Unguarded Moment

Liam Brant said courteously, ‘Good evening, Miss Coulter. We meet again.’

Alix felt the smile freeze into something like a grimace. Without stopping to think, she said hotly, ‘You wouldn’t be following me, by any chance?’

His brows lifted. ‘You flatter yourself, secretary bird. As it happens, I often eat here. The food is good and the service is quick. I hope that reassures you.’

It wasn’t particularly reassuring to know that she’d just made a fool of herself, so Alix remained silent, staring down at the checked gingham tablecloth.

‘And what are you doing out of your gilded cage?’ the infuriating voice went on.

‘I was hoping to enjoy myself,’ Alix said coolly.

‘Until I showed up,’ he supplied.

She shrugged. ‘You said it—I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t have to. Has no one ever told you that your face is the mirror to your thoughts?’ To Alix’s annoyance, he drew out the chair opposite and sat down.

Stiffening, she said, ‘I don’t remember inviting you to join me.’

‘There’s nothing the matter with your memory—you didn’t,’ he returned. To the waiter who had just brought Alix’s Cinzano, he said, ‘A whisky and water, please. And we’ll both have lasagne.’

Alix’s fingers curled like claws round her glass. In a voice almost molten with rage, she said, ‘I did not intend to order lasagne.’

‘Then you should. It’s particularly good here. Or do you always play safe with steak or scampi wherever you happen to dine?’

‘Of course not,’ she began, then compressed her lips angrily. She was not going to be drawn into a discussion of her eating habits. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m perfectly capable of making my own choice from the menu, and I’d prefer to eat alone.’

‘Is it a preference you often indulge?’

She had expected him to leave, but he showed no signs of moving. And now the waiter was bringing his drink, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a carafe of house wine. She could have screamed.

‘Well, why don’t you?’ he said.

‘Why don’t I what?’

‘Swear at me—throw your drink in my face—storm out. Whatever hostile fantasy you’re harbouring. I told you that you were transparent. Why don’t you follow the family tradition and go into films? You’d probably make your fortune.’

‘Because I’m quite content as I am, thanks.’ Alix made her face and voice impassive. Transparent, she thought, simmering inwardly.

‘That’s a dull thing to be at your age. And I don’t believe you.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to the other Alix Coulter, and may she soon stand up.’

‘There is no other.’ Alix did not respond to the toast, or drink from her own glass. She was afraid she might choke.

‘Oh?’ He gave her a long speculative look which covered the pinned-back hair, and the muted neutral colours of dress, trench coat and bag. ‘Then the girl I glimpsed on the stairs today was someone else—or a mirage, was she?’

Alix had forgotten the glimpse he had caught of her. She felt the colour rise in her face, and knew angrily that he had noticed it too and was faintly amused by it.

She said between her teeth, ‘Mr Brant, I came here for a quiet meal, not to be interviewed. I’m not interested in being copy for your next book any more than my—than Bianca is.’

He said softly, ‘I’ve no intention of writing a book about you, darling. Your cumulative experience of life could undoubtedly be covered in a short article, probably for a parish magazine. My questions are prompted by a normal male curiosity about why an attractive young woman insists on dragging about the place like a facsimile of Little Orphan Annie. I assume it is deliberate.’

‘I’m a working girl, Mr Brant, not some kind of starlet. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

‘It doesn’t satisfy anything about me.’ His eyes never left her face. ‘You’re a walking intrigue, Miss Coulter. I shall look forward to solving your particular mystery over the next few weeks. What was that wrongly buttoned dress—a Freudian slip?’

‘I had to change in a hurry.’ Alix heard a sudden breathless note creep into her voice. He was right about there being nothing the matter with her memory—she could remember the details of that little incident only too well.

‘So did Cinderella when the clock struck midnight. Do you have some private timing device to tell you when the ball is over?’

‘I really don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ Alix said with a hint of desperation. ‘Just because I prefer to dress in a—in a businesslike way during working hours …’

‘Another of these famous preferences of yours—you prefer to dress badly—you prefer to eat alone. Or are either of those choices, in fact, yours?’

‘What do you mean?’ Alix was stung. ‘I don’t dress badly. How dare you!’

‘I dare quite easily. That dress you’re wearing, for example—the style doesn’t flatter your figure, and the colour does nothing for you at all.’

‘Are you an expert on women’s clothes as well as character assassination, Mr Brant?’

‘I have a certain amount of expertise in a number of things,’ he drawled with a sudden sideways grin, and she felt that betraying blush flood her cheeks again, as shaken as if his hand had brushed her skin, or his mouth touched hers …

The waiter bustled up with the dishes of lasagne, and she thought she had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Not that she felt like eating. On the contrary, any appetite she had had was destroyed, although she had to admit that the smell of meat and spices emanating from the dish in front of her was a beguiling one.

‘You’re staring at it as if you think it might leap out of the dish and bite you instead.’ Liam Brant sounded amused. ‘I promise you it won’t. Nor does it contain a secret drug which will put you in my power. Here,’ he took the fork from her unresisting fingers, and scooped up a portion, offering it to her as if she had been a child, ‘try it and see.’

She didn’t want to take the food from him. She could see the couple at the next table exchanging indulgent glances.

She thought hysterically, ‘They must think we’re lovers. This is the sort of game lovers play—feeding each other with titbits at candlelit tables. I ought to tell them the truth—that I don’t trust him, that I could even hate him. And yet at the same time that it would be easy—so easy to be in his power. And it wouldn’t need secret drugs.’

She bent her head and ate the proffered forkful in silence.

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ His voice was still amused.

‘No, you were right. The food here is delicious.’ She sounded cool and composed, and she was proud of herself. ‘Now, if I could have my fork, I did learn to feed myself as a child.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But what else have you learned since?’

Alix took another gulp of wine. How nice it must be to have an answer for everything, she thought sourly. No doubt when she was in bed later, trying to sleep, she would think of a dozen coruscating remarks with which she could have put him down permanently.

Oh, please let me wake up tomorrow and find the past twenty-four hours has all been a bad dream, she appealed silently to whatever benevolent deity might be listening, but without a great deal of hope.

She tried to make herself relax and enjoy her food, because if she obeyed her instinct and pushed her plate away almost untouched, he would probably guess that he was disturbing her and be amused.

‘What did you eat the last time you came here?’ he asked.

She put down her fork and stared at him. ‘The last time?’

‘With Peter Barnet,’ he said. ‘It was you.’ A statement, not a question.