he’d disarmed her.

Disarmed her in more ways than one, she thought drily, trying to make light of it. And who would want to remember the things Melissa Mainwaring had said to her? No, the whole evening had been a disaster. She was actually having second thoughts about continuing that particular side of the business.

‘He says he wants to speak to you.’

Debbie’s vaguely resentful voice rang in her ear, and Samantha stopped spreading the egg and cress mixture on the bread and looked at her assistant.

‘Who?’ she asked, keeping her back firmly to the tables, and Debbie gave her a disbelieving look.

‘Who do you think?’ she exclaimed. ‘The joker sitting over there by the window. The one doing an imitation of Mel Gibson.’

Samantha blinked, really confused this time. ‘Mel Gibson?’ she echoed.

‘Mad Max?’ suggested Debbie shortly, in the tone of one explaining table manners to a five-year-old. ‘And don’t pretend you didn’t see him come in. You and half the female population of Northfleet!’

Samantha expelled her breath, and laid one slice of bread over the other. ‘Well—what does he want?’ she asked, praying he hadn’t told Debbie of their earlier encounter. But the younger girl only shrugged.

‘I don’t know. He just said he wanted to speak to you. Do you know him? Is he a friend of Paul’s?’

‘Hardly.’ The word was out before Samantha could prevent it, but she covered herself by adding swiftly, ‘I ask you: does he look like a friend of Paul’s?’

Debbie cast a glance over her shoulder. ‘Well, no,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t honestly see Paul buying leather gear, let alone getting into it.’ She turned back to look at her employer. ‘So what do you think he wants? Protection money?’

Samantha’s amused gasp had a trace of hysteria in it. ‘Protection money!’ she echoed disparagingly. My God! Debbie had some imagination. She sobered abruptly. But perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched. Maybe she did need protection. From him!

‘Well, are you going to go and see what he wants, or aren’t you?’ Debbie demanded, resentful that her idea had been dismissed so wholeheartedly. ‘I suppose he could have a message or something. You know, one of those express delivery services. It’s obvious he’s come on a motorbike.’

‘Is it?’

Now Samantha permitted herself another brief glance in his direction. To her relief, he was looking out of the window and didn’t see her. But her own reaction to his lounging figure was no less disruptive because of that.

‘I’d say so,’ Debbie declared now, edging Samantha aside, and taking over the slicing of the sandwich. ‘Go on. You’d better see what he wants. I get the feeling he’s not going to go away until he’s spoken to you.’

Samantha expelled her breath unevenly, and looked down at her bibbed apron. Her immediate impulse was to take it off, but of course she didn’t. So far as she knew, he was here to have lunch just like any other of her customers. He had asked her to serve him because he felt that their previous encounter entitled him to trade on their acquaintance. And besides, she could imagine Debbie’s reaction if she attempted to smarten herself up to speak to him. He had already caused enough of a stir by coming here. Paul was bound to hear about it anyway, so why exacerbate an already awkward situation?

In consequence, she felt a certain amount of trepidation as she made her way towards him. The smiles she cast at her regular customers were unusually tight, and the words she did exchange were short and to the point. It wasn’t that she never served the customers. On the contrary, sometimes she and Debbie were both practically run off their feet, particularly at weekends. But this was different, and she knew it. And with Debbie’s eyes upon her, it was difficult to behave naturally.

He half got out of his seat, as she approached the table, but then, as if realising it wasn’t the done thing, he subsided again. With his arm hooked across the back of his chair, and his ankle resting easily across his knee, he lazily resumed his lounging position.

‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up,’ he said, as she reached the table, and Samantha came to an unwilling halt.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked, carefully ignoring his attempt to be familiar. ‘The menu’s on the table.’

‘So it is.’ His eyes flicked carelessly over the plastic clip that held the printed card. ‘What would you recommend?’ He glanced about him. ‘The lasagne appears to be popular.’

Samantha thrust her fists into the pouchlike pocket of her apron. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, and they both knew she was not talking about the menu now. ‘I’m very busy.’

‘So I see.’ His dark eyes assessed her flushed cheeks, and the wisps of moist hair that clung to her forehead. ‘How long have you been running this place?’

‘Two years—if that’s any concern of yours.’ Samantha’s nervousness was giving way to indignation. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’ve come here, but I wish you hadn’t. Now, if you want to eat, OK. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate this table.’

Humour tugged at the corners of his lips, but he reached obediently for the menu. ‘I’ll have—a toasted cheese sandwich,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Oh—and a beer, too. If you have one.’

Samantha was fairly sure he knew they didn’t have a licence to serve alcohol, and her nails dug into her palms. ‘That’ll have to be a fruit juice,’ she informed him, resenting the fact that she had no excuse not to serve him. And, remembering he had been drinking the last time she spoke to him, she added tautly, ‘Perhaps you’d be better off at the pub!’

‘No. I’ll stay here,’ he responded, setting the menu back on the table. ‘Thanks.’

Samantha hesitated, and then, realising she had no further reason to linger, she turned and stamped back into the kitchen. But her normally even-tempered mood was shattered, and Debbie eyed her warily as she slapped two slices of bread under the grill.

‘What did he say?’ she asked, after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her, and Samantha cast her a scowling glance.

‘Nothing,’ she replied at last, realising she was going the right way to arouse the girl’s suspicions. ‘He wants a toasted cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. You can take it to him.’

‘Me?’ Debbie looked surprised, and Samantha couldn’t blame her. ‘So why did he ask for you to serve him?’

‘Who knows?’ Samantha flipped the bread over, and reached for the cheese. ‘Go and see if any tables need clearing. As you’ve commandeered Mr Harris’s table, you’ll have to find somewhere else to put him when he comes in.’

Debbie pressed her lips together. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Sam?’ she persisted, evidently feeling some responsibility for what had happened, and not happy with the result. ‘You look—sort of upset.’

‘Don’t be silly, Debbie.’ Samantha managed a faint smile, as she covered the bread with cheese, and returned it to the grill. ‘I’m just annoyed because there was no earthly reason why you couldn’t have—have taken his order, that’s all. Now, hurry up. This is almost ready.’

For the next half-hour, Samantha managed to keep herself too busy to pay any attention to her unwelcome visitor. There were meals to heat and serve, extra salads to be made, and plenty of dirty plates to load into the dishwasher. If Debbie thought she was less talkative than usual, she didn’t say anything. Besides, she was busy too, and it wasn’t until the café had practically cleared that Samantha noticed that he was still there.

It didn’t really surprise her. She guessed Debbie would have said something if he had departed. But seeing him still seated at the table, apparently engrossed in a newspaper someone must have left behind, still infuriated her, and she wished she had the strength to throw him out.

‘Go and tell him we’re getting ready to close,’ she murmured to Debbie, but the younger girl firmly shook her head.

‘You know we don’t close until half-past five,’ she said. ‘If you want to lie about it, you do it. He wasn’t too pleased when I brought his sandwich, so don’t expect me to do your dirty work.’

Samantha grimaced. ‘I’m only asking you to fib a little. He doesn’t know anything about this place.’

‘How do you know that?’

Debbie was looking at her with that curious look again, and Samantha expelled a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t—know—not for sure. But you haven’t seen him round here before, have you? It’s obvious he’s not going to know what our hours are.’

‘They’re written on the door,’ retorted Debbie flatly, and Samantha acknowledged that she had forgotten that.

‘OK,’ she said, giving in. ‘I’ll go and see if he’s finished.’